Hey there! Here's my take on the Nolanverse Joker, during the events of the Dark Knight. Let me tell you now, this is not going to be light and fluffy. I'm well aware that the Joker is not a sane guy, and to be honest I can't stand reading fanfics about how the Joker gets reformed by falling in love or something like that. I know some people like that, but not me. Each to his own, right?

Anyway, happy reading!

xo Alice

Disclaimer: All original characters that can be recognised from the Dark Knight Trilogy franchise or Batman/Joker comic books, are not owned by me. Anything you don't recognise is my own creation. This will stand for each chapter.

A/N [10/10/15]: Have just redone this chapter, hopefully it reads a little better now.

1

Isabelle picked her way through the busy street, dodging a harried man in a crumpled pinstriped suit, clutching a steaming thermos of coffee as if his life depended on it. She spared him a backwards glance, wondering what had happened to him that had given him the desolate look in his eyes. She supposed that was Gotham for you. It wasn't a city you headed to for a nice, relaxing holiday. It was a city that you visited only if it couldn't be avoided, and even then you did it with your mace in your handbag and a face-paced step. You would never want to live there unless you got an adrenalin rush from news anchors calmly reading the daily death tally, or when you heard shots in the street outside your firmly locked window. It certainly wasn't the place for a young woman to be living alone.

Isabelle, of course, lived alone. She wasn't stupid, though. The first thing she did when she moved into her new, admittedly dingy, apartment was to install two extra locks on all of her doors and windows. She even boarded up the tiny bathroom window, even though the only feasible way someone could enter her apartment through that window would be if they were a midget. With the multitude of crazies in Gotham, Isabelle supposed that there could be at least one midget, and she just wasn't willing to take the chance.

It was a day like any other day. Isabelle had gotten out of bed, stubbed her toe on the bedside table, cursed loudly and profusely, and then made herself a steaming hot mug of coffee in the small, tiled kitchenette. According to schedule, Isabelle looked at the time and realised she was late, and that she had to leave ten minutes ago if she wanted to get the bank and then on to work on time. Forgoing a shower, she blindly threw her hand into the small closest and pulled out a plaid skirt and mismatching pale pink blouse. Pulling up the skirt with one hand while haphazardly applying mascara with the other, Isabelle kept up a continuous stream of annoyed muttering. She paused and looked at her hair in the mirror. Deciding there was no hope, she threw it into a quick ponytail, and grabbed the blouse as she flew into the living room, almost tripping over the fringed carpet.

'Fucking shit,' Isabelle muttered, pulling the blouse over her head whilst searching for her handbag and the shoes she had thrown somewhere last night. Finding one heel hidden behind the couch and the other somehow wedged between the fridge and the adjacent wall, she pulled them on and flew out of the apartment.

She was headed for Gotham's biggest bank. It was common knowledge that the bank where she planned to get a new credit card was owned by the mob, but Isabelle was out of time and out of ideas. When the next closest bank was in an entirely different area of town and your car has wheezed it's last wheeze, well, what's a girl to do? Sometimes it's the mob or no dice.

After dodging several more business types (one of whom had the gall to flip her the finger after she brushed past him) Isabelle finally reached Gotham National Bank, breathing embarrassingly heavily for a person whose apartment was only four blocks away. Tucking her blouse into the skirt and adjusting her handbag, Isabelle heaved open the glass doors. She had forgotten how goddamn heavy they were. Inside the bank it was quiet and still. The other customers didn't speak to each other, communicating in hushed tones only with the tellers before they were back onto the Gotham streets.

Isabelle picked the nicest looking teller and made her way over. After explaining what she wanted in a hushed voice – the blonde scrunched her nose up, as if it was Isabelle's fault her credit card had been stolen during an inadvisable trip to the Narrows – Isabelle gladly made her way to the double doors, intent on a second coffee and a newspaper from the cute little café across the street. She had barely made it three steps before her average day turned into the worst day of her life. There were screams as shots echoed around the expansive rooms, bouncing off the marble in a chaotic cacophony.

