"Are you going to pick that up?"

Bullock stared at the ringing phone for a moment before he lazily turned his eyes. Staring at him impatiently was Maggie Sawyer, who looked as if she should be tapping her foot like a disappointed parent. She had both of her hands on her hips and had a scowl on her face.

"I'm thinking about it," he grunted before returning his eyes to the phone.

"You know, that phone isn't going to answer itself," she pressed, not the least bit discouraged. "You're on the clock last I checked, so that means you need to do your job."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" he replied before looking back to the blonde. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not in the mood."

"That's unacceptable."

"Maybe it is in Metropolis," he admitted, "but this is Gotham. We don't have flying men that battle monsters and robots and whatever shit goes on there."

"But we do have crime and we do have officers that handle it, even without Superman. Now answer the damn phone."

"Fine." Bullock reached over and snatched the phone off its stand. "This is Bullock."

Suddenly, the doors to the unit blew apart, smoke and fire pouring through the doorway as the shattered pieces of polished oak flew throughout the room. Officers and detectives ducked for cover, many of which pulled out their firearms.

Through the smoke, the unmistakable sound of automatic gunfire erupted, a torrent of bullets tearing through the room and blanketing the back wall. Men in combat fatigues came flooding in, spreading out along the front wall of the bullpen.

Ducking behind his desk, Bullock adjusted his grip on his pistol before he popped and fired a single shot. He nailed one of the attackers just as he came through the door, his head jerking back as blood exploded out the back of his skull. The man collapsed even as his friends turned their gunfire on the police lieutenant. Immediately, the large man ducked behind his cover, his desk getting riddled with bullets an instant later, sending his paperwork, lamp, and desk supplies flying up into the air.

That was when the other officers began returning fire, popping out from their respective covers and firing off a couple shots before ducking back out of sight. A couple of them weren't so lucky as they were hit by return fire, bullets tearing through their bodies and dropping them to the floor.

"Sound the alarm!" Maggie shouted, her voice just barely being heard over the gunshots—and by barely, that only meant Bullock since he was at the desk next to the one she had hid behind. What, did she think this was the Tet Offensive, or something? Bullock peeked around his desk before he jerked back, the side of his desk bursting apart an instant later. Huh, maybe Sawyer was onto something.

Taking a deep breath, he then popped again, unloading a couple more shots, none of which hit as the the invaders had begun taking their own cover on the other side of the room. Pulling out the empty magazine, Bullock then reached for a drawer and pulled it open, reaching in and pulling out another magazine. He had a couple on his person, but he'd save those for later. Right now he'd use his spares first. Loading the gun, he cocked it and leaned out from his desk.

It was because of this that he saw him. The lieutenant would've recognized the giant son of a bitch anywhere. Strolling into the bullpen was Bane, not even bothering to avoid gunfire, not that anyone was aiming at him. There he was, like he owned the precinct.

"Mother fucker!" Bullock shouted as he pointed his gun and fired.

The doors to the jail cells slid shut, large steel bolts sliding into place. The moment the sound of gunfire was heard, lockdown protocols were thrown into place.

Montoya stared at the steel barrier, antsy as hell. On the other side of the doors, her friends were fighting for their lives against who knows what. She wanted to be out there; she needed to be out there. And yet, here she was, in the safest part of the GCPD.

At least the prisoners weren't loose.

Montoya rested a hand on her sidearm as she turned away from the doors and began walking down the corridor, looking from the wall at the end of the walkway to the line of jail cells next to her. It was clear the Blackgate escapees were restless, pressing themselves against the bars, their hands gripping onto the cool metal. As for the mercenaries, they were all lounging in their cells, casually looking at the officer as she passed by, but paying little mind to her, or the rat-tat-tat of machine guns.

All except the cell at the end.

"Hey man, what you doin'?" a voice demanded over the nervous chattering in the cells. Hesitating for a split-second, Montoya then picked up her pace.

"Holy shit, it's a bomb!"

An instant later, an explosion erupted, the force of the shock wave blowing Montoya back through the air. Pieces of cement were thrown out in all directions, bouncing against undamaged walls and the floor. Montoya hit the floor a moment later herself, skidding across it as the back of her head bounced up and down on the ground, causing stars to burst into her vision.

