The Punchline

December 31, 1940

When Dick Grayson was first brought into Bruce Wayne's life, he was curious about the parade of parties, galas, charity balls, premiers and social events that occupied his nights. Dick did his best to play at being aloof, but it was the same as when he was a part of the circus. He wondered what it would be like to live at a higher station. To be invited to all these special places and meet these special people.

Now Dick knew the truth. They were boring.

School at least offered friends and the chance to learn, even if he wanted to bounce off the walls at any given moment. These social gatherings had few redeeming qualities. No one seemed to know what to do with Bruce Wayne's ward, beyond gawk at him and ask him the most dull questions. They treated him like a colorful pet. It irked Dick. Still, Bruce explained to him that it was necessary for them to be seen in public together.

The current ordeal was a New Year's Eve party hosted by a man named Leonard Wheeler. He had a big stake in some broadcasting company. Dick was supposed to study all this stuff, but he could only make it through so much at a time before he zoned out. He slid through the crowds of people in their elegant dresses and pinched suits beneath the banners that proclaimed a bright future for Gotham in the new year, sneaking more than his fair share of food and a bottle of coke. Dick could see Bruce in the mix, chatting with his peers. He found it wild to think of how quickly Bruce could throw on his other mask, the one he used at social gatherings. Dick did his best to mimic him, to put on a smile and nod through the questions and the overblown expressions of sorrow about his parents. He was a performer after all.

New Year's had been its own celebration with the circus. Mr. Haly never scheduled a show for those two days, instead having the entertainers and the workers throw their own party. Dick loved to listen to the stories the others told as the night grew increasingly wild through drink and revelry. Sometimes if they were lucky, Dick would be able to climb to the top of the ferris wheel and watch a fireworks show, in whatever city they were currently camped outside of.

The only thing that made his current predicament bearable was that Bruce had assigned Dick a task. His target was slowly moving through the room. Keith Barber, a low-level gangster on the Falcone payroll. Bruce said that the man had an envelope full of cash. The only question was who he was passing it off to. Dick finished his Coke and set it on a nearby table, as he trailed Barber through the press of bodies. The man looked out of place with his rumpled suit and acne scars. Only the barest effort went into fitting in with the average attendee of this party. They continued this slow pursuit for the next few minutes, Barber unaware it was happening at all. Dick hurried through the handful of conversations and comments that waylaid him, careful to keep his eyes locked on Barber's shaved head.

A woman with dark hair and a slim dress bumped into Barber, spilling her drink. The man swore as he caught his feet, then gave an apology when he saw who he collided with. The woman was equally apologetic, patting him on the back as they parted ways. There was a flash of white between the two that made Dick narrow his eyes. The envelope. The woman had stolen it. Or that was the exchange, but from Barber's apparent confusion, Dick doubted it. He changed targets.

John Dagget. Roland Worth. Roman Sionis. Mayor Robert Williamson. Jeff Kidd. Bobby Gazzo. Edgar Lugo. Janice Tashima. Maxwell Schreck. Councilman Arthur Reeves. Salvatore Valestra. Councilwoman Erica Powers. Oswald Cobblepot. Carmine Falcone.

It was rare to see this many power brokers in the same place at the same time. Bruce was surprised that a few of them had made it out in public, alongside some of their rivals. Gazzo had narrowly survived an assassination attempt from Valestra's men less than four months ago. Schreck's business had undoubtedly tried to buy out most of the other corporate enterprises, including Tashima's and Dagget's. And Falcone was becoming somewhat of a recluse as time wore on. There were obvious exceptions. Sal Maroni was incarcerated, finally pried out of his hole. The district attorney Harvey Dent was sure that their case against him was air-tight, in spite of Jim Gordon's worries. The effects of his arrest were still rippling through the city, as the other gangs dismantled and absorbed his operations. Rupert Thorne was too paranoid to spend time in the presence of his rivals. And Police Commissioner Pete Grogan was corrupt, but he was too wily to be seen in public with suspected criminals. Commissioner Loeb's downfall provided ample notes.

Leonard Wheeler was a small fry compared to the people that he attracted to his party. The man was all too happy to bask in the apparent success of the event. The Gotham Broadcasting Company had solidified itself on the national stage against the likes of NBC and CBC with its coverage of the election and the incidents surrounding it.

