Well, it's Christmas Eve today, so Merry Christmas everyone for tomorrow! I probably won't get another chance to update for a while, because I'm going away after Christmas, so I decided to post one today. I'd like to thank Shallots and Slightly Obssessive, who reviewed me, your comments are greatly uplifting. I'd like to give a special thanks to Slightly, who's reviewed me consistently throughout the three chapters, and is just awesome.

I've noticed that I've had 79 hits to this story, but only 5 reviews. Come on guys, it only takes a second to review and tell me what you think. You can even do it anonymously, which is how I personally like to review.

And I recommend 'The Crow' as an amazing watching experience, to those who aren't familiar with it. It's in parts on YouTube.


Disclaimer: I solemnly swear that I don't own either 'The Crow' or 'The Dark Knight', or have any rights except fan rights to the late lamented Heath Ledger and Brandon Lee.

Street Freaks

Chapter 3

~You know that you will always see,

this trembling, adored, tousled, bird-mad girl~

'Burn' –The Cure


The sun is dying by the time I hit the streets of Gotham.

I'm looking for a bottle shop, but find instead a drycleaners, where I drop off my Crow guise.

The girl behind the counter can't be older than 18, and she's too busy blushing to pick apart the flaws of my hastily-constructed story as to why my clothes are covered in bullet holes and bloodstains.

Eager to help, she directs me not only to the nearest place to find alcohol, but also a general store, a burger shop, a laundry and the local club with the dubious name of 'Bruiser'. She also points out the bank, a run-down, one-storey building where the clerk looks me over with a suspicious eye, and grudgingly hands me over a wad of cash.

As the streets darken, I notice the gangs forming, the all too-causal grouping of young men, dragging from their glowing cigarettes, casting sharp glances over me as I pass, and the sinister, slouching figures of lone dealers, the slinking gait of petty thieves, the weary tread of a prostitute on her way to a thankless night's work, the screech of cars in the dusk, and the noises that float up from the streets like smoke, screams and curses and drunken laughter.

I avoid the gathering figures, I'm not out to meet these creatures of the night, or learn new rules for the Narrows playground.

I just want to find some booze and a lonely rooftop to forget on.

It's dark before I'm ready to face the Narrows again. The largest bottle of whisky I could find is sitting on the rickety, sagging table in the area that could be loosely labeled as a kitchen. I'm standing in front of the only mirror, putting on my face, because I figure I'm less likely to be bothered if I look as least as menacing as the people already out there.

White first, rubbed all over my face, covering the lines and freckles thickly, until I glow in the gloom of my apartment.

Then black, into the hollows of the eyes, and dragged to dagger-points on my forehead and my cheeks.

I blacken out my lips, and then draw outwards, the sad, sinister smile of a mask.

I pause, and stare at my reflection.

Someone else stares back.

What had Albrecht called me?

A mime from hell.

I can't see it myself personally.

I see a face that can't decide whether to smile or to cry, to forgive or to murder.

A face to fear, because there's nothing human to appeal to under that mask.

Nothing but death.

I drag on Tin-Tin's jacket, gather up the bottle, and gingerly poke the wound on my stomach to see if it's up for some acrobatics. The scratches from Admetus have already faded, and under the gauze on my torso the wound's stopped bleeding.

Still, I'm careful during my exit from the window. I want this to heal as quickly as possible, so if I do run into any trouble, I can have faith my body will react the way it used to. I follow Admetus, jogging slowly, over the rooftops, whisky clinking in one of the deep pockets of my coat.

Up ahead, Admetus lands and hunches on an aerial, so I walk to the edge of the roof, and let my feet dangle. He's selected a view over the main street, honeycombed with alleys, and back streets, and I watch the nocturnal activities of the Narrows' inhabitants with interest as I open the bottle.

Two milling groups of dark shades have collided, and I can hear a fight commencing. I take a swig, feel the alcohol burn a path to my stomach, and listen to the bellows, shrieks, curses, the metal shrill of blades, and finally, the decisive muffled bang of a silenced revolver putting an end to the scuffle. The survivors wander off towards the Bruiser, or off into darkness talking and laughing, and I shake my head.

What a fucked-up place I've come to.

I take another drink, and choke as it hits the wrong tube.

It's cured soon enough though, by another drink.

And another.

And another.

The moon's shifted in the sky, and peeks out from behind a building, silvering its broken windows. Half of the whisky is gone, and I've come to a very unpleasant realisation.

I can taste the alcohol, and feel it hit my gut, but nothing's happening.