Isabelle spun around, searching for the source of the noise. She slowly crept to the door, and sheltered behind the alcove. She tentatively peered around the wall. What she saw made her heart stop. Two men, one tall, one short, each carrying a gun. It wasn't the guns, however, that made her palms sweat. It was the masks. Crime wasn't new to Gotham. In fact, crime was very common, and almost expected. It would be a strange day when the news didn't report at least one robbery, heist, or murder. But the mobs that ran the crime rings throughout the city were straightforward and predictable. They wore bespoke suits and wanted everyone to know exactly who had committed which crime, so that they might properly take the credit. They didn't wear masks. Especially not masks of this calibre. A clown face was painted onto each one, ugly and menacing.

Clowns, thought Isabelle, shrinking back into the alcove and out of sight, Jesus Christ I fucking hate clowns. Isabelle had never been aware of having coulrophobia, but it was a new day and she supposed anything was possible when you were confronted with the scariest goddamn clowns in the world. Especially, it seemed, clowns holding guns.

Don't just stand there like an idiot. Get out! Isabelle screamed internally. The door, the door, go for the door.

Isabelle edged backwards, keeping her eyes on the clowns, who were conveniently at that moment harassing the bank tellers, and subsequently were facing the other way. Her back touched the glass, and she frantically pushed herself backwards, trying to open them without making a sound. They didn't budge. Considering she had had trouble opening them with her entire weight on them as she entered the bank, Isabelle realised with a soundless curse that she wouldn't be able to get out without taking her eyes off the clowns. She quickly realised that she had no options, save turning around to heave the door open, somehow without the armed crazies noticing her and shooting her dead on the spot. It was a fool's hope, but sometimes a fool's hope is all you have.

Suddenly an alarm flared, blaring throughout the building and echoing off the marble walls. Isabelle heard the automatic bolt on the doors slide across with a loud clang.

Dammit.

The tall clown stiffened, and turned slowly around. Isabelle couldn't see his eyes through the holes in his mask, but she knew he was staring right at her. Isabelle made a sound she had never made before in her life – somewhere between a squeak and a cough. It was a completely embarrassing noise and Isabelle resolved never to repeat it. The clown started to chuckle, punctuating each distinct ha, sometimes adding a hee or a hoo. The overall effect was manic and frightening, and Isabelle blinked at him before sliding to the floor as her knees gave way. Her hands, she realised, were shaking. She had never been more terrified.

The clown made his way over, his shoulders hunched and his head protruding like some sort of demented turtle. Isabelle whimpered as he crouched down in front of her.

'You know,' he said quietly, 'I'm a little, uh, offended, that you wanted to skip out on the party.'

Isabelle drew her knees in closer to her chest, and tucked in her chin, not wanting to give this guy the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Her crying face was not something she was proud of.

'Hey, hey,' he said, a steely note entering his voice. Isabelle felt the barrel of his gun under her chin, forcing her head up to look at him. Isabelle shuddered and resolutely closed her eyes.

'Look at me,' he growled. 'Look at me!'

She flinched, bringing her eyes up to the holes in his mask. Somehow, his eyes weren't reflecting the light, making it seem as if the holes opened out into black, bottomless pits. His mask was bone white, chipped in places, as if from long use. The cheeks were sharp and with two red spots under the cheekbones, overset by red markings around the eyes, and a nose reminiscent of Rudolph. The blue mouth was turned down in a frown. Isabelle shuddered, and looked back down at her knees. That was a mistake. Her head whipped to the side as the butt of his gun hit her hard in her temple, white lights exploding across her vision. Dazed, Isabelle felt her arms lose their grip on her knees, and her legs slid out, sitting like a marionette with its strings cut against the wall. Her head lolled forward, and she blinked, trying to clear her vision as her head swam. The clown chuckled again.

'Lucky I got my boys to lock up the, uh, building. It would have been a shame for you to miss the big finale.'

With that he whipped around with surprising speed as a bus crashed through the far wall, knocking down his comrade holding duffel bags of cash.

Isabelle blinked, sure she was seeing things. A bus?