Bruce circulated through the party, sure to appear pleasantly intoxicated for all those watching. He stayed in a conversation long enough to leave an impression, but not long enough to become entrenched by any one group of people. Vicki Vale tried and failed to setup an interview with him. He evaded Mario Falcone, who persisted in trying to discuss a partnership with him. Alan Scott was in attendance for a short time, before excusing himself early. Summoned away by an unfolding crisis with a sinking ship, a radio told him. Bruce left it in the capable hands of the JSA. Scott spent more and more time in Gotham and the Green Lantern was spotted in the skies above the city with increasing frequency. It was odd, though not entirely unwelcome, to share the city with another hero, beyond Black Canary.

His biggest responsibility tonight was to keep an eye on Dick. The boy had a tendency to get into trouble at gatherings like these, whether he intended to or not. It was important for the public to see Bruce and his ward in social settings. To further reinforce their covers. Bruce gave him a job, one that would test his observational skills in a controlled setting. And to hopefully occupy him enough to avoid a scene.

"This is becoming a habit, isn't it?" said Julie Madison. She looked stunning in a shimmering purple and gold dress.

"Where's your friend? Richard?"

"I'm here with Linda and a few of her pals. She's doing her best to avoid Mario…bad blood."

"Wouldn't know what that's like," said Bruce.

"I did see your ward. He's a firecracker," said Julie

"Dick isn't always a fan of these gatherings."

"I commiserate. If Linda wasn't here I wouldn't be. How about Worth's raffle this weekend?"

Roland Worth was the head of a construction company that had a meteoric rise in value over the past five years. For the previous three, he had held a charity raffle the first week of the year. "A way to give back to Gotham." Bruce was certain it was a money laundering scheme.

"I don't know if I'm attending yet," said Bruce.

I thought you'd have called me since Metropolis," said Julie.

"I've been…"

"Busy. Don't bother."

"Can I make it up to you?"

"Depends. Are you staying till midnight?"

Dick followed the black haired woman as she weaved her way between guests. He watched in awe as she plucked necklaces and bracelets, wallets and rings from unwitting victims. Her handbag grew fatter. He was familiar with pickpockets. A few of the members of the circus dabbled in it, though Mr. Haly was against it for the ill will it drew their way. Dick's parents barred him from even considering it. He considered going to Bruce, but he was afraid to lose her in the crowd. Even the few times people appeared to notice her, the thief always knew which step to take to avoid being outed. She was a phantom, gliding through the party.

The woman squeezed past a cluster of people deep in conversation. She was out of sight. Dick took a few hurried steps forward, his eyes sweeping around the room. He came to a halt, having nearly run into the woman. She stared at him with sharp green eyes. They were in an empty spot in the party, far enough away from others that she barely had to lower her voice.

"Following me?" said the woman.

"Pardon me, ma'am?" said Dick.

"Don't play dumb," said the woman. "Why?"

"Uhhh." Dick didn't know what to do next. He tried to look for Bruce.

"Last chance kid," said the thief.

"I saw you stealing. From all those people," said Dick.

The woman didn't even try to deny it. "You want in on the action, is that it?" He noticed she was wearing a few of the stolen bracelets and one of the necklaces.

"No. No way. That's wrong," said Dick.

"To take from people this rich? Ah… I guess one of them must be your parents," said the woman.

"That's not true," he said. It came out faster than he anticipated.

"Then what's the problem? You managed to tail me for longer than I wanted. There's promise in that. Gimme a hand kid and you could make some dough yourself."

Dick stared at her and saw himself years down the line. Is this where he would've gone if Bruce hadn't stepped in? When he got desperate? Either this or dead.

"You need to give back everything you stole," said Dick with as much confidence as he could muster.

"Or what?"

"I'll tell everyone."

The woman smirked. "Help! Help. This boy stole my bracelet. He tried to take my purse too," she said loudly.

"What? No, no, no…" said Dick. Too late. Everyone around them was already paying attention to the scene.

A burly man stepped closer. "You have anything to say for yourself?" said the man.

"She's a liar. She's the thief!"

"That's my bracelet," said the woman pointing. There was indeed a bracelet around Dick's wrist. He hadn't even felt her put in on.

Before he could protest, the man grabbed his arm. "Return that now." More people had gathered. They whispered to one another about the young thief.

Dick handed her the bracelet, his cheeks burned. He gave the woman the dirtiest look he could muster.

"Thank you sir. I'm glad there are a few real men left," said the woman. She was gone into the crowd.

