Author's Note: Although I had watched The Dark Knight several times (6, to be precise), I was forced to wait until after I watched it the 7th magical time. You see, when I first began this story, it was a few weeks post the last time I saw it in theaters; my mind was already starting to lose all the vital pieces to complete the fanfic to the utmost loyalty. So, no matter how much I love it, the sequence of the action was all a blur. That is why, after getting the 2-disc special edition (man; is it BEAST), I've watched it the very day I started typing these words (December 26th). That reminds me....
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!
First Overture
As soon as Huntley received his first few window-washing jobs to increase his experience, the Joker finally revealed the reason he was doing it—to peer in on his clients whom would believe Huntley was finished with his work. Binoculars, the cell phone, and devoted watchfulness were all required to secretly look through each client's night life. All of these things Huntley had possession of—all his conductor had to do was give the signal.
Huntley dutifully reported each job offer to the Joker via the cell phone—most of which earned a sigh and apathetic tone from the phone's earpiece. Without the conductor's permission, Huntley still had sat outside, glaring in at each and every unsuspected identity's homes and movements. However, the offer Bruce Wayne had posed was absolutely nothing to pass up; that was, according to the conductor.
At the mention of Bruce Wayne's name, a sharp silence responded along with some ruffling sounds. Huntley gulped, waiting in suspense, hoping by a prayer that he could be of some direct use to the conductor. On the Joker's end, a few wild gestures were made to crank some gears and get them spinning for the madman's comprehension. He flipped effortlessly through dry data in the form of documents on his makeshift desk that slumped slightly. There wasn't anything holding them back from trying. Still with the phone shoved to his ear, held by a slanted shoulder, the Joker took in a wavering breath and kicked a remaining table leg of the desk. Papers crunched and slid under the toppled table's weight and colored pens flew only to click on the ground.
"....Conductor?!"
"Yes, Huntley."
"Do it...?"
The Joker's pacing ceased and all his muscles went stiff. "DO IT!"
The first day of a lead on the Batman, Huntley grinned excitedly. Although, to Huntley's judgement, Bruce Wayne didn't seem the type to be Batman. The physique and wealth to pull off jaw-dropping stunts were there. But the down-to-earth, crystalline orbs that studied Huntley Dyson that day did not feel as if they held the justice a man like Batman would embed into his very soul. He was a sincere man. I doubt he has anything to hide. Oh, well. It is irrelevant; as long as I clear his name, I am free to continue searching for the true Batman.
The naïve young man pulled up to the building, supplies at the ready. His co-workers decided to set everything up and elected Huntley to tell their client they arrived. "Ya smooth-twak'd the mill'onaire playboy 'a Gotham inta dis job; don't wanna screw anytin' up here," said the comical co-worker.
Huntley stepped gingerly onto the marble floor in his tattered work-boots and into the lobby. A secretary promply informed him that: "Mr. Wayne has a meeting right now. He told me you and your crew were coming. You have his permission to start up whenever you'd like." Huntley thanked the smiling secretary and returned to the slight and crisp breeze.
Carribeaners were clamped tight and checked for safety prior to signalling the crane operator to ascend. Only when the men were under the looming shadow of Wayne Mansion did they get a professional sense of how large this structure was. Once Huntley stood that close to the building, he contemplated just how much surface he would be required to cover and make shine. Then he would trully start working; in the twilight turned to night.
A thumbs-up was given from each member of the crew to begin ascension.
"Whew," One of the crew announced. "Big job today, boys!"
The crew would take the high route first. The cherrypicker lifter stopped them at halfway. For some clarity, Huntley varified whether the cherrypicker operator was correct and communicated the necessary adjustments. Adrenaline rose when the men were lifted higher and higher—the peak of it dawning on Huntley once the squeegees rest in the workers' hands. Today will be easy, Huntley smiled and rolled. But it'd be best to conserve some of this energy. He unwillingly slowed to his normal speed, watching the other workers alongside him become anxious and stubbornly, hastefully throw their bodyweight into it.
