Prologue: Riddle
A/N Alright guys, first Batman fic. Now, I have very briefly looked at the comics, and I am by no means a die-hard batman fan. I am basing this fic around The Dark Knight. Not sure if there are any spoilers, but brace yourselves just in case. If you worship the comics page by page, this will most likely make you want to torch this story into smoldering, crispy digital goodness. If you appreciate Dark Knight, well, grab some girl scout cookies and don't spill any milk on ya keyboards. CHEEEERS.
This fic is set after The Dark Night movie. The Joker was captured, arrested, and brought to Gotham County Jail, then the following week, brought to court to be tried for his mischievous and gruesome crimes.
He stood in the courtroom, wrists bound by iron handcuffs. He looked as if he hadn't showered in weeks. His stringy dirty-blonde hair hung loosely at his shoulder, his clown make-up smeared in a grime crust all over his face, allowing his "smile" scare to show disturbingly prominent. His face: blank, showing now emotion. No defeat, no anxiety, no remorse, of course. He displayed no such emotion. His custom purple suit had been replaced with the infamous orange jumpsuit, which added to his eerie presence. The jury was a dark blur of glowering and smirking expressions, though the way they positioned themselves, despite clearly being several yards away from the criminal, all had the wary stance that hinted they were bracing themselves. For something, anything that may cause them or their life to be in danger, set on fire, decapitated, combusted, shredded, grated…or otherwise…over.
The judge cleared her voice. The lawyers, Bailiff, Jury, and the rest of the courtroom staff jumped at the sudden hoarse sound.
"Jack Napier," she said blandly, shuffling through papers.
The Joker licked his lips quickly.
"Please step up for cross-examination, Mr. Napier," The Judge murmured, her eyes narrowing. The bailiff escorted the slim criminal to the stand, where he was sworn in.
"Do you, Jack Napier swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help you God?" It was more like a demand than a question. The Joker stared without blinking. His cracked make-up smoldered an ominous persona. Beads of sweat gathered on the foreheads of many of the Jury members. Their glares softened, contradicting the sudden hammering of their heartbeats.
"Mr. Napier, if you don't comply, you will be thrown in county without question," The judge growled.
No answer.
Then slowly, the criminal replied.
"I do," He said, his voice cracking. It sounded like he hadn't spoken in days.
The trial didn't last long at all. The vote from the jury was unanimous. Guilty guilty guilty.
"Mr. Napier, the court has spoken. However, due to your alleged mental condition, I have taken into careful consideration that your instability is most likely the seed of your-" She glanced down at the shroud of paperwork -three-hundred and twenty-eight counts of homicide, assault and battery, and…restraining arrest," A couple people in the jury snickered at the Judge's last word.
"…I have decided to sentenced you to a life sentence--no parole."
The jury cheered.
"However,"
The Jury's silence was like a faucet being turned off. Sharply.
"Your mental instability has concerned me to believe that you have missed several main points of your developmental homeostasis, thus concluding a minimum five-year sentence, and intensive therapy every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Adjourned," She slammed her malet. And is if the court room was suddenly a medieval riot, the jury enflamed into a verbally violent fury.
Ah, Gotham.
With no resistance, and not a spoken word, the Joker was escorted out of the court room, the same blank expression on his caked face.
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9:27 a.m. Tuesday, Swan's office.
The Joker was escorted into the cozy, modern style therapist's room. Plush black cushions, curved surfaces, various art on the wall. The room overlooked Gotham. Still cuffed, he sauntered to the couch.
"Doctor Swan, several officers are on standby outside your office. Just press '1' on your pager if you feel any distress or danger, and they will be in on a moments notice," James Smithson, a twenty-something intern, too tall and lanky for his own good. He looked as if he never outgrew his awkward geeky stage in high school. His short black hair matched his square, black framed glasses.
"Yes, Smithson, thank you. I believe I'll be fine," Swan answered.
"Do you need anything else?"
"Just fine at the moment, Smithson."
He pushed his glasses back up his nose, nervously.
"You sure?"
Swan raised her eyebrows
"Yes. If you'd be kind enough to remove yourself from my office, I would love to treat my patient now," she said, with a small smile. Smithson nearly melted in his leather Armani's. He scurried out of the room.
Swan turned to look at the Joker. His expression hadn't moved from the day in the court room, it seemed. She glided to the seat across him. Only the Joker's eyes moved with her. Alexis Swan was a twenty-four year old psychologist, specializing in the Abnormal field. She graduated high school with her AA degree at just sixteen, thanks to rigorous AP and Dual Enrollment courses. And even though she had only been a "proffesional" for two solid years, she had better credentials than most of the psychologists in her field. She was brilliant.
And the Joker realized this. He also realized that she was only 5"5, had charcoal hair twisted into a bun and held by a pencil, piercing yellow-green eyes, and small hands. He noticed an ink stain in her right pocket, most likely where a blue pen had exploded. Behind her, on her desk, he noted an Apple notebook, several thick medical journals, and record player. Sharpies of every color were strewn about, while a thick array of pen and pencils were stored neatly in a silver mesh pencil-holder. Newspaper clippings, as well as several papers were strewn across. He resumed his blank stare at Dr. Swan.
"Good morning, Mr. Napier," her voice light and soft. The Joker didn't reply.
"I have been informed that you haven't spoken in nearly two weeks. Is this so?"
Again, no reply. She nodded.
"I figured that wouldn't work, but might as well try."
More blank stare.
"Alright. Well, since you refuse to speak, and since you can only lead a horse to water, I will not speak either. Once you feel you are comfortable, speak up. But unless I make noted progress of your time in here, you're minimum will be extended a three months for each session you refuse treatment."
The Joker licked his lips manically.
"Of course, this is all voluntary for you. I'm doing my job, and sitting for an hour and a half every other day gives me more time for leisure. Although it would be a poor choice on your behalf."
She rose, strode to her desk, and opened up Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five.
The joker did not turn. He didn't moved. He only began to tap his foot quickly. Contemplating his next move.
A/N The first chapter is kindof like a teaser? Constructive Criticism is worshipped. Frivolous flamers will be incinerated by…uhm…someone.