The man hadn't released Dick yet.

"What's the big idea?" said Dick.

"Let's find your parents."

Bruce escorted Dick through the party, having had the boy delivered to him by a group of aggrieved guests, with a tale of thievery. He did his best to talk them down. There was really no choice, but to leave at this point. He didn't even think of Julie's look of disappointment as they left.

"It's not true," said Dick.

"Not now," said Bruce whispered.

They strolled to the doors.

"Looks like your boy got himself in trouble," said Carmine Falcone. The man stood with a crowd of his people on Bruce's right.

"Dick, go on ahead," said Bruce. Dick's mouth opened to argue, but Bruce shut it down with a look.

"Too bad we never got a chance to chat properly here," said Falcone. He gestured to his entourage and they gave the two men space. Still close enough to take down Bruce if he so much as flinched in Falcone's direction.

"I don't know what we have to talk about."

"Speaking of kids, you've been avoiding my son."

"I thought Mario was his own man. That's what he's been trying to tell me for the past few years."

"He is. I just think it's rude is all. Our families should be closer. With how your father saved me."

"I don't deal with men like you," said Bruce.

"Men like me make this city great. You think your company would still be raking in money without my…associates?"

"You're looking old Carmine. This conversation's over." Bruce made to leave.

"Say, that boy of yours…. Seems he has more in common with men like me than stiffs like you."

Dick waited outside with the porters and bus boys, kicking at the carpet in the lobby as he waited for Bruce. His guardian emerged at last, looking more agitated than before. That old man, Falcone, must have said something to him. They waited for the car in front of the hotel where the party was hosted. Dick shivered under the light snowfall, while Bruce was stoic, his arms crossed.

"Well?" said Bruce.

Dick unspooled the entire sequence of events.

"She could still be in there," said Dick.

"And?"

"And? She's a thief."

"What about Barber?"

Dick paused.

"Did he know the envelope was missing?" said Bruce.

"No…"

"Was he frequently checking to see if it was there?"

"No…"

"So it's reasonable to assume he walked up to his delivery and didn't discover its absence until then?"

"Yes?"

Bruce sighed, one of his long ones. Dick had categorized an entire library of sighs from the man.

"You needed to stay on Barber."

"But…"

"The point was to see who the Falcone's are paying off," said Bruce.

"That woman though…"

"What were you going to do when you caught her?"

"Tell everyone she was a thief. Expose her crimes," said Dick.

"What did you do when she discovered you following her?"

"Told everyone she was a thief…."

"And how did that go?"

Dick stayed quiet. The valet arrived with their car at last. He stewed as Bruce drove away from the hotel, through the snow capped streets.

"It was Taylor Kines by the way. An assistant of Councilman Reeves," said Bruce.

"What?"

"Barber's target."

"If you already knew, why?"

"I'm training you. This is all to make sure you're ready for the work. Part of the work is having a backup plan." Bruce looked over at Dick. "Do you understand?"

Dick nodded. They drove deeper into the city.

"Wasn't that a wrong turn?" said Dick.

"Who said we're going home? Care to ring in the New Year by busting up one of Falcone's operations?" said Bruce.

Dick grinned. "You got it partner."

January 1, 1941

The broadcast occurred at 9 AM on the first day of the New Year, the aftermath of the many parties to close out the previous year only just being cleaned up across Gotham.

Bruce heard it from his arm chair in his father's study, his eyes fighting off sleep as he finished his notes on the night's accomplishments. Dick was already snug in bed.

Jim Gordon heard it from his kitchen as he poured the morning's coffee. His wife, Barbra, sat with their son James Jr. and watched the snow fall.

Roland Worth didn't hear it directly, instead being promptly awakened by one of his servants, who made the unpleasant calculation that his anger at being prematurely woken up after a night of heavy drinking would be less than the delayed delivery of the news.

It began with a jittery pop of static, that settled into a rising stream of what could only be laughter. A manic thread of laughter that would become far too familiar for the beleaguered people of Gotham City in the years to come.

"It's been too long Gotham City. Too long since I've been able to share in your famous hospitality. I hear that everyone had a wonderful time celebrating the dawn of a New Year. Strange that no one invited me to their party. I admit, dear listeners, that such exclusion does smart. So much so that I'll have to crash the next shindig. The Worth Charity Raffle is a coming and boy does the Joker feel lucky. I'll see you all soon."

