SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY, EVERYONE. I'm trying to move into our new house, and my internet is less than stellar. 3 Trust me, you'll have many chapters to come.

Disclaimer: Property of: Warner Bros, DC Comics, Legendary Films, Chris Nolan, Christian Bale and Heath Ledger. Sigh. If only, if only.

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Chapter 4: A Few Words for the Deceased

--

What does it take to crush a City. What amounts of devastation and destruction keeps the spirits of the people in the lowest of places. What crumbles them into oblivion, what takes their hope.

Even in a city like Gotham, you could take their homes, their freedom, their lives--break them, butcher them, spill gallons of their blood, but they would still stand up on their shattered bones, wipe the dirt from their hands and hold strong to their faith. Their hope.

How do you stop that?

By taking away the one thing that inspired that hope.

"At 11:57am this morning, our parties came across a black object floating in the bay."

No, not any other religious entity. Those are abstract--something you can't see, there's too much doubt tied in with them--and it is something you cannot remove. When they're given a tangible symbol, something they can see, touch--something that has physically saved them--it doesn't take -away- from the spiritual faith the populace might have, it grows a -NEW- kind of faith. One in the -human- aspect. That yes, there are mortals on this planet who give a damn about the lives of others.

"Judging by it's shape, and size, it is…indisputable that we had found a piece of the Batman's armor."

That there is goodness in the world.

When that is ripped out of them, when hope is scraped out of the heads of the people, leaving a great, bloody, gaping void.

Only then can a City truly be crushed. Into nothingness.

"Our forces are needed to go against the current threat against the City. Sudden break-outs of crime have doubled. We must withdraw all search parties, immediately. Citizens of Gotham, I share your pain a hundred fold. As does the entire police force. We may have shunned him, hurt him--and he never wavered in his hope to save us. He was our true hero, one of so few who had the courage to rise against the evil in this town.

The Mayor has agreed to a City-wide memorial service for our masked defender, tomorrow, 8am, in front of City Hall. Now is the time that we must pull together as a community, more than ever. We must learn to carry on. Thank you."

And so, Gotham fell further into despair, and all because of a black vinyl -thing- their trusted officials found in the harbor. And there it sat now, on the podium, with Commissioner Jim Gordon.

Empty. Dark. A mask of death.

Every television in Gotham burned into the day, playing back the worst tragedy of their time.

Somewhere, in a warehouse, secluded from the rest of weeping Gotham, one of those televisions was now reduced to a pile of broken glass, sparking wires and smoke. It's purple-clad owner still beating it with a chair leg. Screaming.

Ah. Gotham.

Who was to save them now. Who would come when called.

Lost. All lost.

--

Streetlight--streetlight, yellow-gold, blinding silver reflected electric lamp-post. Grayish blackish cement, so many shadows, so many faces--

At least he was remembering words now. What things were called.

And more importantly, the things that could potentially kill him. Walking straight into a on-coming motor vehicle wasn't his brightest idea so far.

Some how, he had recovered the reflexes to jump out of the way of the grill of a two-ton truck. How he managed such a feat…there was something there…just on the tip of his overly dry tongue.

The Man who wasn't a man ducked under an overpass. He hugged his arms--the thin material of whatever the black thing was he had on his body hardly bracing him against the wind or cold. Suddenly, he regretted throwing off the thick vinyl-like material he clawed from himself earlier. He was still wet. There was sand on him, in every crevice of his body. There was water running off the bridge from above. He raised his head and caught a few dribbles in his mouth.

It was dirty, grimy--bits of…something in it…but it wet his mouth. There were…things…ringing in his ears. Sounds. People passed--equally lost and dirty people--talking, yelling--he couldn't understand them. The signal was coming in all wrong.

He lightly hit his fist against the side of his head. Get out, get out, get out--there was something else in there--screaming at him--clawing at his skull.

A shoulder hit his--there were those sounds again, he couldn't hear him, couldn't see him--there were too many things scratching the folds of his brain.

Screaming…there was a name…a name, a name--what was it?? It was right there--

Something small and pale dropped at his feet. The clouds in his head disappeared as he gazed on the circular shape of a…something. At least he knew it was edible. He looked up at the person who dropped it--he was staring slack-jawed at a blinking thing--box--thing, through a window, along with six other people.

The man snatched up the food and fled.

He didn't know what made him run so fast--know when it duck out--what gave him the instincts to take and leave. It was only there. Survive on what's presented to you.