The clown sauntered over, picked up the bags, and made his way to the bus. Isabelle recoiled when she heard him fire a shot at the driver, who slumped over the wheel. Another shot was fired, and the bank manager, who had been creeping around a desk holding a rifle, clutched his stomach with a guttural moan, blood staining his fingers and white shirt. Isabelle blanched at the copper scent of his blood as it permeated the air. The clown gave a small sound of victory, and vaulted into the bus.

Isabelle slumped back against the wall and sighed softly in relief. Bad move. Somehow, impossibly, the clown heard her. He cocked his head, and stepped back down off the bus.

He took off his mask.

Isabelle's eyes widened as she took in his appearance. His hair touched his shoulders, greasy and – green? But it was his face that made her hands tremble and her mouth twitch. White grease paint was smeared over his face, sinking into the scars and lines. His eyes were smudged with black, like permanent bruises. And a terrifying Glasgow smile stretched across his face, puckered and ugly, highlighted messily with a deep red. He grinned, his teeth yellow and glinting, but his scars contorted it into something sinister and wrong. It was a face that had been plastered across the news for the past few weeks. No serious crimes, though, just petty thefts here and there. And here he was, robbing a bank.

Isabelle shrunk against the wall as the man made his jittery way over to her, his fingers playing over the gun strapped around his waist.

Nononononononononononononono.

Deaf to Isabelle's soundless pleas, he once again crouched into front of her, his leather-gloved hand reaching out to touch her face. Isabelle reacted faster than she thought possible. She vaulted away from him, scrambling to her feet.

She had reacted fast, but he reacted faster. His hand snagged her ankle, and she went down hard, slamming her forehead into the marble floor. Pain shot through Isabelle's head, adding to the dull throbbing that was the result of her pistol-whipping. She groaned, the lights dancing in front of her eyes. She felt the man straddle her back, his gloved fingers trailing down her neck.

She felt his breath in her ear.

'I'm the Joker,' he said softly, 'and I like you.'

He grasped her ponytail softly, pulling her head back. Then he slammed her head into the marble tiles.

Isabelle groaned as she came to, and opened her eyes. Confused, she closed them. And opened them again. No difference. The darkness was absolute. Isabelle became aware of the heavy throbbing in her head, and for the first time realised that she was tied down.

Oh my god, she thought frantically, struggling against her bonds. She was gagged, the coarse rope cutting into her mouth, and tied spread-eagled, her wrists and ankles bound to each separate corner of the… table?

Oh my god, Isabelle thought again. He's going to rape me. He's going to rape me and kill me.

Isabelle began to hyperventilate through the gag, her eyes wide and unseeing in the blackness. Suddenly, a bulb clicked on directly above her, blinding her in its light. Her eyes began to water, blinding her anew, and she struggled more frantically. Isabelle heard a light chuckle and snapped her head to the side, trying to find the source of the noise. The Joker was standing at the door, as hunched as ever. His makeup was freshly applied, with a precision that spoke of years of practice.

Isabelle's breathing was completely erratic. She was tied up – completely immobile. This guy was obviously a psychopath. A maniac. Probably a rapist.

The Joker approached her carefully, as if she were a skittish animal that he didn't want to bolt. Isabelle wished she could bolt, but she was fucking tied up. He had crossed out of her vision, approaching her from behind her head. Isabelle strained, trying to see him. She couldn't hear him.

The silence was punctuated only by Isabelle's panicked breathing.

'Hmmm.'

Isabelle quieted, holding her breath.

'Are you, uh, having a good time?'

Isabelle glared at the ceiling, mumbling through the gag.

'I didn't quite catch that.'

Isabelle mumbled more loudly, the coarseness of the rope cutting her lips.

'You know, Isabelle, when I ask a question, I, uh, expect it to be answered,' he giggled, knowing full well that she couldn't speak.

How the fuck does he know my name?!

