Chapter 13: The Rise of Joker

Abandoned Steel Mill, East Gotham – Night

The table was nothing more than a slab of cracked concrete propped up on oil drums, its surface stained with rust, grease, and the faint brown ghosts of old blood. Around it sat some of Gotham’s most dangerous men—bosses, lieutenants, and legacy criminals who had once bowed to Carmine Falcone’s word like it was gospel. Now they sat without their Roman, nursing tumblers of cheap whiskey and the slow burn of uncertainty. The air was heavy with the stink of cigarette smoke and the metallic tang of the nearby steel mill.

Gunner Malone, a thick-necked gunrunner with a glass eye that caught the light like a coin at the bottom of a well, slammed his fist on the table hard enough to rattle empty glasses.
“I’m tellin’ you,” he growled, “the city’s up for grabs now. With Falcone and Hill behind bars, it’s open season. We each take a piece of the pie. No more Roman. No more mayor’s leash.”

Across from him, Frankie Vellucci sat with his arms crossed, his eyes two chips of winter ice. “No,” he said flatly. “We don’t go carving up territory like it’s Christmas dinner. That’s what gave the Roman power in the first place—unity. We hold it together, or we bleed out one by one. You think Dent, or that masked freak in the cape, is gonna stop with Falcone?”

Malone leaned forward, spit flying from his lips. “You gonna volunteer to wear the target next?”

“ENOUGH.” The word cracked through the room like a gunshot. It came from Carlos Vintelli—the oldest man at the table, his suit worn but pressed, his posture stooped but his eyes razor-sharp. His voice had the weight of decades in it. “The Roman’s empire may be gone, but this isn’t some playground. We’re not street punks. We move smart, or we die stupid.”

A few heads nodded. Others muttered, their fingers drumming on the tabletop.

Then it came—a strange, high-pitched laugh. Not warm, not human. It scraped against the air like nails dragging down glass.

The conversation died instantly.

Malone’s good eye flicked toward the rafters. “What the hell was—”

The overhead lights sputtered, casting the men in erratic flashes of shadow and sickly yellow light.

Something moved above them.

A man dropped down from the darkness, landing on the center of the table with a thud that sent glasses toppling. His arms were flung wide like a performer greeting his audience.

“Gentlemen!” he announced, his voice a razor wrapped in silk. “Am I late to the party? I brought streamers!”

He was tall and whip-thin, dressed in a once-fine purple suit that now clung to him like mold. His hair was a slick, painted green, plastered to his skull in greasy streaks. His skin was bone-white and almost luminescent under the flickering light, and his mouth—God help them—was a permanent red gash of a smile that looked carved there.

“Hello, boys,” he purred. “Joker’s the name, and mayhem’s the game.”

Malone snapped out of his stupor first, drawing a pistol. “What the hell is this?”

The Joker’s grin somehow widened. He lunged with sudden, snake-like speed, clamping a gloved hand to Malone’s throat—

—And buzzed.

The scream came at once. Malone convulsed violently, smoke curling from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth as the stench of burnt hair filled the air. When Joker released him, he collapsed to the floor, twitching like a marionette with its strings cut. His face was an unrecognizable burnt crisp, eyes sunken and mouth wide in a horrific soundless scream.

“Whew!” Joker said cheerfully, shaking his hand out. “Always wanted to try that trick. Shockingly effective.”

Vellucci reached for his sidearm, but Joker was already moving. He plucked a pencil from his breast pocket as casually as if he were about to jot down a phone number—then rammed it into Vellucci’s eye with a wet, meaty pop.

Vellucci dropped, howling and clutching his face. Blood spilled between his fingers and pattered to the floor.

The Joker stepped over him with the dainty precision of a man avoiding a puddle, and dusted imaginary lint from his lapel.

Most were too terrified to move at that point. A few of the older dons found their nerve first, chairs scraping back as hands went to their coats. Pistols gleamed in the low light, aimed steady at the pale madman standing at the head of the table.

But before a single trigger could be pulled, the double doors banged open and half a dozen figures stumbled in — Joker’s fanatics, their faces smeared in clown paint, eyes wild, rifles and shotguns leveled without hesitation. The room froze, the smell of sweat and cigar smoke suddenly sharper. The mobsters’ fingers twitched on their triggers, but one glance at the zeal burning in the painted eyes of the clowns was enough to make them falter. One by one, they lowered the guns and took their seats.

“Well, now that we’ve addressed objections,” he said brightly, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

No one moved. No one breathed. The only sound was Joker’s quiet footsteps and the frenzied breathing of his rabid followers.

“Since Carmine Falcone is now languishing away in the hoosegow, Gotham’s underworld needs a new kingpin,” he said jovially, pausing for dramatic effect as he held up a finger. “I humbly nominate myself.”

The mobsters watched the baleful figure, caught between dread and befuddlement. The whole situation was equal parts terror and absurdity.

“Now, you’re thinking,” Joker continued, pacing with restless energy. “This guy’s crazy. He just murdered two of our friends. He probably doesn’t even have a plan.”

He spun on his heel, leaping onto a chair. “But that’s where you’re wrong! I have a vision. A glorious, blood-splattered, screaming vision! A Gotham not ruled by greedy old men in silk suits. Not strangled by mayors or meddled with by masked do-gooders. No, no—Gotham as a stage! And me—your modest ringmaster!”

