Chapter Two
Come To Me
The hospital ward in Arkham was ill-equipped and under-staffed. Solemn and heavily armed prison guards converged, two at a time, before any possible exit, more than making up for the lack of hospital personnel. Fluorescent lighting screamed searing brightness throughout the long room and everything was colored either white or chrome. The stench of sickness and urine pervaded the air, despite the semblance of sterility.
The Joker was strapped snugly into one of the white-sheeted beds in a line of many of the same. He was not pleased. He'd been at Arkham for over a week now but it was just an hour ago that he'd realized where he was. Of course, he'd known where he was, but it had not been of consequence to him. His stay at this reputable madhouse had been spent in a catatonic daze, during which time he'd been deep in thought. It had been rather nice, really, allowing the kind and oh-so-gentle staff of peanut-brained buffoons to haul him back and forth from the hospital, to meals, to the showers, and back to his comfy little cell while he concentrated only on his own, personal matters.
His last meeting with Batman, during which the hero had thrown him off a building, only to rappel him back up again and leave him for the S.W.A.T. team, had resulted in his being carted off to this dull, demeaning place. While he was being escorted, if you will, to an armored vehicle by the S.W.A.T.'s, they had noticed that, aside from being badly bruised and walking with a limp-results of his games with the Bat-his left jacket sleeve was soaked with blood. Instead of removing his handcuffs and asking him politely to take off his overcoat, the bastards used one of his own knives to cut away the material to get a better look at his wound. How terribly rude!
Just then, in the present, a lanky, grey-faced nurse marched over to Joker's bedside. She was older, her fading hair pulled tightly back into a greasy bun, her large, plain face devoid of emotion. She seemed to know where everything was located without even having to look for it, as she reached over to grab some gauze, antiseptic cream and a thermometer, which had been floating in a mysterious blue liquid, from a stainless steel counter behind her. Without further ado, she popped the thermometer into the Joker's mouth, reached around and briskly removed the bandage covering his left upper arm.
The Joker was amusedly astonished by her uncaring display; he gathered that she treated every patient this way and that if she knew who he was, she didn't care. He looked sidelong at her, a hint of curiosity twisting his features upwards. Despite the murderer's scrutiny, Nurse Taglan (as her badge simply stated) seemed unbothered and continued to dab at his healed wound with the cold, wet gauze pads. After smearing some of the antiseptic cream over the area, she swiped the thermometer from his mouth, glanced at it and nodded (more to herself than to her patient) before dumping it back into the blue-liquid-filled glass behind her. Without having uttered a single word, she wandered off to the next bed in need of attention. Joker shook his head at her retreating back with a jerky movement, scoffing under his breath, and then turned his attention to his arm.
He couldn't quite remember how it had happened (after that delightful fall, a mere flesh wound paled in comparison), but apparently his black-suited playmate had ripped several gashes into his left bicep. How charming; something to remember him by. He now vaguely recalled the Bat shooting little, metal miniatures of himself at him...
You want to know how I got these scars?
No, but I know how you got these...
It's funny how he often never noted his injuries until other people pointed them out to him. He had so much to think about all of the time that little trifles such as blood-soaked clothing or cuts and scrapes failed to be a bother. He looked down at the three recently stitched rows on his left arm. It was a very nice-looking set of marks, if he did say so himself. The Bat could be so considerate at times.
These were heady thoughts for the Joker, they made him smile. He hadn't smiled once since they'd slapped him in Arkham. If he hadn't been so completely busy analyzing the events of the past few weeks, he would have thoroughly enjoyed the discomfiture and confusion experienced by Arkham's staff, who were familiar with the image of him as a glib, maniacal genius. The silent, slow-moving man they had been dealing with for the past week must've been quite a disturbing departure from that.
The television set which was situated in the nurses' station (if one could call the small, partially covered cubicle in the corner of the room by such a lofty term) suddenly became exponentially louder, drawing the Joker's attention completely as he heard it utter the word 'Batman'.
"...The vigilante-turned-murderer hasn't been spotted since his killing spree during last week's double boat hijacking was revealed by Commissioner Gordon. The killer of five civilians and two policemen still remains at large. If you have seen the Batman, or have any information as to his whereabouts, please contact..."
His eyes glazed over, his breath stopped in his chest. At first he was angry. How could the Bat do such a stupid, 'noble' thing? He'd shown him what Harvey Dent really was-a deranged monster, just like everyone is deep down. He had worked so hard to drive his point home to Bats, to really show him what he was trying to say. Unlike many others who he preached his messages to, it was very important that this man understand him, and mere words never did anyone much good. For what reason would Batman still protect Dent after knowing his true nature? What was his motivation? Why?!
