Hello darlings! Did you miss me? It's been a long time, too long, but here we go again. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for your continuing support on this fic, it's the only reason it's being updated. You guys are amazing. As a small aside, I was wondering if I should go back and revamp my first six chapters. Content will stay the same, just a little clean-up here and there. What do you guys think?

Disclaimer: Property of: Warner Bros, DC Comics, Legendary Films, Chris Nolan, Christian Bale and Heath Ledger. If I did own it, believe you me…the gay would blow your mind.

...

Chapter 7: What is In a Name

...

"Tell me something, Commissioner…"

Overcast City. Empty parks and playgrounds. Barely a passing car. No one wanders the streets, unless they have nowhere else to go. Too unsafe to walk them now. Windows shut and bolted. Lights turned low. Televisions flickering in the bluish day, the watchers hoping, praying, that their terror will end soon. Businesses close. Schools shut down. Steadily, loudly, the City starts to die. Lights go out, one by one-the glittering buildings snuffing out, becoming nothing more than tall, black tombstones in the graveyard that is Gotham.

"Just…how guilty do you feel when…civilians die."

A woman sits on a park bench. Before her is a pile of twisted, searing metal. Broken glass litters the concrete, and flashing lights flicker across her pale face. There is a long spill of blood near her corner, where the tall traffic light is planted into the street. Steadily, it flashes from red to green. Red to green. Red to green. She turns her eyes to watch it. A blue, tattered leash clutched in her hands.

"Do you cry yourself to sleep some nights, Jim?"

Four wives and mothers of the same last name sit in a crowded waiting room. Every so often, they shift to glance at a tall, cream-colored door. It's smooth metal sign reads, "Morgue". All are missing their husbands-who worked at the same water treatment plant. All were contacted to identify a body, with a matching last name. It's far too mangled otherwise. And it's teeth are missing.

"Do you cry at all."

A child crawls through the wreckage of her school. Her classmates stumble nearby, none of them stopping to check if their teacher is alive. She lies, mangled, under the rubble. Quietly, they huddle together near the flagpole. The stars and stripes lay tattered by their tiny bodies. Muted thuds quake the listing pole above their heads, as their hanging Principal twists in the wind.

"And if your family were the bodies under the debris…would you feel more responsible. Or…would you…blame…everyone...else…"

The televisions are never off now. Every person in Gotham, holding onto the smoke of hope. Someone will come. Someone will stop him. Someone…someone will save them…

"Do you know what loss feels like, Jim? Should I show you..?"

Click.

James Gordon stared at the tape recorder in his hand. The force was crowded around him, silent, tense. It was the fifth of its kind since the explosion. No clues. No bomb taunts. Just words. Words, and then…something unspeakable would happen. There was no pattern. No punch line, only carnage and tears. Bullock took the liberty of sending a few squad cars to Gordon's home-all hand-picked, people they could trust. That was all they could do.

Gordon sent the tape to forensics to see what they could dig up. He was less than optimistic. He called his wife, talked to his children. Barbara asked how he was holding up. If the clean-up was going well at the station. Their temporary location wasn't much-a vacant floor in a neighboring building. He stood by his bare desk and watched the rush of the room. He knew what they were thinking. He could see it in their faces.

Nearly a full week.

Two more days to the Joker's deadline. More street sweeps. Poorly planned raids and searches. Tearing up Gotham sewers and slums. And they were always thirty seconds too late. His arm ached.

Harvey Bullock watched the Commissioner out of the corner of his eye. He was almost positive the man had started sleeping at his desk every night. Then again, none of the force got any sleep these days. What was left of them. He glanced near the windows, where a table was carefully set up.

It was simple. It was even nice, for an office full of morons, anyway. A small bunch of flowers, a frame tied with black ribbon. Little white paper cards, scrawled with rough hand writing. And there, in gold letters, below her smiling face, 'In Loving Memory'. There were a bunch of those small set-ups all over the office, but hers stood out the most. To Harvey, that is.

Harvey always liked Maria. She was a good kid, and one hell of a cop. They had gotten pretty attached to her, he and Jim. Even the Bat had noticed her more than once. Harvey sighed. He hid behind his desk. A clear evidence bag glared back at him, filled with purple-marked playing cards.

