A chill wind lifted damp strands of the woman's hair from her forehead. She brushed them aside several times, but they kept blowing back across her face. Encased in knee-high black boots, her feet could nonetheless feel the sidewalk for what it was: hard, cold, and damp. She looked down at the pavement; a mirror image of herself looked down its nose at her. She was glad for the thousandth time in her life that she did not live in that inverted world. How did it feel to stand upside down? Or in that world did her other version feel as though it were right side up? She surveyed the deserted street; light sheets of rain scarfed about the lonely lamp posts. Glittering spray danced in the light and was swept away. Low clouds scudded.

She lifted her face and sniffed, slowly, carefully…cautiously. The odor of smoke brought a taste of memory. All manner of cigars and weed carried varied and recognizable scents, and she had hardly ever missed noticing an alteration in the fog that rose from the heart of Gotham's crime and drug-dealer pits. The masters were living the lives of nervous kings, and where there are shaken crowns, they are sure to be the results of flying pests. The little metal bats had shown up again in some of the darkest areas of the city. She had collected at least five by this time and intended to scan them for clues when she got the chance.

She crouched to feel the sidewalk, placed a finger on the ground, then pressed it to her tongue. The motor oil slick that filmed the newly fallen rain also tasted…different. The woman straightened, then proceeded to turn left to cut through the alleys. The network brought her to a crowded side street. It was like opening a door; one moment she was in solitary confinement with only the rain for company, the next, it was as though she had entered a crowded bar. The woman made her way through the jostling folk, ignoring the elbow thrusts that are bound to happen when one is caught in the middle of a human traffic jam, and kept on until she laid eyes on a food stand that wasn't being ravaged by hungry crowds. In fact, it was absolutely empty but for it's manager. Rain splashed on the unwrapped paper goods and old, soiled napkins and condiments, but whatever was frying, it smelled and looked good. Better than what she had been eating the past few days.

She leaned on the rickety plastic table. "You got spares?"

The owner dumped some fries into a cardboard cup. "What'll it be?"

"Anything this'll buy." She tossed some quarters onto the table, where they spun and rattled.

"Anything you've got." She shifted position and pulled her rain cloak closer about herself.

The grubby-looking, bearded owner quickly rolled up strips of bacon, cheese, and vegetables in flatbread and handed her two greasy wraps. "Cold tonight."

"Thanks." She took a huge bite. "Good business down here?"

The man handed her a pack of fries. "Good 'nough, for nights like these."

"Why?"

The man's eyes were difficult to read in the semi-darkness. "Well…" He ducked to pick up a napkin.

"Don't know. It's been…foggier lately."

"Hm?" Cicatrice had her mouth full.

"Not much I can say for that Bane fellow last year." The man had probably done like many others and followed the story point by point in every rain-soaked, discarded newspaper he could lay his hands on. "Dark folk abroad, they say. But that happens everywhere."
"Some sort of practical joker, maybe."

The man spilled some of the fries he was spooning into a pan.

Cicatrice took a huge bite, heedless of her bad manners. No one cared much for general etiquette in the streets anyhow. "Ya got drinks?" She tossed more coins onto the table.

"Water. Cola."

"Yeah. Both." She reached for the can first, knowing the water bottle was likely a refill, and took a swig. "Much obliged. He been down this way?"

"Huh? Where are you from?"

Cicatrice had chosen this moment to take another mouth-filling bite of food.

The man started coughing and pulled his coat tighter about himself. "Nigh on eight years since his time."

"Really?"

"Are you new to Gotham? You always wear sunglasses at night?"

"Sensitive vision." The woman looked down at the napkins and chewed slowly. "The only good news is bad news, they say. Exciting stuff."

The grizzled man, unaware that his fries were sizzling menacingly in the neglected pan, seemed to want to know more.

Cicatrice obliged. "Yeah, I ain't from around here."

"You travel?"

"Journalist. Pick up local rumors and legends." She shrugged and held up her food before he could comment that she was rather behind the times. "Thanks again. I'll be moving on." She grabbed the water bottle and tucked it under her arm. "Good luck."

He nodded, looking perhaps a little wary, as his unusual customer disappeared into the crowd. He'd probably met all kinds, Cicatrice thought. She'd never been so careless in her interactions with street lubbers before. But it was just a matter of time before caution would take on a new face. Cicatrice had downed the first wrap and was onto the second. She shrugged her shoulders and adjusted the ammo belt underneath her rain poncho. As usual, she needed to find a place to sit…. a place to hole up. She walked until she discovered a pub, then took a seat at the very back and huddled up on a bench. Smokey haze dimmed the already brownish lighting, and only three or four people were sheltering in the place.

