Author's Note: This is my first big work, so we'll see how it turns out.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Batman franchise or any related characters. I do own Jake Katoves, Erica Nives, and the corpses in this chapter.

I heard this great joke the other day. I can't remember who told it to me, but it doesn't matter. Trust me, you'll love it.

Okay, so there were these four people sitting around a table...

It was dark in the warehouse; except for one crazily swinging bulb, there were no sources of light. Through the darkness, however, one could see four people seated beneath the lamp.

"Where the hell is he?" a voice demanded. "Couldn't he at least have the decency to be here when we arrive?"

"Did you really expect him to be so kind?" inquired a second voice in a monotone. "You should know better by now. After all these years working in this city…" As the sun began to rise, light trickled in through the windows, slowly illuminating the scene. Five chairs were visible, but one was unoccupied. The remaining four seats held a woman and three men.

The owner of the first voice cleared his throat. "Do we have any idea what he wants…I mean, why here? Hell, does he even want anything? I mean some of the guys in this town…"

"I think he wants something. As unusual as some of Gotham's denizens may be, they all want something."

"Except for one…"

"Yes, except for one." The light grew steadily brighter; at the table, the chairs' occupants became more visible. One of the men seemed to be dressed in an expensive suit, while right next to him sat a man in rags and tatters. Sitting next to the man in rags was a man in a police officer's uniform, who appeared to be pointing at the man in the suit. The woman, who was sitting next to the officer, appeared to be leaning towards him. In front of each of them was a small, dainty cup.

"Well…" said the first speaker, who must have been thinking about it for some time, "I hope to Christ that it's not him. But that does beg the question…who are we dealing with? If anything, it looks like him, but…"

"It's not. He's still in Arkham. I checked earlier this evening." The sun was well up by now. Many of the shadows in the warehouse had vanished, leaving behind the four figures. The woman had her hand shoved in the officer's crotch. The officer had one hand on the woman's knee and one hand clutching a gun, which he held pointed towards the man in the suit. The man in rags clutched a whisky bottle. The man in the suit gripped the neck of the man in rags. Each had a napkin in his or her lap and each sat in front of a cup of tea.

All four of them were dead and each had a rictus plastered on his or her face. In the unoccupied chair, which resembled a throne, was a jester's cap.

The police began to process the scene, working slowly and methodically. Jim Gordon sipped his coffee and spoke to the shadow to his right.
"It does look like the Joker's work, though. Are you sure he doesn't have a decoy like—"

"He doesn't, Jim," Batman replied. "I told you, I went into his cell and made sure that he was still in Arkham. He's still there."

"This time, he is. I remember the last time that he got out." Gordon shivered, despite his steaming coffee and his warm trench coat. "I hate him. I didn't before…I tried to understand that he was incurably insane. But now? I want to kill him. Every time that Barbara wheels by, I want to grab that white-faced bastard by the throat and squeeze until he stops laughing." Gotham's police began to clean up the crime scene and Sergeant Bullock walked over to where Gordon and Batman were standing.

"We're done here, Commissioner. We're ready to send the corpses to the morgue and a sample of the toxin to the lab…not that we'll get the sample back this month." Bullock spat onto the ground.

"What will delay the sample?" Batman asked. "If this is the work of the Joker or anyone connected to him, we need an answer now. Give it priority and get it done before any other samples."

"Oh, that's not the problem," Bullock replied cheerily as he lit a cigar. "I can do that for you, Bat. No problem. However…ever since we hired the new guy, things have been a bit…slow."

"You see," Gordon interjected, "we just can't hold onto anyone. This is Gotham City, where the motto is 'You Might Not Be Killed.' Anybody intelligent enough to be in a lab applies for a transfer as soon as possible. This new boy, Jake…he's slow, but he's a genius. Hell, he even has a grant from the Wayne Foundation. He likes it here, and that's more than I can say for any lab workers we've had before."

"Let me take the sample to him," Batman growled, "and I'll see if I can encourage him to be a bit faster."

"Why not?" Gordon shrugged. "It certainly can't slow him down."

In his sterile lab, Jake was hard at work. With "Fantasia in Greensleeves" playing on his lab's speaker system, he was seated at his computer, diligently pretending to work. Sure, he'd get around to some of those samples eventually, but he needed time to relax, time to decompress…

Then the Batman came through his door. Jake leapt out of his chair, surreptitiously turning off the music before he did so, and stumbled over to the hero.

"Batman! It's such an honor," Jake gushed. "I'm Jake Katoves, sir…I looked up to you as a child! I admire your protection of Gotham, your zeal in apprehending those dastardly—"

"If you admire my zeal, surely you wouldn't mind analyzing these samples with similar zeal? I want the report…and I want it soon."

"Oh, certainly! Certainly, certainly! But, of course, these things do take time. You have to understand what kinds of tests I have to—"

"I do understand, Mr. Katoves. I know exactly what it is like. I have my own lab and my own computer. I'm going to run the tests myself, but the Gotham Police Department needs their own tests on file. I'm going to run the tests myself, and if you are not done when I am, I will be very, very cross. Do you understand me?" Batman turned to leave. "You would do well," he advised, "to remember that each second that you waste is another second that this madman is loose." With those ominous words, the crime-fighter left.

Jake stared after Batman, then turned back to his computer, grumbling. He turned the music back on and Pachelbel's Canon in D Major poured out of the speakers. Looking at his watch, Jake pulled a pack of cards out of his pocket. "There's plenty of time for analysis later," he said as he set up a game of Solitaire. "They're always pushing, pushing! I need time to relax…they don't understand. Heh, that doesn't matter, though. I'm the one with a Wayne Foundation grant."

