Hey guys! So, I decided to start this story because I wanted to write another sort of classic Joker tale, having recently departed so radically from the character with some of my other work. I love a bad Joker first and foremost, and I love to write him that way. So, I hope you guys enjoy this story as much as I'm enjoying writing it. And of course, reviews and feedback are always welcome and appreciated! So even it its negative, let me know what you think. Anyway, enough rambling.

The first chapter!

Enjoy!

At Night

Chapter 1: The Escape

At night, it was quiet here. An encompassing silence, made heavy by unspoken tension, and unhidden fear.

No one wanted this shift.

No one wanted this ward.

To have to walk it, after dark.

There would be a draw, among orderlies desperate enough to work these hours.

Whoever came up short, it was they who were made to come here, in to the depths of the asylum, in to the long corridor housing the most treacherous of the place.

There were few of them. Four, exactly. Separated each by two, unoccupied cells.

Ronnie wished to God he hadn't drawn short.

But he had, and unless he wanted to lose his job, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

He would have to come down here, every hour, on the hour, and check each of the four cells, make sure the patient's were where they were supposed to be.

But God did he hate it.

He hated how, because of Arkham's budget constrictions, at nightfall, here, they would dim the lights to almost nothing.

And how, for security reasons, a ward which housed only four patients boasted twelve cells, making it longer; more time consuming to walk. And how, because of this, and because of budget constrictions, the single bulb lamps, lining the ceiling above and spaced eight feet apart, barely illuminated the space at all, leaving patches of darkness between, and shadows clawing their way up the walls.

Ronnie found himself calculating in his head just how long it would take him to reach the end of the corridor, and how long it would take him to again reach it's beginning, go through the door, down the short hallway and in to the elevator, waiting to take him back up to safety.

The door leading out to the hallway, leading to the lift, would lock automatically when closed. Ronnie knew it was against procedure, but he would leave that door open when down here, wedging with his foot a piece of wood along its bottom, it serving as a stopper.

All the guys did it, besides.

Should one of the lunatic's escape, the last thing he wanted was to be caught fumbling with his keys, trying to get the damn thing open as they caught up to him.

If everything went smoothly, the whole thing shouldn't take more then five minutes.

He'd been working at Arkham a little over four months now, and had gotten this security detail exactly three times, including tonight.

Nothing had ever gone wrong for him.

He breathed deeply, praying to God it would stay that way.

Ronnie would check the cells by shining his flashlight through the small window of each door.

If he could see that cells occupant, than that meant everything was okay.

In Arkham, just before lights out, they would administer sedatives to the patient's here, which in turn meant that usually, he found them lying across their cots, sound asleep.

The same tonight had thus far held true.

Harvey Dent was laid over on his side, his one good eye closed. Ronnie could tell he was sleeping because he didn't at all react to the light shining in his face.

He found both Victor Zsasz and Waylon Jones in states similar. Both unconscious.

The last cell in the block was the one which turned Ronnie truly uneasy, along with every other orderly made to work this detail.

The Joker's cell.

The Joker rarely slept, though they administered him sedatives, the same as every other patient.

Yet they seemed never to have much effect, if any at all. His resistance to any form of drug was remarkably strong. No one knew why, exactly. The doctors there had guessed it had something to do with his physiology, which had been made unique, they also guessed, by his trip through a vat of chemical waste.

For this reason, at night, the Joker was usually kept in a straight jacket, which they would have him in through the morning, until he was brought to the showers. They would take him out of it then, and allow him some mobility afterwards, when they put him back in his cell without it.

Tonight though was different.

Earlier that afternoon, the Joker had taken to hurting himself, tearing at his own flesh and using the walls of his room to batter his own head and body against.

He'd wound up opening a gash along his hair line, severe enough that it required stitches.

They'd had to bring him to the infirmary for that.

He'd been hysterical when they went in to get him, thrashing so violently it took five men just to restrain him properly.

They hadn't bothered with the straight jacket, or cuffs even. He'd been having some kind of an episode and fighting too hard. It took each of the men every ounce of strength they had just to hold him still. Letting him go to put him in to some other restraint seemed like nothing but more work.

Getting him to the infirmary had been a bitch though as he pushed and pulled, stumbling along, losing his balance and falling several times to the ground, held up only by the hands of the orderlies gripping tight to his arms.

