A/N: This is a re-upload due to numerous edits that were made to the story.

The chapters alternate, the odd are the "present", the even "the past".

You're not supposed to assume these are Joker's memories, rather, it is a history of how a boy became a scarred clown. It had to start somewhere. I've used some "consensus" tales, as well as my own ideas. Please Rate and Review.

~Chapter One: The Chaotic Anomaly~

Anomaly: any occurrence or object that is strange, unusual, or unique. It can also mean a discrepancy or deviation from an established rule.

He wasn't exactly always smiling. It was more like a leer. The scars, it didn't really matter how he got them, not really. Just because they horrified those that he would grin at. He was "always smiling". One ran almost to his ear in a curve, the other was jagged and ugly, halfway up his cheek. Thus, the "smile" was crooked, only one side of his mouth went up, and the dimples that had used to make the ladies swoon and the men jealous, was now accented by those scars, giving a hideous, garish-looking grin. It achieved the affect that those who had inflicted the pain they'd intended: it horrified those he grinned at. They hadn't taken into account he'd relish their avoidable glances at him. As he stares at his reflection in the metal plate they let him use for a mirror, and smears the hair remover across his scarred cheeks, he leers at his image, the scars on his lips spread up, returning to him the image of a manifestation of chaos.

And his eyes, the eyes glare out of his reflection, the crooked smile never reaches his eyes anymore. Sometimes his eyes appear brown, so brown they look black mostly due to the black eye makeup he uses to accentuate them. Sometimes, when he just gives them his crazy side, and that is when they a sort of dark glass, almost a greenish, but different. That's who he is, an agent of chaos, a soldier of fortune, a misinformation who just looks Fate in the eye and accepts just whatever Fate happens to throw at him. Except one thing. The dark creature of the night that refrains himself from killing his victims. The scars are him, just as the creature is, making his life the appearance of completeness.

He doesn't know how he became the scarred piece of - could it be called human? - flesh he is today. He doesn't even remember or know why. All he knows is is all just a stupid joke. Weather its a bad joke or not is up to Fate. Does this look like a face that would lie? The joke is his middle name, after all. He smiles again, the dimples accentuating his twisted mouth and split lips. He knows they're watching him behind that two-way mirror. And so he takes his time, humming a nameless tune as he "shaves". He likes knowing that he is the obsession, the Anomaly of Arkham. He almost laughs at his own joke. He's driven a couple of their doctors crazy, lured one, killed a couple... he's lost count of the many students that came to stare at him, to gape. Like a clown at the circus. And he's played the game like a hand of cards. Nobody knew who the "real Joker" was. Even he doesn't remember anymore. Even he doesn't know if a "real Joker" exists. And the one that was supposed to find out had left. Out of the blue, just gone like a puff of a grenade. He shouldn't have "fallen" for her. Should have killed her when he had the chance, should have played his cards with an ace in the hole. Not that it matters anymore. He doesn't have time to think about her.

He'd rather spend his time planning his next mission on the city. And he's gone rogue. He's gone rogue for good this time. No more of this trying to find out who the military person really was. Got lost somewhere in the dry lake bed and and drowned. He grinned again as the guard banged on the door.

"Hey you! Hurry up in there!"

He laughs out loud in response. He knows they are watching. They are always watching. It wasn't like you had to be paranoid to know they were watching, God, there were cameras everywhere, you had to be blind, deaf, and dumb, with multiple persona disorder to know they weren't watching you. He splashes the cold water against his face, and reluctantly bangs once on the door.

"'Bout time, Freak," the guard hisses at him.

They aren't exactly the nicest, most qualified people in the existence of the world, but hey, they were dumb. He succumbs to being fitted back into the straight jacket, and to the normal "therapy" sessions. He didn't mind it when she asked the questions, but then he could play her so well. This new "psych" was so straight, so boring. A young guy, just out of internship, just into residency. So serious.

He must admit, he kinda likes his no-nonsense manner. But it's so damn straight-face, logical shit.

"So what is it today, Doc? More shit-nalysis?" he asks with a grin, sitting in the chair. As he grins, the doctor's face doesn't break, and there is no show of emotion but a blink. And he's good at hiding things, and the Joker knows it, even though this is technically the first time they've met. The problem is to break down that "fourth wall", or whatever the fuck they called it.

"Dr. Cunningam. No, this time you get to talk. About anything."

Oh, so now the Doc wants to know what he thinks about at night. What every man thinks about, doesn't he know. He's not as crazy as he's been diagnosed, and he wonders, for just a moment, if the Doc is finally getting it.

"Look, Doc," he begins musingly, but of course, he isn't musing. He's an actor, with a poker face. He's playing his hand in the game, revealing the lower cards, setting the bait. "No psychologist should pretend to understand what he does not understand... Only fools and charlatans know everything and understand nothing."

"Anton Chekov," the Doctor says, bemused, maybe even slightly impressed.

The Joker smiles. The ugly scars spread up his face in horrible grin. The doctor blinks again, slight disgust passing over his eyes.

"So make me understand, what it is I don't. Make me a charlatan, make me a fool."

