Also posted on my dA account, aseliger. Check it out there, maybe give it a fave if you like it or even check out my other art.
Anywho, enjoy my feeble attempt at writing.
The mouse is scrawny, gray, and tailless. Now, Joker wouldn't consider himself a charitable person, but the creature is so pathetic he can't help but scoop it up and place it in a box lying around his tent. As Joker goes out in search of scraps from the evening meal, he wonders what prompted his sudden act of goodwill. He is aware that the world is cruel and letting nature take its course would have been best, but letting the creature die would have felt rather cold. Maybe the invalid mouse was a bit too much like himself, back when he'd suffered on the streets, armless, tiredly wishing for a savior. Joker chuckled. Or perhaps he was just getting soft. Joker enters the dining tent and grabs a few extra vegetables, a canteen of water, and, after a bit of thought, some cheese for good measure.
Rain poured out from the weeping sky, unaware of the misery it was bestowing upon four children of East End. The children huddled together beneath a tarp, seeking bodily warmth. Hunger and pain and cold shook their thin frames, and their eyes dully looked upon the cruel world beyond their temporary shelter. Their bodies appeared as lifeless as the city around them. Broken, deformed, frail children, they were, doomed to die. Then, out of nowhere, the sound of footsteps reaches their ears. Black shoes approach. A man. The man says something that goes unremembered, but what Joker does remember is the warmth that enclosed his body not long after.
After a few days, the mouse is in considerably better shape. It walks more steadily, thanks to a small, light prosthetic serving as a tail (which, in the wild, serves to stabilize and balance). It's gained weight and has learned to eat scraps out of Joker's hand. Joker's uncharacteristic devotion to the mouse doesn't go unnoticed, and he laughs at Beast's look of disgust and deplores Doll's—no, Freckle's request to pet the mouse. Yes, the mouse has definitely recovered. Though, Joker is at a loss for what to do with it. In the circus, you had to pull your own weight. Do chores, practice, perform. Even having a pet would be an unnecessary hassle, and Joker has already spent too much time dawdling with it as he nursed it back to health.
"I wonder..." Joker murmured. He knew many animals performed in circuses, though mice were hardly an exemplary example. He sighed and stretched. Ah well, there was nothing wrong with taking a break once in a while. Besides, Joker found spending time with the mouse strangely calming, therapeutic. And God knows Joker needs all the therapy he can get.
Heaven. This is heaven, the boy thought, walking along the mansion's railing. The man from the rainstorm had taken all four of them in and given them food, clothing, and a shelter from the streets. It was wonderful not being required to labor or do anything but recover from their struggle in East End. Kelvin, the man's name was. Kelvin. Their savior. Just when the children had given up on humanity—and themselves—the universe proved them wrong by sending them the embodiment of benevolence. Just yesterday their savior had promised them new prosthetics to replace their missing limbs. How the boy longed to hold on to all that was dear to him, protect the ones he loved, and serve his savior. All of his dreams were coming true. For the first time in his life, the boy smiled. Now the tragedy of his past could be left behind and he could be free to chase a brighter future.
The mouse effortlessly jumped through the hoop and snatched up the cheese Joker held at the other end. Freckles, his ever-present audience, clapped excitedly.
"Wow, that mouse's gettin' real good at these tricks," she said. "If you had a giant magnifying glass or something, you could show 'er off at the circus!"
Joker grinned. "And take time away from you lovely folks? No way." He stroked the mouse's back and signaled it to go through the hoop again. The act really was impressive. The mouse seemed to be really motivated in performing its tricks. Perhaps it was out of gratitude, or whatever understanding of gratitude a mouse could have.
Freckles stood up, leaning on the table. "It's amazing what you can do with some practice and hard work. You really are the best of us, Joker!" She smiled appreciatively.
"Well, the little creature does owe me after all. It's about time it started thanking me." Joker smiled and shooed Freckles out before closing the entrance to his tent. Darkness had fallen, and he wanted to teach the mouse one more trick before retiring for the night.
The boy—no, a young man now—wasn't sure how long it had been since Father had taken him off the streets. He was living a privileged life and was very happy. However, Father's state of being was declining at a rapid rate. Father had taken to holing himself up in his room for quite a while as of late, occasionally going with little nourishment for days at a time. He refused all invitations to social gatherings, and recently his wife had left him. The young man was concerned for his savior's well-being, and so when he was called up to speak with the Baron, he went readily. He approached the door and knocked once, twice, before turning the knob. He entered the dark, barren room and bowed before the feet of the Baron Kelvin. He asked what he could do for his honorable Father. The Baron turned to gaze at him with shattered, bloodshot eyes and whispered a single name,
"Ciel Phantomhive."