For a moment, Montoya lost all track of time as her head pounded with pain. Faintly, she was aware of someone's hands grabbing her around her shoulders and she was pulled, her body dragging across the debris-covered floor. Cracking open her closed eyes, she tilted her head up and caught sight of dark figures moving through dissipating smoke.

That's when the gunfire erupted, some from behind her, but a lot more in front of her. Montoya was then pulled to a side and she couldn't see much beyond the sudden appearance of jail bars. She could hear screaming and yelling mingled in the gunfire, but it sounded so far away.

Whoever had been pulling her, their hands suddenly let go of her. Someone stepped around her and that was the last Montoya saw of them...alive at least. The officer had moved up to the corner of the jail cell and immediately got hit with gunfire, his body jerking back and then falling to floor, blood sprinkling over everything.

Numbly, Montoya began to move, getting onto her stomach and moving to the edge of the cell. Peeking out while lying on the floor, she started to make out more of the attackers, seeing them in black combat fatigues. One was standing in front of a jail cell, placing something on it before stepping a few steps away. There was a small explosion shortly after, the door to the jail cell swinging open. Had to be a plastic explosive, she numbly thought.

As the demolitionist moved onto the next cell, Montoya soon realized just which cells were being targeted. The apprehended mercenaries began to emerge from the open jail cell, each one being quickly armed by the combat-ready men.

By then, unfortunately, most of the officers on guard duty had been wounded, or were dead. Any resistance was relegated to a couple of handguns being fired at the heavily-armed men. It was because of this that one of the attackers emerged with a grenade launcher without fear of being shot and fired his weapon right at the police officers.

"Get down!" she heard someone cried before the explosion erupted before her eyes.

Gordon watched through the open doorway as Officer Borg was gunned down in the middle of the hallway, the younger man screaming as he was throw backwards from the force of the bullets ripping through him. He fell to the floor, his blood spreading out all around him as it leaked out of the bullet holes in his body.

Goddamn it! Gordon swore as he pressed his back against the door behind him. It was the door to the interrogation room and he was the only thing keeping it open. There were gunman at the end of the hall and one too many cop bodies lying on the floor. Pistol held by his head with both hands, he waited for a lull in the gunfire before he spun around and stuck the gun through the doorway, firing off a couple shots before snatching his hand and weapon back.

Immediately, he heard cries of surprise, followed by words he didn't understand. He thought it sounded like Spanish, but it could've been Swahili for all he knew. He definitely understood the return of gunfire as sparks exploded off the metal door frame as bullets hit and ricocheted off of it.

And then there was more sounds of machine guns being fired, but this time they came from the opposite direction in the hall. Confused, the Commissioner stared through the doorway until he saw a member of the SWAT team appear in his view. The man suddenly jerked to a side, shoving open a door across the hallway from Gordon, taking cover.

"It's about damn time!" Gordon shouted, which got the SWAT member's attention.

"Commissioner! Are you okay?" the man responded.

"Don't worry about me, just push those bastards back!" Leaning through the doorway, Gordon fired off a few more rounds, this time certain he hit someone as he saw one of the attackers jerk backwards and then fall to the floor.

The hallway wasn't all that long, with doors placed randomly up and down the corridor, open doors at the ends. Of the ones up and down the hall, a few were open, like the one Gordon was using, and others were closed. It was towards one end that gunmen were trying to enter the hallway.

Thankfully, the SWAT team had entered from the other end and their firepower had stopped the attackers' advancement. Once he had emptied his clip, Gordon leaned back behind his cover, trading the empty clip for a full one, cocking back the hammer. "We have to push them back!" he shouted at the visible SWAT member.

"Roger!" the man acknowledged. "Keep pressing forward!" he ordered to his men, receiving a barrage of gunfire from the other SWAT members as they began working their way down the hallway. One of the men ducked into the interrogation room with Gordon, reloading his automatic rifle with quick efficiency.