And he'd continued to make things difficult once they had him there, still restless and uncooperative as they'd forced him down on to one of the beds.

A nurse had scolded him, telling him if he didn't calm down, they weren't going to get the gash closed up and that it could potentially become infected.

But even that hadn't relaxed the madman, and it was only when he'd exhausted himself physically, fighting against the hold the orderlies had on him, that he at last settled, lying still and breathing heavy. The orderlies had themselves taken the opportunity to let go their grip, they too worn out from the struggle.

Even still, by the end of it, he'd again started up, and so they'd brought him back to his cell, strapping him by his wrists and ankles, flat to his cot, and one over his chest, rendering him immobile, ensuring he wouldn't again injure himself.

Ronnie always paused before shining his light in to the Joker's cell, fearful of what he might find.

The first time he'd gotten this detail, the lunatic had been sitting upright, staring forward at the door's window, his expression blank, his eyes unblinking. And Ronnie remembered, although the Joker had been looking right at him, right in to his face, it had seemed like he couldn't see him at all, like he was looking right through him.

He thought maybe it was because the Joker hadn't shown any reaction towards him. He hadn't smiled, or frowned. It was almost like he'd been sleeping, only with his eyes open, wide and intent.

Ronnie could feel the hairs on his arms stand on end, just at the memory of it.

The Joker made his gut clench tight. The strangeness of him was something the orderly could never get from his mind.

It didn't help, hearing all the horror stories of the madman's many escapes. Sometimes, Ronnie had been told, he would just disappear, slipping out quietly and unnoticed, in to the night. Other times though, he would make a show of it. And the ensuing bloodbath when he would, that was something no one ever spoke of, not in any kind of detail.

No one ever knew how he got out, not until well after the fact. The asylum would then take measures, to ensure it didn't happen again. But sometimes they never figured out his method. And it would leave the security director in a tizzy, wondering what it was the Joker could see that he couldn't.

Everyone else, it just left scared.

It was early still, eleven o'clock, and only Ronnie's second walk through tonight.

The first time he'd looked in to the Joker's cell, he'd been lying there, his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling, his lips pulled in to a faint smile.

The orderly never looked for more then the few seconds it took to make sure of this room's occupancy.

He inhaled a breath, bracing himself, and then stepped to the window, lifting his flashlight and shining it in.

The relief was palpable when he saw the madman, still strapped to his cot, his head this time turned on its side, his eyes closed.

Ronnie let go his breath, his head dropping along with his light.

He just had to make it to six in the morning, and another orderly would take over his shift then.

/

As the hands on his watch drifted towards 3, Ronnie sighed audibly.

Just a few hours more.

As he rode the lift down to the asylum's lowest level, the sixth time that night he'd done so, as the previous five times, he again was struck by the silence of the ward.

Arkham's upper levels were a sharp contrast. Its uppermost floor saw staff moving freely about, talking amongst each other. And the low to mid-risk patients weren't sedated at night, like the ones here were, so it wasn't unusual for them to also be engaged in some form of conversation, either with themselves or each other.

As it went lower, the hum of the elevator seemed amplified in the silence.

It didn't seem to matter how many times he did this, Ronnie could never get used to the dread which crept up in him when he stepped from the lift, the feeling only intensifying as he entered the ward and made his way down it, towards its end.

Things went smoothly, as they had on all his previous walkthroughs, moving from one cell to the next, finding their occupants in much the same state as he had before.

And yet, still, as he came upon the Joker's, that same numbness returned to his fingers, a rush in his stomach as though he were falling.

The voice in his head reasoned with him that, had nothing so far happened, it was unlikely to happen now. But it did little to calm his nerves.

With reluctance, he stepped before the door, starting to bring his light up, ready to check for what he was paid to check for and get out as quickly as possible.

The drop of his heart was immediate and sudden as his eyes scanned over the illuminated, barren cot, its restraining straps hanging loosely off its sides.

Ronnie's gaze moved quickly over the entirety of the small space, finding nothing and no one.

It was some sort of delusion, he was sure, his sight playing tricks on him as over and over again, he looked from left to right and back again.

But as realization dawned, as he came to understand this was real, that the Joker wasn't in his cell, that he wasn't strapped to the cot, as he had been before, Ronnie thought he could feel himself starting to hyperventilate.