The woman, rather short-statured, with a gymnast's physique, swallowed the last of her food and made herself as small as possible under her poncho. Her hands reached for the cellphone in the case she wore, one of many, on her belt; the screen had been dark for a long time. She stroked it as she had so many times, willing it to come alive, to light up…but she was saving its use for the right time. Charging it at any given moment was not easy in these places. She placed her head in her hands and became motionless… and let the memories that had kept her going for two straight months flood her mind...

Cicatrice glided up the dark, gritty steps with the litheness of a salamander, and paused at the top, her right foot on the last step. A bar of light sat beneath the doorframe. She moved forward and pressed her hands against the door; the toes of her boots took on an orangey gleam. She did not breathe. Her fingers lightly explored the old wood, barely brushing its surface. She pressed an ear to the door.

"All right...look...Griez, I wouldn't worry…about things going…off the edge. That's how you put it. I could do it for you… only, you'd have to be the audience, and end up like the rest of them. Just…gone. Like a match flame. POOF! Is that…really what you want?"

What sounded like an artificial voice crackled in response. Cicatrice couldn't make out the words.

"What's your problem? You...got an aneurysm? Aha…ha…, I mean…some excuses make pretty pictures, but…they just won't worrrk."

She spun the doorknob, stepped inside, and closed the door soundlessly. The carpet was worn, but still in good enough condition that it was a relief to her sore, booted feet. She leaned back against the door.

The man at the mahogany desk fifteen feet from her position seemed unaware of her presence. His hands were flat on the desk's surface, fingers spread, his arms relaxed. Near his right hand rested a Motorola's Razor V3 mobile phone, it's blue light glancing off his thumb and forefinger. Beside his right hand was a flip phone, its LCD screen glowing white. Lying directly between the two phones was a third mobile device, its screen dark. That would be the personal phone he used only for calling Cicatrice. His goldish, muddily streaked hair hung carelessly about his ears and forehead; his navy shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. "It's up to yoouu…" he said to the grouchy voice coming from the phone on the right.

Cicatrice folded her arms; rain drops edged off her collar onto her neck.

The man just sat there and raised his eyes. "Well, hello there."

She took off her leather jacket and tossed it onto the lounge. She didn't answer.

"Did you have a good evening?"

There was a long silence, during which Cicatrice regarded the Joker thoughtfully. She kept her voice low. "I picked up cards and makeup, ate cheap pizza, and didn't speak to strangers. You?"

The Joker leaned his elbows on the desk and poised his fingertips vertically over the devices. "Greiz, I'll get back to you… if you get back tonight. Same to you, Other Phone Caller. Byyye." He placed his fingers on the phones, and the screens blacked out. The Joker slowly raised his eyes again. "Cicatrice, I've told you…I don't eat… when I'm satisfied."

She walked to the desk and placed a paper bag in front of him. "And when you're dissatisfied… you eat?"

The Joker inclined his head a little. "You're in a lovely mood."

Cicatrice regarded him solemnly. Somehow, the urge to slap his face was stronger than usual. She had last been here three days ago to bring him supplies; she had no idea if he'd even bothered with them.

Without warning the Joker lunged forward, grabbed her upper arms, and hauled her over the desk, scattering cellphones and paper everywhere. He shoved her into his chair. "No sense in talking when you aren't..." -he spread his hands, thumbs and forefingers together- "relaxing." The chair shook a little as his hands clamped down on the armrests; his face was inches from Cicatrice's own. "Well?" He growled in a deep voice, his tomato red lips, badly chapped, twitching. "Why so serious?" His whisper made the strands of hair around his face quiver.

Cicatrice refused to look away. "I've got information."

He waited for a moment, then pulled off her glasses. "You know what disturbs me? I believe you." He tossed aside the glasses so they clattered on the desk.

Cicatrice maintained her steady gaze.

The Joker turned about gracefully, seated himself on the edge of the desk and twitched, flopping his hands on his lap a few times. "So, who's won 'cops and robbers'?"

Cicatrice pulled off her gloves, slapped them down hard, and leaned back. It felt good to rest. She observed the Joker's pointed, suede shoes; they needed a good rub-down. Cicatrice inhaled slowly. She was surprised by the words that ended up coming out of her mouth, for she had intended to begin with the fact that the Joker had been subtly mentioned by a downtown loner. "The bat fog is out tonight. I saw it flying as the moon rose."

The Joker, hunching as usual, ceased his fidgeting. "The moon was out? Well…my gosh, is that supposed to be a bad omen?"

"The clouds broke, the fog did not. It's a perfect night for projectors, but there's something wrong about the bat this time. It's all wrong." The weariness of the evening's adventure had begun to take its toll. Cicatrice didn't realize she was trembling slightly and had no intention of showing it. She looked the Joker in the eye. "The wings are longer, the outline sharper, I've never seen it…so dark…"

The Joker just looked at her with a frozen quirk to his mouth, an expression that conveyed his boredom.

