Hey everyone. So, I thought I'd try my hand at a Joker origin story, within the Nolanverse. I know, I know. It's been done to death. But I had an interesting idea of where I'd like to take it, and even though I explored a bit of an origin in my story "Agony", I thought I could do better, and more. I don't agree with the Joker having an set origin. I think him not having one adds to the menace of the character. But nonetheless, it's fun to explore different possibilities, and I'd like to take the character through his childhood in detail, all the way up to and through him becoming an adult and, eventually, the Joker. Think of this as a bit of a character study, if I can pull that off, mixed with adventure, where the different events and his different decisions take him in life, and how those around him react to him. Anyway, here's the first chapter. I hope you enjoy it. If so, I'll continue!
How it Was, and How it would Be:
Chapter 1:
He knew things.
About life.
About the world.
And about the people who lived there.
He could tell things about them.
He could see their insecurities, their fears… their inclinations.
He knew what would make them happy, what would make them mad.
What would make them laugh… and cry.
He'd never met a single soul whose reactions he'd been unable to accurately gauge.
He'd never met anyone who he didn't know exactly how to talk to in order to push them in whatever direction he wanted.
He always knew what to say, always knew how they'd respond.
Never once in this regard had he been caught by surprise. Not once.
When he was 5 years old, he'd been found wondering the streets of Boston, filthy and malnourished.
The people who had found him, they tried locating his parents, but they'd never been able to figure out who they were, what had happened to them or why they'd left their child to fend for himself in the back alleys of a big city.
They'd declared him an 'abandoned child' and placed him in the states adoption system.
They'd asked him what his name was, but he'd told them he didn't have one, and so they filed him under the name "John Doe", and John was the name in which everyone, from there on in, referred to him by.
The adults, in any event.
The other children addressed him as "freak" or "weirdo", or any other like-minded, derogatory term their simple minds could concoct.
See, John was quiet. Some might say shy, but John never agreed with that. He just didn't enjoy social interaction.
The adults had put it down to his past, though he never understood how they came to such a conclusion, considering they knew nothing about it. In their notes, his school instructors would label him "anti-social" and seemingly "detached".
John was exceptionally intelligent, excelling in nearly every subject of his studies. School was boring for him, and often, during class, he would drift away, escaping in to the confines of his own imagination, dreaming of things he would never speak of. He didn't listen. He didn't need to. He understood everything easily, intuitively. When they would be tested, he never studied. Never prepared. He would work out the answers to the questions right then. Science, math, literature.
When his intelligence became obvious, they moved him to more advances classes, with children older then he was.
Still, he was bored, and still without effort he handled each subject, producing straight A's in everything but physical fitness.
John was a frail boy, small even for his age, and suffering from asthma.
The other children would take advantage of this, targeting him during the hour he was made to join in the group activities of basketball, baseball, or whatever other sport they played that day. No one ever chose him for their team when dividing the class in to groups. He always was the last picked, and only ever out of necessity. Whoever was the team leader would roll their eyes and sigh in exasperation when they were caught picking last, grudgingly calling his name.
Dodge ball was their favorite. It seemed on days this was the game, the entire class would aim for him, throwing the rubber balls at him, as hard as their arms would allow. John never attempted to duck away, and he thought they were stupid for putting him "out" so early on when they so clearly enjoyed his torment. If the roles had been reversed, he thought, he would have found some way to make it last.
The adults never intervened. They would watch idly as the other students shoved John and pushed him, threw things at him, or tackled him roughly to the ground when, it had been stated several times, tackling was supposedly never allowed. They never did anything. Never tried to stop it, never would scold his assailants.
That didn't surprise John.
The adults disliked him as much as the children. He knew that. They felt threatened by him, unsure what to make of him, how to handle him. Only social expectation kept them from joining in the bullying.
They sometimes would try to embarrass him.
John always sat near the back of his classrooms, gazing out the window, the voice of the teacher and other children nothing more then background noise.
His teachers would often startle him, whapping his desk with their ruler.
He would jump, staring up at them. He could hear the other children snickering; waiting in anticipation for what they hoped would be his humiliation.
The teacher would usually say "Well, John?"
"What?" John would ask.
"The answer to the question John." The teacher would press. "Do you know it?"
"What's the question?" John would say.
The other children would laugh some more.
The teacher would sigh in exasperation.