"Oh Jesus…" He breathed quietly, stepping back. He spun around, looking down the corridor, seeing nothing.

He could scarcely believe it was happening. That it was happening to him.

Procedure somehow ran through his mind.

Each orderly was instructed, when faced with a situation where they thought an inmate had escaped from their cell, to make well and sure that was the case before telling anyone else. It did no one any good to throw the entire staff in to a state of panic over nothing.

This made things suddenly complicated. Ronnie would have just left, then and there. That was his initial instinct.

But if he was somehow wrong, if the Joker was in his cell and he told everyone he wasn't, than he was for certain out of a job. A job he'd worked hard to obtain and a job he desperately needed.

Again he brought his light to the cells door window, shining it in, and still he could see nothing.

He was going to have to open it up, he realized. He didn't have a choice. Not unless he wanted to go back on unemployment, and then Maria would never let him hear the end of it. She'd threatened to leave him, should that ever happen again. He couldn't allow that.

The quiet seemed more now. Folding in on itself, creating its own kind of noise, and the shadows became suddenly darker. He turned again, peering down the corridor, certain he'd heard something.

But still, there was nothing.

His hands were shaking, he noticed, and his mouth had gone dry.

He swallowed painfully, reaching for the ring on his belt loop, feeling the metal of the keys along his fingers.

"Okay Ronnie. Come on…" He told himself quietly.

He groped along his other hip, feeling the hard plastic of his nightstick, assuring himself it was there.

He'd already spent nearly twice as long down here as he normally would, and inwardly he cursed himself for the hesitation.

His hand was growing sweaty around the flashlight, and closing his eyes for a brief moment, he told himself just to do it. To stop screwing around and get it done with.

So he reached again to his key ring, unclipping it from his belt loop before finding the correct one, taking it between his fingers.

Slowly he licked his lips, feeling the dryness of them against his tongue.

Glancing once more down to his nightstick, reminding himself he had it, he moved the key forward, listening as it slid loudly in to place.

He exhaled, the breath shaking.

And again he scolded himself, telling himself to stop stalling, reminding himself he was armed, that he was a grown man and could handle himself.

His hand still on the key, he began to turn it, his heart beating loudly in his ears.

And then there was the click, and his eyes squeezed shut, as if expecting something horrible to happen.

But as several seconds past without incident, his lids began to lift, and he stared forward at the door.

"Okay…" He whispered, swallowing hard, trying to calm himself.

Pulling the key free, he pocketed it, along with the ring, before cautiously reaching forward, pressing his hand flat against the door and pushing it in, holding his breath as he did so.

It creaked open, the noise seeming unbearably loud and immediately, Ronnie reached for his nightstick, grasping its handle while lifting his flashlight, shining it in, illuminating a single strip of the darkened room.

As before, he could see no one.

He wanted so badly to just turn and run.

But he'd gotten this far, and nothing had happened.

If he was right though, oh God if he was right, and it looked so far like he was, that meant the Joker was running somewhere around the asylum. For all Ronnie knew, he could be on the upper floors now, killing people.

Oh Jesus.

Hesitantly he stepped forward, pushing the door open the rest of the way with the head of his light, stepping through.

His hands were shaking badly now, and he moved the beam in to the upper right and left corners, the corners he couldn't see from the outside.

Nothing.

There was only…

"It's alright." A soft voice spoke from behind him.

He spun around and for the briefest of moments, he saw the ghostly pale face of the Joker.

And then he dropped his flashlight, it cracking against the concrete floor, the beam sputtering for a moment before going completely out.

Ronnie's eyes had gone wide, his mouth hanging open, a scream seemingly trapped in his throat as clumsily he fell backwards.

"Y-You…" He sputtered, tripping over the words.

"It's alright." The Joker repeated, his voice so quiet Ronnie barely could hear him. "

The orderly continued to stumble away, and when he felt his back hit a wall, that was when his eyes went to the still open door and he realized the greatness of his folly. He should have gone for the exit. Oh God, why hadn't he? And now he'd backed himself in to a corner.

His gaze went back to the Joker, barely illuminated from the dim lights outside the cell.

His eyes seemed to glimmer in the dark.

