Umm...hi. I'm really sorry that I haven't updated in a while (VOICE IN THE CROWD: IT'S ALMOST BEEN TWO MONTHS!), buuuuuut I seemed to have forgotten my password for a whole damn month (I barely remembered it today) since I almost never log out and to add fuel to the fire, I've developed Writer's Block *shudders*. So I hope that you guys can forgive me *dodges stone while laughing nervously* and enjoy this little {BIG} word prompts of 'When Jokers Meet Heroes'.

Disclaimer: I don't own it. ;^;

P.S.: You'll probably learn more of both The Facility and who is He, but I promise that I won't ruin it completely. In other words, I'll let you scratch the surface here before throwing you into the deep end in the actual story. Smart, right?

1. Stitches

Screams...

Cries...

Cackles...

England shuddered from his spot on the corner of the dark and damp cell he had been thrown into. Those sounds were nothing new to him. Quite the contrary. In fact, he had grown so used to them that he could tell you exactly at what moment one would be ringing through the stone walls of this infernal dungeon. And it was all because of Him.

With another shudder, the blond jester curled up further into himself and wrapped his sleeved arms around his bony knees. He almost looked like a living rag doll in his too big clothes, which were originally supposed to be white but had grown faded and stained during his unpleasant stay in The Facility. Not to mention that the sleeves in the shirt were long enough to cover the whole hand of the Briton and still be able to hang a good three to four inches off the tips of said man's fingers.

He stayed in that curled position for the majority of the hour, only moving his head up a bit when the barred door located at the front of the cell opened. And from that door appeared a guard holding what appeared to be chains. "Time f'r yer 'check-up', ye lim'y bast'rd," grinned the unknown stranger, revealing pearl white teeth that seemed to shine bright in the dim light of the dungeons. England simply unfurled and stumbled up from his corner with support from the slippery cracked wall. His too long sleeves swayed limply in the air as he limped over to the guard.

The man forcibly grabbed his bony wrists and slapped the cuffs attached to the chains on. He ignored the wince of pain from the shorter male and proceeded with his task, which was to drag the skeleton thin man out. They walked, or in England's case limped, through dim halls, zoning out the sounds of pained and tortured creatures as they passed the rooms in which they were holed up.

After a while they reached an empty and nerve racking silent corridor. "Git cha ass movin', ya lim'y," growled the guard as he gave a hard yank at the chains. England stumbled forward a bit before regaining his footing. His bare feet patted against the floor quietly, much like a tiny mouse's, and they were completely muffled by the 'clacking' sounds of the other man's shining boots, which, truth be told, resembled that of a fat warthog's footsteps.

The Englishman was so deep in thought that he didn't notice the fact that the guard had grabbed the handle of a blank steel door. Although he did manage to snap out of it and stop just in time to avoid a collision with the taller male's back. The aforementioned obeying turned his head and gave him a sidelong look; he then grinned maliciously at the blond, causing for a cold shiver to run down England's spine.

"Welp, dis wh're I go, lim'y," he sneered with that wicked grin still etched across his face. The poor Briton didn't even have the chance to reply before the guard twisted the handle of the door. Almost immediately, a white gloved hand shot out, took a hold of the chains, and gave then a hard yank. The strong pull dragged the blond into the dark and cold room that had the smell of a hospital ward.

The pulling didn't stop until his flat and sunken belly slammed painfully into a thick metal surface, effectively knocking the wind out of him. He barely even wheezed before he was grabbed from behind by two more gloved hands and lifted roughly onto the freezing slab that served as a table.

England yelped loudly when even more unknown hands shot out of the darkness and roughly strapped his arms and legs with leather belts. And as quick as the obtruding hands had appeared, they vanished. Yet England could still feel the penetrating gazes of the scientists' drill holes into his thin body. Them out of the dark came an evil laugh.

"Well, well, Subject 13, we meet again," cooed the mocking voice. There was the rattling of tools being moved around in a tray, then silence reigned once more.

The sudden lighting of the room blinded the nation, making him scrunch his eyes shut. When he opened them, however, he instantly wished that he hadn't. His dull emerald orbs stared back at him through the reflective surface of the tiny blade, which turned out to be a surgical scalpel. Terror seized the blond jester.

"Alrighty then, shall we get started?" Laughed the wielder of the tiny but deadly blade. A chorus of excited 'Yes!'s echoed throughout the room for a moment before the sounds of ripping fabric and pained filled screams overlapped them.

England awoke with a start. Sitting bolt upright in bed, the jester panted hard and sweated profusely. Still breathing rapidly, he ran a trembling hand through his bed-head hair and sighed shakily. After regaining control of his breath, the diamond of cards gritted his teeth before flopping back on the messy bed.

Glowering slightly at the ceiling, the jester raised his head a few inches off the rumpled pillows and stared at his shirtless pale chest. He silently glared at the black lines that were found there.

They were the remaining stitches of past experimentations or studies done on him.

And oh how he hated them with a passion.

He had every type of stitch to have ever existed etched onto his flesh. They either crossed one another or simply stretched down the length of his torso and back. It was because of them that he had to wear long sleeved clothing and/or dark colours in order to hide the stitching from prying eyes.

The sudden brightening of the room made the brooding Joker jump. Clear holographic screens appeared on the walls, depicting the weather for the day and the local news as well as the international ones. The smooth British voice of JARVIS then called,"Good morning, Mr. Diamond."

It took a moment for England to register that he was being addressed by the AI. "Oh, uh...good morning to you too JARVIS."

"You really need to stop doing that, lad," reprimanded a voice in his head.

'Stop doing what?'

"Thinking of those times. We're out now and I'll be damned if we ever set foot there again! Understood?"

'...'

England sighed loudly at Oliver's sudden aggressive mood, causing for JARVIS to stop in mid speech and ask what was wrong. Shaking his head, the Englishman murmured, "It's nothing, JARVIS."

The hesitant 'Alright' made Oliver go quiet in his head. Closing his bottle green eyes, the nation winced when the image of medical scalpels and sutures popped up in his mind. The poor blond shuddered and rolled on his side, curling in on himself and groaning silently when the long stitches on his back stretched.

He hated them...

So, so, so much...