"You already know. Don't you?"

"Mm-hm HM!" The Joker laughed weirdly, his eyes widening in their pools of days-old black eyeshadow. "The bat doesn't know it…you see….he…aha...a little reminder...he DIED. But the cards are about to take...a little flight." He tipped forward to retrieve one of the cellphones and held it delicately. "A tragic accident occurred down on Fourth and Bodgers…and the cops went to pick up the pieces and put Humpty back together again. Whether or not they'll find the king's men is the question for tomorrow's headlines."

"Don't think I missed the blue lights. What's your point?"

"Funny you should ask, " he said, setting down the phone as if it were an item he wasn't sure he would purchase, and picking up the gloves, "The point is stuck in the victim."

Cicatrice leaned forward. "Don't tell me you have need of an update then." It was certainly not a safe comment. She stood up and tried to walk past the Joker, but his hand shot out, trapping her elbow in a vise. Cicatrice jerked free, ended up slapping his hand, and he caught hold of her wrist.

"Eh ta ta ta ta ta ta, hold on there...look...look at me..."

She stared at him coldly as her fingers started to lose circulation. "Someone's set up that projector for the first time in eight...years. I keep it under constant surveillance. After the accident, it's floating around up there again."

"Sh-sh-sh…" The Joker held up a finger like a wise professor. "That's why you came here tonight. That's really why…you came with a message…I would already know." He smiled slightly and licked his lips. "Hm?"

"Are you going to ignore it?"

The Joker's half-closed eyes bored into hers. He lifted a hand in a casual gesture and let it slap back down on his thigh. His eyes never changed.

"Why," she added severely, more to change the subject than anything else, "haven't you redone your makeup? Half the white's missing."

The Joker clapped a hand to his forehead as if he weren't aware of his makeup condition. "Gee, does it look...that bad? Knew I should have gotten all fixed up first." Releasing Cicatrice's wrist, the Joker hopped off the desk and strode to the window. He peered through the heavy, velvet curtains. "I don't need to bother with it right now." He turned back around like a performer about to introduce a theater scene and clapped his hands together. "More important things going on…at the momenT." He bowed his head slightly and fluffed the hair that hung over his face. "I've gotta do something with this, I mean, look at it, it could use a little more…styling..."

Cicatrice sighed inaudibly.

He stopped ruffling his hair. "You brought the cards...right?"

She grabbed the paper bag and pulled out three decks. "Red, white, black, purple, green, navy. All Jokers. All custom. All secrets."

The Joker tugged up his rolled sleeve cuffs; he lurched forward to catch the card boxes Cicatrice threw at him and juggled them a bit. "Let'sss… have a look." He tossed his hair back and held one of the boxes close to his eyes. "You got it." He checked the second one. "Hmm." He flipped the third one to the top. "Winner. Welcome to the next stage." He carefully opened one of the boxes and pulled out a card. "See? Razor sharp. Good material for guys who don't shave."

"Did you expect me to not know they're made of metal? Those boxes weigh a good two pounds a-piece."

"Just...watch." The Joker stood back, and then his arm whipped up.

Cicatrice heard the thunk before realizing that he'd thrown the card over his shoulder; one corner of the card had struck precisely in the middle of a woodworked wall scroll. She maintained her usual expressionless demeanor. "Genius."

"Practice. A little... extra time on my hands." The Joker retrieved the card and returned it to its box. "Magic trick," he growled, squinting, and then shook his head until his lips trembled and his hair flopped. He flung up his arms and stretched. "Ahhhh!"

Cicatrice regarded the Joker through narrowed eyes. "Much as you would like to deny my observations, there is something wrong about that bat fog, J. I'm going back out there."

"Ok, you know what? Yeah, I get you; I hear ya, hero time, it's all wonderful when you talk about it," the Joker said, ambling over as he replaced the card in its holder. The boxes landed hard on the desk and he pulled Cicatrice by the collar. "Heave ho, get back in the chair." It bounced as he pushed her into it.

Cicatrice discreetly rubbed her wrist. "You forget I could have killed you ten years ago."

The creases in his face twisted. "Oh get real. Why do you want to go back…" he grasped her chin and turned her head toward the window. "...out therrre?"

"I don't want the bat," Cicatrice said, expertly wrenching her face free of his grip, "coming...in here."

The Joker looked at her sideways. "What bat?"

Cicatrice seethed. "Unhand me. Now."

The Joker was still standing over her. "Well excuse me, did you just give me a command?" He licked his lips. "I've already made more progress...look, more...progress...in a single night than...you have...wandering around the crime scenes. Just look … at great, big, beautiful Gotham."

