Day Zero: Hero Forged, Fool Unbound
This is a one-shot. My attempt at a Joker backstory. I like it. I like the idea of Batman and the Joker starting out on the same night, under parallel but completely different circumstances. Each losing their parents on what would become "Day Zero" of the quests that would define the rest of their respective lives. I guess the Joker didn't have "one really bad day" in this, but I think it'll do anyway. The next morning when the kids wake up, they will be set upon their paths- it will be Day One.
Bruce skipped out through the front doors of the cinema a few steps ahead of his parents, Thomas and Martha Wayne. His mother called out for him to slow down and wait for them, but Bruce only spun around long enough to flash them a playful smile. Then he ran down the sidewalk, weaving madly and shooting down imaginary foes as the Red Baron.
They shared a laugh at their beloved child and followed him down the street sharing the embrace of two people married but still very much in love. A string of pearls adorned Martha's graceful neck, gifted to her earlier that very night by her husband and son.
"We really need to get a leash for that boy," said Thomas with a chuckle.
"Thomas! Don't even joke," said Martha, with mock reproach.
Thomas laughed in reply.
A chain leash with a heavy padlock restricted his movement as he peeked out through the gap in the closet door. His thefts had become so skillful and constant that his Father had installed a heavy chain connecting his neck to a steel ring mounted on the back wall of the closet. The Boy peered darkly out at his Mother, hatching a scheme to retrieve what she had stolen from him and placed around her disgusting neck. He had worked very hard to steal the fine golden chain from the purse of a woman who had come into his Father's pawn shop. The woman had received enough from the sale of a few of her rings to pay for whatever trifle she needed money for, and had put the chain back into her purse. Boy had picked the lock on his restraints and stealthily crept out of the apartment, down the stairs, and across the floor of Father's store to tug it softly from the folds of her velvet handbag. Later, when Mother came to throw scraps from her and Father's meal into the closet for Boy, a glint of gold in his hoard of stolen items caught her eye. She snatched it and fastened it around her neck, then pranced around the room for Father. The chain barely reached all the way around her flabby throat. And the laughter, the heinous guffawing that always had Boy covering his ears and scrunching his eyes closed, filled their apartment so fully that the upstairs neighbor pounded on his floor.
Everything made them laugh. TV shows, newspaper articles, ugly shirts, and mismatched shoes. Everything. They would laugh, with their jowls slapping from side to side, for fifteen to twenty minutes at a time several times a day. Every customer that came into the shop would inevitably say something Father found funny and would walk out the door while laughter followed them. Boy loathed nothing more than the sound of laughter. Especially since their favorite thing to laugh at was, of course, him.
"Lookit little sad eyes peekin out o' his closet hole!" Mother would say.
"Don't know what he's so sad about! No rent to pay and all those roaches to keep im' company!" Father would shout, "He's lucky he ain't a real person or we'd be chargin' im' every week!"
They would laugh hysterically until tears ran down their fat, greasy cheeks. They forbade him call them by their names, and had never given him one. They forced him to call them by the last things he wanted them to be, Mother and Father.
His loving mother and father following behind him, Bruce continued his imaginary fighter pilot exploits down the sidewalk. He felt a strong gust of wind blast out of an alleyway as he passed by, and felt even more like he was flying. He quickly turned to face into the wave of air and ran against it- right into the alley.
"Bruce!" his parents exclaimed in unison.
They sped up their walk to catch up to their son before he got too far out of sight. Martha's heels clicked on the cement, and Thomas released his grip on his wife to jog a few steps ahead. As Thomas rounded the corner followed soon after by his wife, they came upon a sight that terrified them.
The sight thrilled him. Mother snored on the couch with her maw agape, completely oblivious to her boy attempting to liberate the precious golden chain. Boy crouched on the arm of the couch and leaned down over her to examine what would be his prize. He had only moments to get back into his closet before Father returned from counting the cash in the register downstairs, and he moved with remarkable poise for someone so young courting such a dark danger. Boy gently lifted the clasp to examine it, and with nimble fingers tried to unfasten it without success. When Mother's meaty fingers had engaged the clasp they bent it beyond Boy's ability to fix without waking her. Damn. His eyes quickly scanned the room for a tool. They lit upon the knife Father had used to carve the chicken at dinnertime. It still rested on the table in the pile of scraps that would have become Boy's breakfast the next morning. He stretched out and lifted it from the table, then bent down to reexamine the necklace. He attempted to pry the clasp open with limited success. His curled forelock worked its way down into his face with the effort, and he when brushed it aside he dislodged a bead of sweat from his brow. Time seemingly slowed to a crawl as Boy watched it descend slowly through the air and land on the tip of Mother's nose. He winced. Her eyes flew open. The bloodshot orbs blinked twice and focused on the filthy child leaning over her. Her hand went up to touch the chain around her neck, and her lip curled up into a hideous sneer.
