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It was a dark night in Gotham City. The streets were barely occupied, save the few people lurking in fog-filled alleys, doing a range of shady tasks that one would be better off not knowing about, if they wish to sleep.
But at the same time as these evident shady events and crimes, the city was, as always, filled with an established collection of higher-class villains and one highly-respected vigilante.
The grey air, although worthy of coughing or possibly death, was filled with a distinct buzz of excitement. Not a city-wide community feel, of course. That would be ridiculous. It simply held the feel that the hidden eyes were glowing with some sort of non-evil anticipation.
The reason for this subtle and, I’m afraid, temporary, attitude change was unknown by the pedestrians and even, yes, the police force, including one Commissioner Gordon.
It may surprise you—or perhaps not— to hear that even through the unawareness of the general population, Bruce Wayne knew exactly what was going on.
He had just opened a letter addressed to “B”. Honestly, he couldn’t have said if that stood for Bruce or Batman. Inside the envelope was a black and gold flyer. He smiled. Every five years, a marvelous yet secret dance took place. The location varied. Last time it had been in Metropolis, and this year it was to be held in Gotham.
It was an age-old tradition, and was designed specifically for heroes and villains to attend. Together. It was the one time in every quinquennial that those heroes and villains actually got along, for the most part. It was the theory of whoever had founded the dance, that every hero and their villain shared something. A bond, a connection, a common interest or love for adventure.
The other thing was this: you didn’t just attend. You had to ask your best hero or worst villain to accompany you. Bruce had already been approached (when in uniform, of course) by many of Gotham’s leading crime-masters. Now having been given the time, date and location, he was ready to ask the one person he’d been holding out for. The one person (if you could even call him that) who had earned the right to be called Batman’s worst villain. Worst meaning good. Not morally or course, but good at being a villain, if that makes any sense.
In a few minutes Bruce was Batman, and walking down a particularly dingy alleyway. Before him, back turned, stood a very familiar figure. He wore a strikingly purple suit, and had unmistakable green hair. Batman knew that when he turned, the face would be startlingly white.
“Joker.” His voice came out deep and gravely. The man turned in surprise.
“Batsy! What are you doing here? I’m not even doing anything bad! See?” he gestured around them, blinking innocently.
“Sure,” said Batman, doubtfully. “But I’m not here for that.”
“Then to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I’ve faced many villains in my day—”
“—don’t tell me you’re here to fill me in on your life story.” There was an annoyed pause.
“As I was saying, I’ve faced many villains in my day, but you’re definitely the worst. By far.” The Joked stepped back, holding a hand to his chest.
“Are you saying what I think you are?”
“Yes.”
“Which is?”
Batman sighed. “Will you go to the dance with me?”
“Oh Batsy, I’m flattered!” Joker widened his eyes dramatically. “Of course I’ll go! In fact, I was just about to set into motion an ingenious plan to catch you and ask the same thing! You don’t know how much this means to me.”
“Well, I asked Riddler, but he was busy. Something about a heist.” Joker stepped back.
“You alright?”
“I wasn’t… Riddler?”
The corner of Batman’s mouth lifted into a smile.
“Joking.” There was a pause. From above the alley could be seen two men, one in black, and one in purple. They were laughing.