Metropolis.

Dusk.

Luthor sat in the back of a custom-built limousine. A '97 Lincoln with all the accoutrements of a presidential arcade: positive-grip tires reinforced with Kevlar and petroleum jelly.

Tempered glass windows. Were they subject to a gunshot, the glass wouldn't even shatter.

It's the kind of car a CEO doesn't drive. A wolf carefully masked as a sheep.

In the furthest seat back, Luthor stared out the window. Metropolis at dusk was a vast panoply of oranges and reds—the sunlight reflected off every bright surface in a three-mile radius. From the other side of the windows, Luthor watched the populace go to and for about their affairs, and thought ironically about Welles' passage.

Blissfully unaware that they were being watched and observed…by intelligences greater than their own.

He scoffed quietly. Plucked his cellular out of his jacket pocket and dialed Lois Lane at the Daily Planet.

He was bounced through three subordinates before he finally got to the newsroom. A woman's voice, harsh and impatient, answered.

"Lois Lane?" Luthor threw a bit of inflection at the end, to make it sound like a question.

"Lex Luthor."

"The one and only, Miss Lane. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No," she said. "Just getting ready to check out for the night. You?"

"On my way to an engagement. I know we made plans for dinner, and I have to say I'm regrettably cancelling those."

"Oh," Lois said, deflated. "Well. That's…unfortunate."

"We'll catch up some other time," Luthor said and hung up.

The Halldorf Hotel.

"Well," Wayne said, turning away from the door, "do you want to come in or are you just going to stand there all night?"

Superman didn't move.

"Or hover," Wayne corrected himself. "As the case may be."

Superman lowered to the floor and walked into the room as a normal human would. His cape, draped back behind his shoulders, fluttered with the movement of his body. Tim Drake sat up in the chaise-lounge and gave a casual "hey-o" and a wave. The Man of Steel nodded back militarily and stopped in the center of the room.

Wayne offered him a tumbler of club soda.

"No thanks," he said.

"Fine," Wayne replied and downed it himself. "Must say, I'm not surprised. Though I wish you would've stayed out. Is it too much to ask for you to leave now?"

"Yes," Superman said. "You're here. That means one thing. One of your psychos is loose in my city."

"The psycho," Wayne says. He turns to face the Man of Steel and leans against the bay window sill. "Joker. And if you're interested enough to come see me at this point, you may be interested enough to know he's got Luthor wrapped around his little finger."

"Not vice versa?"

"Not even close," Wayne says and refills the tumbler. "Luthor's being played and I'm sure he knows it."

"What does Luthor have that Joker wants? The tactile pleasure of robbing the richest man in the world?"

"No," Wayne says distantly. "Joker hasn't contacted Lex and that has him scared. I could sense it. You know as well as I do that Lex prides himself on control, and when he loses it he falls back on his old tricks. He'll pour himself into his work and focus his hatred on you until he's rid himself of Joker." The irony wasn't lost on Wayne.

"You're so sure." Superman's voice is firm.

"Luthor's a rich man with power issues. I know the type."

"And you're keeping me out of the loop on purpose—any reason, aside from your usual hubris?"

Wayne stood from the window sill, his eyebrows angled mildly. He scoffed and said, "It's only hubris if I fail."

Superman inhales. Holds it. Lets it go.

"What do you need, Bruce?"

"To continue my investigation unabated. For you to distract Luthor well enough that when I make my move, he doesn't put on his armor and make our jobs harder."

"And this big move of yours?"

"There are only so many places the Joker could be. I'll start from the outside and work my way in."

"I could find him myself, you know. Just tell me where to look."

"No," Wayne jabbed. "My investigation. My criminal. I take him back. By the end of the week, you and Luthor can go back to acting out King Lear, and I won't call again until I need something. Fair?"

"Fair," Superman said and met Wayne's handshake.

Suicide Slum.

"Ya know, this really isn't what I was looking for. I was in the market for a nice Dutch colonial. Sky-blue siding and a nice walk-up. Big backyard where the kids could play."

"Sheesh, clown. You give me a bad name."

"Oh I excel at that. But thanks for your concern, dad."

"Bite me."

"Nah, you'd like it."

Oswald Loomis' mustache curled into a sneer. A meter away from him, the Joker sat in the bamboo frame of a papasan chair and thumbed idly through the morning edition of NewsTime.

"I really think I wouldn't," Loomis said.

"Hey, your loss. I can't be blamed if you don't like the way I do my hair."

Loomis cocked his head and made delightful faux-sardonic notes in his head. The Joker, yessireebob: not only certifiable but, to boot, state-bonded. He rolled his eyes.

"And anyway, your end of the deal ain't complete yet, Pranky. I needs my technology and a certain little bald birdie tells me the buck stops here. Or—" Joker lowered the paper and pointed at a grease-stain across the garage. "—maybe there. Savvy?"

On the verge of saying something, Loomis was interrupted by the corrugated metal door across the room: sliding up with mechanical rhythm and annoyance. In the starlit darkness, there were three figures.

Two rather butch-looking chauffeurs—a busty blonde number and a buxom African type. One of Loomis' eyebrows arched and he entertained the brief resemblance he must hold with the old horny wolf from the Droopy cartoons.

And in the center, looking deathly humorless. Clad in drab grey trousers, black boots, and a double-breasted lab jacket distinctly reminiscent of Dr. Frankenstein…

Luthor.

"Well, well," Loomis said. "Surprise, I admit."

"They're here," Luthor said harshly. "And you're out of time. Get out of my warehouse, clown. Our partnership is over."

"What?" Joker asked and rose slowly from the papasan. "You're kicking us out?"

"Yes."

Jokers' face darkened.

"You…you brain-dead cephalopod! You take me into your custody, I accept your gracious hospitality with aplomb and now you just throw me out?! You're a bastard, Lex! I hope you get cancer!"

The busty blonde pulls a gun and fires it only once. The bullet hits spot-on, going straight through the right side of Joker's ribcage. Not the heart, but close enough. A foot away, Loomis is shocked into immobility.

Joker falls to the ground, and Loomis sees the crushing accuracy of the sack of bricks sleight.

He looked over the fading corpus, twisted his mustache, and said, "Huh. Neat."

The chauffeurs picked Joker up by the shoulders and dragged him to Luthor. The tips of his shoes scuffed the floor. When he was close enough, Luthor touched a gloved hand to Joker's chin and raised his head to see him. Eye-to-eye.

"No one insults me clown. No one."

Before leaving Luthor turned back to Loomis with an out of place, wizened smile.

"The money has been deposited, Oswald. Thank you for helping."

The chauffeurs popped the trunk and threw Joker in haphazardly. They strolled to the front of the car and got in like nothing had happened. Luthor slid in the back door by the wheel-well, and a moment later, the car was gone. A fading black spot on a fading horizon.

Loomis stood there for another hour, tracing the pattern of his own erratic breathing. And finally said, "You're welcome."

Continued...