One of the younger lieutenants, pale and trembling, dared to speak. “You ... you want to lead us?”

“Lead you? Oh, heavens, no!” Joker laughed, hopping down. “I want to unite you. Under one banner. One face.” He drew a finger slowly down his chalk-white cheek. “Mine.”

He leaned in over the table, close enough for the front row to smell the faint, rancid trace of gasoline on his coat. “Fear fades, gentlemen. The Roman ruled with fear. But me? I offer inspiration. A reason to laugh again. A reason to live like there’s no tomorrow. Because guess what?”

He let the pause hang until the silence became unbearable.

“There just might not be.”

Nobody argued. Nobody dared.

“The trial’s coming up in a few days,” Joker said, his voice suddenly businesslike. “After Falcone and Hill are sentenced, we send a message. Something loud. Something public. Something ... unforgettable.”

He clasped his hands together, rocking on his heels like a child waiting for dessert.

“And then?” His voice dropped to a gleeful whisper. “We burn down the old world.”

His laughter filled the steel mill, bouncing off rusted beams and dripping pipes, until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

And the crime families of Gotham—desperate, leaderless, and terrified—didn’t just listen.

They obeyed.

Gotham Jewelry District, Rooftop – Night

The last echoes of the security alarm died down, replaced by the quiet hum of the Gotham night. Below, the streets were empty—just flickers of headlights gliding through the occasional mist, neon signs buzzing in lazy repetition.

Above it all, Selina Kyle sat on the edge of a narrow rooftop, legs swinging lazily over the side, black leather suit catching the dim streetlight. She leaned back on her gloved palms, chin tilted toward the sky, listening. Waiting.

Behind her, the glass skylight she had slipped through lay unbroken but carelessly unlocked—an open invitation. Beside it, a small velvet sack bulged with stolen diamonds—pristine, cold, and catching the faintest shimmer under the moonlight. Her mask lay discarded at her side, letting her short raven hair dance rhythmically in the breeze. She didn’t want the mask this time. Not tonight. Not with him.

She heard him before she saw him.

A shift of gravel, quiet as a heartbeat. A subtle distortion in the wind, just enough to stir the fine hairs at the back of her neck. Even with senses sharpened by years of running rooftops and her father’s old lessons in stealth, it was almost too quiet to catch.

“You always did have a knack for dramatic entrances,” she said without turning around.

Batman stepped from the shadows, towering and silent, his cape settling around his boots like smoke.

Selina stood up slowly, her silhouette graceful and feline against the city lights.

“I figured you’d come eventually,” she said, folding her arms. “Though I was starting to think you might’ve retired.

She circled him, casually, like a cat appraising a familiar rival. “No boy wonder sidekick tonight? What do you call him again? Robin, right?”

Batman didn’t speak.

Selina gave a short, amused breath through her nose. “No matter. I’m glad you came alone. The kid’s cute, but he would only ruin the mood.”

Finally, he spoke. That low, gravelly voice that made her heart soar. “So, the robbery was just a ploy to get me here?”

“It was the only thing I could think of,” she said, the faintest shrug in her shoulders. “After we saved Harvey, I destroyed the communicator you gave me. Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture—but the thought of you tracking me when I couldn’t track you back? Little too one-sided for my taste.”

“Even so, was a break-in really the best option?”

She stepped closer, her tone softening. “I knew it’d get your attention ... and I needed to blow off some steam. No real harm done. Store’s insured. The guards will be fine.”

“You knocked one unconscious,” Batman replied evenly. “The other may have concussion.”

“I left a thank-you note.”

His jaw clenched.

Selina tilted her head. “Come on. You don’t think I’m really going to fence those rocks, do you? I was going to return them. Just ... after we talked.”

She stepped even closer, until they were barely a breath apart. Her voice lowered.

“I miss this. You. The way we used to be. A man like you is catnip for a girl like me.”

Her hands rose, gently resting on his armored chest.

“You’re colder than usual,” she murmured. “I thought maybe ... maybe tonight we could have a little closure. A reminder of what we were. What we could still be.”

Batman said nothing.

Selina closed her eyes and leaned in, her voice quieter now. “Or is there another woman?”

His silence was enough.

She opened her eyes, searching his mask, her smile fading.

“There is, isn’t there?”

Still no answer. Just the hard line of his mouth, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Then, slowly, Batman took her by the shoulders, and very gently, pushed her away. Her arms dropped to her sides.

“You know,” she said, voice unsteady for a moment. “I told myself I was okay with Harvey. That maybe I’d leave the game behind and just ... be someone’s girl for once.”

She hesitated, the words tasting too raw on her tongue. “But I keep thinking about you. About the way you look at me—like you actually see me. Not just the thief. Not just the mask.”

Batman’s voice, when it finally came, was low and final.

“You still chose Harvey though.”

“I know. But...”

The hard look he gave her made her turn away. She hated that look—not because it was cold, but because it saw too much. Why did he do this to her? Why did he tug on her heartstrings, speak to the parts of her she’d sworn were long dead? She’d buried her nobler side years ago, deep beneath layers of cynicism, charm, and survival instincts.

And yet, somehow, the caped crusader had dug it up again without even trying, holding it to the light like it was worth something. A part of her resented him for that—resented the way he made her wonder if she could still be more than just a thief in black leather. But another part ... the part she kept locked away in the quiet hours between jobs ... almost wished she could believe him.