The broadcast dissolved into another spate of laughter that was drowned by the static.

Jim Gordon had a headache. And a craving for a cigarette. Barbra had stolen the pack out of his jacket. She was trying to convince him to quit. Didn't like the cough that reared its head from time to time. Still, Jim could bum one off of Bullock. It was all he could think about, even as Commissioner Grogan lectured Jim in his office.

"...that's why we can't do it," said Grogan. "We can't shut down the raffle."

That shook Jim from his stupor, headache be damned. He pinched his forehead.

"Sir, that's a mistake."

"No, it's an order."

"The Joker is a serious threat…"

"That we have dealt with before."

"Barely. Only with help from Batman."

Grogan grimaced. He disliked the mere mention of their unofficial ally. "If we're supposed to tolerate that freak's existence, we may as well use him for situations like this. Fight fire with fire."

"You're risking people's lives, sir."

"This isn't coming from me, Gordon. This is straight from the mayor's office."

"Then he is risking their lives."

Grogran glared at Jim. He set his balled fist down on his desk.

"Don't think you're free and clear just because Loeb and his cronies aren't around anymore. I could still bust you back to beat cop."

"It's a risk."

"Then mitigate the risk Captain Gordon. Find the Joker before Saturday and send him back to Blackgate."

"He's unreasonable," said Gordon. Batman crouched on the rim of a billboard above where Gordon stood. They weren't at the Batsignal. Gordon chose to reach out to him from one of their other spots on account of Grogan's current anger.

"There's money to be lost. For all involved parties," said Batman.

"Lives too if the Joker has his way," said Gordon. "I wish the kid wouldn't mess around close to the edge."

He was referring to Robin, who was practicing cartwheels and flips along the top of the billboard. He swung around one of the cables that crossed the gap between buildings, landing near Batman with ease.

"Sorry captain. I didn't mean to worry you," said Robin.

"He's well trained. You don't need to be concerned," said Batman. He understood Jim's reticence with the idea of Batman's partner.

"Uh, huh," said Gordon, wiping his glasses.

"Have the staff at Blackgate given you the details on Joker's escape?" said Batman.

"Happened two days ago. He got out during lunch. There was a vulnerability in the kitchens. Or so they say."

"You don't trust them," said Batman.

"All I know is it's filtered through plenty of people who have a reason to cover their ass. Sorry kid."

"I'll look into it. And the raffle?"

"Monolith Square like usual. The commissioner's doubled the police presence. Worth has his own security too. Pinkerton types."

"Do we know that the prize is?"

"Money. And something extra. Details are scarce. Worth runs a tight ship."

"That's enough to start with," said Batman.

"Good. Make sure you share anything you learn. I don't want the year to start with a… tragedy," said Gordon to no one.

"Why do we slip away when he's talking?" said Robin. They were several rooftops away already.

"It's better if we're not seen coming and going. The more mundane we become the less power we hold."

"Even to Gordon though? Seems rude," said Robin.

"We can discuss that later. The Joker is what matters now," said Batman.

"I haven't encountered this clown yet. Is he as dangerous as Gordon made him out?" said Robin.

"Unfortunately, he is."

The Joker had menaced Gotham twice before in the past year. The first time involved the murder of diamond mining magnate Edward Clareridge and his associates with playing cards that contained a potent toxin. One that left its victims in a rictus grin. Batman had intervened with his last target, but the Joker escaped jail shortly after. They never had collected all his ill-gotten gains, leaving him ample resources to start anew. The second scheme was in September, when the Joker had threatened to poison to reservoir, holding the city hostage. Batman narrowly stopped the disaster. Blackgate Penitentiary was the Joker's new home. Until now.

"What's our first step then?"

"We pay a visit to his old haunts."

January 3, 1941

"If the raffle's rigged, I don't know how… I swear. I'm just responsible for delivering the prizes," said Fred Gibbs. Batman loomed over him. They were in the office of Dawson's Deliveries, run out of a shop on the east end.

This was their latest in a long chain of investigations. Blackgate was a time sink. There was no easy way to tell if the officials were being honest about Joker's breakout. He wasn't in any of his old hideouts. There had apparently been a theft at ACE Chemicals, but they couldn't be sure that it was him. Batman told Robin that that facility was a major source of trouble when it came to Gotham's criminals. They had too many threads to follow and too little time to reach their ends.