And then Ronnie could see him grin, and oh Christ, he hadn't ever realized how tall the lunatic was.

"Y-you stay aw-way f-from me!" He practically screamed, his hand tightening around the nightstick. "L-let me pass!"

The Joker's smile seemed to widen, the light reflecting off his teeth.

"But wasn't it you, my dear,who came first upon me?" He answered back. "And so quickly you wish to leave?"

"L-let me pass!" Ronnie again screamed, sounding almost hysterical.

And now the Joker chuckled, low, and the orderly could feel himself grow cold at the sound.

"How amusing you are!" He said brightly. "But you are expected. To receive you is no burden upon me, and to speak plainly, I think I would feel offense, should you continue in this persistence of yours."

And then he stepped forward, out of what little light there was, and he looked like nothing so much as an apparition.

"So please, stay…" He went on. "And allow for me to finish telling you the truth of the world."

Again he stepped forward, and Ronnie pressed himself further against the wall.

"Stay back!" He cried. "I'm warning you!"

"In dreams we are lost." The madman continued, as if he hadn't even heard the orderly. "And beyond those dreams…" He gestured theatrically, sweeping his arm out and forward. "We are alone. We are falling. Seeking desperately for purchase. For something not there. Do you know? Do you know of what I speak?"

Ronnie stared back, wide eyed and mute.

"But of course, dear…" The Joker continued. "Suffering is born of denial. Of a refusal to accept what is. And I can see you are a sufferer. So perhaps, no…" He sounded almost disappointed.

And then he moved closer.

"S-stay away!" The orderly chocked out, his hand gripping the handle of his club and pulling it from his belt.

The Joker frowned, though in the dark, it couldn't be seen.

"Oh, no." The madman breathed. "Don't… Don't do that."

"Stay away I said!" Ronnie screamed, brandishing the club wildly.

The Joker was so suddenly upon him that he barely had time to lift the billy, swinging it out blindly.

And as he did, the lunatic met it, catching the heavy stick in his hand, tearing it easily from the orderly's fingers.

Violently he threw it to the ground before reaching out, grabbing hold of Ronnie's shirt, pushing him back against the wall, jamming his forearm against his throat and pinning him there.

"Earlier…" The Joker began, leaning in close until his face was mere inches from the orderly's own, his voice now dropping to a whisper. "Earlier, I had myself removed from this room." He chuckled deeply. "It's amazing, the things one can accomplish when no one is there looking."

There was a flicker of movement in the periphery of Ronnie's vision, and as his eyes moved to it, he saw, in the Joker's hand, the hand attached to the forearm now pressing painfully against his throat, there was a paper clip. And he realized suddenly how the madman had escaped his restraints, his heart sinking to his stomach as it dawned on him just how thoroughly he and everyone else had been played by the lunatic.

"You see…" The Joker leaned closer still, speaking softly against the orderly's ear. "It is a matter most simple. One of proper assessment. The capacity of the mark, their probable reaction when faced with a kind of situation, and knowing indeed what will drive them to it. You, Sir, you were so very easy to read. No real fun at all. Still, I made certain it was you who drew shortest tonight."

Ronnie's eyes went wide.

The whole thing had been a set up. From the Joker's hysterical episode, earlier that afternoon, to his being strapped down and then breaking free, hiding in the room's darkness, in the corner closest to its door. Fooling him in to believing he'd escaped. Knowing he was desperate enough to risk making sure.

Christ, right down to his drawing shortest straw!

Ronnie's mind raced to determine how he'd done that, nausea taking over when he realized he couldn't.

The Joker pulled back slightly, his mouth stretched to a grin, and even in the dark, the orderly could see the gleam of his large, white teeth.

"The others, certainly, would have sufficed. Undoubtedly they would have. But you, Mr. Harrison, you were ideal. The perfect blend of inexperience and circumstance, your course of action practically forgone. And I must thank you, my dear, I must thank you for doing exactly as I knew you would and opening that door."

"Y-you'll n-never make it o-out of here." The orderly stuttered, his eyes now huge with fear.

The Joker suddenly threw his head back, laughing unrestrained, and Ronnie felt as if all the hope had at once been drained from him.

"But I already have dear." He said. "It's only that you have yet to realize it."

And then, suddenly, he pressed his forearm harder against the orderly's throat, his expression falling stoic.