Our Man settled down back under the overpass, curling in a dark cement and steel corner to eat his stolen goods. He picked bits off it, as he quietly tried to remember what the oddly-shaped thing was called. What sort of bread would be made to have a hole in the middle of it. He lightly fingered the bloodied dots on his chest, where the material of the thing he had on were ripped. They hurt. A lot.

There was something stuck in his skin--something he couldn't get out with his fingers. He had tried, and it only made it bleed more. His head hurt. Everything really, really hurt. Just walking around seemed to make him ache.

And that running spell had opened up all the tiny holes in his skin.

And he was cold.

Cold, cold, cold.

A small hand snapped him from his thoughts on pain. He looked up, four soulful green eyes staring into his own. The older one--the boy--held a dark, ratty blanket around his shoulders. The younger one, another boy, hugged a large filthy jacket around his own.

The older pointed to his food. Then he removed the blanket and held it out.

The man glanced at his food, then the old cloth--and without hesitation, handed it over to them. Refusing the blanket.

Something--that same something as before--told him to. At least in this fuzzy, loud world, there was something as solid as lead, weighting him down. He contented himself, watching the two boys curl up together at his feet, sharing the bagel.

Bagel.

Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after awhile…

--

"Hey. Maria."

Detective Bullock, who was currently monitoring the switch of the guard on the Hatter, fiddled with his tie. He didn't like black. The only times he ever wore black were if a family member died, or someone on the force had died. Black didn't have any pleasant memories tied to it. For awhile, though, almost everyone saw the better in it. Because it was flying over the skyscrapes of Gotham, striking fear into the hearts of the guilty. It -meant- something. And now, all of a sudden, it's back to being what it always was. The most depressing color anyone could be forced to wear.

Bullock hated Batman. He hated him, with every fiber of his being. He did their jobs, he stole half their credit--made a fool out of the entire GPD. He killed people, even. Yet SOMEHOW, for SOME reason, every single person in the precinct was walking around like their own fucking mothers had all up and died. Wandering around like beaten dogs. Bullock hated it. Mostly because he felt it too. He was depressed. He was depressed beyond all reason.

Maybe it was Jim. Maybe it was the City's reaction--maybe it was because he...really didn't hate the Bat as much as he thought he did. Now, that was just stupid.

Fucking Gotham. Had him talking crazy now.

Maria wandered over, a black band on her arm. She was staying behind to monitor the Hatter, since three-fourths of the force were going to be downtown.

"Seen Jim."

"He's in his office…"

"Mayor just called. He wants, uh...to know if he finished the eulogy."

"Ai, you can't be serious. I have to fight half the people in this place to leave him alone with it."

"Yeah, well…" Bullock shrugged, looking towards the closed door of the Commissioner's office. He hadn't come out of there for a few hours. Everyone was on edge. No one had heard a word from the Clown.

No threats.

No tapes.

No notes.

No cards.

Nothing. It wasn't -like- the Joker. Most times, he barely waits 20 minutes after breaking out of Arkham to do something awful. But it had been two days.

Two whole goddamn days, going on three days. Gordon was getting a little manic. He was expecting him to at least come after the Hatter. Why, Bullock didn't understand. Why would that freak care if the Bat was gone anyway. He was trying to snuff him out half the time. Didn't make sense.

Still. He was nervous too.

"He still has…40 minutes before we have to leave. I can't believe the mayor just sprang it on him like that."

"Jim's takin' it harder than anybody. Should-a gotten someone else to do it."

"There's no one else to do it right now, Harvey…"

Both officers turned. Gordon stood in the doorway of his office, a thin piece of paper in his hand. He folded it twice, and slipped it into his jacket. The cowl was behind him, on his desk.

"Are we ready for this afternoon, Maria." Everything seemed so forced. So solemn.

"Yes, sir--the hospital just called and confirmed our questioning with Crane and Meyerson, the Joker's shrink…"

The Commissioner nodded, stepping back into his office to retrieve the cowl.

"Good…good…well, we should--get there a bit early. Don't you think?"

"Yes, sir, that's…" Maria's words faded as Gordon merely drifted past them, staring at the black thing in his hands. With an uneasy glance towards one another, Bullock and Maria followed.

Gotham would never be the same, after this day.

Oh, if only they -knew-.

--

The rickety plastic folding table quivered and near collapsed as a large, navy duffel was thrown on it, sending playing cards flying. The Hench-clowns sitting at it turned with apprehension towards their boss.

"Get up. We're leaving."

