Author's Note: Another brief prologue! Let's go through the motions, shall we? I don't own any of the DC characters you recognize, as they are property of their respective company. (DC Comics, Warner Brothers.) This is an unspecified universe Joker fiction. I'd love some good ol' R & R for more suggestions on what to keep up with!
Dissimulo – meaning to conceal or hide, a mask
Dissimulo- Prologue
He was a doctor. Many agreed his studies revolved around biology. He was a teacher. And that was where things became muddled. Some argued he was an employee at a chemical plant. Some at a High School. But it didn't matter. That old thing? The model you get before the upgrade – or at least that's how he often conceded it. His former shell was a distant memory, something he would scarcely be able to recall even if he tried. And quite frankly, he never did try. Those times were past.
He didn't much like the old times, when conformity was a goal which many strived for. He could, amongst the inky jumble of thoughts in his mind, recall the loathsome feeling of moving towards an end goal which he could not place his finger on. The secondary education which had nearly cost him an arm and leg to afford mattered none. He didn't need that education – none of it. He squandered it all once he became his true self. And he could recall that breathless, monumental feeling of removing his mask for the final time to reveal an alabaster face with lips the same shade as pretty blood.
Nothing mattered about his past. Nothing. It wasn't that he was the product of a broken home or a bad round of cards – no. Because they all would have led him to the same point – that moment in which he fell, fell into that scalding, flaming hot pit which resurrected him the very same moment it killed him. There were no "ifs" in regards to his life. This was primarily because he could scarcely remember even his previous name, as it no longer belonged to him. It belonged to the man who fell into the vat, not the one which came out.
His world was a psychedelic blur, the gorgeous hysteria gave him a sense of belonging. Madness enveloped him, and he would often find himself standing, immobile, as the world around him howled and tore at his skin and eyes, leaving him raw to his insanity. That was who he truly was. Not some factory putz working with a bunch of grumbling hacks, nor a respectable, prestigious doctor lecturing an eager class of youth. He was the Joker, and that was all he would ever need to be.