The Corinthian stood on the Robinson Bridge, drinking in the sunrise. He stretched and felt muscles and tendons pop in close approximation, he assumed, to the real thing.

He liked sunrises, it was when people woke up and thought about the nightmares of the night before, starting their day with a touch of repressed terror, or better yet, the nightmares that couldn't recall but would feel nagging at the back of their mind for the rest of the day. It was a good time to be… well, he not alive as such, but to exist, to be aware.

"Red sky at night, Batman's delight. Red sky at morning, Robin's warning…." He murmured to himself.

Early morning joggers smiled at the good-looking man with the winning smile, and he smiled right back at them, and they left feeling somehow, at a very basic level, disturbed, though they would not have been able to tell you why.

He drove through the city streets before rush-hour, savouring the fresh air. A classic car always drew attention, but this one had the advantage of being, like himself, not quite real, and people are usually remarkably good at ignoring and forgetting that which they suspect isn't real.

He parked his Chevy discretely in a municipal car park. Normally it would be more sensible to will it back into the Dreaming to await his summons again, but there were complications with that involving his long term plans. Just in case, though, he was able to reach into the Dreaming and swap the car for a slightly different model and colour.

Luckily there were always a LOT of dreams about classic cars for him to pick from. He had a personal fondness for Chevy's though, as it turned out so did a bank manager with a mid-life-crisis in Iowa, who the Corinthian was sure wouldn't even notice the difference when he made the exchange, and the internal contents of the car were undisturbed, so the Corinthian was happy enough with that for the moment.

He had decided it was time to give something back to the city, other than nightmares, headlines and a bodycount. Today was a day for him to perform in his role as dark muse for the Dreaming, a role he relished every inch of the way.

So the Corinthian spent the morning walking the city, through crowded urban centres and sedate suburban areas alike: Anywhere his special sight showed him there might be someone who would be predisposed to his own way of thinking. Those who just needed a gentle push in the "right" direction, a word of advice from someone who had both been there and done that. Most cities offered three or four such people at most, but Gotham City yielded no less than fourteen distinct possibilities, and healthy possibilities at that, which did not surprise as it might have done only a few days earlier.

He walked casually down quiet streets and into shops, sometimes he arrived at front doors, though more often at back doors, where the real business of any household takes place. He spoke a few words with whoever he was looking for, at most the briefest of conversations, then left again. No one who saw him particularly recalled him, he didn't want to be noticed.

As the sun rose, he spoke to a balding, middle aged man raking his garden, and who was watching the papergirl cycle past with slightly too long a lingering glance. He discussed greenfly solutions, and the best time to mulch and the best time to prune roses, but planted a far more fruitful idea in his head.

To a young woman, sitting in a coffee shop, watching the world go by and thinking about her string of unsuccessful relationship, he was a sympathetic ear, and a source of future inspiration.

To a schoolteacher taking a quiet smoke at the back gate of a junior high at morning recess, he had an interesting discussion about school discipline, and how lax it was these days, and how it might be applied in new and interesting ways to the unruly.

At lunchtime he sat down next to a bank clerk who was watching a pretty girl chatting with her Latino boyfriend and agreed how some things just weren't right, even these days, and offered a couple of ideas as to the best way to deal with it.

Shortly afterwards, at a deli eight blocks over, he chatted briefly with the assistant who served him a quarter of surprisingly decent prosciutto ham. As he was handed his change he spoke seven words, which were enough to have the assistant, already burning with an inner anger at his wife's decision to have an abortion without consulting him, looking at the storeroom's preserving jars in a whole new light.

There were others of course, and each required a different approach, but the Corinthian was a master at his craft. It really was a most enjoyable way for a tourist to spend some time he thought; wandering around, and seeing the little known corners and rarely visited locales, of human nature if nothing else.

He was confident that he had picked his targets wisely as, if he was certain he had seen brief glimpses of his Creators twin siblings near some of his targets. The androgynous shape of Desire, glancing down from a mannequin, and the lumpen form of Despair, glimpsed in the reflection of a window. It would have been an unforgivable faux pas to acknowledge having seen them of course, _they_ would acknowledge _him_ of they felt inclined to do so, but he felt that they were offering some sort of benediction to his works.

And with that happy thought in mind he prepared to visit a sight where he was sure would see another of his creators sisters… Arkham awaited.