Fuck.

It was all falling apart.

...

"You don't like clowns?"

The older boy at his side leaned over his hands. The Man who was nearly a man had been staring rather hard at the candy-wrapper in his fingers. The candy itself was gone, having been split among his young company. The wrapper was white, dirty, with bright red lettering across the middle. Then, at one end, a smiling clown figure sat, its red mouth grinning, black eyes shining, as it gestured towards a deliciously animated picture of chocolate.

"…I don't know." He smoothed out the wrapper for the hundredth time, the red-lipped figure still grinning happily.

"I don't." The youngest leaned into his elbow, eying the wrapper. "They're creepy."

There was something about the word. Clown. It pinpricked his chest, like a hundred knife tips. And if he tried to think about it further, the blades just pushed in. It hurt. But why couldn't he will it from his thoughts?

The Man was not quite back into the world yet. The two boys had been a great help in his cognitive faculties, as evidenced by the fact he knew the word cognitive and could use it in a full sentence. He knew…well, a lot. He understood many things he wasn't sure how he came to know. Like how to scale a building and steal a lunchbox from an oblivious teenager sitting on a fire escape. Time had pieced much of his memory back together, in regards to things that were and needed no explanation. Only recently, he had started to question the whys and wherefores.

And there were some things he knew he knew, but couldn't touch. He adjusted the wrapper in his hand. Like this clown.

"…What's your name, Mister?" The youngest rested his chin on the man's forearm.

"I don't know."

"Where'd you come from?" The older sat back.

"I don't know."

"Well, y'came from somewhere. What if we look?" The younger craned his head to look at the older boy.

"Look where? Doesn't matter if he can't remember nothing."

The man lightly traced the figure of the clown with his finger. The younger stood, brushing dirt from his hands.

"That's why we look. Maybe he'll see something and remember—like in the movies."

"You never seen a movie in your life."

The older boy stood, brushing down his pant legs.

"Still a better idea'thn anything you'd think." The younger turned towards the man. "You wanna?"

The man's finger hovered over the red smiling mouth. Broken glass. White tile. Something red. Something purple. Something green. His eyes flicked upwards to the boys.

"…I'd like to go somewhere." He stood, folding the wrapper and slipping it into his pocket. The youngest took his hand. The older did the same.

"You remember something?"

The man only nodded, and with the boys in tow, he left their small shelter under the overpass and headed into the city.

…..

"Let me…ask. You something."

Muslin curtains wafted gently to his right, catching on jagged edges of broken glass. The only real sound left in the room. A page would flutter in the breeze from the over-turned books nearby, a bit of wood from the broken furniture would settle every so often, a light bulb would weakly pop to life for a few moments and fizzle out; but other than that, it was silent. The easy chair creaked as he shifted his weight.

"…do you like chocolate?"

He folded his hands, a blister straining between his thumb and forefinger.

"I'm not a fan…of chocolate. Ah…I'm more of a NECCOs kinda guy." He tilted his head, looking through his eyebrows. "Do you remember NECCOs? Came in, ah—that wax paper, and-and covered in, I think—powered sugar or soh—I…used to love…NECCOs."

He made a weak gesture, eyes trailing to the dark-streaked carpet. They made a sound when you removed them from the packaging, like a porcelain whisper when you scraped the fragile little disks together. You could really grind your teeth into them. Like glass.

"It-it—never..TOLD you…what color corresponds with what flavor, it—just let you guess. Hm?" He blinked across from him, tongue sliding over the thick flesh on his lip. "Like a surprise. It—it even faked you out—with the pink ones, because they were—aha—they were MINT. Flavored."

He blinked expectantly at the form on the couch across from him.

"The green ones taste like soap."

Glassy eyes stared unseeing at his face. Red hair splayed behind the still head, an arm bent over the back of the couch, the legs extended towards him—white skin disappearing under a tweed grey skirt.

He moved his eyes to her right.

"You know what I'm talking about."

Another pair of eyes gazed towards the ceiling, the neck a red mess of flesh and ooze—disappearing into a once crisp white collared shirt and tie. Blood dripped mutely from the man's hand onto a drying puddle in the carpet.

