Chapter Text
Laughter echoed and the world spun. If any of this were real, it would have eventually stoped spining, but seeing as this was not the case, it all must have been some vivid dream or hallucination, a phantasm.
Bruce was trapped in a vehicle spining out of control. Through the glossey black frame and dirty windows of the car, Bruce could see a young couple being shot down in a moonlit ally. Before Bruce could react, the car rolled over again, and now by daylight through the glass, he could see crowds of people fleeing from a building engulfed in flame. The car turned over onced more, and now he glimpsed a delapitated amusement park behind a blurred and brightly-colored figure. The ghastly figure beckoned to Bruce.
He laughed and the world spun again.
___
Bruce Wayne awakes and is bathed in sunlight. His painic subsidies. It was all a dream. Well, not a dream, but perhaps a distant memory. He opens his eyes blearily and takes in a sleek hospital room overlooking the heart of Gotham.
"Master Wayne!" Alfred exclaims from the corner of the room, dropping a book to the floor with a sharp clamour. The elderly man spryly takes to his feet and approachs Bruce. Alfred places a hand on his arm gently. "You gave us quite a scare."
"Alfred?" Bruce croaked, bringing a hand to his parched throat.
"Easy now, Master Wayne." Alfred pours a glass of water from a near-by decanter and hands it to his ward.
Alfred fetches hospital staff.
___
"What do you remember about the accident?" asked Bruce's physician.
Bruce could recall no accident. In fact, he could recall no negative life event. Upon searching his memory he found only a skeleton of a life. He remembered only the basic framework of his idenity. His job, but not a single work day, his address, but not that which occupied it. Everything that he did and was, it had been filed down and condenced into a hollow outline. He was simply Bruce Wayne, an American billionaire. No family that he could recall, no hobbies.
Lost in this horrifying realization, Bruce's brow visibly furrowed.
"Take as much time as you need." The doctor told him sympathetically.
Besides a diagnosis of retrograde amnesia, Brue was given a clean bill of health. Although, the doctors inquired several times about a multitude of long-healed scars and fractures they found during his examination. Bruce was as stumped as his clinicians.
"Master Wayne is somthing of an adrenaline addict, he's always off rock-climing or base jumping, he's had quite a few bumps and bruises over the years" Alfred explained casually.
Bruce most certainly did not recall such activities.
___ 6 days later ___
The week following the accident saw Bruce attempting to adjust to his daily life. Thankfully, he had a legion of competent staff to run Wayne Industries in his absence. Also, the ever attentive Alfred, equal parts butler and confidant, would happily execute his every request. Bruce had it all, he had money, beauty, friendship, and apparently a small amount of fame. Bruce had combed through any articles from local news media that pertained to him. Unfortunately, he did not seem to be particularly forthcoming concerning his personal life. By all accounts he was a successful buissness owner and a lauded philanthropist. However, Bruce couldn't banish the feeling that he was living half a life.
At night, he was plagued by strange dreams, both violent and exhilarating. He triumphed in brawls with faceless aggressors. He witnessed montage after montage of victory and destruction, always morphing, always changing. But there was one reoccurring character in his dreams who affected Bruce more than the rest. This character was little more than a colorful, angular shape without defining features. But, every night he came more into focus. When Bruce awoke, his heart racing, he was often possesed by the unthinkable urge to search out these places and this mysterious person in waking life. But, of course, such ideas were madness.
___11 days earlier, the night of the accident ___
The neon lights of the city shown through the stained glass of the condemed church ominously. Joker had passed and occasionally trespassed on the holy building over the years. He had watched It's slow decline from bustling gathering place to forgotten relic with detached fastination. Surrounded by the bleak structures of modernity, It's archaic lines were alien to all that around it. He wondered what the style was called.
"Perpendicular Gothic Revival" came a meek voice amplified by the acoustics of the church.
"What?" Joker asked, startled. He glanced down at the group of bound hostages on the floor.
"That's... It's the architectural style of this building." The same man said without making eye contact.
"Oh! Why, thank you, kind sir." Joker's thoughts must be leaking again. It was all Batman's fault.
Batman was late. How uncharacteristic of him. He was not merely stalking Joker from the rafters, Joker had checked, several times. Nor was he hiding anywhere else, waiting to pounce on the eager clown, Joker had shot several of the hostages, although only with a water gun. It simply wasn't worth the pageantry when there was no one of note to object.
Joker was irritated by Batman's tardiness. But, in the caped crusader's defense, Gotham was a hellscape of automotive congestion. It was a wonder he ever made it to any emergency on time, and tonight the streets were particularly traffic-laden. There was also the infuriating possibility that Batman chose to prioritize another event over Joker's humble invitation to save twelve hostages. But, Joker would have heard if there was a bigger party in Gotham, and it wasn't like the bat to stand him up.
But, as the hours passed, Joker grew restless, if he stayed here any longer he would risk police interference. He had, out of boredom, lined the hostages up under the twelve large windows that lined the walls of the church, each depicted a different apostle on their ornate glass panes.
Twelve hostages for twelve apostles, a funny coincidence. A large wooden cross loomed above the chancel, nearly seven feet long. It had once been a crucifix, but the terracotta sculpture of Christ had long fallen. Joker thought that Batman would make a lovely substitution.