He again leaned close, whispering against Ronnie's ear.

"It's alright." He said. "I promise you it is."

Ronnie could feel the pressure against his wind pipe, his breath suddenly restricted.

His eyes bugled slightly.

"Do you see?" The madman continued. "Do you see that it's alright?"

"N-no. No. Wh-what are you? What are you!"

The Joker laughed softly.

"A man, as you are a man."

"Y-you're no man…"

"Oh, I am! I am! But a man not gripped by delusion, as you are. A man possessed of truth. Everything you wish to escape, but never can…" He said. "I am its harbinger. The emptiness in any promise of hope, the absence of meaning, the blatant falsity in notions of good and bad, wrong and right…" He smiled suddenly. "… The inevitability of your own demise."

/

Ronnie had made little noise, the Joker thought, as he stepped from the cell, out in to the corridor. That was how it was, when you crushed the larynx and strangled a man to death.

And that, of course, had been his intent. Better not to attract the attention of the other three. He didn't at all feel like listening to their entreatments, begging that he let them out.

Within silence, he moved, fading in the shadows, materializing once more as he passed beneath the dim glow of the lamps above.

Down here was grey, the white light reflecting off the surface, creating on everything a kind of blue tinge.

The Joker stopped, his eyes sliding away, to his right.

They gleamed, dark and ready, his skin so pale so as to seem almost translucent, the blue of his veins obvious.

He appeared himself as this place did.

Stark white in darkness.

His eyes and hair so deeply green, they looked black. And as his mouth stretched wide and open, in to a grin, the white of his teeth stood out sharply against the black of his gums, and that of his lips.

He would wear color on those, a bright scarlet to turn blood red when mixed with so tenebrous a hue.

This was his favorite part.

His long, bony fingers curled loosely around the nightstick. His other hand held the keys, jingling them lightly as he stepped through the corridors exit, advancing towards the lift.

He reached out, pressing the call button, listening intently at the loud ding which sounded, and then the noise of the things gears as it moved down the shaft.

Violence filled his mind.

His eyes closed.

This was his favorite part.

The elevator came to a halt. The doors parted, rickety and old.

His eyes snapped wide, flashing with dreams of death, and the sorrow of living.

"You're so timid darling. So unsure." He said, stepping in.

"Tell me then. What is it you're afraid of?"

He turned, facing the doors.

"Oh, but that's an easy one, isn't it? I can tell you myself! Would you like that? Would you like for me to tell you?"

His lips pulled back over his teeth, smiling long.

"The horror of it. The uselessness of your own existence."

The grin broadened more as the doors slid closed before him.

/

"You are unkind dear." The Joker whispered, stepping out on to the main floor of the asylum. "So very unkind."

"And I am as you. Cruel as you… But they understand so little."

He laughed softly, moving down the hallway, the lights here barely brighter then they had been below.

Around the corner ahead lay a security booth.

There would be a guard manning it.

/

"Lucyyyyyyyyyy!" Ricky Ricardo's agitated voice sounded lowly from the tiny television set.

Winston chuckled lightly, reclining back in his chair, the thing creaking in protest against his weight.

He heard the door from behind him open.

Confusion crossed over the guard's features, and he glanced down at his watch, bringing the powdered doughnut he'd been holding to his lips, taking a large bite from it.

"You ain't up for another half hour Perez." He said, his words jumbled by the food in his mouth.

He heard the door close. A moment later and he heard the sound of its lock, sliding in to place.

His brow furrowed.

"Hey, Perez, I said…" He began as he turned to look back over his shoulder.

The guard froze, his eyes shooting wide, a rush like falling dropping down through his stomach.

The Joker smiled.

"Hello there." He said.

Winston stared, his mouth agape, before he seemed to snap from some paralyzing trance, turning and throwing his hand out towards the alarm.

The Joker stepped forward, fast, bringing the nightstick up in an arc before slamming it down against the guard's fingers, crushing the digits along the table top. A sickening crunch sounded, followed quickly by Winston's chocked and gargled scream.

"Ah, ah!" The madman chided, waving a long finger through the air.

"M-m-my h-hand!" The guard slurred, having dropped his doughnut to the floor, now gripping weakly his broken fingers. "Y-you b-broke m-my hand!"

