As Hugo Strange woke to a world that no longer made sense to him, Bruce Wayne was just falling into an uneasy sleep. He hadn't bothered going to bed, thinking that he would be unable to sleep; he had instead opted for sprawling in the armchair in his sitting room. The chair overlooked the fitfully slumbering streets of Gotham, peering down on them through a bank of windows. Bruce thought that perhaps he would sit for a while, observing his home, before going to don the bat-armour. He shouldn't be going out as Batman at all, the police had their hands full enough with trying to find this Mister Freeze, but he couldn't leave the city to fend for itself.

He'd seen the message on the news earlier that day and had experienced a shameful stab of jealousy wondering why the Commissioner hadn't told him about it. Why did he have to learn about it from the news like everyone else? Thinking about it, the Commissioner hadn't been in contact since that evening they had both gone to see the frozen waters of Gotham River. True, that had only been a couple of days ago and after the incident that had gotten Batman arrested, Bruce could understand why Gordon would be reluctant to get in contact; but he still felt slightly uneasy about the matter. He wanted to be on the inside of the loop where he could be the most helpful, rather than pushed to the outside.

Even with such thoughts buzzing around the confines of his head, Bruce felt his eyelids grow heavy. He allowed them to droop, veiling the hypnotic sight of car lights crawling senselessly up and down the street outside. He thought, as his head lolled slightly, that even if Gordon had gotten in contact with him he wouldn't have been of much use. Batman had no more leads on Mister Freeze than he suspected the police had. Voices in the underground were quiet. He should really bring out the Bat and try to persuade those voices to speak a little louder.

He was doing no good just sitting around here like an old man in need of a nap after his Sunday lunch. His chin, balanced in the hollow of his hand, abruptly dropped towards the arm of the chair, and Bruce realised he had been just dozing off, causing his hand to slip from beneath him.

He could just imagine what Alfred would say if he saw his young employer with head adroop. 'You'll be no good to anyone until you've caught up on your sleep, Master Bruce. The world can wait a few more hours to be saved.' Hearing his friend's voice to perfection in his mind, Bruce decided that he would have a sleep before venturing out. Just a little sleep. After all, it was still early, maybe…

Something inside still nagged at him to get up and go out, it was his duty to do so, but his body had other ideas and refused to move.

Teetering on the brink of sleep, he happened to glance up and see the moon. It was a full one, strong and bright, and even Bruce had to admire its ghostly whiteness. It was easy to see why people had once believed there was a man in the moon, looking down on the world. He could pick out the delicate lacy shadows that formed the cratered eyes; he even thought he could tell what expression the moon-man had. At first he thought it wore a pleasant smile of benevolence, but looking closer he could see that it was in fact a contemptuous sneer. High above it all, the moon-man was cold and uncaring; harbouring nothing but indifference for the horrors he was forced to watch unfold night after night.

These disturbing hypnogogic thoughts must have followed Bruce down into sleep because he dreamt of white faces with hollow eyes. Faces that swooped around him with senseless grins, circling him like vultures whilst he stood out in the street alone and vulnerable. Jeering white faces that followed him everywhere he went and he couldn't lose them no matter how fast he ran and somewhere a car must have backfired because there was a loud bang. When he turned around to look for the source of that noise on the deserted street, he realised that he had never been running, he had been stood in this one spot all along. The looming death-shroud white faces found this funny. They must have, because they began to laugh.

When Bruce awoke just a few minutes after he had fallen asleep, he thought the sounds from his dream must have followed him into consciousness because he could still hear the eerie, unhinged laughter. It was echoey in its intensity, seeming to come from up close and very far away at the same time. He heard the noise of a car backfiring again, only that wasn't what it was at all. By now, he knew the sounds of a gunshot when he heard one.

It was then that two figures appeared in the doorway and he realised that he wasn't experiencing auditory hangovers from his dream; the nightmare had forced its way after him into the waking world and now stood before him.

Standing in the doorway of the penthouse's living room, Joker leisurely passed his tongue across his painted lips and caressed the cheek of the aged man he held captive with the side of his gun.

"Shh, shh," he murmured in a parody of tenderness as the white-haired man renewed his struggles. Glancing with lazy interest around the room lit only by the moon and lights from the street shining in through the large windows, he shuffled deeper in. His eyes fell on the slight form of a man in a chair, bathed in his own little halo of moonlight and wearing the befuddled expression of a man who isn't quite sure whether he is awake or asleep. It was the millionaire playboy Bruce Wayne. Joker recognised him. His scarred face split into a grin.

"I'm looking for Batman," he addressed the socialite, who was starting to look more alert by the minute. He probably had a crack security team on call, not that that bothered the Joker. "I don't have an appointment, but I'm sure he'll prove, um, accommodating." As if trying to elaborate further on the point without being sure of how to do so, he made vague gestures in the air with his gun. "So, uh, have you seen him anywhere? The Batman? It's really quite important that I speak to him. You might say," and here he looked down pointedly at his captive, "You might say it's a matter of life or death."

"I've told you, he's not here," Alfred spat in defiant indignation, struggling against the arm clamped over his windpipe. The musty smell of the too-warm body he was pressed back against was starting to make him feel nauseous, light-headed. Most of all though, he was angry. He wished fervently for an opportunity to injure the psychotic freak that had caused so much trouble and death.

"I'm the only one allowed to make jokes around here, old man," Joker snarled, tightening his grip with half a mind to choke him.

