A fan book by Coby Vintimilla
Gotham never sleeps. It just closes one eye and pretends not to notice the screaming. Rain was painting the streets in silver streaks when I found the first body—or rather, the first absence of one. The alley behind the Monarch Theater was quiet, too quiet. Even the rats had left. Only a single thing remained: a red balloon tied to a cracked lamppost, swaying gently in the wind. I stepped out of the shadows, the soles of my boots whispering on wet pavement. The balloon string was smeared with something dark. Not blood—greasepaint. A faint laugh echoed through the city’s veins. “Knock knock, Bats. Guess who’s back?” The voice wasn’t real. Not yet. Just the echo in my head. I’d heard it before—too many times. But this was different. Gotham’s been losing people for weeks now—vanishing without a trace. Homeless, cops, even a judge. No ransom notes. No witnesses. Just laughter carved into the walls like graffiti on the city’s soul. I crouched, pulling a small scanner from my belt. The residue on the string blinked green in the scanner’s light—an experimental compound of laughing gas and hallucinogens. Joker’s signature, refined. Potent. I gritted my teeth. “He’s evolving.” From the rooftops, thunder rolled like applause. Lightning flashed, and for a second, I saw it—spray-painted on the opposite wall in bright, mocking purple letters: “SMILE! YOU’RE NEXT.” A chill cut through the night. Not fear. Anticipation. Gotham’s greatest joke was about to start again—and I was the punchline. A voice crackled in my earpiece. “Batman, it’s Gordon. We found another one.” “Location?” “Amusement Mile. And… there’s something else. We found a card.” “Joker?” “No. Something new. You’d better see it for yourself.” The rain fell harder, washing away the balloon’s red sheen as I looked up toward the skyline. The city stretched before me like a wound that never healed. I disappeared into the shadows—my cape was the only thing that moved. Because in Gotham, the night doesn’t end. It just gets dark.
The storm hadn’t let up. By the time I reached Amusement Mile, the neon lights were bleeding through the rain like dying embers. Ferris wheels groaned in the wind. The place was left smelling like rust, wet popcorn, and Gordon. Footprints of mud were covering the surface of the rides Commissioner Gordon was waiting near the entrance, trench coat flapping, cigarette burning like a warning light. His face looked older tonight — not by years, but by nightmares. “Batman,” he said, voice rough. “You’re not gonna like this one.” “I never do.” He led me under the old carnival gate. The “Welcome to Funland” sign flickered, the “F” dead, leaving only UNLAND. Fitting. Under the carousel, a crime scene. The horses were frozen mid-gallop, their painted eyes wide with eternal joy. One was missing its head. In its place — a jack-in-the-box, turning slowly, its tinny tune fighting the rain. Pop goes the weasel…
The Batmobile’s engine purred through the night like a predator on the hunt. Gotham’s skyline stretched above me — jagged teeth biting into the clouds. The rain had turned to fog, swallowing the streets whole. The kind of fog that hides more than it shows — perfect for someone who doesn’t want to be found. In the driver’s seat, I replayed the data. The compound from the card — a neurotoxin laced with hallucinogens, but missing Joker’s finesse. Sloppy. Dangerous. Unstable. The chemical signature traced back to one location: Axis Chemicals. Of course. I stopped the car two blocks away. No alarms, no guards — just silence and decay. The plant had been abandoned since Joker’s “accident.” But the city never learns. Gotham forgets, then pays for remembering. I slipped through a side entrance. The air inside stank of ammonia and something worse — rot and laughter. My boots crunched over broken glass. The walls were smeared with purple handprints, some fresh, some faded. A single word was scrawled in crimson across a chemical vat: “DAD.” Then the sound came — faint footsteps, and a chuckle. Not Joker’s manic chaos, but a mimic. I melted into the shadows. A figure emerged — lean, wiry, in a cheap knockoff of Joker’s suit. His makeup was smeared, his grin crooked. In one hand, a canister; in the other, a spray gun modified for aerosol dispersion. He turned slowly, talking to himself. “No punchline without a setup, right? He taught me that. He did.” “Haze.” He spun around, startled. “Oh-ho, the Bat! You came to laugh at the joke too?” “This isn’t a joke.” “Sure it is! Everything he did was a performance! And you—” he pointed the spray gun at me “—you were his audience!” I threw a batarang. It sliced through the nozzle, spraying gas everywhere. I pulled up the rebreather as the cloud spread. Haze staggered, coughing, but still laughing — a dry, broken sound that filled the factory like music from a dying carnival. “You think you can stop it?” he wheezed. “He’s still out there! He left clues for me, for you! We’re all part of the same joke!” I moved in close, grabbed him by the collar. “Where is he?” He grinned, eyes wide and red. “He’s not gone. He’s watching. He said you’d come. Said you’d find me first.” Then he pressed something into my gauntlet — a small card. A joker card, half-burned. On the back, scrawled in ash and ink: “SMILE FOR ME, BATS.” Before I could react, Haze bit down on something — a capsule. His smile froze mid-laugh. The toxin hit fast. I laid him on the floor. He was gone. The card slipped from my glove into a puddle of rainwater and chemical runoff. The colors bled together — red, green, purple — forming one word as it dissolved: “HA.” I stood alone in the dark factory, the echo of laughter bouncing through the hollow vats. Somewhere in the city, the real Joker was alive — and he had a new plan. And this time, I wasn’t sure I was the hunter anymore.