The four of them sitting down scrambled to their feet, one of them grabbing the particularly heavy duffle. The rest of them snatched up their masks and ran after him. The night before, they had been sent out to recruit. The turn-out was decent, no less nerve-racking. More men usually meant more opportunities to die horribly.

The Joker disappeared into his small red room as the boys ran to ready their stolen vans. He tossed a few more duffels out of his room, laughing as the force of them sent a few pawns sprawling under the weight.

The laughter was short lived, though.

Barely a chuckle.

He couldn't -breathe- today. He scratched at his neck for the millionth time, the angry red marks there starting to leak. There was a -void- in there, right at his collarbone, it wouldn't hold anything down, and it wouldn't let anything out.

But he just could stop -going-. Move move move move, go go go go go.

The boys hitched up the vans, and the Joker, a smaller bag in his hand, climbed in, and the doors were promptly shut.

As they sped down the street, he ripped one of the duffels apart, forcing aerosol cans into the hands of his boys. He scratched his neck again, cracking the bones there, grabbed one of his hench-clown's wrists, and checked the time.

Couldn't be late, no, no, no.

This was a very very important morning.

--

Gordon stared from his chair behind the podium.

He had expected a turn-out. He had expected the news crews, the vultures--the celebrity and big-business moguls. He had expected Lucius Fox, face solemn, sitting there in the front. He had expected the Mayor giving some long-winded speech about heroism. He had even expected school busses.

But never in his life, would he have expected -this-.

The entire street was packed with people. There wasn't an inch of pavement. It stretched further than he could see, hundreds--the majority of the City could be there, right now, in front of City Hall. If he wasn't so moved, he might have panicked about having so many vulnerable people in one place at one time.

But he -was- moved. He was very damn well moved to -tears-. Their sadness seemed to echo--there were people -crying- out there, hundreds, at the same time, their weeping wafting between the buildings around City Hall.

Gordon lightly wiped a tear trickling into his mustache. He silently cleared his throat and adjusted in his chair. The Batman had been right, though. When in times of need, Gotham could come together. It's soul was still healthy. It could heal itself, through it's citizens. And here they all were, -showing- him that they could.

What a memory to leave with him.

Gordon was terrified. Without Batman, the criminals re-grew their balls, and they were out there now, preying on their wounded town. They had to keep up what the Batman had tried to fix. Gordon couldn't let the darkness win. And they had to catch the Joker. Wherever he was.

Gordon was no fool--he had heard the things said between them, he had been present for a hundred interrogations with the Clown. Ying and yang. The Joker was perversely insane. It frightened him to think what happened to him when his balance was taken away. And like -this-.

Jim remembered the night they had first really…'talked' to one another. The memory was painfully vivid.

'You..complete me.'

What was Gordon going to do. He wasn't his adversary. He wasn't another Batman. What could he ever do.

A hand on his shoulder broke him from his thoughts. Mayor Garcia gave him a soft, saddened smile. Gordon nodded, stood, and walked uncertainly to the podium.

His eyes turned once to the small stand that held the cowl. It stared, blankly, into the crowds.

For a moment, he simply stared out at all the faces there. The still flowing tears, the flashing camera lights, the sniffles and hiccups.

A thin pale hand stretched into the air. Barbara. At her side were his children. His son gave his dad a brave smile.

James swallowed to keep the lump from his throat, and removed the paper from his coat.

"…I know…many in Gotham saw the Batman to be…a criminal. A vigilante. Something to fear, a madman, someone who…shouldn't be allowed to roam the City. I have always disagreed. In a time of darkness, when we were beyond all hope, the Batman was the man who splashed water on our faces, and made us see the morning. He brought us to the light--gave us…the first sign of hope Gotham had seen in too long a time. "

--

A number of police officers shifted behind the platform in front of City Hall.

A van pulled up and stopped on one of the side streets. The six of them shifted again, hands going to their weapons. One of them walked over, hand raised--

The door slid open, and a number of figures stepped out, automatic weapons slung over their shoulders, spray-cans in their hands.

The last to emerge from the van slicked his green-greased hair to the side.

The officers reached for their guns and radios.

The Clown raised his aerosol can.

--

"The first time I met the Batman…" Gordon paused. He stared at his written words on paper…folded them away, and slipped them back into his coat.

"Quite frankly, he, uh…he scared the bejeezus out of me." He cracked a small chuckle, and a small few followed suit. "From the beginning, he…he seemed to truly understand what Justice meant. What--what it meant to fight for -good-. Despite what everyone called him--the things he was blamed for, the…the laws he broke. He -was- this City's true hero. The truest hero this world has ever seen. And…by the looks of things, by--how many people I see out here today, you all think so too."