"Hey, what gives?" a voice called out, causing Gordon to frown. Peaking around the door frame, the white-haired man caught sight of the gunmen pulling back the way they came. While that's what he wanted, he only saw a few of the black-clad man lying on the floor, which was a much smaller group than the wounded or dead police officers. While the GCPD SWAT team was good—really good—this struck Gordon as a sudden change. After all, when you were winning a battle, you didn't immediately fallback when reinforcements showed up.

Spotting a gunman darting for the open door, Gordon raised his handgun and fired, hitting the man in the leg and sending him falling to floor with a cry. The SWAT member next to Gordon then shot out into the hall, advancing up it as he laid out a stream of gunfire, taking cover in the next room. Gordon didn't bother hiding as he continued to look down the corridor, coming to the conclusion there was a lot less resistance from the enemy.

Something was going down.

"We're through. We're getting our guys out now," Bird reported over the radio transmitter.

Bane stared out into the carnage of the GCPD's Major Crimes Unit, standing right out in the open without fear of reprisal. Many of the policemen were dead, leaving only a few paltry pockets of resistance. His mercenaries could conceivably eliminate them with ease. Even now, as bullets whizzed by him, he had no fear that he would be hit. The survival instinct within each policemen would ensure they never take a well-aimed shot at him. A few had come close, but whomever that shooter was was most likely dead from the immediate return fire from his men.

The purpose of the multiple strike points was to draw the police away from the jail cells, where Bird and Zombie could free their men with minimal resistance. And there was no better bait to draw these pigs' attention than himself storming through the front door. No doubt all of the station's officers were rushing to this location to capture, if not kill, him. These reinforcements would find that difficult as they were ambushed by the other teams.

However, he had lost some men and no doubt had lost some at other locations. Now was not the time to get greedy; the Gotham Police could be squashed at a later time. This strike had weakened them and they would not be able to remedy their situation before he was ready to move on them with full force.

The objective had been completed; it was time to go.

"All positions, withdraw," he ordered over his radio set. Immediately, the men before him began laying out cover fire as they made their way to the room's entrance. That would keep the police at bay until they were safely—

Out of nowhere a chair came swinging at him. In response, Bane raised an arm up, blocking the chair as it broke into pieces against him. Standing next to him was a fat policemen, his clothing disheveled and unkempt. He was the epitome of slobbiness.

"You come into my precinct and think you can just walk away?!" the dark-haired man demanded as he pulled back the remains of the chair he had been holding, attempting to hit Bane with it again. In response, the much larger man shot his hand out as his foe swung the broken chair, catching it in mid-swing.

With a jerk of his arm, he ripped the debris out of the cop's hands, dropping it to the floor once his arm was drawn back. Then with the same hand, he balled it into a fist and threw it, slamming it into officer's chest. The force of the blow sent the man flying backwards through the air until he crashed against a wall, falling to the floor a moment later unmoving.

Not sparing a moment further on the man, Bane turned his back on the precinct and strolled through the doorway. Whatever resistance that was left in this place was broken; he would not be attacked again. He had done what he had come here to do.

This mission was finished.

The superior mind never truly knew rest. No, if it were to continue to prove itself, it couldn't ever rest.

Hugo Strange knew this well—too well. And in the process of proving his mind's superiority, he had to deal with all forms of adversity to do so. So many plans, so many schemes, yet he was denied at almost every turn. From the self-righteous, to the weak-willed, to the arrogant, and the petty, all conspired to deny him the recognition that he truly deserved.

Recent events, however, had almost destroyed any possible methods he could to finally get one over the Batman, the true target of his machinations. He was appalled that after years of sending threat after threat to test and ultimately triumph over his bat-themed nemesis, someone new and not native to the city of Gotham had invaded and succeeded where he and so many others had failed.

And the self-righteous, the weak-willed, the arrogant, and the petty all paid close attention to it, never peeling their eyes from the visage of their fallen idol, continuously fed by a twenty-four hour news cycle.

For six weeks there were no signs of him, no signs that he was coming back. For six weeks, Bane had asserted himself, bringing so many under heel. For six weeks, the city had withstood this assault, getting closer and closer to the brink. It was only so long until it all caved in. The people would bow before their conqueror, desperate to find any way to survive and choosing to keep their heads down in the hope of remaining unnoticed.