"I have been." Cicatrice reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a weapons-belt. She strapped it on and placed a newly sharpened black knife down the side of her right boot. The Joker leaned casually on the desk and watched her through a smirk. His makeup was so old it was starting to peel.
As Cicatrice collected paraphernalia, he reached calmly into the paper bag on the desk and pulled out the black, red, and white makeup products she'd brought him. "Good prices. They weren't cheap."

"I oughta know, I bought them."

"That's my...quote. Therefore, I own it. Therefore," the Joker went on, smacking his lips and holding up a finger as he followed Cicatrice around the desk, "you can't use it."

"Are you listening?" She walked across the room and picked up the leather jacket. As she shrugged it on, she added, "Get me some ammo. In the safe."

"So you still think I take orders," the Joker said smoothly in her ear. "But seeing as how you're so...serious!" He yanked Cicatrice's arm and strode across the room with her in tow. Maintaining his grip, he crouched in front of what was meant to look like a large cedar chest set against the wall and extracted the remainder of her suit as she struggled. "You expect to survive out there?" He snappily buckled them about her waist and pulled the belts tight. (Too tight.) "Is this about being….Superwoman?" He snapped the rattling shoulder belt.

"No!" Cicatrice said, trying to shove his nimble hands aside, to no avail. "Something big is out there…

"You tell 'em, kid."

"...and I need to know what it is…"

The Joker dragged her back across the carpet like a sack of flour and with many a flourish jammed the rain poncho over her head.

"Let go of me!" Cicatrice hissed.

He showed no signs of fatigue against Cicatrice's strength; and for a woman, she could be hard to restrain. "You know, we gotta go through this every time! Glad you can tie your own shoes!" He pushed her night vision glasses back her face so roughly she knew the bridge of her nose would be sporting a bruise.

"I might not be available." He handed her another cellphone, took the one she'd used that evening, and spun her about in a full three-sixty as if to check for blemishes on her apparel. "Ready for your debut." He opened the door.

Cicatrice struggled again and managed to hook one of her booted feet around his knee.

"Ohh...hoo..ho ho, you wanna play, yes, verrry….GOOD!" He heaved her out the door and she pinned his arm around the doorframe in an effort to get free. He was too strong. "Come on, come on, out you go, have a good night, you wanna reach me, here's my card. Though on second thought...come here." He caught her by the back of the neck and steadied his other hand on her cheek, one of the metal cards pinched between his thumb and finger. He let the corner of it hover at the corner of her mouth.

Cicatrice remained absolutely still, gazing up at the Joker without expression, willing her fear into oblivion.

The Joker looked down his nose as he let the card glide slowly and softly up the side of her face. "Just...like that...just...like that..." He licked his lips and his breathing was faster. "What do you think? Should these replace the carving knives? Seems they'll do a better job...you know I always hated sloppy work...too much screaming, when you're trying to control curved lines..." His fingers slid down her cheek and suddenly Cicatrice was free. He shoved her.

Cicatrice staggered out into the dark rickety hall and glared back at him through her glasses. She did not dare speak her mind, much less shout. Sweat beaded her forehead.

The Joker started to close the door, then paused. "It's just a matter of… scars. Nothing … personal."

"Should I ask how you got those?" Cicatrice pointed, resisting the temptation to lash out and add some blood to his scars.

"The Joker glanced up at the ceiling and sucked his lower lip with a grimace. "Well, now, it all started when I was just a child… when I thought that eating food off of a knife was more effective than eating off a fork…

"Here he was cut off, because, regardless of how the tale had really gone... Cicatrice took this as her queue to vanish into the night.

And that is where that memory's dialogue ended… From the dingy, carpeted, wood-paneled room where the Joker had, shall we say, shown her to the door, and to the wet streets of Gotham, to the haunted places where the Joker had first clashed with Batman…it had been a long journey. Cicatrice left the bar, pressed her face to the wet stone-like wall, and breathed heavily, letting rivulets wash down her cheeks until they felt like tears. Perhaps they were. Finally, she looked up at the dark, wet skies and let the wind brush her face and fill her nostrils with a thousand and one scents and sights and signs. Batman was alive tonight, somewhere, out there in the world… Wayne tower was dark… and Gotham's traffic was alive in the distance.

And that's when Cicatrice knew it was time. She reached for her card. The corners had been nicked a thousand times after all her throwing practice, but the tiny numbers, embedded where the jewels would normally be painted on the long, clowny hat of the Joker image, were still as sharp and bright as a newly minted coin.

For the first time in two months, she dialed the number…and the response came. "Why…so serious?"

And for the first time in two months, she spoke the familiar code response, "I am…if you are."