It was a strange thing to watch Batman go to work on a person. Dick thought of him differently, knew the man beneath the mask. But, when he watched him interrogate someone or play on the fears of the criminals they hunted, there was a shift. The man vanished beneath the persona, the embodiment of fear. And those he employed it on responded appropriately.

"What are the prizes?" said Batman.

Gibbs whimpered, as he clutched his tender wrist. He had made the mistake of drawing a pistol on the duo when they made their presence known. Dick could see beads of sweat dropping from his face onto his desk. Sweat stains formed in his dark blue jumpsuit.

"They're statues. Golden statues. Well, mostly gold. Mr. Worth cut a few corners," said Gibbs.

"Why doesn't he deliver them himself?" said Batman.

"We come cheaper than his own people. Like I said he likes to cut corners."

"Who manufactured them?"

"I don't know."

Batman leaned in closer.

"I really don't. Honest. We're just delivering them."

Batman backed off.

"If you tell anyone we had this conversation, we'll have another one," said Batman. He climbed through the window.

Robin walked up to Gibbs and gave him a pat on the back.

"Good talking to you, Fred." He vaulted through the window and joined Batman.

"Why did you do that?" said Batman.

"You scared the man. He's not some crook."

"We don't know that for sure," said Batman.

"Is that really fair?"

"No. But, we have to maintain the image that surrounds us. The one that instills fear in criminals. The more we weaken, the less power we hold."

That might work for Batman, but Dick wasn't sure anyone was going to be afraid of a kid in a costume as colorful as his.

They paid a visit to Worth's warehouse, where there was a trio of golden statues. Batman tagged each of them with a special radio transmitter that could be used to track them in case they were the Joker's target. They regrouped on a nearby rooftop. Sunrise was fast approaching.

"What now?" said Robin.

"Now we attend the raffle and react to whatever comes."

"That's it?"

"That's all we can do."

January 4, 1941

Monolith Square was packed with people in spite of the snowfall, as the bundled masses of Gotham came for Worth's raffle. The upper steps of the square were cordoned off by the police, the three statues shrouded. A huge wire sphere spun relentlessly, containing the raffle numbers. The Gotham police were out in force, lining the perimeter and edge of the stage. Officers were on the roofs that overlooked the gathering. Mr. Worth's Pinkertons occupied the stage and the building that framed the entire event.

Mr. Worth lumbered about the stage. He was a hulking man with a thick mustache and a predator's eyes. He wore a fur coat with a regal collar. Mr. Worth wasn't a known factor before Bruce left the city. His company's ascension was still fresh. The man sought to capitalize on his success and cement his dynasty's place within the city. Batman and Robin watched from their perch on a nearby skyscraper as Worth gave his speech about the virtues of hard work and integrity. Batman knew that the man owed much of his change in fortunes to intimidation, extortion and shady labor practices. In that respect, he fit right in with most of Gotham's elite.

He could see Gordon on the steps, at the edge of Worth's presentation. Gordon was on alert, keeping his eyes on the crowd and the area around the square. There were too many people in the space to comb through every single individual. Batman could only hope that they were ready to react to whatever happened. A quick check confirmed that the tags were transmitting to his portable radio. Robin kneeled next to him, binoculars in hand.

"This guy sure loves to talk," said Robin.

"He wants to make sure everyone knows that this is only a result of his generosity," said Batman. "Stay focused."

The raffle was starting. Mr. Worth had a pair of his assistants, two women in matching white coats, head towards the spinning ball. One of them operated a crank that slowed its rotation, while the other awaited at the end of a long, convoluted track. One of the balls inside the cage rolled through the track to the end. The second assistant held it up to Mr. Worth at the microphone.

"The first winner is number 59. From my notes that looks to be… the Gotham Children's Hospital."

A representative from the hospital was brought on the stage to receive the ball, a check and to stand by the statue, awaiting the unveiling of all three. The ritual repeated.

"The second winner is number 31. Looks like the lucky party is Scott Fields."

That name was familiar. Batman focused on the man's face as he ascended the steps.

"That man's an associate of Carmine Falcone," said Batman.

"So its rigged or that's one heck of a coincidence," said Robin. "Does that mean the others are too?"

"Perhaps. We won't know just from guessing."

Mr. Worth belted out the final winner. Lucy House, a debutante Bruce knew from a few gatherings. Worth commanded the three winners to tear off the covers on the statues.

"These represent Gotham's past, present and future."