But he, Professor Hugo Strange, was far from finished.

A veritable set of chemistry equipment, all filled with various chemicals and in various states of reactions, various papers filled up with chemical equations, and several books rested on the table in front of the former shrink. A cloth-based air filter covered his nose and mouth so as to spare him from breathing in the multiple fumes emitted from the mentioned reactions. He documented his observations, making notes of whether or not he was heading in the correct direction, which would further his goals.

Off to a side, a television possessed the image of the latest crime lord himself, Bane, holding an injured Batman over his head seconds before he threw the Dark Knight into the streets below. It was the only thing that the bald, bearded man allowed to be shown from the media, and one he used as motivation to press on. A visual challenge to answer, and one in which he fully intended to answer.

The professor had been hard at work these last few weeks.

Once he had escaped from Arkham, leaving the Joker to handle the fallout, he had contacted the few remaining resources he had left, all of them participants in the now defunct False Face Society. It hadn't only been Roman Sionis and his pet assassin that Strange had worked his skills over. These associates had been influenced by him to a lesser extent, but what he had done had allowed him to set up shop once more and helped to bring him to this point. In particular, he had gained a base of operations and capital to fund this latest enterprise.

These former False Facers had no choice but to bow to his whims. The ex-psychiatrist had programmed them well. Once set up, Strange had begun planning his next scheme, and it was an obvious one. If he truly were to prove himself the superior mind now, there was only one way to do it. Since Batman had already been bested, it stood to reason that he needed to best the man who had bested the Bat.

That was going to be a problem. From appearance alone, Bane and Hugo Strange couldn't be further apart. Bane was a mountain of a man in peak physical condition. Strange was an older man still healing from the wounds he had suffered from months ago, a step away from being a cripple. It was no contest on this front; a battle of minds that would end in brawn winning hands down.

Strange had believed for a time that he didn't need to confront this Bane on that field. However, he had needed some intelligence on the man, and thus conspired to find someone who knew something of value. Naturally, he had noticed that the band of mercenaries that Bane employed were very peculiar, and it had taken some time to get his hands on one of them. An abduction when the man in question had thought himself safe, one accomplished with a couple programmed pawns, former clients from his days as Dr. Victor Erie, that were easily dealt with.

After that, he employed some crude psychological tactics, using a combination of a homegrown version of sodium pentothal and an even cruder version of hypnosis that eventually managed to get him valuable, if not priceless, information on his newest foe. His captive had thought his loyalty would be a strong enough shield against him, but he was sadly mistaken.

So this was the key to Bane's victory. This substance, this Venom—he needed to get his hands on some of it. That proved simpler to do than getting Bane's employee to talk. At this point, the mercenary was bound to his will and through him, he had used the same programing he had installed in a certain orderly at Arkham to have this man retrieve him some.

A success, that endeavor was. As it turned out, Bane had begun planting caches of his Venom supply throughout the city, all with the intention to use in case of an emergency should he need it. It was a simple matter to swipe one without anyone noticing. With no further need, but figuring it would be useful to have this latest puppet of his available, he had sent the mercenary back to Bane's fold, memories sealed away but programmed to obey should Strange ever come calling. In the meantime, the professor would be putting his newly obtained chemistry skills to the test.

All that time in Arkham would now be put to use.

This Venom was a complex compound, and it had taken days to unlock its secrets. Strange, however, was not content with it as is. No, he needed to put his mark on it, to improve it, to make it something that was solely his. It wouldn't be long now; he was so close to a breakthrough.

Until then, while he developed this new, Venom-based serum, he would work on another project, one that he intended to combine with this scheme. Together, they would merge and give to him the victory over Bane, that man who had beaten the Batman, and once and for all he, Professor Hugo Strange, would prove that he was indeed the superior mind.

Glancing over to the far wall where there was a mess of fabrics surrounding a manikin—sewing was a natural skill of his that was not widely publicized—he smirked at the, ahem, costume that dressed it. There was something missing from it, something important. A symbol, yes, that was it. And he had one in mind too.

There was only one that would do, and for a man like himself, only the best was worthy. Because only he himself was worthy. Soon, everyone else in this damned city would know this truth.

