Authors Note: I do not own any characters from the Batman Franchise nor from Christopher Nolan's interpretation in both Batman Begins and The Dark Knight. The only characters I own are those created by me such as Layla Moreaux.

Please enjoy.

TinkerbellXo

Chapter 1

The Story of the Century

It was the story of the century, and Layla Moreaux was determined that it was going to be her story. Never before had any journalist gotten inside the mind of such an infamous criminal and she had the chance. She was not going to let it slip through her fingers.

Her decision to pursue the story was not to the delight of her parents, nor to her editor at The Gotham Times.

Just a few months ago she had been fresh out of college and hired as the new reporter on the cop beat. With Gotham's notorious reputation of being riddled with crime, it was no wonder that Layla spent every waking moment traveling the streets of the dark city, tracking down her next exposé. Her editor, Justin Dunn, had been so impressed with her fortitude and writing skills that he allowed her to also cover hard news and even write an opinion piece every once and a while for The Times.

She was only 22, but she had the cunning and wit of someone well into their 40s. She was able to gain the trust of her subjects, including some of the most brutal mobsters of Gotham, and then write a story that would guarantee them a cell at the city jail. She felt her job as a journalist brought on the responsibility to bring justice to those who deserved it, and she took that responsibility seriously.

It was on a particularly slow Saturday in the newsroom that our story begins. Gotham's finest villains had been rather quiet for a few days and Layla was starting to get antsy. It wasn't that she wanted crime to continue in her hometown, but she had a feeling in her gut that the peace and quiet that had seemed to control the city since Wednesday, would only end with a bang. Who was going to end this stillness? That she was unsure of.

As she sat at her desk, looking up the latest headlines and some story ideas to pitch to Justin, a light dawned over her head.

She picked up the ancient rotary telephone, since The Times could afford no new technology, and dialed an extension.

"Yello," said the voice on the other line after three or four rings.

"Hey Dunn, it's Moreaux. I got an idea for an editorial for tomorrow's paper," she said as she twirled the dirty white chord around her finger.

"Well, pitch it. Let's hear what ya got," he said.

Taking a deep breath, she then explained to him her whole idea for her next piece, crossing her fingers that he would take the bait. As she finished, there was silence on the other end of the phone.

"Well?" she asked.

"Layla, my office. Now," Dunn said as he hung up.

She stretched as she stood out of her seat. Despite the fact that she had actually been whispering as she talked to her editor, she now noticed that everyone had stopped what they had been doing and were peaking out at her from their small, white, sterile cubicles.

No privacy, she thought as she made her way over to the corner of the newsroom. The door was open to Dunn's office and she made a light knocking noise on the frame.

"Come in," a gruff voice said from within.

Layla walked in with a nervous smile on her face. She had a lot of respect for her editor and had appreciated all the times he had gone to bat for her during her short time at the paper.

Dunn was looking down at a bunch of old newspaper clippings. He was an odd man who stood around six feet and bared a striking resemblance to Ben Bradlee, editor of The Washington Post during the Watergate scandal. Piles of back issues of The Times littered the floor of his office, some as high as Layla's waist. The small space was also a stark contrast to the plain look of the newsroom with dark cherry wood paneled walls with numerous awards nailed haphazardly to them. There was also a large window with a shade pulled tight over it. His desk matched the walls and there was one chair that sat opposite him.

He sat there, making no observation of her presence.

She finally said in a small voice, "you wanted to see me boss?"

He looked up at her, took off his glasses and threw them on the desk. Leaning back in his chair, he stuck his feet up one by one on his keyboard. He never used the computer. He said he was too old to be taught any new tricks and stuck with his old typewriter when he made his corrections.

"Layla, Layla, Layla," he finally spoke as she sat down in the seat. Even across the desk she could smell the tobacco on his breath.

He continued, "Do you see these clips?"

He motioned with his hand allowing her to pick up the several pieces of paper he had gathered. She took a moment to go through them. They were full of stories about journalists mysteriously disappearing and some discovered dead outside The Times' main office.

"What's this about boss?" she asked, she hadn't quite given them a hard look, but she found herself confused at his point.

"Layla, you didn't read. Those disappearances and murders, the deaths of our people," he paused somewhat dramatically, "all that blood was spilt by him."

He took his feet off the board and put his elbows on the desk, getting closer to her.

"And you," he almost whispered, "you want to bait him? And not only bait him, but live inside his hideout and get his side of the story?"

She could tell that he thought she was crazy.

"He has no side of the story!" He yelled as he slammed his hand down on the desk. He could see the people outside looking in curiously so he hurriedly got up and banged the door closed.

Turning back to her, he asked, "What are you thinking?"

"I was thinking that this could be the story to make my career as well as heighten the reputation of this paper," she stated.

Without a word, he went back over to his chair and sat down. He pulled out a glass bottle and took a swig of its brown contents. Allowing it to flow down his throat he thought for a moment.

She was talented, he knew that. And if anyone could get the story, it was probably her. But all he could really think about was the trouble she could get into. Never before had anyone gotten close to this clown and lived to tell the tale. But seeing that look of determination on her face, he figured that he'd let her write the opinion piece and then just hope that her subject didn't respond.

He got up and leaned over his desk, extending his right hand, "Okay, we got a deal."

She jumped up and shook the hand he had stuck out wildly, thanking him over and over.

"You won't regret this Dunn, I promise! You won't regret it. I will give you the best series of reports ever."

He pried his hand out of her grasp, "ya, ya, ya."

Sitting back down he motioned for her to do the same. She sat upright, waiting for instructions.

"But we have to set some ground rules fir-"

"Anything you say boss!" she interrupted.

"Let me finish!" He took another sip from the bottle.

"First, I am going to edit this piece myself. You are to tell no one you are writing it and no one else can see it. Understand?"

She nodded enthusiastically.

"Two, I will not have you running around trying to drum up trouble to get this madman's attention. You will write the article and if he chooses to acknowledge you, fine. If he does not, you will drop this insane idea."

"Three," he pointed at her, "If he does take the bait, we will discuss more rules about your assignment at that point."

"And four," he sighed, knowing he was going to regret everything he said, "please, take care of yourself."

She stood up, and shook her editor's hand once again, "Thank you so much! You won't regret it!"

She ran out of the dark office, not even thinking to close the door behind her.

Dunn got up to close it and looked out at the young woman who was already back at her cubicle.

He thought to himself as he saw the smile on her face, God have mercy on you Layla, because the Joker definitely will not.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Reviews are always welcome!