(A/N: The Joker is perhaps my favorite character ever, and I love any story with him in it. While I personally think the story about his father is probably the correct one, I couldn't put his other tale from my mind. What if he was telling the truth about his wife? This takes place right after the movie. Enjoy!)

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or the Joker, but I wish I did….

--

He found it impossible to sit at his predecessor's desk for very long.

The chair, the desk, the office: all symbols of his newfound authority, symbols of the weight of Gotham's sins now thrust upon his shoulders. There were already half a dozen living symbols running wildly around the city, causing havoc and putting it right again – the last thing Gotham needed was another one, especially one that did not live up to his name. Or even accept his name, for that matter. He still thought of himself as Lieutenant, inwardly wincing whenever a rookie addressed him by his new title, the tone of awe unmistakable at his position.

No, he could never sit in that chair for long.

And so he paced the battered carpet, waiting on word of the Joker's arrival at the MCU, itching to be down in the interrogation rooms with the others. He had no illusions, of course, about gleaning anything of importance – his last encounter with the madman had taught him that – but a hushed form of excitement simmered within his brain anyway. Peering through the glass panels of the one way mirror, he had glimpsed something in the Joker's hooded eyes, something his mind still struggled to unlock on so many levels. Fascination was not the least of it; the commissioner was, as they said, a twenty-year lifer, and in all of his twenty years, he had not seen anything quite like this man who had no name.

But a man has a name, has a history, or he is no man at all.

His brow furrowed at the direction his thoughts were taking, warily approaching them as one does a sleeping tiger.

As far as he knew, no heart in Gotham had ever beaten as one with that of the madman, no man, woman, or child had ever opened their arms to him as a friend. Loneliness was a crushing force; it settled upon the chest and slowly bled every ounce of sanity from its unwilling host. The faces of his own wife and children flashed unbidden through his mind, the smiles of his friends and loved ones the moorings which kept his soul from drifting into the abyss.

Without these, was it so surprising then that the Joker had been swept away?

He brushed aside such thoughts; this was no time for pity. The man was a murderer, and would have taken hundreds of lives that night without blinking an eye. His more than likely miserable past notwithstanding, he was nigh inhuman in his current state. Pity could come when he was behind bars, sedated and reduced to the common human condition of sleep.

A sudden knock at his door roused him from such introspection, the door opening to admit the cobalt-suited form of his new Lieutenant, William Burns. Burns's face shone with a thin sheen of sweat, his salt-and-pepper hair unkempt and forgotten.

"What is it, Lieutenant?" Gordon struggled to keep the dread from his voice. In a city like Gotham, the answer was almost never a good one.

His subordinate swallowed heavily before replying, standing just inside the flickering light of the room. "Well, uh, Commissioner Gordon, the Joker, he, uh…." The lieutenant took a deep breath. "He escaped, sir. In transit."

Gordon closed his eyes.

The commissioner could feel the icy stone of dread dropping heavily into his stomach. After all of this – the hostages, the ferry situation, Harvey Dent, all the fruit of a deranged mind making for one hellish night in an already hellish week – he had been able to escape yet again.

Gordon managed to breathe a single word. "How?"

"The SWAT boys failed to notice a metal shard he had secreted in the cuff of his shirt. Picked the lock on the handcuff and knifed one of the men, stole his gun." The lieutenant shrugged uneasily. "I'm sure you can guess what happened then, Commissioner. No survivors. No hostages. It was simpler than they were expecting."

Gordon opened his mouth to speak, but his subordinate already knew the question.

"The van was found abandoned at the docks ten minutes ago. We've already sent men to collect what they can from it."

"So he's gone?"

"He's gone."

"Goddamn it." Gordon sighed heavily, absentmindedly smoothing back his graying hair with one gunpowder blackened hand. "Send out some teams to scan the area. If he's found a car, he could be anywhere in Gotham by now, but it's worth a try. Keep the lines open for any reports of stolen vehicles from that section of the city."