"You were supposed to read the assigned chapter John. Did you even do that?"
He would shake his head, feeling no need to lie.
The teacher would usually smirk then, thinking they'd gotten him cornered.
And then they would repeat the question, completely sure he would be stumped. After all, if he hadn't done his assigned reading, surely he wouldn't know the answer.
But he always did.
He would tell it to them without any hesitation, the moment it was asked.
After a while, the teachers stopped trying.
They instead found other ways to punish him, without ever implicating themselves directly.
During the day, the orphanage would allow the children out to play, in the facilities courtyard or its back field, usually for lunch, and another half hour for recess.
John would always sit in the same place, near the fence lining the buildings perimeter, at the far end of the back field, where he hoped he would be left in peace. He always had a book with him, which he would check out from the small library they had there. His reading level was far above that of other children his age, above that of even many adults, and the librarians would often give him strange looks as he took out books on philosophy and science and math, or classic literature from the likes of Victor Hugo, Joseph Conrad, Emily Dickinson and the like.
"Aren't you a little young to be reading this?" They would usually ask.
He would just shrug and answer, "I like it."
He didn't know what age had to do with anything.
He understood everything he read, and so he saw nothing odd about it.
It hadn't taken long, however, for him to be spotted, sitting in his corner of the field, and when he was, those who had seen him would almost always come over to harass him.
"Well, if it isn't our favorite freak." An older boy began, joined by three other of his friends.
John had spotted them, coming across the grass towards him, but he'd decided to ignore it, keeping his eyes on the pages of his book.
"Whatcha' got there, freak?" The older boy, who's name was Timothy, barked.
John said nothing.
Timothy's nose scrunched in disgust at being ignored and suddenly he reached down, snatching the book away.
"Lemme see that!" He hissed.
John looked up at him, annoyance flashing in his eyes.
"Pride and Prejudice?" Timothy scoffed. "What's that about?" He lazily flipped through the pages. "There ain't no pictures in here!"
He said it as though it were some great injustice.
"Give me back my book." John finally spoke, his voice quiet.
Timothy looked down at him, smiling.
"Naw. I don't think so." He answered.
"Please." John tried.
Timothy smiled wider.
"Why don't you come and get it, freak."
John's eyes moved to the three boys stood behind Timothy.
He knew if he did, they would only beat him up. He knew they were probably going to do that anyway.
He looked back to their leader before getting to his feet.
He turned, beginning to walk away, hoping they would just let him alone, knowing they wouldn't.
"Hey, where the fuck do you think you're going!" Timothy called after him.
He kept walking.
"Hey, freak, I'm talkin' to you!"
Moments later, John could hear several pairs of feet, running up behind him.
He knew he couldn't outrun them, but he tried anyway, taking off, towards the facility, hoping to find help.
Seconds in, he felt his lungs tighten in his chest and his breathing become labored.
And then he felt a hand grab hold of his dirty blonde hair and pull back, throwing him to the ground.
He hadn't even made it 20 feet.
In the next instant, he saw Timothy's face, hovering over him, that same, smug look in place.
"Pick em' up." He said. "Hold em' for me."
Several sets of hands grabbed hold of John's wiry arms, lifting him up so that now he was standing, held in place, looking up at the older boy.
"I don't like being ignored." Timothy stated. "Especially by a loser like you."
"If I'm a loser, then why do you care if I pay attention to you?" John asked back.
Timothy's face twisted in to a scowl.
"Shut up!" He raged, slapping his hand hard across the smaller boy's cheek.
It stung, but John didn't make a sound.
"You'll only talk when I tell you to, got it!"
John remained silent.
"Got it!" He slapped him again.
Still John said nothing.
"Oh, this little shit!" Timothy sounded almost amused. "Can you believe this freak?" He asked, looking around to his friends.
A chorus of chuckles erupted around.
"Guess we're gonna have to teach him a few manners." He said, looking back to John, cracking his knuckles in a fist.
John felt a hand bury itself in his hair, a moment later his head wrenched backwards.
"Ya hear that, maggot?" One of the other boys whispered against his ear. "We're gonna have some fun now."
They took turns beating him, Timothy going more then once. By the time they were through, recess was over, and they left him there on the ground, curled in on himself, his arms wrapped tightly around his bruised and battered torso.