And then it would be him that they all bowed to.

"Rule of three, Barbara. Everything comes in threes," Barbara muttered to herself, fingers dancing over the keyboard in front of her.

She already knew about the attack on GCPD HQ, and by the time she had found out, it was too late to send anybody there to intervene. By the time any of the Birds of Prey, or even Nightwing got there, the attackers would be long gone. Sure, she did try to follow the vehicles in which the freed prisoners got into, but they scattered immediately and she found it almost impossible to track them all.

And while trying to track all of them, she ended losing all of them.

Naturally, she had needed details, and wouldn't you know, this was a more targeted attack than a first glance indicated. Only a select number of prisoners were freed, specifically anyone who bore a resemblance to Bane's tactical force of militiamen.

Then other details were spotted, details that reminded her very much of Blackgate. Could it be? Was Bane responsible for freeing all those inmates all those months ago? If so, why? That part she hadn't figured out yet. Still, the similarities were jarring.

But that could wait for later. She needed to make a quick call.

"Nightwing, you heard, right?" she greeted as soon as he picked up.

"How could I not? Heard the explosions, but couldn't get there in time. Like a snatch and grab."

Which he had plenty of experience with. "Yeah, but more organized and I couldn't keep up with them. They're gone and I already have a good guess as to who's responsible."

"Was it Bane?"

"Bane."

Barbara gave a sigh. Even after all this time, they were still reacting to this man. Yet, why wouldn't they? Why wouldn't anyone? This was a man who had beaten a person that they all held up on a pedestal, a person who they could never see falling in a million years. But it was a million and one years and all bets were off. The impossible was possible now and the world as they knew it continued to change.

It was about damn time they began changing with it.

"We may need to step up our plans," she told her walking-able partner. "This...it can't wait anymore and we're not going to save the city at this rate."

"We need to get ahead for once," Nightwing agreed. "Yeah, no argument here. How soon can you get it done?"

"It's priority number one and I'm working on it as we speak," she answered. The whole time she had not ceased for a second to stop her typing, only slowing down barely when she needed to move the mouse and click on an icon, or bring up a menu. A small window in the bottom left corner of the monitor's screen popped up and she glanced at it for barely a second. "As soon as I'm finished, you'll be the first to know and we can get this powwow started. Oracle over and out."

Nightwing said something in reply, but in the scope of things, it didn't really matter what his exact words were. Just a meaningless goodbye and to make sure she kept him in the loop.

Right now, she had other important matters to deal with. For a moment, she continued working, not speaking at all and appearing to only focus on the glowing screens in front of her. After that moment had passed she finally said, "How long until you say hello?"

"And here I thought I could sneak up on you. Don't let anybody ever tell you your senses have dulled," a young voice answered her.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, and you should really consider the fact I have this entire apartment wired with sensors. I knew the second you came in." Slowing down her typing, Barbara looked over her shoulder and at her guest. "What are you doing here, Tim?"

Leaning against the opened door frame to her Oracle lair was none other than the teen in question. He looked really healthy standing there. A little more tanned than she remembered, but that could be from that California sun. Still, despite her tone, he was a sight for sore eyes.

But also another potential headache, which Tim could definitely be without extenuating circumstances.

Tim decided to get down to business. "I had to come back. Do you know where he is?"

No need to ask who he was. "Ever since he vanished from the Thompkins clinic, no one has seen hide nor hair of him. I don't know how Batgirl did it, but she managed to get a man with some very serious injuries—a special shout out to a broken spine—and make him disappear off the face of the Earth."

Tim didn't hold back the wince. In fact, his grimace was very pronounced. It kinda looked like hers where she first heard the news and naturally that led her to her own back. The thought that Batman would ever be confined to a wheelchair...unthinkable, but not impossible.

Another detail for a changing world.

"How can I help? What do you need me to do?" Tim half-asked, half-demanded as he stood up straighter, no longer leaning against the door frame.

"What I want you to do is get your scrawny butt back to Jump City and stay there. Speaking of which, none of your new buddies are here too, right?" The last thing anyone needed was to pour more gasoline on this bonfire that was Gotham right now and a bunch of teenagers with superpowers looked like freaking napalm to her.

