The reflected image stares back; half-lidded eyes looking its body up and down, but always focusing more attention on the face, than any other part. Hair falls down over half of one brown eye, and a hand is brought up, brushing it to the side, tucking it behind an ear. His mouth is pursed, drawn in a line untill the corners of his mouth jerk upwards, the soft flesh jagged, crooked. The scars that tear across his cheeks form his mouth into a smile. An eternal grin that makes people look away. They fear him. Even if he was to go out without the war-paint, they would tremble where they stood - they would stop if they saw him - before throwing their arms in the air, shrieking, and running in the opposite direction. Drastic, over-the-top; to throw your hands in the air like in the movies, but people who are afraid will do anything.
But the war-paint is always on. Or as far as people know it always is. He takes it off before he goes to sleep, if he goes to sleep, only to start the ritual over again in the morning.
His pale hand hovers over the tin of white paint that is located on the side-table before he snatches it up, throwing the lid off where it lands in the corner. A sharp klang grating the silence. He dips his index and middle finger in the paint, smearing them both with a coating, before switching hands, and repeating the procedure. He then rubs his hands together, and they are completely white. He proceeds to rub his hands over his face, covering up the peach skin, even dusting it over his eyelids and lips, but he is not determined to cover every part of the canvas. There is still a hint of skin from the creases in his forehead, and the laughter lines creeping round his mouth, except for where the scars trek over them, but he prefers it that way. It gives people a hint of what might be under the makeup; a man, not a monster. He knows that is what scares them all; the fact he is a man, and not some fairytale beast that can be destroyed by the hero. No, no... in this story, he knows, the hero is as worse off as him. The Batman is needed, but not wanted. And he knows, and this is important, that he is wanted. The people of Gotham City just won't admit it to themselves that he can show them all what they really are. But it doesn't matter. He likes to play games, and he'll play them forever, for as long as it takes, as long as he has a partner. And he has the best partner. Batman. Batman will never tire, never give up, that's why he is so much fun!
Batman is his complete equal, and they have an unspoken treaty. Word's are not needed when Batman is around, but he'll say them anyway, just to show Batsy how much he cares. Just so they have everything out on the playing field. Sure, he may cheat every once in a while, stealing the pieces away when Batman's back is turned, but he knows the man - oh, yes. He thinks, no, he know's that The Batman is human. He can't be a God, no matter how much he thinks he is close to immortality, fighting back criminals whenever they appear, going against his law. He know's that Batsy is human because he has flaws. Chinks in Batman's armour, which he relishes whenever he gets the chance, whenever he is near him, whenever he touches him.
He wipes his hands on the first thing that comes to hand. It happens to be his jacket; his favourite purple velvet. He curses, none too softly, and tries brushing away the white dusting. It smudges, and his tongue darts out from between his teeth, licking at his lips before retreating back. The mark will have to stay there for now, he doesn't have time to get it cleaned. Drawing in a breath, his eyes flicker to another pot; this one filled with black paint.
The lid is thrown off without hesitation, and he stubs his fingers into the almost liquid substance. He is not tidy with this, he doesn't care if it dribbles down his cheeks, infact, he thinks it better if it does. Something else to scare the people with. He runs his fingers round his eyes, over the lids, blacking them out, then looks back in the mirror. He hums, a guttural sound that rumbles up from his chest, and travels through his throat. He likes what he see's.
And now he traces a finger along his scars - part of his fear-factor - then lets his hand drop. Lipstick, lipstick.
He had tried paint before, but it had felt awkward over his lips, over his sewn-up flesh, and he had kept licking it off. No, no, lipstick was a much better option. He could lap at his lips as much as he wanted, and it would stay there. And when it did eventually rub off, it was always easy to reapply. No mirror needed, but it helped.
Lipstick, lipstick. He picks it up from the table, and twists it upwards. The lid had long since vanished. He runs it over his top lip, pomegranate red erasing pink, and then over his bottom lip, going over it more than is needed, making a smudge underneath. Now the scars. Ahh, yes, can't have a Clown Prince of Crime without his smile. People stare when his scars are not covered over, ... that might just have something to do with him being who he is. The Narrow's of Gotham City are a dangerous location, he simply enhances that danger. He peers into his reflection's eyes, blinking lazily, before continuing his makeup session.
Up and down the lipstick goes, over and around his scars. One nice, big Glasgow smile. A beautiful Chelsea grin. He tilts his head left, and then right, checking to make sure he is happy with what he has done, then lets the lipstick drop back onto the table. He smacks his lips, then moves his tongue over his teeth. They are a dirty yellow. Off, unclean, unhealthy. He doesn't care, he always has more important things to tend to. He has to teach the citizens of Gotham what it means to live! And let's not forget his play-dates with Batman that he so lovingly sets up. He gets the toys, sets them out, knocks them down. And Batman will always appear, ready to try and bring them back up, trying to salvage anything out of their game of War.
He scrapes his chair back as he stands up, and grabs his jacket. The paint is still on his hands, so spreads further on his jacket, but it is just underneath the arm and not that noticeable. He slips his arms inside the purple velvet, shrugging it over his shoulders. It is a perfect fit, made especially for him. It would look silly on anyone else. And he doesn't think that purple would suit Batsy.
He breathes in the air around him, letting it rush through his nostrils, then tasting it on his tongue. It is stale, all around the warehouse, tinted here and there with small traces of gunpowder. Then exhales, plunging his hands into his pocket, pulling out a pair of leather gloves, the same colour as his jacket. He unfurls them and tugs them over his hands, moving his fingers into place, rubbing his wrists.
He is now whole. Or atleast as complete as one person can be without their other half. He grins, making his scars twitch upwards, and stands before the door of the warehouse. Before throwing open the door he has one thought.
He is an Agent of Chaos, and he is unstoppable.
He is ready.
And he is The Joker.