They'd punched him repeatedly in the face and stomach, then let him go, knowing he would collapse. When he did, they took their shoes to him, kicking him hard across the back and stomach, a few times across his temple.
Half way through, his asthma had kicked in full gear, and he chocked and gasped, sucking sharply with each blow, unable to really breath.
Before leaving, Timothy had turned back to look over his shoulder at him.
"Tell anyone we did this…" He warned. "And we'll fuckin' kill you."
When finally they were out of sight, John sat up slowly, wincing in pain. Reaching to his back pocket, he hoped his inhaler hadn't been broken, and was relieved to find it intact. He shook it before placing it in his mouth, pressing down on the top, breathing in hard and holding his breath for as long as he was able.
Gingerly he pushed himself to his feet. The pain was immense, and he knew without even looking that his body would be covered in deep bruising.
Lifting his hand to his lips, he pulled his fingers away to see them covered in blood. It was quickly after this he felt something warm tricking down his temple, on to his cheek, and reaching up with his other hand, he found a large gash across his hairline, bleeding, along with the blood coming from his nose.
He limped all the way back to the facility, a good hundred and fifty yards away.
When he finally reached it, stepping inside, he was met by one of the case workers there, a woman in her late 30s by the name of Sue.
Her eyes went wide upon seeing him.
"John!" She said in horror. "What in God's name happened to you?"
He shrugged.
"Nothing." He answered. "I got beat up."
"I can see that." Sue said. "Who did this to you?"
John recalled Timothy's threat, though it didn't bother him. They'd beaten him harder because he hadn't given them the reaction they wanted. They wanted him to cry. But he hadn't done that.
"Timothy Strutten and some other boys." He said.
Sue had gone on about how that was unacceptable and that she was going to 'see about this', she said.
John knew though that nothing would come of it.
The adults there didn't like him. Whatever side of the story Timothy and his gang came up with, they would believe over him, only because it made them feel better.
They were questioned, and claimed that John had started it. They said John had insulted them, and even after telling him to stop, he wouldn't, so they beat him up. They said they were sorry, that they knew better, but that the younger boy had just kept pushing until they snapped. They asserted their supposed belief that it was some elaborate scheme on his part, to get them all in trouble.
The adults had bought it, and so nothing happened.
John knew, then, it was only a matter of time before Timothy and his gang would come after him again.
That day came, scarcely a week later, again during a recess break.
John wasn't scared. He didn't know why. He knew he should have been. But fear was something he wasn't sure he'd ever felt in his young life. He couldn't recall ever having felt it, except maybe… well, except when he'd been left alone by them. He wasn't sure if that was fear he'd felt, or uncertainty. But maybe that was the same thing. The line between the two, after all, was so thin.
When he'd gone to check out more books from the library, they wouldn't let him, sighting the fact that he hadn't yet returned all his previous outs. He'd tried to explain to the librarian that "Pride and Prejudice" had been stolen from him, but they didn't listen.
So he had no more books now, and instead sat in the lush grass, fingering the fine blades between his fingers, wondering at its texture.
At some point, a lady bug had been spotted, and he stared at the thing with great interest, almost mesmerized by the way it moved, the colors it sported. He'd bent down to look closer, scrutinizing its face.
This time, he hadn't even heard Timothy or his friends.
"You're dead freak!"
He looked up, startled, and before he even really had a chance to react to what he saw, he'd been kicked in the face, laid out on his back.
White exploded before his eyes and a sharp stinging enveloped his nose, blood pouring from it. The sky spun in dizzying circles and seconds later, he felts a pair of hands grab tight to his shirt, lifting him up and smashing him hard against the chain link fence.
Timothy's enraged face filled his vision.
"I warned you bitch!" He spit. "But you just couldn't listen, could ya?"
John's expression remained unmoved.
"Why do you care?" He asked, his head still spinning. "You didn't get in trouble anyway."
"You just don't learn, do ya?" Timothy said. "You must be fuckin' stupid."
John only stared back at him, his expression cold and blank, before he was pulled from the fence and swung round, tossed harshly to the ground, at the feet of the others.
One of them reached down, fisting their hand in his hair, pulling hard and up, the rest taking hold of his arms once more.
Timothy stalked towards him.
"You're gonna cry for me, faggot." He breathed in a harsh whisper, against his ear.
From there, they proceeded to beat him, worse then they had before, and for longer.