The Joker stepped close and around him, looking down at the man with an expression of puzzlement.

Winston looked back up, following, his eyes like saucers, full of fear, a heavy sweat having broken out across his skin, his breathing now heavy and labored.

The lunatic regarded him a moment longer before laying the billy down on the desk and, suddenly, his large, thin hands shot out, grabbing tight to the chairs armrests.

Winston flinched at the movement, his eyes closing in panic, as though that might save him.

He felt his seat tugged forward, him with it.

He shrank back instinctively, his eyes still camped shut.

His throat tightened and a sort of numbing, weakened sensation ran down his limbs as he felt the Joker's fingers curl round his jaw.

His grip seemed impossibly strong.

"Open your eyes for me." He heard the lunatic's unnervingly soft voice.

But terror had gripped him, keeping him frozen.

He felt the pressure along his face increase ten fold, threatening to crush it.

"Open your eyes doll." Again he heard the Joker's voice command, as calm as before.

His jaw felt as though it was on the verge of breaking, and slowly, his lids lifted, squinting as if invaded by unexpected light.

The Joker's face was directly before him, inches away, staring intently in to his own.

Winston felt unable to look away then.

The madman was unnatural. Surreal. His skin lacking any real color, any real hue.

Like someone dead.

His eyes were glassy. Contrasted by vibrant, green irises, the color bizarrely rich, and clean.

Yet the whites of his eyes, they seemed somehow polluted, dirty. Yellow and red, as if he hadn't slept a single moment in his life. Adding to that image was the skin around them, dark by comparison with the rest of his face.

But above all this, the guard felt himself pinned by the laser intensity of the lunatic's gaze.

How he seemed never to blink, his focus so perfect, so unwavering, it seemed impossible it ever would break.

There was a knowledge behind the Joker's eyes. A kind of special awareness. Like he saw something everyone else found themselves blind to, either unable know or acknowledge or understand. Some great secret of the universe, one he alone was privy to.

Winston was transfixed, barely noticing as the lunatic's other hand came up along his face, almost caressing his cheek as it moved around, gripping him firmly behind the ear, his long fingers curling around the base of his skull.

He smiled now, faintly.

"The infinite of nothing." He whispered, his voice soothing, reassuring. "There isn't anything to fear."

Confusion flashed in the guard's eyes, and his mouth hung open, wanting to speak, to ask.

But he never was able to, as the last thought to pass through his mind was that the pressure he felt was suddenly more. Much more.

And then there was nothing.

The crack had been audibly satisfying, the Joker's grin widening at the sound, and the vibrations which ran up through his hands as the spine splintered and broke apart.

Winston had gone limp, and he let the guard fall backward, in to his seat, his head turning unnaturally.

"Good dreams now." The madman spoke, brushing a lock of Winston's disheveled hair back from his face.

/

The kitchen was dark, the lights here shut off.

At night, in this area, operation ceased.

Still, as he past it by, his reflection gleamed dully off the stainless steel of the refrigerator, a vague shadow, undefined at its edges.

He moved on, towards the island, his eyes falling to the cabinetry below.

They kept the knives locked down there.

His fingers twitched.

His eyes lifted, sliding right.

Against the wall there hung the keys.

Towards them he reached his hand, snatching them up.

And then he crouched down, leaning forward on to the balls of his feet, his fingers curling round the countertops edge.

With his free hand he picked out the key, sliding it in to the lock.

He smiled at the click.

That smile grew as he swung the door wide, and before him he saw the block, the blades handles sticking from it.

He took hold the chefs knife, pulling it free.

His tongue moved quick over his teeth, and then he brought the knife's edge to it, dragging it cross the surface.

It cut, clean, the pain stinging and sharp, the taste of copper fast filling his mouth.

"Heeeee…"

He grinned.

Perfection.

/

He'd killed Perez quickly, stepping up behind him, just as he was discovering Winston, pressing the blade to his throat and slicing it wide.

He'd bled out in a matter of seconds.

"From time to time, you will find, if you look beyond the sun, a place of black, and dark and cold, and of another soul, not one."

The Joker sang, pushing the tip of the knife in to the metal surface of the desk, watching intently at the tiny flecks of paint which ground away as he pressed harder.