The Joker grins. This is going to be a very good day. And the day after, the day after would be even better. "Ooh, you can't be a charlatan," he says with an aura of mystery. "That just wouldn't do. You can't savor the little e-motions. You're a doctor, you can't kill people." The Joker glances sideways into the doctor's shifty eyes. Oooh, now he has him right where he wants him, and the moment is meant to be savored. The doctor has obviously lost a patient. Recently carried guilt. "Oooh Doctor, maybe that's why you came to Arkham, hmm? Because you can't just let people die..." He lets his words hang in the air like an empty ghost. The doctor shifts his eyes eyes again, just slightly. The Joker notices. He leers at him, never making direct eye contact, emphasizing his crazed appearance. "Or you did, and they fired you," he adds, without skipping a beat. Oh, a slight twitch of the lips.

The grin spreads up the Joker's face, up to his eyes, glassy and dark, almost unemotional. So this is what bothers the doctor. The Joker figures he wasn't fired, he just taunts the man to get his hackles up. "What was it, Doctor. A baby? A little child? A mother, perhaps?" His tone is scornful, without pity or remorse.

"I don't have to answer you," he says through gritted teeth. "I'm your doctor."

The spunk is admirable, the Joker admits to himself, but it doesn't show in his leering expression. "Oh really? 'Cause if it weren't for this jacket, I'd figure you were the patient..." he chuckles. The laugh grows and it grows.

"Why do you think it is I don't understand?" he began.

"Why?" Doc was changing the subject again. "Don't understand? You understand everything. You understand...one thing. People die. And they're not coming back. They're either curing the hopelessly ill, or they're stuck-k, like you, Doc, in a mental hospital trying to understand the Factor Ones and the Factor Twos. Why is someone a serial killer? Now there's a question. It's all about why for you, Doctor. And that's not the punchline. It never is. The punchline is...there isn't any." He laughs at his own joke. "There is no reason. It doesn't matter who. It doesn't matter how, it doesn't even matter what. It just is, that it is." He leers again, his lip curls in a scorning tone, his eyes almost green with a lunatic's expression.

"What is?" the Doctor scribbles a note to himself, but all this time, he's been staring at the Freak.

"It is. It just is." The Joker shrugs despite the straight jacket, mirth and scorn mingled together across his sneering face.

"I think you're faking," the Doctor says bluntly, and the Joker must admit, even to himself, he likes the Doctor. But faking? He laughs at that one.

"Faking? Faking?" He throws back his head and laughs and laughs and laughs. "See, crazy people don't think they're crazy, they think they're getting saner. And sane people think they're getting saner, but they're really going crazy." He chuckles at his own joke, still leering, his eyes wide and glassy again.

"So you think you're crazy."

"Crazy? Nah, I'm not-t."

"Or not."

"See, now we're getting somewhere."

"And you're playing with me," the doctor stares. "Like you do everyone else." He closes his notebook, glaring. "I'm done."

Oh, but the Joker isn't done. "Aw, come on, Doc. Everyone knows I'm a liar. You're going to ruin the fun," he begins to pout, but notices quickly that it isn't going to work to get the doctor to stay. "Look, okay, I'll be serious, alright? I promise."

"But you just said that you're a pathological liar." The Doctor, however had relaxed, forgotten his nerves.

He wags his finger at the Doctor and grins. "You're good, Doc. You're good. Probably don't belong here. Probably got disqualified because of some little screw-up, right?"

The doctor is prepared this time. Damn. "Actually no, I applied here, just because I found pediatrics wasn't my field."

The Joker knows half-truths. And he figures the Doctor is lying. And he connects the dots easily. "Ah, something went wrong. You try something else. Something like me and the mob. You know, what I am, Doc? A chaotic anomaly. I upset everything. The scores don't add up."

He plays with the scar on the inside of his cheek with his tongue, and watches the doctor shift as he absorbs the bit of information. It was a reliable trick. It made them nervous. "Scared someone's watching, Doc?" He questions in a mocking tone, "They're watching you, you know. always watching, the dead people, the dead babies..."

The doctor abruptly gets up and pushes the button. The guard comes back. "Done with the scum?" he asks with a sneer.

"Yes, actually I am," the Joker answers.

"Take him back to his cell," the doctor says flatly. own little game. He doesn't care that they hate him. Any reaction at all makes him gloat. He's gotten to them, gotten to their nerves, evoked a reaction. Created chaos.

The Joker just crows with glee. He's gotten him this time. Beaten the doctor at his

Later, alone in his cell, the Joker thinks over his next trick. He never really liked that quote of Chekov's. Charlatans did good in the world, and he was no hero, that was for sure. Thinking about good in the world made him suddenly think of her, always her, and how she wasn't there, would never be there...no, not that. It wasn't really that Joker didn't remember, for the memories haunted him like the ghosts of his dead wife, and his dead son, the baby, and that damned sonofabitch that killed them, damned him! Oh no, he didn't want to remember, and then he'd have to talk about that, and he'd be the fool that he really was. And gods, they'd wonder why he'd killed that brat of a boy so brutally... And he didn't want their sympathy. He didn't need their sympathy. He didn't need anyone. The Joker laughs. It had all turned out so wild, so damned perfect...

(A/N: Doctor Cunningham in my mind looks and appears to be a cross between Doctor Wilson and Doctor Chase from House, MD. If you saw that, as well, then let me know)