By the time they were finished, John hadn't been able to move, his face a mask of crimson, his body in incredible pain. His head pounded and his breathing came in short, rapid gasps, trying to suck air.
"Look at him." Timothy noted with disgust in his voice. "The fuckin' freak. It doesn't matter what you do."
He bent down, taking John's hair in his hand, jerking his head up.
"Why won't you cry!" He spit.
John couldn't answer, even if he wanted to.
He breathing became more shallow. He had to take his inhaler now, or he was going to suffocate.
He reached for it, even as Timothy still gripped his hair, trying to pull it from his pocket.
His hands shook with the effort.
"What's this!" Timothy couldn't contain the sudden glee in his voice, watching as John attempted to bring the inhaler to his lips.
He reached out, snatching it from the younger boy's hand.
"Look at this boy's!" He laughed, tossing it to them.
"What the hell is it?" One of them asked, confused, looking at it as though it were some foreign object.
"The freak's got asthma." Timothy explained, giggling. "Look at him!"
They all stared at John as his breathing became more labored, sucking sharply, trying desperately to get air to his lungs. Short, shallow gasps escaped his throat and he eyes had gone wide.
"M-maybe we should give it to him Tim." One of the boys said nervously. "He don't look like he can breath."
Timothy smirked.
"He's got to say the magic word first." He said, gripping his hair harder. "What's the magic word, faggot?"
John didn't answer, only emitting a strangled, high pitched hiccupping noise from his throat.
"Tim… Tim, I don't like this man." The same boy began. "We… we should give it back."
Timothy dropped John then, turning towards his friend.
"Give me that!" He spit, grabbing the inhaler from his hands.
He looked at it for a moment, as though contemplating it.
And then he looked to the boy on the ground, and smiled.
"You want it?" He asked.
John was on his hands and knees now, doubled over, his face strained with the effort of trying to breath.
"Go and get it!" Timothy hissed, and suddenly he reared his arm back, throwing the inhaler as far from them as he could, across the field.
John had watched it fly. He saw where it landed.
"Tim, man, that ain't right. He might die man."
Timothy turned again to the other boy.
"Shut up!" He raged, sticking his finger in his face. "Unless, of course, you wanna help the freak. In which case, you won't have no one to protect you. You a fag or somethin' Tommy?"
"N-no!" The boy insisted.
"You wanna help this queer?"
"I just…"
"You do and we're comin' after you next."
Tommy said nothing after that.
Timothy smirked.
"Heh. Didn't think so."
He took one last look at John, writhing on the ground, his breathing becoming weaker by the moment.
"Let's go." He said, swinging his arm forward to indicate their direction.
Tommy hesitated, glancing at John.
"You comin' Tommy!" He heard Timothy's voice scream back at him.
He flinched before turning, striding away to join his friends.
John couldn't breath. He was getting no air to his lungs. The world was spinning before his eyes and he was certain, in another, few minutes, he would pass out.
His eyes trained on the spot where his inhaler had landed, a hundred feet away, maybe.
If he didn't reach it, he was going to die.
"Okay," He thought to himself. "Go get it."
He was calm. Mentally, anyway. He felt no panic. No fear.
His body, however, was reacting violently to the lack of oxygen. It was beginning to convulse and weaken.
He crawled with great difficulty in the inhalers direction, progress painfully slow, his body protesting every movement, screaming in agony.
Black spots had begun to dance before his vision and it wasn't long before his thought process began to fall in to disorder.
Still, his inner voice remained calm, telling him to ignore what physically was happening, to just keep moving.
And somehow, he did.
By the time he reached the inhaler, he barely could see anymore. It had taken forever it seemed, and he felt literally on the verge of collapse.
With his hands shaking uncontrollably, he took it up, bringing it with great difficulty to his lips.
He sucked in more sharply then he even knew himself capable of. But still he couldn't breath, and so he did it again. And a third time when still he struggled.
Finally, he felt the breath returning to his lungs, taking it in so greedily that each breath came as a sharp gasp.
He remained there, on his hands and knees, for some time, sucking air, until finally he collapsed completely, rolling over, on to his back.
The sky above him seemed to still spin, and he just lay there, staring at it for what seemed forever, his chest rising and falling deeply.
After a while, he felts his lids grow heavy, and soon, he had slipped in to darkness.