Gordon lightly adjusted his glasses.

"…We're here to give our goodbyes to the man who protected us, even when he believed he wasn't wanted. To thank him."

He took a steady breath.

"…To thank Batman. Gotham's Dark Knight. Our true hero--"

The microphone cut out. Gordon glanced around the podium, then to the others on the platform with him. Where were the technical directors?

A moment of feedback. A grainy, purring voice hummmmed through the speakers.

"Now you've got me all CHOKED UP, Commmm-issioner…"

Jim froze.

Oh, God.

There was a scream--a group of clown-faced men lumbered onto the wooden stage pointing guns, and what looked to be spray-cans, at the on-lookers. Two of them trained their weapons on Gordon. He lifted his hands and stepped away from the podium.

"What's the MATTER, Gotham…"

The Joker stepped out onto the platform, a slotted, classic-looking microphone in his gloved hand.

"…You look as if somebody DIED."

He sighed heavily into the microphone, the speakers screeching a bit of feedback.

Another group of clowns positioned themselves at the foot of the platform. Gordon stared around the street--he could see more of them, moving into position--they were -blockading- the street.

"Hello, filthy masses. Surprised to see me? I just thought I'd--pffhhhsshh--pay my respects…to the de-early…de-par-ted…" The Joker seemed to stop in his words. Like they just wouldn't come anymore. His eyes closed as he tried to force another sound out of his mouth.

Gordon stared at him, unblinking. He jumped as the clown roughly beat the side of his head with the heel of his palm. Jesus Christ, what -happened- to him.

Sudden movement on the platform attracted his attention--

One of the officers was attempting to rush the Joker.

He raised his can and sprayed him directly in the face.

Gordon was forced to look away as the kid writhed on the ground--his skin was -bubbling-, the flesh growing taut over his bones--he flinched as he gurgled and sputtered, a melty, -grinning- mess on the ground.

The Joker watched the boy in blue twitch and make icky noises. He raised his eyes to the other officers nearby. He jumped at them, shaking his spray can, and they darted backwards, shaking.

Good.

He sniffed a little, and wandered over to Gordon.

"That was just a -lovely- speech there, Jimmy." The Joker draped his arm across the man's shoulders. "But there's something I, ah, noticed…something terribly, terribly wrong…"

The growl in his voice made Gordon wince. He leaned back as the Clown came ever closer to his face--his breath on his cheek. He pressed the metal of the microphone against his chin.

"The BAT…never…EVER…belonged to -them-." The Joker raised his eyebrows, and turned the Commissioner's face towards his. He had to -listen-. If he didn't listen, he didn't -learn- anything.

"He…belonged to ME." He jostled the Commissioner roughly, his glasses going askew. Gordon tried to keep himself calm, breathing roughly through his nose.

"But I'm sure you knew that, didn't you, Commissioner…" Gordon said nothing. He shook him again. "DIDN'T YOU."

Jim closed his eyes. He winced as the small white nozzle to the spray-can was pressed into his other cheek, the wet remnants of it's last spray burning his skin.

"Hhhn--!!" He gritted his teeth--the pain was horrific, he could -hear- the tiny patch of skin sizzling.

"..Yes…"

The nozzle was removed, and the Clown's hold relaxed fractionally.

"I thought so. All that, ah, heartache got to you." The Joker smiled, walking him towards the front of the high platform.

"You need time to grieve."

With a heavy -shove-, the Joker sent Gordon flying off the platform. Upon hitting the pavement, there was a resounding SNAP as the Commissioner landed on his out-stretched arm, one of the two bones in his lower arm protruding through the skin--and his suit jacket. On cue, the hench-clowns at the foot of the platform circled around him, guns and spray-cans pointed.

Gordon hissed in pain, trying to cradle his bleeding arm, staring upwards at the Joker, who was currently eyeing the cowl. He pushed his spray-can into the hands of a nearby clown, and held the microphone in the crook of his arm.

The Joker gingerly lifted the broken black thing.

He pulled one of his gloves off with his teeth, dropped it, and lightly, ever ever lightly, placed his fingertips on the forehead of the cowl. He traced the angry lines of the face, the points of the bat ears, the jagged ripped side, smoothed both the eye holes, down the pointed nose…

He stared into the black holes for the longest time. He could still see the glistening righteous eyes there, narrowed at his face. Focused solely on him. Those unnatural eyes, swirling with unbridled perseverance; wan and -lonely-, for Godsakes.