"It was…variety. In-in its simplest form. That—THAT—I could always get behind. Variety. Choices." He scratched at the open sores above his collarbone, picking at the hard crispy spots. "They—they didn't even put an equal number of flavors—in the package, it was always…"

He looked at his glove—white smeared on the fingertips, and yellow tinted crust clinging to the paint. He swallowed, the lump still firmly in place, and scratched again.

"Different."

The blue light of the overcast day glowed through the shattered windows. A pigeon fluttered onto the fire escape, it's wings batting furiously as it landed. The light caught it's shadow, the spread wings appearing briefly across the floor. He turned over his shoulder to look at it, the sound resonating in his ears, playing over and over like a skipping record, flap flap flap flap flap flap flap flap flap flap.

He palmed the gun in his lap and lifted it towards the window.

"Like a bruise."

The pigeon hit the grate of the escape with an echoing thud. The shot, muffled by the silencer, barely heard in the still gently blowing winds.

"Don't stay for long, either. Eat the wafers. Heal the skin." He sucked on his tooth, white, black and red dripping onto the already stained lapels of his vest. "Funny. Isn't it."

Heavy footfalls echoed in the hallway. Three bodies hesitated outside, shifting in their workboots. One of them warily stuck his head in the doorway, pulling his mask to his neck.

"Boss, we did the—"

The back of his head burst in a shower of skull and meat, and the body slumped to the floor.

The Joker stood, back cracking loudly as he checked the cartridge in his gun.

"I was HAVING. A converSATION."

The two remaining goons swallowed, not daring to inch in the doorway.

A moment passed. Two shots hit the wall of the hallway, plaster bursting.

"WHAT."

"We—we got the place you wanted, it's—it's secure! And the stu—the stuff, it's ready, in the tru—"

Another shot hit the wall.

"GET MOVING."

The henchclowns took off, their lumbering steps echoing down the hall and stairs. The Joker sighed, savagely rubbing an eye with the back of his hand. The water still wouldn't stop. It didn't matter now. It was almost time to close the show.

"Some people…" He stepped around the broken coffee table coming to the side of the couch. "Sorry to cut this visit…short. But, ah—" He stepped around it and leaned down to the heads resting on the cushions. "I gotta tell you…great listening skills."

A gloved hand patted the shoulder of one of the bullet ridden corpses before he stepped away towards the door. It was so nice of them to let him use their apartment for the afternoon. The hideout had so little room due to the numerous crates that were, up until recently, piled there. He slipped a hand into his pocket, looking down at the body in the doorway. He nudged it with his foot and stepped into the tope-colored hallway. This game was played. Enough buildings blown to bits, enough crashing cars and slaughtered bureaucrats. Enough play. For a while, it had been fun. He had smiled once or twice, twisting the knife—smearing his happy compound into too-sad faces.

He tapped the barrel of the gun against his temple, leisurely heading for the stairwell.

It felt like then.

For one shining second.

The Joker's eyes rolled upwards, the strain stinging his leaking neck. He glanced over his shoulder at the hall. The open doors he had passed creaked quietly in the hall—the smears of blood over their thresholds ignored, as well as the steaming grinning bodies that lie therein. A hand laid unmoving by his foot, fingers dug into linoleum, the body half-dragged out of the apartment—brave little soldier—eyes white and bulging, face red and stretched over the teeth.

"I hope you know your lines, Jimbo."

The Joker turned and started down the stairs. Lights down. Curtain up.

…

"I don't like it here."

It was a long, pale, unmarred slab of cement. Spotted by rain and workmen's boots, perhaps, but otherwise untouched.

"..Can we go soon?"

It was near an overpass, buzzing with cars and trucks. The dull roar of downtown echoing across the surrounding buildings. The foundation stretched before them was so new. So clean. So...out of place.

The Man who was nearly a man stood before a newly built-upon piece of property. He was unsure why his tired feet had led him and his small companions to this odd corner of 52nd St. He didn't know what he had been looking for. But looking out upon that vacant place made his chest ache.

