Prologue

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Arkham Asylum stood on the outskirts of Gotham City. A dismal, grey heap of stone encased in a grey ring of stone and a tall wrought iron gate that bore the words "Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane". Time and the elements had eaten slowly at the metal words, and the letters hung like ragged, oxidised skeletons against the thick black metal of the meticulously maintained bars. Why the words themselves lay neglected was anyone's guess. Perhaps it added a bit of colour to the place. The grounds were green and perfectly symmetrical- not a blade of grass was out of place. Shrubs and intricate topiaries where dotted across the lawn and against the brilliant green was the grey box of the asylum itself. Of course, what was seen of the building was more or less just administration. Anything in the least bit medical was kept underground past elevator shafts and sheets of concrete. The orderlies were armed to the teeth and the young men who worked the shift guarding America's most twisted and violent had adopted a simple and unspoken understanding with each other in case of emergency- "every man for himself".

Ever since Dr. Crane had allowed an eastern judo master the ability to break down the asylum's security systems, the orderlies were understandably riled by the possibility by someone so close to home would be willing to put everyone in danger. So an air of caution was maintained towards everyone, not just the patients. To get by in Arkham the staff, the doctors, the orderlies, the guards, the maintenance men, the janitors, all had to work like an ant colony- everyone had their job, everyone had their place- to stick to that place meant that everything kept moving. It was a good system, one that worked, but unfortunately a plan that suffered from one fatal flaw. That flaw was that if one thing went wrong, one cog stopped working, then everything fell apart. And the inmates of Arkham lived for those times. The inmates, now including Dr. Crane himself, adored the chaos that could reign throughout Arkham given the right circumstances. Circumstance they were all too happy to give. But there was one inmate who lived for chaos more than any of the others. It was this inmate that the doctors were particularly interested in. No one knew where he had come from, no one knew what his name was or who he was, this was a man with no past and seemingly no present. The doctors at Arkham understood quite clearly that this made his dedication to chaos so much more dangerous.

He had been apprehended the night that Harvey Dent was pushed from a warehouse flaw by the vigilante, despite the heroic attempts of Commissioner Gordon to save him. Or at least, that's what the papers had said. After a short and discreet trial he was committed to Arkham where the doctors and psychiatrists had tried desperately night and day to get a profile from him. Nothing. The man was a psychological deadlock. Nothing was coming out- and it was more than likely that nothing was going in. All they knew was what they could see on the surface. Here was a man who walked through the world and didn't leave a footprint, only to appear in Gotham and for a week clutch the city in a reign of terror. This was a man who had suffered some trauma from the terrible scarring of his face, scarring that contorted his cheeks into a rictus and permanent grin. This was a man who saw human suffering as a punch line, a man who wore clown's make up and cared nothing for anything including himself. This was a man who called himself "Joker".

He was a psychiatric analyst's dream come true. But only if they could get him to crack like an egg shell. But the Joker was impenetrable. His mind was like a shattered mirror; glistening, bright, sharp yet impossible too much if unprotected and irrevocably broken. He had the strangest effect upon those who analysed him. So strange an effect that Dr. Quinzell had to be put of leave for her own health. It was debateable as to whether or not the Joker was as insane as he let on to be. An insane man doing what the Joker did was dangerous- a sane man doing it was unspeakable.

Carter, one of the nurses come orderly peered through the peep hole of the Joker's cell. There he sat, on the iron bed, bolt upright, hands pressed together and staring forward- grinning. He couldn't see Carter there of course, but it was still unnerving. Carter was a formidable enough man, built like a rugby player and armed with syringes of powerful drugs, sedatives and medicines- but there was just SOMETHING about the Joker. Everything he did was cool, collective and fluid. Carter sighed and unlocked the door- a task that took the better part of a minute. The door swung open and the Joker looked up. He wasn't so physically formidable sat in his cell, clad in his orange jump suit, hands bound in chains and without his trademark makeup. But he was repulsive. The bright eyes- glaring at Carter as he wheeled in the trolley, the limp and dirty blonde hair tucked behind the ears, that forced grin- the wound turning inward rather than ripped outwardly, signs of some cheap and botched attempt to repair the damage. He didn't rise, he didn't speak, he merely smiled almost politely. When he actually grinned, tiny white pegs pressed against his lower lip and the scars were pulled apart- contorted to a perversion of the flesh.

"Time for your medicine…" Carter said. He stopped himself before he could call him 'Joker', a mistake he had made a few times and was now advised against doing. The Joker sighed and shook his head slowly. Then so quickly he was upon his feet- so fast that Carter hadn't seen him move- only the rattle of chains was heard. The Joker smiled again and nodded towards the paper cup of bright pink tablets on the cold steel trolley. Carter closed the cell door again and locked it. Standard security procedure. He had to make sure his 'patient' took the prescribed dosage. He just wanted out of the cell as quickly as possible. Turning once again to the Joker he realised all too late the fatal error he had made. He had turned his back on the patient. The Joker stood with full syringe in his hand and an empty bottle on the floor. Carter swore under his breath, for all the good it would do him. He had locked himself in the cell with an armed lunatic. There wasn't a way out. "Now listen to me Joker" he stammered, hand out stretched, fending off the impending attack. "Just put down the syringe, don't do anything stupid. Alright? Just give it to me…" Fuck. The Joker wasn't speaking. He wasn't moving. Just watching Carter with those wide, bright eyes. But then a slight sound came from his throat, his lips contorted. A steadily growing noise, falling out of his mouth and filling the cell. He was laughing.

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"Doctor! Doctor! Come quick! There's been a terrible accident!"