"Hmmm." He smiled, bringing his gaze down. "What say you Perez?" He looked to the rapidly cooling corpse, than frowned. "Oh come now! Don't be so glum! If you're this bothered by life's every little disappointment, then surely you never smile. And…" He bent down, pressing his index fingers against the corners of Perez's mouth, pushing them up. "You're never fully dressed… without a smile. Heh."

He pulled his hands away, the mouth again falling flat, and he regarded the dead guard a moment longer.

He held the knife still, against his palm, his middle, ring and pinkie wrapped tight round its handle.

And then he flicked his wrist, the blade spinning around, and he slammed it with force, down in to Perez's face.

Blood splattered upwards, small droplets of it spraying against his jaw.

He tore it free.

"I don't think I like your attitude Perez." He murmured, wiping the blade against the guard's uniform.

Pushing himself to his feet, he glanced about the booth, as though searching for something.

"Heeee…"

He shrugged.

And then he started to whistle, the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B, making his way back out to the hall.

/

Dr. Hill had left his office door unlocked.

Apparently, the psychiatrist determined a password on his computer sufficient enough a security measure.

That might be, the Joker mused, if it weren't so obvious what the password was.

But than, Dr. Hill was obvious in so many ways.

Not the least of which being his inflated sense of self-worth.

And with that sense, the Joker knew, came the delusion of being invincible. Of being untouchable.

Oh, he felt very sure though, by sunrise, the doctor's confidence would be shaken. In the very least, it would be shaken.

The madman's fingers tapped lightly over the keyboard.

3.3

The password was Dr. Hill's finishing percentile from his graduating class.

It was something in initial sessions he would announce to all his patients, guising it as an offer of reassurance, a testament to his credentials, and so his ability to affectively treat them.

"You're in good hands." He would say. "I promise I'm going to help you."

He would do this only once.

And then move on.

But it was in the way he relayed this information which exposed the real reason for its divulgence.

He was bragging.

It was a point of pride.

Something which made him feel better, superior, more deserving.

"You think yourself special Doctor."

The Joker grinned at the glowing screen.

And then he began to type.

A note for his self-proclaimed savior.

"It has been nothing short sheer delight, our sessions together Dr. Hill. And to their continuation, I look forward. But on the outside, you see. Of these confining walls, I've grown tired. And as you should now well know, I've taken my leave of the place.

And so, until next we meet, dear Sir.

My best regards

J."

That would be there for him, when he came here later this day.

The Joker's eyes caught sight of light, pouring in through the ajar door.

He stood from the desk, making his way towards it, standing flat against wall at the entrances side.

The light drew nearer.

"That's weird." The voice of a man.

As soon as he took a step in, and the Joker had reached out, taking the orderly by the arm and dragging him through the rest of the way.

"Wha…!"

"Hiya." The lunatic said, throwing him against the wall, grinning down at him wide. "Oh, you're perfect. Perfect indeed."

The man's eyes went huge in terror.

"Oh Jesus…"

/

The orderly had struggled mightily, and the guards at the head of the asylum had begged him not to slit his throat.

Being a gentleman, he had obliged, burying the knife in the man's chest.

Their shock had caused a delay in their reactions, their pistols hung uselessly from their fingers. He had taken the opportunity to push the orderly from him and turn, bursting through the double doors of Arkham's front entrance.

The grass sang as his feet flew through it, and mad laughter rose up from his throat.

They were behind him, but too far now for it to matter.

The searchlights would do them no good.

The grounds were dark, vanished in to easily. And he knew the patterns of those beams, knew where they would turn, and when.

And so he reached the wall undetected.

And with his long arms and great height, he leaped from a crouch, going for its edge, latching tight to it with his fingers.

With some struggle, he hauled himself up.

He shouldn't have been able to, he thought, but power of the will and all that.

Throwing himself on to its top, he rolled from it, and for a brief moment, hung over the opposite side before letting go, dropping to the ground, a good three feet.

The area around was woods, a single road running through its middle.

But through the trees, he knew his way to the city, and there was ideal. For at night, the woods were pitch, only sometimes vague rays of the moons light escaping through the canopy.

Others would become lost, following him in.

And it was he would find them, he the last person they would ever see.

He lifted his face towards the sky, his eyes burning brightly at the stars.

The sirens went off behind him.

He smiled.