Worth could be accused of many things, bur subtlety was not one of them. The statues were of Jon Logerquist, the founder of Gotham, Mayor Williamson and Roland Worth. All of them shined immaculately in the lights of the square. The bulbs of countless press cameras glinted off of the statues, as Worth posed with each of the winners. Batman noted that he whispered something into the ear of Fields.

He kept waiting for the shoe to drop, as the show died down and the statues were carted away, to be delivered to their respective winners. The crowd began to disperse under the watchful gaze of the GCPD. There was no sign of the Joker.

"We'll monitor the deliveries. He could strike after the fact," said Batman.

Robin wasn't paying attention, instead staring off into the night, at a pair of buildings across the way from them.

"Robin?"

"Sorry. I thought I saw someone," said Robin.

Batman observed the receiver and its simple grid as it tracked the movement of the three statues. The first one was on a beeline for the hospital. The second took a winding route toward the outskirts of the city. If he were to guess, Batman would say it was headed for the Falcone estate rather than Fields's house. The third one was an unknown. He didn't know where Lucy House lived. That third transmitter sat still for a suspicious amount of time, several blocks from the square.

"We may have something."

The Dawson's Delivery truck had crashed into a light pole, which was bent in half, its top end smashed through a nearby window. The driver's forehead leaned on the steering wheel, while the passenger was on his back by the cargo space, the rear doors open. A pedestrian also lay on the ground, their hands at their throat. Batman commanded Robin to put on his rebreather before they approached the truck.

The statue was on its side in the back, knocked over from the crash. The golden facade was cracked, with chunks of the material continually eroding from the body. Batman picked up a piece of the broken gold.

"Pyrite."

"What?" said Robin, who was checking the pulse of the bystander. He shook his head, his face white.

"Fool's gold. It's brittle. Not nearly as malleable as the real thing."

Batman picked up a crowbar that lay in the back of the truck. He swung it at the head of the statue. More chunks of pyrite broke off and with it came a green gas that spilled from the gaps. He held up his cape and backed off. The gas dissipated into the open air, but he saw it scar the metal as it floated away. Pyrite was used in the concoction of sulfuric acid. Maybe it was a variant of sorts. His thoughts were interrupted by the discovery of what lay beneath the layer of pyrite. Where the dignified face of Roland Worth once sat was the warped grin of the Joker. He tapped it with the crowbar. This was the real thing. A fake mold of pyrite over a soldi gold statue. All laced with a custom toxin that leaked when the pyrite crumbled. He shared his findings with Robin.

"That means Joker got to the statues early… How could he have done that in such a short time?" said Robin.

"We can figure that out later. We've got two more toxic statues to handle."

"This one must have broken early… the crash…"

Sirens came from a few blocks over. Batman and Robin took to the rooftops, after leaving a note warning of the dangers of the statue.

Robin couldn't keep still. "Where are the others now?"

Batman checked the display. "One has arrived at the hospital. The other is close to the Falcone estate."

"So the hospital first? What about the Falcones?"

"I'll try to send word to Gordon to check on them."

They both shot up as they heard a cough from nearby. A figure dashed from the shadows of the machinery and pipes on the roof and leapt to another one. Batman heard a whip crack.

"Catwoman," shouted Robin, already in pursuit. "She must have tried to rob the truck."

Batman grabbed his shoulder.

"We don't have time for her. Prioritize the hospital."

Robin pivoted around, as the duo swung between buildings with such haste that Batman's shoulders screamed at the effort.

The delivery truck was already leaving the hospital by the time Robin hit the ground with a roll. He sprinted ahead of Batman, springing over a gurney and into the lobby. He ignored the gasps of surprise as patients and nurses alike reacted to his entrance. The golden statue was being wheeled deeper into the facility.

"Stop! Don't move that statue," said Robin.

He ran after the man that was taking it away. A nurse moved to stop him, more out of shock than any real malice. Robin did a somersault that transitioned into a slide between her legs. He closed the gap between the worker and himself.

"Stop," he shouted once again.

The man rolling the statue on his dolly, finally noticed the commotion. That moment of distraction cost him as he bumped his cargo against a nearby counter, tipping it off balance. Robin watched in horror as it fell to the floor, his feet not moving fast enough to reach it. He held up his hands as the statue shattered on the ground.

Or at least that's what he expected. Instead it bounced off the tile with a resounding clang, before screeching to a stop. The worker cursed at himself and then Robin for the accident. Robin ignored him and took a closer look at the statue. He rapped his knuckles on its exterior. Solid. Solid gold.