The habitual silence got Huntley's brain-bantering firing off at air yet again. Once the sweet sting in the shoulders started to work its way into weary arms, Huntley imagined his co-workers coming home to healthy and happy families, then dropping into a deep and natural sleep. Oh, how he wished he could simply be satisfied with that. But, apparently, he wasn't "normal"; tendencies for searching feverishly for anything that could fill his soul. Salvation may come tonight.
Before Huntley realized it, sweat had traced his cheek and soaked his back, a setting redish-orange sun reflected brightly off the same window he was tirelessly rolling at, and the clinks of tools into stuffed duffel bags blew in the 4-story air.
"C'mon, bub," a worker alerted, tapping Huntley's shoulder. "Time ta go."
This always happened—Huntley had to be awakened from his trances, usually juggling the squeegee with surprise. He had never let it fall to the ground, shivering at the thought of it becoming an aluminum projectile to the Gothamites below. The last thing he was staring at—expressionless--before any outside interruptions was an untainted and clear waterdrop, flipping and skewing the world around him. Upside-down, hollow hazel acknowledged its own existence.
Huntley turned around to face the co-worker, expression unaltered. The co-worker just sighed and smacked his forehead.
"I shoulda known," he admitted. "You would try to out-shine us again."
Huntley smirked back and shrugged playfully, "I guess it's just my personality."
"Awright. Hey, guys! We're gonna abseil down again!" Several of the men cheered, ready to practically free-fall to the bottom.
After all was clear, Huntley breathily rummaged his bag for the cell and organized the rest of the gear to look as compact and hidden as possible. He grinned to himself as the phone rang, peering in at what appeared to be Bruce Wayne's living space.
The Joker's head lifted up from his desk. His hair was now an unkempt and dirty mop—a faded green with noticeable flecks of amber and gold. The attempt at pulling his head back up failed so he settled with resting on his nose. The sun blared into his eyes at this angle—shone from a window wearing broken-wing blinds. When the Joker had finally answered the phone, he squinted at the light and spoke in a groggy tone that bounced from the cold wood of the desk to the receiver.
".... Huh?"
"Conductor! I've begun scouting Wayne Mansion—"
"Hold it," the Joker interrupted, pushing his head into a palm connected to a resting elbow. "Don't expect anything—not even in a couple hours. Unfortunately, the tabloids got it right when they said Bruce Wayne is a playboy. So it is very likely he will be out taking in the night-life." The Joker sighed, silently grumbling to himself that all the rich and powerful were prey to the same petty vanity items and luxurious lifestyles. Too bad they couldn't find the simple thrill and zest he possessed! There was another reason it frustrated him, too.
"Yessir," Huntley docilely replied. "But should there be certain times I can or cannot risk being seen? I have to put myself into view sometime to get a look."
The Joker hummed then snapped his fingers. "Big-shot Wayne has tons of business to attend to, of course. He must be one of those get-home-late types to still hold the title of 'Gotham's Most Eligible Bachelor'. Tryyy.... 10 P.M.-ish. But not past 10:30. Past that, use your own judgement."
"Yes, Conductor." Click.
The Joker dug uneven nails into overlooked paperwork, into cheap wood, and into a shaky palm. He stopped pressing into the skin until he reached warm red. The licked the self-inflicted wound then tore at it with his teeth. He swept the blood into an arch across the disorderly piles of white, picking up a jagged corner to stick into the area tickling with pain.
"Mmmm, papercut, papercut," he sang giddily, following the pink-ish red stain traveling up the porous paper.
His body shifted back to the ruined, scrunched blinds that flared out to one side.
"Those wings aren't white... Or even black, Bats," The madman recited calmly, starting to smear his own blood across the white. "Red.... Yes; red feels right. Besides, black is for the (k)night, Bats."
Author's note: Yes! Don't you love me? I created something for readers to interpret for themselves! Sorry if you don't enjoy the fact of Joker's self-mutilation; it feels as if that part created itself. At least I made a plot device! * Overjoyed *