Martha's face fell in terror and her graceful pallor faded until she became nearly stark white with fear. Thomas's hand reached out in a gesture of peace toward the disheveled man who held his only son by the collar. Before the dirty man could even speak, Thomas had his wallet out and held it out to him. Martha struggled with her earrings. Both had eyes widened to the maximum with fear.
The man limped toward them dragging Bruce along. Bruce knew that the man had a gun because he had seen the man shove it in his coat with surprise when he had skipped into the alley. When the man saw that it was a child who had disturbed him, however, his yellow teeth had formed up into a vile grin. His right hand still held the gun inside his coat, and he held Bruce in a strong grip with his left. Still, Bruce was more annoyed at being interrupted in his imaginary battle than afraid for his own safety or for the safety of his parents. As is often the case with the young and seemingly brave, Bruce had simply never dealt with evil before.
"Please sir, you can have everything you want, just let the boy go," said Thomas.
"I'm sincerely doubtin' that you kin provide me with everything I'm wantin' mister, but I'll gladly exchange the boy for your money. As well as any other valuables you have on your person, o' course," said the man grinning even wider.
"Of course sir," said Martha, "Of course."
Bruce watched them hand over all of their things with a curious expression on his face. When it seemed like the man was about to hand Bruce back over to his terrified parents, his eyes caught an item that Martha had forgotten she was wearing. The pearls. He released Bruce and roughly reached out to snatch them from her neck.
"No! Those are for mommy from daddy and I!"
Bruce shoved and kicked the man's legs in what he hoped was a ferocious attack. In the movies his father would have most assuredly used this opportunity to disarm and disable the brigand, but this was not the movies. Instead the man's hand gripped the pearls and ripped them from Martha's neck. They fell and scattered throughout the alleyway. The man growled in rage and pulled his right hand from his coat and made to strike Bruce with the butt of his pistol. Thomas moved quickly to protect his son and in the struggle the gun went off. Blood sprayed and Bruce watched his father fall to the ground. The man quickly turned and fired again. Martha Wayne landed on the body of her husband, and a pool of their combined blood poured out onto the pavement. The man turned wildly toward the boy, but several other cinema patrons came running into the alley after hearing the shots. The man fled out the other end of the alley. Martha reached out toward her son. Bruce watched the glow fade from his mother's eyes as she died.
Mother's hand shot out toward Boy and her fingers wound deep into his hair. Losing his balance and falling forward onto his mother from the arm of the couch, Boy reached out with his hands to catch himself. He felt little resistance as the carving knife slid into her throat right between her collarbones. Her eyes widened, then glazed over. Her face contorted into a bizarre grimace. Boy cocked his head to the side and looked at her curiously. He felt a little giggle escape his lips. Then a louder one. Then a louder one. Soon peals of high pitched screeching laughter filled the room and then the building. Father came up the stairs as fast as his fat little legs could carry him and burst into the room. He saw his dead wife lying beneath his bloody laughing son and stammered gibberish in pure horror. As his horror warmed into rage he came after Boy, but tripped. Boy put the knife in through the side of his neck. The weight of Father's own bulk pressed down on his corpse, forcing the blood out through the thin knife wound. It almost made the same sound as the whoopee cushions he sold in his shop. The noise sent Boy into renewed fits of laughter. Maybe there was something to this laughing business after all!
When his laughter slowed, Boy tried to replicate the effect by stabbing both his parents several more times. Sadly, the comedic joy of the situation seemed to be gone. Shrugging, Boy casually tossed the knife into a corner and set about gathering up his belongings. After looting everything a boy could want from Father's pawn shop and packing it all into a bag, Boy was ready to leave. He hoisted the sack of handshake buzzer toys, fake guns with BANG! signs, and water squirting gag flowers and gazed upon his parents for the last time. He now knew why they had done so much laughing. This world could truly be a hysterical place. One day he would share his special brand of comedy with the world. He would dedicate his life to helping to put a smile on everyone's faces. He giggled at the thought.
Bruce wept at the thought of never seeing his parents alive again. When Alfred came to collect him at the police station, they sat together and quietly shed some tears over their shared loss. These were the only tears Bruce would ever see come from the eyes of the distinguished butler. Bruce's lips could only find one thing to say, over and over. Why? Why had this happened to him? Why would anyone do this? Why? Why? Why?
When they got home Alfred tucked Bruce into bed and sat in the overstuffed chair Thomas used to sit in to read bedtime stories. Alfred would stay there wide awake for the rest of the night in case Bruce had a nightmare and needed comfort. He would stay there every night for the better part of a year. But he needn't have. That very night Bruce decided on the answer to his whys. The answer was: Because nobody was there to stop it.
Bruce vowed to dedicate his life to being the one who would be there to stop evil. He vowed to be the one who would save the innocent and punish the vile. He would have no nightmares over this experience. Instead, even at that young age, even on Day Zero of his war on the wicked, Bruce knew that he would one day be the nightmares of those who truly deserved to fear.