"Its not pyrite," said Batman from behind him.

"So its…"

"A distraction."

The Batmobile crashed through the exterior gate of the Falcone property. Batman erupted from the vehicle to overtake a pair of guards that came racing toward them, pistols in hand. Robin threw a birdarang that took down a third foe, coming from the entrance to the gardens. There was no time to explain the danger. The pair bolted for the front door of the manor, fighting through what resistance came their way. Batman liberally deployed smoke pellets to mask their approach from any distant gunmen.

At the door, Batman met Robin's eyes. The boy gave him a nod of affirmation. The two heroes kicked the door in and had barely taken their first step, before Batman scooped up Robin and yanked him back outside, hurtling his body onto his back. Green fumes gushed out of the open door, the floodgate unsealed.

"Toxic gas," said Batman. They put on rebreathers.

The interior was a horror show. A golden statue of the Joker sat in the foyer, hunks of pyrite around it. Two servants were prone by the entrance, a silver plate and shards of glass beside them. A family dog was lifeless by the fire. The table was littered with bodies. A set of candles were knocked over on the tile floor, pools of wax oozing from the dwindling flames. It was apparent now that they were in the midst of a private celebration. Bobby Gazzo was in the kitchen, a second helping of food splattered on his jacket. Alberto and Sophia Falcone, the heirs to the dynasty had their faces on their plates. Falcone's sister, Carla Viti was on her back, fallen out of her chair, her son Johnny only a few places down from her. The Roman, Carmine Falcone, was by the back door, as if he crawled from the table. His wife Louisa never made it out of her seat.

There was a smile on every face.

The police arrived soon after. Batman and Robin were already gone by then, driving back toward the city. Nearly the entire house of the Falcones wiped out in one night. The only survivor was Mario Falcone, who Robin found sitting on the edge of the pool, muttering about how he nearly brought his wife and kids to the party.

"What now?" said Robin. "The Joker hasn't shown his face."

Batman didn't answer. His mind was racing, thinking of any avenue to flush out their prey. All this death and without even a sighting.

"Can I see your receiver?" said Robin.

"What?"

"Let me try something."

Robin took the receiver and adjusted the settings. To a frequency Batman wasn't using.

"There are no more trackers out there," said Batman.

Still, a blip appeared. On the east end, in a neighborhood they called the Warrens.

"I think we should check this out," said Robin.

Batman stared at him.

"I put a tracker on Fred Gibbs. Yesterday, when we were leaving. I figured there was something off with his story."

"How did you know he'd wear the same uniform today?"

"I didn't. But, I spotted him wheeling off one of the statues today. The one that ended up with the Falcones."

The building that the tracker led to was a burnt out husk of an apartment block. The entrances were boarded up with a patchwork pattern. Most of the windows were broken or missing entirely. The delivery truck was around the side, hidden under a tarp. Batman crouched through an opening in the barricade at the alley doorway, avoiding a tripwire that hid at ankle height.. The interior was dark and drafty. There was a thin layer of melting snow throughout.

It didn't take long to find what was left of Gibbs. He was in a wooden chair with a bullet hole through his forehead. A few bundles of money lay beside him.

"It's so hard to find good help these days," said the Joker, as he stepped out from the bare frame of a wall. He held a pistol playfully, not quite pointed at Batman. With his free hand he flicked the tracker toward Batman.

"You're going back to Blackgate," said Batman. He let his cape shroud his arms. Took a slight step deeper into shadow.

"That's alright, I know my way out of there by now."

"All this effort, just to kill the Falcones?"

"This city's got no room for their kind anymore. You know it. I know it. I think they got the message too."

The floorboards creaked as Joker paced. Batman withdrew a batarang, still beneath his cloak.

"Don't tell me you're all broken up about poor Carmine and his merry bunch of criminals? You should be thanking me. I certainly made your nights more interesting."

The batarang knocked the gun out of Joker's hand. Batman started to charge him, but came to a halt as the Joker raised his leg, revealing it was caught on another tripwire.

"One more step and this whole place gets a lot funnier. Maybe even the whole neighborhood. I'm not exactly the most precise with my mixtures."

"You'd be killing yourself too."

"Maybe, maybe not. Who's to say I'm not immune to my own supply."

A floorboard groaned behind Joker.

