AN: Thank you guys for the reviews and for following and favoriting! That was super cool and I hope everyone keeps enjoying the story. This chapter is a bit short, but the next one is a bit long, so it balances, I think. So for any typos I've missed.

Weeks pass and the minor spike of excitement in my life falls flat, not to be rippled seemingly ever again. I quit my job before they could pin me with the stealing thing. It's no loss; that job was sucking the life out of me, not that there's much left anyway. Since the most interesting night of my life, I've been working as a waitress in an excruciatingly average restaurant. With my rent miraculously paid this month, and by miraculously I'm referring to my wad of stolen cash, I find my money lacking when it comes to living expenses. It's no big deal with this new job, though. At the end of the day, I sneak into the kitchen for dinner and, if I'm feeling frisky, a little for breakfast the next morning.

Another good thing about this new job are all of the eavesdropping possibilities that have been opened for me. This is even more useful than usual because not only is eavesdropping considered a sub genre of entertainment in my book, it's also good for hearing word of mouth about Batman and the Joker. Most of it's bull, but so is what they put in the news. I haven't made many friends since moving here, either, so the grapevine is all I have. Come to think of it, I probably should've made a close friend by now. I drop the thought from my mind when the word "Batman" taps me on the shoulder. I saunter to it's source, a chubby man, if you could call him that, no older than his twenties.

"I know I hit at least two guys." he tells a small group of listeners clustered around his booth. He sits with a couple other men that I don't bother looking at.

"But what about The Batman? What did he look like?" a woman asks, cleavage on display.

"Oh, he wasn't THAT great… he stopped them I guess, but only after we took out half of them." the pudgy guy, let's call him Pudge, continues bragging.

"Did you talk to him at all? Wasn't he grateful?" asked a wide-eyed teenager. Pudge's friends at the table laughed, while his mouth pulled down in a frown. I decide to speak up, hoping I was attractive enough to join the temporary crowd of groupies.

"What'd he say Pud- Pal?" I clamp my lips together, hoping he didn't catch on to the Pudge nickname I gave him. Don't laugh don't laugh; I pray for the strength. Pudge sighs and tells the growing group around the table the story as a child would when confessing that he had an "accident".

"He said 'Don't let me find you out here again.'" Pudge pauses.

"And?"

"And I told him we were just trying to help him. He told us that he 'doesn't need help.'" his friend cuts in, smirking like a jerk.

"Then I said "That's not my diagnosis."' he laughs and high fives someone I don't care about. Pudge continues the story.

"I asked him what gave him the right, what was the difference between me and him."

"Money, mostly." I answer. The smirking jerk laughs again and interjects.

"According to The Batman, it's the fact that he wasn't wearing hockey pants." a hardy round of laughing ended the conversation. I sigh and continue working. Not much of a story, pretty boring if you ask me. Not to mention Batman's weak joke. Ah well, I don't see the chances of any real information being gained from here anyway. The day passes without a whisper of The Batman or this mysterious Joker.

"You closin' up for the weekend?" Brandon or Brian asks me; I always get those names confused. This place has a weird policy of staying closed until Monday. It doesn't make any sense, it's just a waste of money. I shrug it off like I do all unimportant things.

"Planned on it, uh…?"

"Byron." he sighs, slightly offended. I laugh even though an apology would have fit the situation better. Disgruntled "Byron" leaves me the keys. Maybe this is why I don't have any friends. I laugh again; what does that kind of thing matter in the grand scheme of things, anyway? What does anything really matter when you look at the big picture? I don't laugh. My fingers mindlessly wander to the silver cameo pendant around my neck. I trace the carving of a woman with roses in her hair.

Dad always said she was the spitting image of my mother on their wedding day. He bought it for her on their fifteenth anniversary, the last one they'd see together. My stomach reminds me I am hungry. I give the pendent a final squeeze and the restaurant a once over before leaving the wide dining area and receding into the kitchen like an old man's hairline.

The kitchen is smaller and almost entirely stainless steel, save for the white tile walls. A cold, sensible place for food. The dim fluorescent lighting only enhanced disposition of the atmosphere. Maybe it isn't that small; it already looks bigger without any people in it. At the moment, the area is only cluttered with baker's racks and other shelves and counters. That's a restaurant kitchen for you, I suppose. Now to the more important thing in here: the fridge. The silver door swings open smoothly and I exhale against the blast of cold air released.

Let's see here. Plenty of food I could microwave, or maybe I'll make a sandwich. I might just make a salad or eat some fruit; it's a little less work. Maybe I'll go the extra mile and cook a burger or something, or- Oh ho, is that booze I see? Champagne; close enough. I pull the bottle from the fridge, my hunger forgotten. Only the weight of my pendent on my chest and my mother and father are filling my brain. Let's see what we can do about that.

I remove the chilled bottle and close the industrial sized fridge. Alright. Step one: remove the foil. I use my fingernails to pick away at the golden foil wrapped around the neck of the dark green bottle. I peel away the thin metallic cover to reveal the silver wire hood twisted around the cork. Now, I'm not particularly savvy to the ways of opening champagne, but how hard could it be. Pop goes the cork; nice and simple, right? I guess I'll find out. I begin untying the wire and wonder if I'm supposed to shake it up. Let's just see if this'll open before taking any uncalled for measures.

I point the bottle away from me and plant my thumbs on the lip of the cork. I brace myself and push. With a bang, I've unsealed the bottle. I gasp in laughter went the cork flies into some glassware. Before I let the giggles burst forth, I hear the fizz rising from the champagne. My mouth blocks any further waste of the alcohol as the rapidly escaping drink flows down my throat, rippled by snorting enjoyment. I decide it's best to go ahead and drink the whole thing, then dispose of the evidence. At least, that's how I rationalized my alcoholic behavior.

Thanks you for reading and please tell me what you think. Please tell me if you think anything's missing or lacking. Please tell me if you like it so far! Thanks again, everyone , for reading.