As he went to strike the geriatric with the butt of his gun, the young millionaire stood up with a swift determination that intrigued Joker, making him stay his hand. He'd seen such movement before. The look of self-righteous anger, pompous and misguided, he recognised that too, although it looked different somehow. He tilted his head slightly off to one side in interest, allowing his smile to widen. Something told Joker that although the millionaire was not what he had come here to find, he would nevertheless prove a most entertaining distraction.

"I know where Batman is," Bruce spoke up. To Joker, his voice sounded like a silk-wrapped crowbar, its initial softness belying a steely strength and resolve. He inclined his head to bid it continue.

"If you let him go," the old man was indicated, "I'll take you to Batman."

The clown considered this proposition for a moment. "Um, no."

Then everything seemed to happen at once.

Alfred, seeing his and Bruce's chances of getting away with their lives growing slimmer by the second, drove his elbow back hard into the clown's stomach.

Bruce started forwards to help his friend, but a terrible pain seemed to sear his head in two, forcing him to stagger back through a haze of blinding light to collapse on his chair.

The Joker, growing bored with the game, went to prime his gun ready to fire and received an elbow to the stomach instead. Surprised and winded, he dropped his captive and staggered backwards. His back hit the wall at the same time an unbearable pain hit his head and he fell through a screaming cloud of bats to the floor.

For a moment after, nothing seemed to exist except for the disturbing symphony of a butler's panting breaths, a millionaire's moans of pain and clown's quiet whoops of laughter. The moment hung in the air, a perfect suspended bubble of time, and then it popped.

Bruce was the first to recover, the pain in his head dulling to an ache as suddenly as it had come upon him. Beneath the ache, he could hear a low chanting; lilting words that repeated themselves over and over, but he chose to ignore them. Instead, he hurried over to Alfred and put a supportive arm around his old friend.

"Are you alright, Alfred?"

"Never better, sir," the man offered up a reassuring smile, and Bruce noticed for the first time the fresh bruise that assaulted Alfred's cheek and turned his right eye bloodshot. His hands clenched in anger the he could have allowed such a thing to happen.

Together, they turned to look at the creator of the violation.

Joker was on the floor where he had fallen, face pressed against it and his shoulders shaking with laughter. Coming up for air, he fixed Bruce with feverish eyes and giggled "You can't take me to Batman, you are Batman." His voice came out high pitched with mirth and he had to bury his face in his hands again, so powerful was his hilarity.

Bruce could feel Alfred's eyes turn to him in consternation, but he kept his face impassive, his attention fixed on the clown. "How did you find me?"

'Oh Bats, don't be so naïve. You know how I found you.'

Despite a very slight flinch that couldn't have been noticed unless one was looking out for it, Bruce gave no indication of having heard a voice in his head. It was surprising how quickly he got used to it again, and how easy it was to reply with his thoughts instead of out loud. It felt natural to do so in a way that disturbed him.

'The psychic link? That's impossible, Strange hasn't come out of his coma.'

Finally mustering enough strength to overcome his amusement, Joker started to get up. On his feet, he made no move towards the two other men. In fact, he appeared oblivious to their presence, stretching and cracking his joints as he stared distantly out of the window.

'For a guy who wears bat ears on his head, you sure are stupid sometimes.'

Deeming it beneath his dignity to answer, Batman gradually became aware of Alfred looking at him strangely. He supposed he did make for an odd sight, just standing there silently, his gaze fixed intently on his painted nemesis.

It must have been a very disconcerting sight for Alfred, the silence; but no such thing existed for his employer. Even without the Joker speaking directly to him, the millionaire could still hear the buzz of the man's thoughts, like the constant hum of an electrical appliance when it is switched on.

A hand reached out tentatively towards his arm and Bruce turned to intercept it. "Alfred, could you-"

"Phone the police, Master Bruce? I'll do it right away."

That was the last thing he wanted, the police getting involved in this. "No, there's no need for that," he interjected hurriedly, causing Alfred to stop in his tracks with a puzzled expression. Bruce closed his eyes for a second and placed a hand lightly to his temple, it was so difficult to concentrate with waves of Joker's amusement lapping at him, threatening to pull him under. "I – I've got the situation under control. You go clean up your face, make sure you haven't been hurt too badly."

There was a tense second or so when it seemed as if Alfred might argue, but he must have decided his young friend knew what he was doing because he left with nothing more than a dubious look and a "Sir."

Now there was just the problem of the Joker to deal with.

"What did you want to speak with me about?"

When there was no reply, he turned to find that the clown had occupied his chair and was sat watching him. He was stretched out, scuffed boots swung up to rest on the coffee table and legs crossed at the ankle. On anyone else it would have been a vulnerable position, one that left them open to attack, but on Joker it was an expression of dominance. His posture said 'I have nothing to fear from you, you have nothing to hurt me with.' Scars smiled arrogantly so that his lips didn't have to bother, dark eyes turned up to the other man in a jarring contrast of submission.

'Remember that night on the roof?'

Unbidden, memories rose in Bruce's head of that terrible night in Arkham Asylum and once again he was standing on its roof with the Joker at his side. Only this time, the scene was all wrong. In this memory he was on his knees, begging the clown to join forces with him. Outwardly, he gave no indication of being either disturbed or angered by the scene. He kept his face impassive.

'What about it?'

'You told me you saw a potential in me for good. You said that I needed a focus or I was going to burn myself out. And now I'm here to take you up on your offer.'

'What offer is that?'

The clown's smile widened. 'I want to join you.'