"It must be frustrating having me find you even after all that work," said Batman.

"Truth be told, I thought you'd get me sooner. Turns out I overestimated you, Batman."

The board slid away, lifted by a pair of green gloves.

"Who put you up to this? Cobblepot? Maroni? Someone from out of town?"

That appeared to annoy Joker. "Now that's just insulting. You think I'd stoop to being someone else's hatchet man? This clown runs his own circus."

Robin popped out of the floor and kicked Joker in the back, sending him tripping over the wire. It snapped, releasing whatever mechanism it was attached to. Joker laughed.

"I finally meet your sidekick and he kills us all."

"Don't count on it creep," said Robin. He threw down a bag of tools he held.

Joker's laughter died down as no explosions or gas followed. He fumbled with something in his jacket pocket and pressed a red button on a boxy device.

Robin held up a bundle of wires attached to a transmitter. "If you're counting on your backups, we got those too."

Joker scampered to his feet knife in hand, slashing at Robin, who was already mid-backflip. Batman dashed forward and caught Joker's knife in between the blades on his forearms. His partner changed directions, flipping head over heels forward, until his feet plowed into the Joker's chin. Batman followed it up with a body slam that put the clown on his back. Batman and Robin simultaneously punched the Joker as he sat up, rendering him unconscious.

"Nice work disabling the traps," said Batman.

"You weren't worried were you?" said Robin, twirling a wrench as he picked up their tool bag.

"Not at all."

"Good. Let's get this clown back to his cell."

Dick fell asleep on the drive back to the manor. Batman let him rest. It had been a long night. The Joker was in a paddy wagon, destined for a cell in Blackgate. Gordon assured him that the criminal would soon be transferred to Arkham Asylum, which was reopening long closed wings to support the growing influx of patients. Joker would join the likes of Riddler and Scarecrow in captivity.

When they got back to the cave, Bruce reexamined the details surrounding Joker's escape. He wouldn't know for certain, but the manufacture of the statues, as well as the other preparations suggested that Joker had been out for long than what was reported. A vulnerability in the prison.

The real aspect of the case that kept Bruce awake, even as his body ached, was the complexity of the Joker's scheme. The man had known how to bait Batman, the cops, the Falcones and possibly even Catwoman, if she was indeed responsible for the crashed truck. He had paced out the crime perfectly so that it was near impossible to stop the toxin from reaching the Falcone manor. Joker hadn't simply repeated his previous habits. His past schemes were dangerous, but this was an escalation.

January 5, 1941

It was midday by the time Dick woke up. He was glad that it was a weekend. The exhaustion from the previous night had made his sleep deep and dreamless. He was thankful for it. The scenes from the Falcone manor would visit him at some point. Dick was fine with putting it off.

Dick wandered around the manor looking for Bruce. Alfred directed him to the cave, though he told Dick that Bruce had asked for privacy. Something about guests.

There was more than one entrance to the cave within the manor and Dick had memorized them all. Even the one that Bruce hadn't told him about. He crawled into the hidden chamber within the dumbwaiter and slid down the pole. Voices echoed throughout the cave. Dick ducked by an outcropping of rocks, waiting for a chance to peek.

"You could've asked for help," said a man, firm and deep.

"We managed on our own," said Bruce.

"There's a difference between going it alone because you have to and because you want to," said a woman. She had a distinct accent Dick couldn't place.

"Is that why you came?" said Bruce.

"Diana and I have discussed this and I think it might be time to reconsider our previous decision regarding the JSA," said the man.

Dick raised his head slowly. His elbow bumped a loose collection of rocks, causing them to tumble.

"What was that?" said the woman.

"We've got a guest," said the man.

Dick could hear Bruce sigh. One of his accepting sighs.

"Dick, you can come out now."

With all the nerves of a child caught stealing a cookie, Dick stood up from behind the rocks. What he saw nearly knocked him right back down.

Next to Bruce was Superman and Wonder Woman. Superman was built solid as a truck. Wonder Woman was tall, taller than he expected.

"So this is your partner?" said Wonder Woman. "He's quite young."

"Dick is more than capable," said Bruce.

Dick scrambled up on the rocks, performing a series of leaps and flips that brought him down to their level, balanced atop the machinery beside Bruce.

"I see why they call him the boy wonder," said Superman. The Superman!

Dick hopped down beside Bruce, who gave him a slight nod.

"Robin, at your service. But you can call me Dick Grayson."