I'm as sober as I was when I arrived, and the nightmare still lurks in the back of my mind, ready to ambush me. It seems being dead has more complications than just eternal life.

I don't want to remember Shelly that way, a bleeding, dying broken thing heaving out her life on our bed while I watch helplessly.

I take another drink automatically before remembering that it's not doing a fucking thing, and I smash it viciously on the cement.

Shards of glass and whisky fly everywhere, and I listen to some larger pieces tinkle as they land on the street.

I still have the neck though, a deadly point cracked out in its separation, and I drag it across my palm.

I ignore Admetus' screech and watch as the blood pools in my palm for a moment like black water, then oozes away as the cut heals itself. Only a stain remains, and I'm reminded of my first night back in the Loft, grieving and half-crazy, where I re-lived Devil's Night, and punctured both my hands to prevent a repeat of my swan dive through the window.

I roll the neck of the bottle loosely in one hand, and watch the purple-black sky loom overhead, trying very hard not to think of anything at all.

Admetus screeches again, and behind his cry, I hear a louder sound.

A crunch, like rock hitting concrete, behind me.

I whirl in surprise, halfway up by the time my brain catches up with my reflexes, to see a great black shape behind me, silhouetted against the darkling sky.

The figure is an immense size, and I make out the curves of a cape encircling it, and two protrusions on the darkly cowled head.

I can feel the weight of eyes coming out of that shadow, and their intensity makes me shiver.

I take a step back, onto the ledge, ready to jump at any movement. I'm not a coward, but I don't want to face this guy on his terms, on the edge of a roof, in the middle of the night, without knowing who the hell he is.

He speaks like a dog growling, a gritty rasp of a voice that distorts his words, and it just adds to that delightful mixture of menace and oddity that surrounds him.

"Who are you?"

Now I could stay and talk to him, or I could…

Admetus takes off and without hesitation I step backwards off the roof.

I land hard, take the worst of the force on my shoulder as I roll, and am up and charging away within seconds, feeling the wrenched muscle repairing itself.

I follow Admetus through a tangle of streets, running flat-out, dodging the occasional anonymous figure, and finally sink down behind a dumpster, gasping for air, while Admetus fidgets on the edge of it, raising and lowering his wings in agitation.

I guess we lost him, and I let out the breath I've been holding painfully in my chest in case I need to get up, and then there's a whoosh above us, and I look up in time to see the great black shape glide over our alley to the next rooftop.

I wait, but he doesn't return, and I sit down properly with a relieved sigh, pushing my legs out in front of me.

Now that was just fucking creepy.

The world goes purple-grey for a moment, as Admetus' disorientating vision slides over my eyes like a sheath, showing me the sharp-cut, swinging bulk of a door opening out of the wall. I blink it away with difficulty, and I hear him take off as purple and black dots bloom behind my eyes.

A few minutes pass, and I hear a door slam, and two sets of boots coming along the alley towards me, two men, muttering to each other. Instinctively, I sink my head down, like a drunk, and wait for them to leave. But one pauses, and kicks my ankle.

"Hey get the hell out of here, would ya? The Joker don't take kindly to hobos on his territory."

The other man doesn't speak, just breathes heavily.

I raise my head to look at them, and they both step back with the sharp movement that gives away fear.

The talkative one gets over his shock fast, and I hear a barrage of disbelieving questions leveled at me about my level of sanity. The other, bulky and foreign, I'm judging, by his silence, just crushes a smoke beneath his boot with the air of a man who sees a threat to be removed. He's probably Russian. They make decisions with very little fuss, and on very little evidence, and they're good killers.

"Are you fucking insane, man? Are you high? Nobody, that's nobody goes around painted up on the Joker's streets, and lives to talk about it!"

"Well you'd think with a name like the Joker, he'd have a sense of humour."

They both stare at me in disbelief.

But their tough act is no use now.

I saw in their body language, in the smaller one's verbal recovery, the power I had with this face, the power this man must wield over those lower than him in Gotham's food chain.

For an instant, they thought I was the Joker, and it made all the difference.

The smaller man cracks an ugly smile.

"Shit, the Joker's gonna love you! You're crazy."

I let the Russian drag me to my feet. Suddenly my night's just gotten a lot more interesting.

Author's Notes: Just something random this time. I keep listening to Lady Gaga's 'Poker Face' and thinking what awesome poker faces Eric and the Joker would have. That kind of makeup would throw people off.

And yes, I know, I promised the Joker again, and didn't deliver. I gave some henchmen though, and Batman. Batman's cool, right?

There will be the Joker next time though. There's no getting out of it.

Love,

Taluliaka