But... but... But, this isn't such a bad thing after all. The Bat must be in hiding now, a fugitive, but they'll never catch him. They can't! They're lucky he, himself needed this nice week and a half to get some rest or they wouldn't have him either. And they won't, soon enough. The Joker chuckled softly to himself, ignoring the nervous glances from the other patients and nurses around him. Soon enough, he'd join Batman, and together they'd put on a real show for this miserable city.
Bruce Wayne was depressed. He'd holed himself up in Wayne Manor for over a week, since it had all ended, since they'd caught the clown. Since he'd caught the clown. He knew the cops would have never come close to the madman if he hadn't shown them the way. Sure, he respected Jim Gordon and his like, but such people were few and far between in the world of law enforcement. Bruce wondered what they'd ever do without the Batman.
He'd been watching the news on and off for the past week (he'd left the television in his room on to one of the higher-quality news channels day and night, since he'd come home), and, with that demented clown behind bars and Gotham's remaining criminals still reeling from the havoc he'd wreaked, there was little to report. Aside from several petty thefts and the capture of a local peeping tom, things were peaceful and quiet in Gotham.
Not that he could do anything about it if there had been serious crime. He was a wanted man now. Or, Batman was. No one suspected the innocently insipid Bruce Wayne of any of the crimes his masked counterpart had been charged with. The past week had been the longest he'd ever endured without the bat suit since he had become Batman, and he'd never felt more uncertain of his identity. He was beginning to feel restless, itchy. As though Bruce Wayne was the disguise he had to wear, he yearned to don the bat suit and feel capable and sure of himself again.
Bruce rose slowly from his king-sized bed, untangling himself from its navy blue satin sheets, and made his way to the bathroom (which was, in actuality, several rooms that adjoined each other: a room for the bath and shower, one for the sink, toiletries and wall-sized, floor length mirror, and finally, one for the actual toilet). He washed his face before studying it in the mirror. He was almost surprised to see only himself there, with no mask on. He looked tired and haunted.
He was unpleasantly surprised to find that he had already made a sort of tentative peace with Rachel's passing-no, with her tragic murder. Truthfully, he hadn't really known her very well, nor she him. They'd been good friends since childhood but they hadn't seen much of each other since then. She really had been his one chance for a normal life. A dream which may not have been based on reality. Rachel was a beautiful, kind and intelligent woman, and he did love her very much. But as he thought about her this past week-and he did little else but think of her and all that had happened to them and to Gotham-he knew that he had not been in love with her. When she was still alive, he could sleep without her, eat without her, go days without thinking about her. She was linked in his mind to a normal life as Bruce Wayne, as normal a life as could be possible when one is a world-famous billionaire. A life he knew he could never have. A life he knew he never truly wanted. Her memory was tinged with the sadness of the loss of a true friend and the anger that if she hadn't been his friend she may still be alive today. Yet one more person lost to him that he was close to. It crossed his mind again, as it had many times before, that perhaps he was the human incarnation of bad luck. Screwing his eyes shut, Bruce sighed heavily, willing the illogical thoughts away.
He wanted to be Batman again, he needed to be. The most noble and difficult thing he'd ever done was to take the blame for Harvey Dent's crimes. But it was maddening, having to accept those lies. He was not a murderer! It was the one thing he swore he'd never become, the one line he would never cross. Poor Harvey, if only he could have protected him better, not let him out of his sight for one moment... The Joker had really proven his point with that man, damn him. But who on this earth could stay sane after what that sadistic psychopath put him through? Damn the Joker, damn him straight to hell.
Before he could think about it, Bruce slammed a fist into the wall beside the mirror. Shocked that he had done it, he stared dumbly at the indentation he had just made as his breathing regulated to a calmer rhythm.
"Was that you, Master Bruce?" Alfred called from the door to Bruce's rooms a moment later. "Is everything all right?"
Bruce's face went red, embarrassment mingling with the anger he still felt.
"It's fine, Alfred," he yelled back, irritated with himself. He really needed to get out of the house. The only person he'd seen or spoken to for the past week had been Alfred, who was too polite to say anything about his master's depressive lethargy, bless him. Wait another week and the butler would likely give him more than just his two cents.
Bruce began to pace restlessly in his room. He was furious, both at the Joker and at his inability to safely become Batman. It was all that demented clown's fault, he knew. Harvey did what he did because of that lunatic, who had manipulated him just to fuck with Bruce's head.
The last conversation (if it could be called such) between Batman and the Joker in the unfinished building had revealed that it was all personal, that it was all to show him that the two of them were intrinsically the same. Two sides of the same coin. Bruce grimaced at the analogy.