Darkness has weight. It presses down until you forget what light feels like. By the time I reached the cave, my vision was flickering. The gas Haze released wasn’t just poison — it was a message. My veins burned with it, every breath echoing with laughter that wasn’t mine. I tore off the cowl and stumbled to the console. The scanners were useless; every image twisted into a grin. The system repeated one phrase over and over: “SMILE FOR ME, BATS.” The lights flickered. The cave seemed to breathe. A voice crawled out of the speakers — low, playful, ancient. “You miss me, old friend?” Joker’s voice. I froze. “You’re dead.” “Am I? Or did you just wish me that way? You can’t kill laughter, Bats. It echoes.” The monitors flashed images — the Monarch Theater, the alley, Amusement Mile. In each, my reflection stared back. But it wasn’t wearing my face. It was smiling. The sound of chains dragged across stone. I turned — the shadows behind me twisted into movement. From the darkness, silhouettes appeared — victims. The missing people. Their faces pale, eyes painted with black rings, lips stretched into smiles too wide to be human. They began to laugh. Softly at first, then louder. I backed away, heart pounding. “This isn’t real.” “Isn’t it?” He stepped into the half-light. The Joker — or something pretending to be him. His suit was tattered, soaked in shadow, his grin carved deeper than before. His eyes glowed like dying candles. “You don’t get it, do you? You breathe me in. You wear me. You made me.” He raised his hand. Bloodless fingers, pale as bone. Between them, a single card — the same one Haze had given me. The writing on it shifted, black ink swirling into new words: “WELCOME HOME.” I reached for a batarang, but my hands wouldn’t move. The world around me melted — stone dripping like wax, screens bleeding light. The Joker’s laughter filled everything, a sound so sharp it cut through thought itself. He leaned closer, his whisper colder than the cave air. “You think Gotham made us? No. We made Gotham. You’re the shadow. I’m the smile. We don’t end. We just… start again.” I shut my eyes. Focused on breath. On heartbeat. On control. When I opened them, the cave was empty. The laughter was gone. Only the card remained, lying on the console. This time, the message was different: “SEE YOU SOON.” The cave lights flickered once more — and in the monitor’s reflection, just behind me, a smile glowed faintly in the dark.
The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. Gotham’s skyline was a bruise, pulsing with sirens and lightning. The city was restless — whispering, watching. Somewhere out there, something was laughing again. I hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that grin in the reflection — a white slash in the dark. The toxin’s effects were fading, but the voices weren’t. They followed me like a ghost made of memory. Alfred’s voice came over the comm, calm but edged with concern. “Master Wayne, your vitals are still unstable. You’ve been exposed to a neuro-psychotic compound. You need rest—” “I don’t rest,” I muttered, watching raindrops run down the cowl. “Not while he’s out there.” “Sir, the Joker is dead.” I looked at the screen. The security feed from the morgue played on repeat — Joker’s body, tagged, bagged, burnt beyond recognition after the Arkham fire. Officially confirmed. Undeniable. But Gotham doesn’t care about official. It only cares about fear. I moved across the rooftops. Below, the Narrows pulsed with chaos — fires, screams, the scent of gasoline and madness. Someone was recreating Joker’s chaos, but the pattern wasn’t right. It wasn’t about anarchy. It was intimate. Personal. Like a message meant only for me. I dropped into an alley near Crime Alley — the place it all began. Two shadows moved ahead, laughing, dragging something heavy. When I landed behind them, the laughter stopped. They turned. Their faces were smeared in crude makeup — white powder, red lips drawn in jagged lines. The “Smilers.” A new gang. Copycats. Devotees of the myth. “Evenin’, Bats,” one hissed, his teeth yellow, his grin trembling. “He said you’d come.” “Who?” They giggled in unison. “The Joke. The One Who Laughs Again.” I moved before the echo died — two hits, fast, silent. They crumpled. But one of them kept laughing even unconscious — low and broken, like the sound of something cracking inside. Then I saw it. A mark on his neck — tattooed in crimson ink. Not a smile this time. A barcode. I scanned it with the cowl. The feed flickered, then displayed a message in distorted text: “JOKER INDUSTRIES — PRODUCT TEST SUBJECT #001.” A static burst flooded my earpiece. Then, his voice again. “How’s my new material, Bats? Little rough around the edges, but they’re dying to please you.” “Where are you?” “Oh, don’t sound so grim. It’s your city, after all! You and I — we built this stage together. I just added the punchline.” Lightning ripped across the sky, illuminating the old Monarch Theater in the distance — the ruins where I’d found the first clue. And on its crumbling facade, new graffiti glowed in ultraviolet paint: “THE SHOW BEGINS AT MIDNIGHT.” The line repeated itself on every nearby wall, flickering under the rain like a heartbeat. I clenched my fists. “You’re not real.” “Then why do you keep finding my jokes?” The signal cut. I stood alone in the alley, surrounded by laughter that didn’t come from any throat. The sound rose with the storm — a symphony of madness spreading across Gotham. And somewhere beneath it all, I swore I heard it — one clear voice, laughing softly, whispering through the rain: “It’s good to be back.”