Our Man left the hands of the two young boys and walked steadily across the bright concrete. The cloudy, gray sky seemed to give the foundation a kind of eerie glow. He knew why it was there, why there were small, rickety sheds nearby, why there was a large mixing thing for the dried cement under his feet. The carelessly placed shovels, abandoned bright yellow helmets and orange vests. And as he gazed across the silent, vacant, lifeless slabs...it wasn't right. There was smoke, something told him. Bricks. Something fragile, and soft inside. He touched his forehead, a searing pain throbbing behind his eyes.

It was wrong. It was all just so wrong.

A tiny hand on his pant leg pulled him back into the present. He gazed down into the worried faces of his companions. The youngest tugged again on the black material.

"Can we go?"

The Man who was nearly a man nodded, and took his small hand. As they walked away from the quiet, sad place, the older boy took his other hand. The younger boy swung his hand once.

"Do you have a name now?"

"No."

"Oh."

They walked further. This part of the city was still quiet. The glassy city before them was loud and wide.

"Where are we going now?"

"...somewhere else."

"Like this place?"

"Yes."

The youngest leaned closer as they came to a cross walk.

"Is it far away?"

"...maybe."

They stepped onto the curb. A siren wailed somewhere in the downtown. He paused, staring upwards.

"Do you think we'll find it there?...Mister?"

He stared at the gray, listless clouds above them. The smog in his mind thinning for a moment...

"...I don't know. "

…...

"Commissioner!" Dawlings, bandaged head and all, came trotting up to Gordon at his desk. "The guys—forensics, they want to talk to you right away, they said they found something on the tape."

Gordon near threw the file in his hand onto his desk and hurried to follow the young officer. His gut churned—was this a clue, a slip up, or another plant from the clown? Was this something he wanted his boys to find? A taunt, a threat, or nothing at all?

"Sir?!"

Gordon skidded to a stop when a small hand snatched his coat.

"What is it Donna—"

"We just got a call—some apartment building, a woman came home and—sir, the place is gutted, all the residents that were home—they're dead, sir, even the landlord—"

His stomach dropped out.

"Harvey! Where is it—HARVEY—get a team, you need to get to," He grabbed up the notepad from the desk and glanced at it. "To 3012 Sycamore, lower East, there's been another attack—Donna, get the names of all the residents—Harvey, make sure no one goes near the damn building until you clear it, understood?" He pushed the pad into Bullock's hands. "See to the surrounding residences, ask if anyone saw anything, hear me, ANYTHING."

Gordon watched the detective rush off, yelling orders to the room. As he turned to follow Dawlings again, something sick curled inside his chest. They still had two days, but he felt it. The clown was building towards one hell of a spectacle.

…

"The guy that killed my dad was sent here."

The Man who was nearly a man startled from his thoughts. He turned from his crouched position to the older boy standing beside him. This part of the city was barely rebuilt. It seemed, to Gotham's judgment, they should just keep expanding somewhere else and let this section dissolve into another lower slum. How he knew that, and understood it in a bitter sense, was lost on the man. It was a fragmented fact. The skeletal building loomed above them, dark in the dimming light. The boy shifted on his feet, frowning at the flaking bricks.

"…what's here?"

The boy shrugged.

"Nothing now. They have a new one, across the city. This was the old one, before all that crazy stuff happened." He kicked a piece of concrete across the sidewalk. "I thought he should-a gone to jail."

"They said he was crazy, tho'." The younger boy sat nearby in a patch of yellow grass, picking clumps of it. "They put crazy people in there."

"He wasn't crazy," The older boy twisted his mouth, crossing his arms. "I dunno what he was, he killed my dad."

The man turned his eyes back to the broken structure. Crazy. He knew that word. He knew that word, and it rang in his brain like metal on a chalkboard. It hurt in his chest and his legs and arms, and pulled him towards the periphery again—where something was standing in the dark. Hunched and red and purple and painful. Someone. Someone, someone, someone—

"He got mom too. I dunno how, but he did. Someone else did it, but it was him."

The man stood, wiping dirt from his hands. The older boy beside him stared at the ground, arms tight around his chest. His black hair twitched in the breeze, ruffling the worn, filthy clothes on his wiry frame. The man lifted a hand to him. The boy glanced upwards. His brow was pinched, his jaw set like granite, and his eyes burned.