"I managed to convince them to stay while I scouted Gotham first. Naturally, I came straight here when I arrived," the teen replied. "And yes, it was totally harder to talk them down from coming here than it is to say it."

Tale as old as time. You're singing to choir right here.

"None of that tells me that you're intending to leave," the wheelchair-bound woman commented, not taking her eyes away from the computer monitor. "You are going to do the smart thing this time around and do what I told you to do, right?"

"What do you think?" And there was the cheeky attitude.

"I swear, you will be the death of me," Barbara groaned, finally stopping in her programming to drop her arms to her sides and look up to the ceiling.

"Yeah, yeah, so tell me: what can I do? Where do you need me? I can team back up with Dick and those newbies if you want," Tim offered.

She was sorely tempted to let him do that...but everything was about to be shaken up. There was going to be a change, one that was sorely needed to handle this situation, so in turn she and everyone else were going to have to adapt to it.

"Actually, you stay put," she stated as she resumed her typing. No rest for the righteous, after all.

There was a second of silence before Tim said so eloquently, "Huh?"

"Big changes are afoot and if you insist on sticking around, then I'll need you close. It's a new age in Gotham and the old ways aren't going to cut it," Barbara continued. "If you're bored, I do have errands you can run and not the crime fighting variety if you're wondering. We're...we can't count on Batman this time, I don't need to tell you why that is. There's no telling if, or when he'll be back, if ever, and the city needs saving now. So it's up to us to do it."

"Care to give someone not in the know a hint? A clue maybe?" Tim asked.

"I'd rather explain this once, but if you're sharp enough, you'll be able to figure out what I'm—and by extension Nightwing—up to. Since you always wanted to play detective, here's your chance to do it. Now if you wouldn't mind, would you be useful and go to the kitchen and whip me up a pot of coffee? The good stuff is in the back of drawer next to the sink. I'll kick your ass if you screw it up," Barbara instructed.

"Any intention on me, you know—"

"You still owe me for all the favors, Tim. All those hours of listening to someone rant about sin for who cares what. Time to pay up, and no, it's not going to be glamorous."

A heartbeat of silence. "You still take it the same way?"

"Damn right I do."

The penthouse of Jasmine la Tudor was a rather homey place. It was decorated with the finest carpeting, wallpaper, and furniture one could find. She could certainly afford it considering she was one of the premier fashion designers in the world.

So when one needed an outfit, she was naturally the one all the celebrities went to. He was no exception.

The material had to be black; of course it had to be. Nice, tight, and riding right up the crotch. Not just any material would do and it had taken some time to find the right one, but by golly he had found it.

A belt was needed and the man clasped it around his hips. It sat crooked, but that was fine. Looking out to the table in front of him, he began picking up the essentials he would need.

First little pocket: sharp throwing things. You never knew when you wanted to stab someone from afar.

Second little pocket: a remote control. To what, he wasn't quite sure but it looked fancy and he was pretty sure it worked on something.

He paused for a moment before he picked up a rubber bouncy ball. On the table was several little sharp metal stickers, caltrops if he wasn't mistaken—at least, he thought that was the fancy name for them, he was new to this business after all. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the ball down to the table, where it bounced off of it into the air. Quickly, he snatched up as many of the...caldrops? Call flops? Eh, close enough. He snatched up all that he could before the ball landed back on the table again, using his other hand to catch the ball in midair. Quickly, he then pulled out a small pouch and dropped all of the cat drops and ball into it, using the strings to close the opening and then tie the bag to his belt.

That made three. Now onto four. And then five. Before he knew it, the man had filled out his belt, feeling the weight on his hips. However, it wasn't complete, not yet. There was one last thing to add to his arsenal.

A rubber chicken.

Now, one might say that was a rather ridiculous thing to have on one's person, but never, never underestimate the use of a chicken, especially one that was weighted with lead inside it. Finding a place for it on the right side of his belt, the rubber chicken patting against his thigh, the man gave a sharp nod of approval.

That just left one thing: the mask. It was the last thing laying on the table and with trembling hands, he slowly picked it up The mouth was gaping wide open, just like the eye holes. It was an empty face, one that was judging him. The mask weighed heavily in his grasp as he stared at it. Then with a sharp, deep breath, he pulled it on.