The lieutenant nodded brusquely, his olive skin shining oddly in the yellow lamplight. "Will do, Commissioner."

Gordon began to turn away, reaching for the phone to try and make sense of this mess. He had a feeling that more than a few irate phone calls would be made tonight.

"Oh, and, Commissioner?"

He nodded half-heartedly that he was listening, the life having been drained out of him at the thought of repeating this entire fiasco for nights to come. The Joker saw capture as nothing more than a game, though judging by the speed and no-nonsense efficiency of his escape, he had tired of it for now.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Putting the phone up to his ear, he checked that the line was secure and began to dial the mayor's office.

"There's a woman downstairs who says she knows who he is."

Gordon's hand paused over the phone, a thousand thoughts flickering through his mind. Leaving the number unfinished, he slowly returned the receiver to its hook, the urge to trust his lieutenant struggling with a cop's cynicism. The battle was brief, true to his nature; an odd spark of hope had returned to his heart as he faced his subordinate once more. Perhaps this was the first ray of dawn.

"And do you believe her?"

Burns beckoned for the commissioner to follow and turned on his heel, grimacing as the unnatural fluorescent light of the hallway consumed him.

"Yes… and you'll soon see why."

--

The solid steel door slammed shut behind them, dividing MCU from the rest of the police department and its seething loyalties. Not much was left of Major Crimes to separate, of course, after the Joker's clever IED had done its work, but the staff were working on it. A few of the offices had been salvaged and put to use, ramshackle and mismatched chairs dragged from other parts of the building to furnish what was left of the once bustling department. Many of the officers who were out on the streets that night had already returned to their scorched and blasted cubicles, silently thankful that for all the pain they had suffered in pursuit of the mob, they had not been left behind to face the madman's firestorm. They sat now upon anything that could hold their weight – remnants of chairs, trash cans, stools, all bearing the same haggard and worn expression of men who had walked through Hell.

An expression no doubt mirrored upon his own visage.

"So where is she?" Gordon scanned the scenes of industrial carnage, silently wondering how many of the faces present he could actually trust.

Burns raised a hand, indicating the one complete office left standing. Yesterday, this would have been Wortz'; now, it was the one decent place on the floor. A flash of bittersweet irony darted through Gordon's mind, but he was not given enough time to savor it.

Stopping at the door, the lieutenant rapped at the frosted pane, placing his hand on the knob. "She's in here, and I suggest you don't stare." He ignored his superior's bewilderment at the comment, keeping his gaze forward and smoothly admitting them to the stuffy office.

It was relatively unchanged, Gordon noted, except for the knick-knacks and files blown messily from their shelves.

And, of course, the dark-haired woman sitting stiffly with her back to the door.

Clearing his throat, he stepped closer to the battered desk, curious to catch a glimpse of the mystery woman who had arrived like a lightning strike out of the clear blue sky. A large black overcoat swathed her shoulders, seemingly leather, though he could not quite make out the name. The skin of her neck was quite pale, he noted, producing a chiaroscuro against the dark tresses so elegantly bound with ribbon. Slim and elegant boots completed the ensemble, her legs crossed neatly in front of her.

His words were heartfelt, he could not afford to lose this opportunity. "I'm Commissioner Gordon, and you know Lieutenant Burns. Any information in catching or identifying the criminal known as the Joker would be much appreciated."

Turning to face her, he extended his hand.

His eyes widened in shock, hand falling limply to his side.

The scars crisscrossing her pale features marred her flesh like the railroad mars the pristine snow of winter. She grinned then, and a dull horror worked its way through his brain.

All of Gotham knew the scores she bore.

--

I promise you, this will be a very intricate mystery and love story – I already have it planned. Anna's no Mary-Sue, and I'm hoping I can keep the Joker in character. Sorry that this opening is a bit slow, but it was needed for effect. I tried to weave some themes in there as well. She's not going to reveal all of his secrets, of course, and when she is taken as bait... she might just wish she never attempted to find him at all.

Please review and tell me how I am doing!