It hit the man's chest like a bullet.

That same pain returned behind his eyes. A little boy. Littler. Smaller. More red and black bricks, a dimly illuminated poster—pearls.

"..Mister." He jumped at the sound.

"…can we go now."

He looked down into the angry young face again, images of opalescent jewels bouncing over dirty concrete reeling in his mind. He turned his face to the broken building.

"Yes. We can go."

The younger boy hopped up from his place in the dirt and rushed to take the man's hand again. The older boy walked stiffly beside them as they crossed the street. The younger pulled on his hand.

"Do you have a name yet?"

"No. Not yet."

The older boy kicked a brick out of his path.

"Do you remember anything."

"…Yes."

The boys stilled in the street, the youngest turning wide eyes to him.

"…My parents died too."

The older boy glared at the ratty coat the man wore.

"But you're old. So they were old, and old people die."

"I wasn't old when they died."

The breeze blew a balled piece of newspaper by their feet. The youngest leaned into the man, still holding his hand tightly. The older boy shifted, glaring across the street at the old building. He took the Man's hand and quickly wiped his eyes.

"Where we going now."

"Somewhere else." He started their trek again, the streets before him becoming clearer in the fog. He knew them. He knew where to go. Somewhere dark. Somewhere sad, so very very sad. Somewhere he always went. He stopped at the corner, looking at the dark building one last time.

"What's it called."

"That place?"

"That's Arkham. Where they put the crazy people. Arkham Asylum."

….

"Fish oil." Gordon flipped the paper in his hand, fixing the two lab techs in front of him with hard stares. "Fish oil? You're sure?"

"As far as we can tell—traces of greasepaint, gunpowder—"

"We cross-referenced the paint with samples we have—it's his, that's no doubt."

"Then he's somewhere on the water, the warf, most likely a cannery." He pushed the paper at Dawlings. "I want as many men as we can spare, we're going to canvas the waterfront one section at a time. Are you sure there isn't anything else?"

"Right now, no," The young blond tech turned to his work table where another tech was working to gingerly remove the crudely taped label from the black cassette. "The audio is single layered and clean, there's nothing else on the tape. We're only just starting deconstruction, and we'll keep you updated if there's anything else here."

"Fine—thank you—" Gordon turned, a hand on Dawling's shoulder as he steered him towards the door. "This takes precedence. You get Detective Bullock back here as soon as possible—"

Behind him, the tech had peeled nearly the entire label off the tape, turning it upwards and glancing underneath.

"—empty ones first, they're the priority—"

"Uh—commissioner?"

"—We only have thirty-seven hours to do this in, and I want it—"

"Commissioner!"

Gordon turned in the doorway, the tech at the table holding up the label with long, thin tweezers. The underside was scrawled in purple ink.

Gordon near toppled the table over in his rush over, yelling for the tech to put it down. The writing was shaky, barely legible, but he could make out numbers, a street. And a name.

"Hemmingway. Hemming—Ernest and Co., Dawlings—" He caught the young lieutenant's shoulder, near running towards the door, "Get Bullock now, alert SWAT, and get me a vest—tell them, it's Ernest and Co. fish cannery, check the street address, make sure it's same one on the tape—"

The two policemen rushed out, Gordon pulling the radio from his belt to scramble the boys upstairs. Please. Let them have a chance. God, what were they walking into.

…

His feet dangled over the lip of the truck bed, the toes of his shoes high above the black asphalt. Bodies rushed past him, carting barrels and boxes and things, voices—hushed, no one wanted to disturb while he still had a finger on the trigger—floated around him from the goons at work.

His eyes had been brown. Or maybe green. Like his own. No, that wasn't right. They weren't like that at all—most of the time. They were speckled and moving, like water—they weren't blue, oh no, not blue. Dark and sandy. Pupils often blown wide in the spaces of the mask. Hot breath on his chin. Those precious times he had been so close. He tapped the barrel of the gun against his temple again, the skin irritated and pricking there under his hair. The ungloved hand lifted the hard, black cowl to his face.

Maybe brown.

The Clown gazed upwards at the quickly darkening sky.

"Don't be late, Jim."

….