The only satisfaction he was able to achieve was from the knowledge that the Joker was safely locked away in Arkham Asylum. They had probably pumped him so full of drugs by now that he wouldn't even remember his own name, whatever that was. Even such a piteous fate was too good for that vile creature.
The sun was setting; another day had been wasted. Bruce sighed deeply, letting the anger go for the night as he settled back into his bed to watch the nightly news, hoping that all remained calm in his city.
Though he was no longer silent, the Joker remained easy to care for, for another week at Arkham. Despite sporadic attacks of the giggles and the constantly roving dark green eyes, he minded his manners and kept to himself. He had been so well behaved during the entirety of his stay there, in fact, that the staff didn't feel the need to medicate him. Such a result was not in the least bit unplanned, of course.
Being a nice boy was not all that difficult. He didn't need to create any amusement for himself, for he was always preoccupied by the thrilling, slightly anxious feeling which came with knowing that something good was going to happen, but not being sure of just when it would occur. It was difficult to keep this giddy excitement to himself but he managed to do it. No one could know that Batman would be coming soon! Now that the Bat was regarded as a criminal by the public, as he himself was, he'd start realizing just how true the Joker's last words to him had been. He'd had a week to think about it-no, more than that. He was a smart guy, he'd put it all together.
He and Batman were truly two sides of the same coin, if you will.
The other inmates stared at him as another series of loud chortles escaped his lips. He was like a ticking bomb waiting to explode, and even the subdued-i.e., doped-up-patients knew it. They feared him, despite the fact that he was supposedly safely contained behind the thick, iron bars of his cell. He was the Joker; when he wanted to, he would find a way to get out.
A gratingly loud bell rang, signaling dinner time for the inmates. Five o'clock sharp, every night. A large, humorless-looking orderly clunked his way over to the Joker's cell. He entered the code that would unlock the door, watching the prisoner suspiciously as he did so. Joker paid him no mind; he was not interested in Arkham's little codes and procedures just then. He didn't want to get out of here just yet. Batman knew he was here, and here he would stay until he came to get him. After the catharsis of their last meeting, he figured he'd make it easy on him.
One day passed with no sign of Batman, and then another and another. The Joker began to grow impatient. The excitement of the wait was wearing thin. He was becoming cranky and irritable, showing the first signs of rebelling against Arkham's staff by refusing certain meals and asking everyone who passed by his cell (be they fellow inmate or member of the staff) where his makeup was being hidden. It had been washed off of his face upon his arrival, and at first he had been too busy to care that it was not returned to him. But the more bored and angry he became, the more he wanted it covering his face. It was his protection and his war paint, and getting it back was an obsession.
The trademark tics and jitters that had assaulted his body prior to his enrollment into Arkham had returned full-force. He was not aggressive in any way, but his stuttered outbursts and restless pacing were unnerving the staff and inciting the other inmates. It was decided that he would have to be sent to therapy, as they couldn't legally force medication on or into him unless he were violent to himself or to others. And, who knows? Maybe they could get him to open up about his twisted crimes and even tell them who he really was for, still, no one knew, and he had been unwilling to say.
He was not told that he had an appointment until the two orderlies assigned to escort him to it came to pick him up. The Joker, who had been pacing his cell and mumbling to himself, grinned at the news. This was just the opportunity he needed to lure the big, black Bat to him. If the man was going to be shy and reticent about seeing him again, the Joker would just have to find a way to insist that he come for a visit. Good things did come to those who waited after all!
"Very well, then. Shall we, gentlemen?" He held out his arms, ready to be helped into his dinner jacket.
The brutish orderlies shared a questioning glance before roughly wrapping him into a straitjacket.
Knowing how dangerous and unpredictable he had been in the past, most of the psychiatric staff at Arkham were quite reluctant to see him. Fortunately for them, a recently employed Dr. Clive Arthur, who was either too new or too cocky (or both) to be afraid of the notorious criminal, happily volunteered to take on the challenge. He came from what they call "old money", and had been born with the choice of one day being either a medical doctor or an attorney. He had rather disappointed his old mother and dad by choosing to study psychology and he was determined to prove his worth to them after his recent graduation. Breaking into the infamous Joker's mind and revealing its past and psyche would be just the thing to make them proud.
On the day of their first meeting, Dr. Arthur smoothed back his gelled brown hair and adjusted his rectangular glasses, small eyes beady and greedy behind them, ready to smile at the Joker when he entered the room with his entourage.