Joker gently pushed a piece of cheese towards the mouse, attempting to get it to eat, but to no avail. It squeaked and ran further down the table, away from Joker. Frowning, he pocketed the cheese. The mouse had refused to consume any food or water for two days now, and Joker was becoming concerned and rather irate. What had caused this sudden fast, he wasn't sure. If anything, the mouse should be hungry due to all the work it had to do, the tricks it had to learn. Joker sighed, picked up the mouse, and set it in its box. If the mouse wasn't in a cooperative mood, he might as well look over the circus practice that was currently taking place. Joker walked towards the main tent, welcoming the cool air of an oncoming winter. The circus grounds were empty and devoid of movement, all action taking place inside the large striped tent looming before him. As he entered the tent, Joker savored the tumultuous atmosphere surrounding his being. This was where he thrived, where he belonged. As he watched some second-stringers practicing their juggling, Joker couldn't help but wish that his mouse would also be as ardent in training again. Sure, mouse-training was just a side hobby for Joker, and unlike the second-stringers the mouse wasn't required to practice, but still. Even if training wasn't especially pleasant, the Joker did save the mouse's life. An exchange of services would certainly be nice.
After a few minutes of observation, Joker moodily went in search of Doctor. His prosthetic was aching again.
If Joker had been made of anything weaker, he would have collapsed long ago. He'd come up with the circus ruse himself, nicknaming his fellow "first-stringers" and coming up with various acts.
He was also the most ruthless, the most willing to serve his Father.
Father had changed from the philanthropist who had taken children off the streets. Now he had one obsession—Ciel Phantomhive. Joker didn't approve of it, but serving Father came first. And if Father was pleased, Joker needed little else.
Thus children mysteriously disappeared, whisked away to dreamland by masters of the night. And the Pied Piper, the Noah's Ark Circus, forged onwards through England.
A few weeks after the beginning of his nightmarish new life, Joker lay sickly upon his bed. He wasn't especially strong morally, but his heart weighed heavily in his chest and he wanted nothing but to fall asleep and enter the dreamland he had promised so many children. It was Snake who found him in this miserable state. "Are you ill? Says Goethe."
Joker said nothing. Nothing needed to be said.
"All of it has to be done. Says Emily."
Nothing.
Snake remained standing at the foot of Joker's bed. In a neutral voice, he murmured, "Don't be distracted. Kidnapping the children is not a choice, it is a necessity. We're not bad people—we're good people trapped by circumstance. Father may not be seeing clearly, but that fact doesn't change his orders nor the fact that they must be fulfilled." Snake lowered his head, gazing at the ground. "You're not the only one suffering here, Joker. The rest of us are going through the same hell as you. Go easy on yourself and the rest of us and don't think too much about what we do. If not for yourself, do it for the rest of us still at the workhouse." Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "says Webster."
Joker watched Snake's receding back as the snake charmer left the tent. Really, for someone who says little for himself, the man's speech was eerily true. The rest of us, the ones at the workhouse. Who knows what Father would do to them if the Noah's Ark Circus went absent? Joker rose from the bed, blankets falling around him like a broken cocoon. Yes, for their sake, and his own, he would need to stay haughty, above it all. The workhouse children would only suffer if he weakened and broke from the weight of his sins.
Metamorphosis was over. Eyes cleared, Joker exited the tent and entered the night.
The mouse was becoming very adept at the no hesitation, it now ran through the full routine even without the incentive of food. Abnormal behavior, but Joker wasn't about to complain. However, while the mouse completed its tricks perfectly, it lacked the exuberance it had had before. In fact, the creature could have been a machine for all the difference it made. It was somewhat saddening to Joker, seeing the mouse make such robotic movements each day. It jumped through the hoops and ran through the mazes and went through the motions of passing each obstacle Joker set before it, but that was all. Not a single wasted movement. The mouse was doing its job...but little else.
After months of kidnapping stray children off the streets, Joker was desensitized. The gore, the screaming children, the carnage he caused nearly every night (the knowing of what would happen to the children once they were delivered to Father) now bothered his steel heart little. It was ironic that he played the part of humorous host in the circus, for he also played the role of the most ruthless and cruel character in the sick story that was his life. A murderer by night; a "joker" by day, flashing empty smiles and speaking encouraging words that he did not believe in. Joker avoided thinking about what he was doing and the blood staining his hands. He simply went through the motions and never questioned the morality of the orders given to him.
He was a monster; a monster devoid of emotion.
Joker almost doesn't realize that the mouse has bit him. He'd been indifferently stroking its back when a sudden pain in his fingers had stunned him. Joker stared, dazed, at the blood gushing out of his fingers as the mouse scurried away, off the table and into the circus grounds. There was a lot of blood. The mouse had bitten him pretty deeply. Joker hissed and compressed the wound with his sleeve. He'd thought the mouse had lost all notions of rebellion—he had no idea the mouse would turn on its benefactor, its savior so suddenly. Though, perhaps it wasn't so sudden. Deep down, all creatures harbor a lust for freedom. Some lose sight of that need for a while, but it never completely leaves. It stays, harboring in the back of their minds, scratching at the walls that sensibility and common sense raise up. The mouse had been reckless, leaving the safety of its savior to venture once again into the world outside, risking its life. An unwise move, yes, but maybe it was the right one.
A lust for freedom also dwelled in the back of Joker's mind, but Joker suppressed all feelings of insurrection. Unlike wild animals, Joker could weigh the risks of any future choices. Running away, towards blessed freedom, would only spell disaster later on. Not only for him, but for the other children, his family, still in the workhouses. No, it was better to bear with his situation, his hell, and keep his family safe. To Joker, living through hell each day was not a choice. It was essential.
The next day, Joker finds a mouse carcass in the main tent, crushed and mangled. With a snort of disgust, he picks it up and tosses it into the woods.