At last, his costume was completed. Turning on his heels, he spied a full length mirror in the richly decorated room. Walking to stand in front of it, the man stared at his reflection and admired his work.

He was decked out in head-to-toe black—how chic. A ragged-looking cape hung off his shoulders, completing the all-black look. A colorful assortment of pouches and pockets of various sizes filled out the belt around his hips. On the chest was a crudely-drawn Bat Symbol. It wasn't his best work, but it was passable until he could make a new one.

And on his head, the cowl of the Bat revealed the pale skin and red lips of the Joker, his eyes gleaming through the eye holes. On his head were the copyrighted horns of the Bat, though while one was standing straight up, the other was bent about halfway, looking much like a flopping ear than a horn. He rather liked the effect, however; it gave his costume some character.

Throwing out his arms widely, the Joker spun around and exclaimed, "Well, how do I look?"

His question was directed at a family of four, a mommy, a daddy, and two little tykes that were tied to ornamented chairs with bungee cords, cloth gags forced into their mouths. All of them were staring at him with fearful eyes, trembling at the sight of him.

Yes! That was the exact reaction he had been going for!

If one was to be Batman, they had to strike fear into the hearts of the wicked, and maybe the little people he was trying to protect. Dressing like a giant bat wasn't exactly kid-friendly after all. Still, he did need an opinion on his attire.

Strolling up to la Tudor, the Joker placed an arm on the back of the chair, leaning over the woman as she leaned as far away as she could in the chair, whimpering through the gag in her mouth. "Now be honest, tell me the truth," the pale man prompted her. "Do I look scary? And I mean like Batman-scary."

Immediately, the designer lady frantically nodded her head. "Do you mean that? I look scary?" the Joker asked, his giddiness lacing his tone. Upon seeing more nodding, he let out a laugh. "Ha Ha!"

Then he immediately clamped a hand down on his mouth. No, no, he couldn't laugh. The Batman did not laugh. It was in the manual after all.

Now, he knew what you were thinking. Why would he, the sworn enemy of Batman, be dressing up like him? Well, it was a long story, but he was willing to offer cliff notes. Last month—or the one before that, there wasn't really any way to tell without looking at a calendar—his dear old friend had been beaten to a pulp by some newcomer calling himself Banial.

The Joker shook his head. No, no time for jokes. Bane, the man was Bane. And he had beaten his friend badly. He saw the videos on Youtube, so he knew what he was talking about. Bats was clearly out of the picture for the foreseeable future.

However, that left Gotham without the ever-scowling face of Batman and that simply could not be allowed. There always had to be a man in a batsuit watching over this wasteland of a city and if the #1 guy wasn't up for it, it fell to him, his best man, the #2 guy, to fill in for him. It was the least he could do.

"Well, I must thank you for your time," the Joker said, moving a hand to the designer lady's face, pinching her cheek with a couple fingers. "Next time I need help with my wardrobe, you'll be the first person I call on. Now don't worry, I know how these things usually work, so my people will be in touch with your people. We'll do lunch!"

Turning away, he marched to the window, throwing it up as he placed a booted foot on the windowsill. Now was the time for him to leap out into the night, swinging on a thin rope to fight crime. The dark sky was lovely from here, the lights of the city lighting up the street far below.

Far...far below…

Hmm...

"I think I'll take the stairs," Joker said to no one as he moved away from the window, passing right by the la Tudor family. He stopped once he got to the doors, thinking he had needed to vanish into thin air like Batsy before him. Probably would have helped if he hadn't told the la Tudors he was leaving already.

Well, he could do that next time. "And don't forget kids, stay in school and don't sniff glue." With a twist of the doorknob, he opened the door and slipped out of the penthouse. While there was a part of him that wanted to make sure his new identity wasn't revealed, he resisted the urge, for you see, he was no longer the Joker.

Look out, Gotham, he was no mere Joker anymore. Criminals beware, he was now the Bat-Joker.

To Guest: That's assuming she checks in on him. Remember, she was avoiding him for the longest time