The criminal was led into the young Doctor's office by two rather large orderlies, strapped tightly into the straitjacket to assure his cooperation. Joker briefly surveyed the room with darting eyes, committing his surroundings to memory. The floor and walls of the small room were whitewashed, and the table which separated the patient from the Doctor was made of cheap, blond wood. But, while the Doctor's chair was black, cushy and had wheels on its legs, the chair the Joker was forced into was armless and made of steel, and its legs had been bolted down to the concrete floor. Perhaps, just in case he happened to forget the hierarchy that existed within the room. Aside from a very small, dusty wooden book shelf in the left corner of the room and the institution's ever-present fluorescent lighting scheme, there was very little for the Joker to work with.
The two goons that had accompanied the patient now stood on either side of the door, faces downturned as if that would give the other two some privacy. The Joker and the Doctor engaged in a silent staring match for the first few minutes of their session, each studying the other for different reasons, looking for different things. Dr. Arthur was very familiar with the Joker's crimes, with his 'televised appearances' on the news.
The serious, unsmiling man who sat before him now wore no makeup and was remarkably less intimidating than the image he had been familiar with. His skin, though pale, was not sickly, and his longish dark blond hair, the ends of which still clung to the shade of forest green that the man preferred (it matched his eyes), was thick and clean. He was slim but not scrawny, neither tall nor short. Aside from the badly stitched scars that ran up his cheeks, he appeared to be a handsome man, an intense intellect gleaming through his almond-shaped eyes.
Finally the Doctor smiled, no teeth showing, pretending at warmth. He had judged the man who was seated before him to be unthreatening. He would now begin their session.
"Hello. My name is Dr. Arthur." He hadn't expected a response, and got none from the Joker, who continued to scrutinize him openly. He would start small. "How are you feeling today, Mr..."
"Call me Edward," the Joker interrupted suddenly, voice calm. He could see the excitement blossoming behind the Doctor's little eyes at being the first person to know his real name.
"Ah... Oh." Dr. Arthur cleared his throat, swallowing his heart back down into his chest. He did his best to act nonchalant. "Is that your real name? Edward?"
"No." Joker couldn't stop a superior smile from stretching the corners of his mouth upwards. "But I always liked the sound of it. Dignified, isn't it?"
The Doctor said nothing. Behind his exterior of professionalism, he was crushed. The man had been so convincing; he was irritated that he'd fallen for a trap so early on in their acquaintanceship. Perhaps he had underestimated the Joker's powers of persuasion.
"Would you call me Edward?" the Joker asked merrily, leaning forward in his seat. The Doctor wasn't smiling. He jotted down the words 'compulsive liar' with a question mark after it in his notebook.
"No." Arthur cleared his throat again. He was less than pleased but he staunchly continued on. "So, I've been told that you've been a bit... agitated lately. Has something been bothering you?"
A pen behind his ear. He has a black pen wedged behind his right ear.
The Joker sucked in his lips and ducked his head, eyes darting from left to right. "Well... maybe something..." he mumbled.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you." The Doctor leaned forward across the desk, brows knit with concern. He watched the other man's eyes move meaningfully from side to side. He looked behind him, seeing the orderlies shifting on their feet beside the door. "Is it something private?"
The Joker nodded eagerly, schooling his features into those of an innocent child, looking up into the other man's eyes as if to say ''I wanna tell''. His heart beat wildly in his chest. He had him now, and so quickly at that. He was glad he hadn't lost an ounce of his touch.
"Ah. Excuse me, gentlemen...?"
The Doctor had risen from his seat to walk over to the orderlies and whisper to them. They at first protested whatever he was saying, causing the Doctor to raise to his full height and insist they do as he instructed them. Reluctantly, the two men opened the door and left the room, locking himself and the Doctor within from outside. The Joker grinned widely to himself but his expression fell immediately back into a facade of nervous innocence when the Doctor resumed his seat across the table.
"There. Now we have our privacy." Arthur smiled again. "Would you like to tell me what's been bothering you now?"
"Yes. I really would." The Joker rose from his seat, hands working swiftly behind his back. He walked around the long table, eyes beneath his smooth brow fixed on the Doctor. The man rolled back in his chair so that he could face him. By the time the Joker reached the other man, he had freed his arms from the straitjacket and swooped down upon the stricken Doctor, squeezing one firm hand over his open mouth while the other snatched the pen from behind his ear.
"I want. My. Makeup. Back." He chuckled deeply, gleefully, jabbing the pen-turned-weapon into the terrified man's throat. "Pretty please."
The Joker gripped the slim, black pen in his itchy fingers, gazing at it as if it were a unique and wondrous creation. He grinned and lowered his head so that his smiling lips were beside the Doctor's reddened ear.
"Do you want to see a magic trick?"
