He had asked not to be disturbed, never to be disturbed, when he was working. And every one of the men, who followed him like a lost lamb with a thirst for blood, knew his temper rivalled that of the devil himself with a mind for murder and lust for pain; which is why the Joker always sat in silence, listening, in the dark room he had made his own.
His new hideout, or lair as he'd heard his goons say, was in the bowels of an abandoned factory specialising, by the smell that hung around him like deep fog, in used tire recycling. The room he occupied in that moment was once a grand office, but now stood decrepit and destroyed; every wall screaming in agony as its dull white paint peeled from the walls and the wooden floorboards creaked with age. The only light came from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, as the window adjacent to the door was boarded up with rotting wood. The only furniture in the room was a desk, as creaky and broken as the room surrounding it, and a hardback chair behind it. The desktop itself, like much of the walls, couldn't be seen due to its complete covering with papers and articles showing a detailed plan still in the making.
It was over these plans that the Joker himself sat, staring down at them with a tilted head, fiddling with a card between the fingers of his right hand. His blazer hung over the chair behind him and his sleeves were pushed up to the elbows which leant on the table, the left arm supporting his head as he overlooked his scheme.
He had never been disturbed, never been disobeyed and never been questioned in his orders, which is why his head snapped up when he heard the door opposite him creak open slowly. His eyes narrowed as one of his goons hesitated in the doorway, anxiety radiating from every piece of him. The master criminal leant forward a little and licked at his lips before talking, his voice dangerously calm. "You seem to have forgotten where you are. How about a little reminder?"
He threw the card at the man and watched as it cut the side of his throat, nicking the artery that beat just below the skin. The man grabbed at it and slid down the wall, his legs going limp beneath him. The Joker stood and walked over to him, pulling the goons hair so that he looked at him. "Remember me now?"
"Sh-Sh-Shadow. The. The Sh-Shadow," the man croaked out, his skin going white with blood loss and his hands turned crimson as he attempted to stop the flow. The Clown above him tilted his head.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" He watched as the man struggled for a moment before falling silence with a slight gurgling and his body going lip. Letting go of his head, the Joker watched as it sagged forward and the goon slid down against the wall. Standing up straight, he straightened his suit. "Guess so."
He turned to walk back to his desk when he heard a voice behind him. "Come now, was that really necessary?"
The voice was female with an air of laughter about her that hung thick in her voice; taunting her conversational partner. Her tone concealed a smile behind mock disapproval. Turning, he saw a leather boot prod at the body as it fell to the floor. The woman standing there wore a dark cloak that hung to the floor and hid her completely except for the stiletto boot that extended from the folds up to just below her knee. Her face was hidden by a hood that hung low over her face, ending just below her nose where the end of a pale face with a thin, elegant chin protruded; the smirking lips coated with deep red lipstick.
"Shame. I only wanted him to talk to you. Still, I'd hate to leave a loose end just lying around."
"Who are you?" The woman's head snapped up and she smiled, showing a line of even, white teeth.
"Don't you know me?" As she walked towards him he saw, in the break of her cloak, a black leather corset tied to its tightest over a sleeveless, black shirt. Her legs, clad in tight black leggings, disappeared into leather boots that rose to her knee. She stood before him eye-to-eye, thanks to the heel of her boot, and tilted her head, a slight smile twisting at the corner of her lips. "After all, I made you who you are, my dear, sweet Joker."
'My dear, sweet Joker.' The world was spinning and she was laughing and singing but he couldn't see her. His eyes spun wildly in his head, trying to focus on anything in his grey surroundings but it all blurred before he could. He could see his hands, crimson with blood warm on his flesh, as they reached out, groping for anything and finding nothing The pain took over and he curled inwards, remembering his and turning for the shadows before he raised his head with a little strength and let out a manic laugh.
The same laughter followed him back into the dark room and he pulled a knife out of his coat, holding it against her throat and pushing her against the wall, his weight holding her there. She smiled at him. "You do remember me."
"No." The memory was fading in his head, falling into his madness but her voice - that voice - kept pulling it forward like a slap in the face. He pressed the blade deeper into her throat, a small bead of blood spreading across its surface under the pressure. "So who are you?"
The woman grinned and licked her teeth before speaking, her head tilting slightly. "You know what?" And effortlessly she turned them, swiping the blade from the Joker's palm and pressing it hash against his scarred cheeks; the cool steel caressing his face. "I prefer to ask the questions."
The Clown was silent, his eyes not showing any fear, merely curiosity; for he had lost his ability to fear a long time ago. The woman in black smiled and ran the tip of the blade along his jaw, tracing the line of make-up there and the deformity it hid. "Tell me, baby. How'd you get those scars?"
The Joker, at hearing this, let out a manic laugh that echoed about the dull room. He felt the blade cut gently at his face but he couldn't find it in himself to care; to caught up in the joke. After a moment, he calmed himself enough to answer, licking his lips first. "My father was a drinker. One night-"
"Wrong!" He felt the knife slice deep into his bicep and twitched in pain, moving his other hand to cover the wound in order to stop the bleeding. Looking up at her, his face flared with anger and she smirked, the blade again pressed to his cheek. "Now let's try again." She leant in close enough that he could feel the air move when she talked. "How'd you get those scars?"
Licking his lips again, the Joker spoke. "I had a wife who got in too deep with a loon-"
"Stop lying to me." Her sing-song voice was echoed by another deep wound to his shoulder. "Or next time it will be your neck."
"What do you want me to say, hmm?" He asked, head tilting away from the knife, licking at the side of his mouth again. "What story do you want me to tell?"
"The truth." The words echoed in his skull and his neck twitched, pressing him against the blade and earning him a nick on his jawline. Her voice – so familiar but so unknown to him rang in his ears like a tolling bell; loud and inescapable. And then he could feel it, that searing hot pain in his face that he'd only felt once before and he fell against the wall. Blood…trickling…Clown…my Clown…child...dead…JOKER.
"I don't think you remember the truth." He sank against the wall, knees against his chest and head between his palms. "I don't think you can. I think you blocked it out a long time ago."
"Stop it."
"Because I took so much from you. I took everything you had and turned it in on itself and look what you became. My greatest achievement."
"I-I don't…you didn't…who…" He head swum with faces and pictures; scenes of a home, of a family, of a life and of eyes – those eyes that haunted him for months. He opened his eyes to find the woman crouched in front of him, a small smile on her face.
"Scars of war hidden with lies, but given to him by demon eyes." And as she pulled back the hood and he saw her face and looked into her eyes, he fell screaming back into the world he'd forced himself to forget; into the past where she had made him a shadow of a man.