As Jake began to play, the doors opened again. Batman shot over to the chair and picked the scientist up by the neck. "When I said that I wanted it done quickly," the hero growled, "I meant that I wanted it done now. When we catch the killer, there will be time for card games. Until then…you work! So analyze the goddamn toxin!" The Caped Crusader stalked back out. Jake stared after him, rubbing his throat.

It was cold in the morgue, but then again, Dr. Nives was the only one to notice. None of the others were in any state to care. Carefully, she analyzed the woman from the crime scene, taking notes in a yellow legal pad.

The doors opened. Without turning, Nives greeted her guest. "Hello, Batman."

"Erica. What can you tell me about the bodies?"

Dr. Nives pointed to the woman. "Well, her name is Sheila Sanford, aged twenty-five. She was a prostitute." She pointed to the corpses of three men, wheeled against the wall. "Those three are Officer James Geant, who went missing three days ago, the businessman Sam Petroit, who disappeared two nights ago, and a John Doe. None of them died at the crime scene, though they were well-preserved until being…displayed. I assume that all four have the same toxicology, but I can't be sure until Katoves gets off of his ass and tells me." She wheeled over to a desk. "I suspect that this case is related to two earlier ones."

"Earlier ones?"

"A few weeks ago, we found five bodies arranged in a movie theatre. The facial stimulation caused by the toxin was less advanced, but it was the same sort of situation. A few weeks before that, we had three bodies in a car. Those three had no chemically-caused facial stimulation…instead, they had Glasgow smiles."

The Dark Knight grimaced. "Gruesome."

"That was my reaction. This seems like the Joker, but I'd put my money on a Joker copycat. The cases show increasing sophistication, implying that someone was perfecting his method. I wish that Katoves would hurry up with those toxicology reports so that I could be sure."

"The idea of a Joker copycat is disturbing. It means that at least two men are as mad as he is. As for the second matter, I've seen to Katoves."

"Well, I'm sure that the arrogant bastard loved it. Anything else I can do for you?"

"Not today, Erica. Thank you."

Dr. Nives turned to tell him not to mention it, but the hero was already gone.

Riiiiiing. Riiiiing.

"Oh, damn it." The woman left her stove, where a large fish simmered in butter. Making her way between the milk saucers, she reached the phone.

"Hello?" she answered, shooing a cat away from the cord.

"Selina…it's Bruce."

"What? Bruce? Look, I haven't done anything. I've been clean…I haven't even taken it out of the closet since last time…"

"Selina, I'm not calling about Catwoman."

"Oh…oh, thank God."

"I'll get to the point. Someone appears to be imitating the Joker. I know that you have connections to the underworld, so…I'd like you to listen. Nothing dangerous, just keeping your ear to the ground. If this guy is really as crazy as the Joker, he could be just as dangerous to criminals as to innocents. He might end up targeting…extra-normal personalities. I don't want you to lose one of your nine lives."

"All right, that makes sense, Bruce…Bruce?"

Click. He had already hung up. Selina Kyle sighed, then went back to cooking her fish.

Jim Gordon sat at a table, flipping through a scrapbook. In the bookcase next to him, titles such as "CATWOMAN," "PENGUIN," and "RIDDLER" stared back at him. As he flipped through his current selection, the fingers of his left hand played over the title on the spine.

"JOKER."

Barbara wheeled in, pushing through the swinging door. Still unused to her wheelchair, she slowly maneuvered her way over to the table.

"Dad? What are you…oh. Is that the Joker book?"

"Yes, Barbara."

"Well, could you please put it away? You know how much I hate that one…I can't stand to see it now." As she said this, she absentmindedly rubbed the bandage on her left side. Jim sighed, then closed the book.

"I know how much you hate it, but…"

"But what?" Barbara stared at her father, trying to glean some knowledge from his expression. "Oh God…is he…lose?" Jim shook his head.

"No, no…we checked. We ran all of the tests. He's still in Arkham. But…someone seems to be copying his MO. There have been three cases now…we're not sure if they're linked, but I think that they are. It's his style, smiling corpses, but the smiles are getting more advanced."

"Is it Harley? Is she doing this for him while he's in Arkham?"

"No…we have eyes on her. She's clean. I'm afraid that it's some new maniac, and that frightens the hell out of me." The teakettle began to whistle, and Barbara began to wheel back into the kitchen. Jim stood and stopped her. "Don't worry, Barbara. I'll get it. You…you just wait…I'll bring you your tea."

As Jim Gordon walked away from his daughter, the daughter that the Joker had crippled, he began to cry to himself.

The apartment was dark and silent. There was a scrabbling at the lock, and a man entered.

"Honey?" he called as he turned on the lights. "Jane? It's Sam. I'm home…" There was no response. Sam looked troubled.

"Jane?" he called as he moved into the bedroom. "Jane, are you in here?"

Jingle.

"Jane, is that…oh, God!" Sam stumbled away from the man who stood before him. The man began to laugh.

"God? As that riotous Voltaire told us, 'God is a comedian playing to an audience that is afraid to laugh.' So turn that frown upside-down and enjoy the show!" The man laughed again. Sam tried to scramble away, but he felt something jab into his arm. Everything began to swim before him, and he grinned.

He snickered. He guffawed.

Sam sat there on the ground, terrified out of his mind by the spectre in front of him, and he laughed. He wanted to stop, but he couldn't. He couldn't breathe. The laughter turned into cackling shrieks of mirth. Sam was more frightened than he could imagine possible, so scared that he wanted to cry, but he laughed.

Sam couldn't breathe, and he felt like his grin was tearing his face in half.

Well, I think that was an interesting first chapter...we'll see what happens.

Live long and prosper.

Dracheheim