This too had fallen into the new slums of the city. The structure stood strong, as well as its surrounding buildings, the only light coming from flickering street lamps. The place had long been closed, once a glittering jewel—now a hard relic, like a tombstone, resting between open graves. The sign still had a few letters clinging to its surface. The windows of the box office were yellow, but intact. The doors were boarded and defaced with spray paint.

"Why'd you wanna come here?"

The older boy shuffled in place, hands in his dirty jacket pockets, staring upwards at the street sign still dutifully bolted to the brick corner of the building. The younger boy stuck by his side, staring nervously down the mostly deserted street.

"I don't like it here, Mister."

…..

The sirens wailed through the city, car after car rushing through the streets, headed for the water front. Gordon buckled the vest tightly to his chest, shouting directions to the lieutenant in the driver's seat. He tossed his sling onto the seat beside him, wincing at the movement in his lower arm. Bullock stared stone-faced at him across the van. He hadn't wanted Jim to come, but fuck all if the commish would ever listen to him.

They were nearly there.

…..

Those familiar wails pushed the Clown to stand again. He cradled the black thing to his chest, waving his gun at a few henchclowns to get to where they needed to be. He glanced at the precious thing in his hand again.

Not brown. Maybe gold. Golden, specked and bright—he was sure they had been once.

He kicked a door open and strode unsteadily across the empty lot. The truck's wheels screamed against the concrete behind him as it peeled out of the building.

And gray. They had been gray too. He sighed. Variety.

…

The Man stared down the shadowed pavement, the wind blowing through, carrying pungent smells of rot and urine. With a breath, he stepped into the alley. The boys hovered uncertainly at the corner. Why had he come here. Because he had to. Because he needed to. He turned his eyes to the sign. The original name was all but blocked out. In its stead were two words scrawled in red. 'CRIME ALLEY'. Because this is where it started.

….

The patrol cars came to rough halts outside of the Ernest & Co. Cannery, the SWAT trucks peeling in behind them. Gordon near leapt out of the van with Bullock, waving his officers to spaces between and behind the cars, barking at the SWAT men to hold their positions—

Bullock stood beside the commissioner, gun drawn, staring upwards at the long-closed fishing plant, chewing savagely on his lip. Fuck. Fuck, this doesn't feel right. Nothing about this feels right, why would the Clown just tell him where he was, nothing about this was right, nothing about this was good, fuck fucking fuck fuck fuck.

"Jim—Jim, I gotta bad feelin' about—"

"I know, Harvey." Jim sighed harshly beside him, eyes glued to the structure before them. Another beat. He raised his arm to signal the SWAT team—

Shots rang out. From the building. Two boys in blue went down. More shots came, ricocheting off the cars. Bullock dove to the ground, shoving Gordon down with him. Gordon swore, yelling for SWAT to move in, other officers returning fire towards the windows where the shots had come from.

Bullock pushed off the ground and rushed with SWAT and the other detectives headed for the building before Jim could get to his feet.

…

The air was cold and foul. Barely any light shined from the street to the closed space between the buildings. The pavement was filthy, garbage, dirt and paper strewn every which way. There was nothing there. No marker. No clue. No leading moniker to help him understand why he needed to come to this place so badly. He glanced at the dark brick surrounding him. Pearls bounced through his mind again. Pearls. And popcorn.

…...

"Harvey-!" Too late. Bullock was already inside. "Shit." Jim crouched by his car, gun in hand. Bullock did it on purpose, he knew it, he damn well knew it, to keep Jim outside as senior official, goddamn him. He ducked down as a bullet shot through the window of the van. He checked his gun and lifted his radio to his ear, the SWAT team leader reporting over a heavy crackle.

"—two hostiles—neutralized. Front rooms secure. Entering the factory floor."

"Keep your eyes open, Tetch may be held hostage." He glanced over his shoulder—some of the SWAT had stayed behind, shooting at the top windows where the other shots were coming from. One of them shifted closer to his back.

"Roger. Two more hostiles—" the feed cut out briefly, "Neutralized. Proceeding to the second landing."

A body hit the ground next to Jim—bleeding out of a hole in his cheek.