He remembered the first time he -saw- those specked orbs. The first time they were -close- enough. He could still smell the sweat between them, if he remembered hard enough…

The Joker turned his face upwards, inhaling sharply through his nose, holding the cowl in both his hands. As he exhaled shakily, he turned his attention to the crowds, and stalked to the podium.

Holding the cowl like some sacred thing, he slammed his microphone down onto the podium, planting it there with the others.

"…." His mouth opened with a smack, "--I would like a show of hands…how many of you -things-…actually -met-…the Batman."

No one moved.

"No, ah--honestly. I want to know. It's okay--go ahead, raise your hands." He smiled, gesturing to the people.

The Hench-Clowns started roughing people near the edges of the crowd.

Finally, someone raised their hand.

Then another, and another--a few hands popped up around the crowd--and as the word spread, some they couldn't see near the back of the crowds.

At a glance? Not many. Not many at all.

The Joker impatiently tapped his ungloved fingers against the podium.

"…No one--no one else. Hm? No one." he sucked on his tooth. "I expected as much."

He rolled his neck once, and scratched the base of his throat.

"You…ridiculed him…shunned him…called him out as a criminal--ah--hunted him down like, well…like you would -me-, ahm…defaced him…-hated-..him…while he was--ah--while he was taking time out of his busy Batty schedule to SAVE you all--now, Gotham…"

He stretched the muscles attached to his jaw a little, hitting the podium with his palm.

"You're all saying that you MISS him? Hm? You're all--ah--here to MOURN the passing of your would-be hero? I've been hearing that word a lot lately--HERO--and for SOME reason, nobody seemed to want to use it LAST WEEK, when our resident flying rodent was saving you woooorms from unseen peril--"

He jerked into his microphone.

"STOP ME…IF I'M WRONG."

Another lapse of silence. His tongue darted between his lips.

"Y'see, Gotham, I'm just a wee bit confuuused here, and I'd appreciate it if someone could, ah, clear up my current boggle."

He lightly brought the cowl to the podium, resting his open hands there, the pointed mask nestled securely in his fingers.

"You despised him, Gotham. You threatened him with expulsion. Jail. Life incarceration--a padded cell even. Hm? None of you KNEW him. And now--suddenly--the Bat is--GONE. And you all STAND THERE, crying your shallow eyes out--you have the nerve to trick me into thinking you care."

He sniffed again, staring at the visage in his hands.

"…I think…it's time to put the hankies away. Because let's face it, ladies and germs, it's not REALLY how you're feeling, is it. But don't worry. I'm here to help."

He smiled again, bringing the mask down from the podium.

"The Clown has come to liven up this pity-party. It's my job to make sure, ah, that every..single person…wears a smiiiile on their pretty faces. There's enough of my special happy spray to go around for EVERYBODY--but you know what. In memory…of my beloved belligerent Bat…"

He motioned for one of his hench-clowns to come near, nabbed his wrist and looked at the time.

"…I'll give you a 10-second head start. I don't mind. Everyone's going to have a front-row-seat for my grand finale. It's going to be a blast." He cradled the cowl in his hands, looking at his pawn's wrist.

"That's 10-seconds. Starting..now."

Needless to say, pandemonium erupted in front of City Hall. Thousands, trying to run through the narrow alleyways, rushing around corners to escape--trampling children--leaving long stains of blood across the concrete. The police were useless.

Commissioner Gordon, clutching his shattered arm, found a chance to escape through the legs of one of the hench-clowns, and disappeared into the crowds of civilians, calling for his family. Lucius Fox hurried with the others, quickly finding his way back to the company's car--giving ride to those he could grab. The Mayor was rushed out by members of his security, and the rest of the force tried to take out the clowns.

God help them when the 10-seconds ended.

Sadly, God wasn't listening at the time.

While large groups of people laid screaming in heaps of sizzling reddened flesh, the Joker wandered from the platform, the cowl in his hands, and stepped back inside one of the vans.

It would be a minute or two before the boys had depleted their cans. He sat down in the back of the van, doors open, feet dangling a few inches above the street, staring at the half-face of the rogue and savior he devoted everything to.

"…see..? Almost there. Just…a few more people to see. And then the curtain call." He smiled a little, his ungloved index finger making small strokes on the forehead.

"I'll take my bow soon. I promise."

--

A eulogy well deserved!

Next time: Chapter 5 - Good Morning, Doctor, how are you feeling?

R&R my darlingest darlings!! They keep me writing in this sea of boxes and torment!!