…Y'know, I really shouldn't try to give myself deadlines—especially months in advance. They just make me panic and not get things done. (Like I'd actually finish this the day The Dark Knight Rises premieres.)

Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight. I do own this plot.

Chapter Fourteen: Joker

I flicker in and out of sleep like a lightning bug with ADD. The world's all…foggy, askew, and I can feel my head flopping around loosely, my greasy hair smacking against my face.

I can smell Gotham, all sewage and smog and smoke, and other…alliterative things. Oh, how I've missed you, my pretty city. (Though you're Batsy's too, of course. We're learning to share). You, with your rusting buildings and traffic jams and smart-aleck pigeons.

I try to take everything in—is it dusk or daytime?—and find myself…struggling. There are cars honking and people yapping, and so many noises that I don't know what to do with. So I try to focus on something, and Batsy seems a good choice. (Scratch that, the best choice).

I can hear Batsy saying NO with the voice of an old soldier. I can hear Schiffy giggle-screaming, and a dog whimpering, whining. I get a glimpse of Schiff pressing Charlie close to his chest, squeezing and smothering the pup as he thrashes in futility.

My eyes close, and I hear Schiff scream as Charlie wriggles in his grasp, finally breaking free and bolting—and I crash back to sleep.

Y'know…I hate being sick.

My brain goes into The Land of Nod quicker than I'd thought. And this time, my subconscious is feeling a little more, ah, creative than usual. I mean, usually it's just Batsy naked, or society turning into a frat party…which aren't bad by any means. It's nice to have a little variety.

I'm standing in front of a lake, clear right to the bottom. Fish are a-swimming along, healthy and occasionally glittering silver-white in the sun.

There's a redheaded guy sitting crouched on a rock, watching the fish and not moving a muscle. He's all taught like wire, pale and dressed in plaid like he should be on the set of, ah, Dragonheart or something—reddish-orange tunic…reddish-orange everything, actually, with some damn spiffy boots. I'm a bit jealous. He's holding an equally spiffy fishing net. A regular, ah, Boy Scout.

"Craving fish?" I ask, as the waves ripple softly against my feet, water running over and between my bare toes.

The man says nothing. He just sits there, waiting for the fish to come.

"Strong and silent type, huh? Finefinefiiiiiiine. I'll just, ah, mope then." I try my best to look brooding.

Then again, brooding always looks best on Batsy…or it used to, anyway. I like Batsy laid-back, kinda like the way this redheaded noodle-guy is acting.

There's a splish and a splash, and the man hauls up his catch—enough fish to feed two generations. The man turns to look at me, ice-chip blue eyes making me both happy and creeped the hell out. Everything else about him is…invisible. I get the feeling he's hiding something.

"You're going to be having a hell of a time, Scarlip." The man smiles—I think—do I know this guy?

"Really?" I try to get a closer look at this, ah, mysterious acquaintance. "Y'mean in Gotham? I have lots of fun there."

But, of course, there's no guarantee Gotham will still be fun. Gordon and the pigs could've…ruined our hard work. Which wouldn't be fun at all.

"Word is you think you own that city of dust. Well, it seems you're going to have to mark your territory, set some boundaries."

"…Are you some kind of, I don't know, prophetic vision or something?"

The man shrugs.

"Ooooh." I can't help but preen a little. "Never had one of those before. This is…exciting. Who are you, anyway? Poseidon? Hermes? Bast?"

"I'll get back to you on that."

"Hey, I'm supposed to be the, ah, smug bastard around here. Maaaaybe"—I reach into my pocket for a knife—"you should check your boundaries?"

The man's laughter sounds like a crackling fire and wind chimes all at once. "I picked you for a reason."

My hackles rise. "Whoa, hey, wait. I made myself who I am, Agent of Chaos and Clown Prince of Crime. And anyone who claims otherwise is…dead to the world."

The man quirks an eyebrow, not impressed. He's kind of…Alfred-y. Which is more than a little creepy. I mean, what if he's decided to take up a little, ah, haunting on the side?

"To interrupt your train of thought, I'm not Alfred. I'm a friend, though."

"How do I know—and how did you know?"

"You don't. And we'll get to that later."

I feel the ground under my feet shift, then vanish. I feel him slipping away, with his fish and his net and his riddles and damn it, if I could just—stay—asleep—