"Focus on the gunman, do you hear me?! Take him out!" Gordon moved round the grate of the van and fired a few rounds at the windows. The radio crackled again, but the words were lost under the sound of gun fire. Jim ducked back behind the van again, taking up the radio.

"Say again, team leader." Another crackle, some garbled words. "Team leader, do you copy?"

The radio popped in and out, but a few words came in clear as day. Gunman—bodies—Joker.

…..

The Man pressed a hand against the brick wall, a sharp pain rippling through his forehead and down his neck. He could hear them—the pearls, hitting the pavement, every bead like an explosion in his ears. He heard a voice—a woman calling, saying a name—an arm around him, pulling him back. A strong, hard palm pressed against his chest, pushing him further back, warm and safe and big—

...

"—Do you have him?!" Gordon dared to look over the nose of the van, his arm aching painfully, sweat pouring off his forehead. "Damn it, answer me, did you find the Joker?!"

A hard kick landed against his lower back. Jim hit the van in front of him, chin smacking hard against the side. Another hit from the barrel of a gun sent him sprawling to the ground.

…

He had been staring down the barrel of a gun. A hand had taken hold of the necklace around her thin throat and pulled. The gems hit his shoes and trickled into a muddy puddle. She had pulled him back. He had blocked them with his body, and in a loud crack, he had fallen to the pavement with the gems. Then she had too.

And he crumpled to his knees, just as he did then so many years ago, hugging his arms, staring at the place their bodies had laid. Tears flooded down his cheeks. His nails bit into the concrete. Sirens wailed in his ears, calling him, telling him to go. Mother. Father.

Martha. Thomas.

Wayne.

…

Black edged his vision. Sound was muted, gunshots thudding over his head. He turned, seeing bleary figures dropping to the ground—his men—his men were dying—black clad figures standing over them, shooting bodies repeatedly.

There was one standing over him, idly dropping his gun to the side. He couldn't see. He hurt. Then sound rushed back, just barely, and the radio crackled by his ear.

"—it's not him—it's a decoy, wearing the Joker's suit—repeat, we have not secured the Joker, repeat—"

The radio was kicked away. The figure crouched down by Jim, the visor illuminated by the flashing patrol lights.

Just before he was lifted and thrown into the bed of a truck, he saw him smile. The red lips stretching across orange colored teeth.

…..

"I'm very sorry to inform you that Mr. Wayne is preparing to leave the city..."

A cloudy, bubbly streak slid down the clear, smooth glass. The ice shifted inside, melting, unnoticed by the man holding it, staring from the couch.

"...Very soon. I am unsure when he will be returning...No, he has requested that none of these messages be forward while he is away. I will deliver them upon his return."

He hung up the phone without another word. The television was on, the volume turned very low. Pictures of dead cops kept flashing by the screen—a very angry Detective Bullock shoving through news crews and into a black patrol van.

Lucius finally placed the glass on the end table. Alfred came up behind him, eyes red-ringed. A tear slid down his weathered cheek. Lucius turned to look at him, mouth open. He couldn't will himself to speak.

All Alfred could think of were the faces in the portrait that now hung in the front hall. A recreation of a painting that had been destroyed when the mansion burnt down. Of a mop-headed little boy with crooked teeth smiling from under his mother's hands.

"…I'm so sorry."

Gordon was gone. The clock was winding down.

A sound startled both men. A door, sweeping open, cracking loudly against the marble wall behind it. Alfred shared a wordless look to Lucius, and stumbled to the main foyer.

"Alfred."

Two boys, scraggly and thin, wandered into the doorway, eyes wide with fascination. Upon seeing the older man, they stepped backwards—two strong hands closing securely over their shoulders.

He was dirty. He was shaking. There were tracks down his face, and the coat around his shoulders hung off in tatters. As he ushered the boys further in, he tracked mud and muck across the flooring—but his shoulders were locked and firm. His head was high, and his eyes burned like a man arisen from hell.

Alfred only stared, mouth opened, hundreds of words trapped in his tongue.

Bruce stepped between the boys, coming to stand feet from the older man.

"Tell me what I need to do."

…..

Welcome home, Bruce.

Next time: Are you ready for the big Finale?

R&R darlings. I promise I'll be back for real this time!