Finally she could hear movement, and the Joker crossed to the end of the table. He looked her slowly up and down, a smirk crossing his face. Isabelle really wished she hadn't worn a skirt that day. She had never felt so exposed in her entire life. The urge to cross her legs was unbelievably strong, and she pulled against the ropes. The Joker braced his hands on the table, as if testing how much it held, and then quickly vaulted up, standing with a foot on either side of her torso. For a while he stood there, staring down at her, idly flicking a small knife back and forth in his fingers. Isabelle looked up him, her eyes wide and neck straining. From this angle he was even more terrifying. She could appreciate how tall he actually was – somewhere over six feet, but the way he hunched made it impossible to tell.

Suddenly, he dropped to his knees, straddling her stomach. He grinned. It was horrifying. The little knife appeared in his fingers, and the Joker held it above her eyes, excited and playful, like a child showing his parent a toy. The knife dipped, and Isabelle tried to follow it with her eyes, but gave up when it went past her nose. The Joker was the picture of concentration, and Isabelle, looking at him, realised with a jolt that he would actually be quite handsome under the makeup and evil personality.

Don't follow that train of thought.

'So, Isabelle,' he said, drawing out her name. She flinched when he said her name, and his grin widened. The Joker fished around inside his purple trench coat and pulled out Isabelle's wallet, placing it on the edge of the table.

Ah. So that's how he knew.

Suddenly, she felt the knife at the corner of her mouth, and Isabelle went completely still. The Joker looked down at her, sensing her train of thought.

'Isabelle, I'm not going to cut you,' he said, frowning at her.

Isabelle could have cried in relief.

'Well, not yet.'

Before Isabelle had time to process this new information, the Joker brought the knife down to her mouth and made a swift cut. The gag fell away, and Isabelle sucked in a shuddering breath.

'What do you want with me?' she asked, trembling as he trailed a hand across her shoulder.

'Hmm,' he said, 'I just don't know yet.'

'You don't know?!' Isabelle spat, 'Then why the hell did you kidnap me?'

'Uh uh uh, careful, Isabelle,' he murmured, bring the tip of the knife to her throat like a promise. Isabelle leaned back into the table, trying to get as far away from it as she could from it and failing miserably.

'I just like to, uh, have things, you see,' he murmured conversationally, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with his free hand. She glared at him. Suddenly, his entire mood changed, and the hand holding her hair became insistent, tugging so hard that she felt a few strands separate from her scalp, making her cry out in anguish. The knife pressed harder, drawing a bead of blood that she could feel trickling down her neck. Isabelle whimpered. The Joker leaned over her face, so close that had he leaned forward just half an inch their foreheads would have been touching.

'You're mine,' he said, pulling hard at her hair, opening up her neck further to him, 'and I'm going to leave you something to, uh, remember me by.'

The knife left her throat and moved instead to the left corner of her mouth. Isabelle whimpered, tears leaking out of her tightly shut eyelids as the knife moved slowly, painfully, across her cheek in a curve. She was straining against the ropes, gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles white. He finally finished just an inch to the right of her ear, at the start of her cheekbone. Isabelle desperately probed her cheek with her tongue, hoping to God it hadn't gone all of the way through. It hadn't, but the cut was still painful, and her cheeks were wet with tears. The Joker looked at her, as if confused, and touched her cheek with a gloved finger.

'Are you crying for little old me, Bells?' he asked, giggling.

Isabelle tried to speak, but stopped with a gasp as she felt her blood trickle into her mouth. It pooled at the back of her throat, and she choked, retching, trying to cough it up but being unable.

The Joker looked down at in her amusement. Realising she had no option, she swallowed, gagging at the metallic taste, and then pressed her mouth shut. The pain in her cheek was horrific, and she knew that she was going to scar. Just like him, she thought, he's marked me now. Everyone will know.

The Joker laughed at her pained expression, and pressed his thumb hard into the cut. Isabelle screamed, a guttural sound that tore itself out her mouth, trying to wrench her face away, to protect herself, to do something. But she was tied up and helpless and he was just so strong. Darkness crept into her vision, and Isabelle slumped against the desk.

The Joker looked at her prone form, and brought his thumb from the cut. Tsking at the blood now staining his glove, he surveyed his prize.

I'm going to have fun with this one.

A/N: Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed the chapter, please follow and review!