Chapter Seven: A Serious Man's Puppet

Joker stood back and admired his work. "Joker old boy, you really have out done yourself", he said aloud in almost a purr as he surveyed the carnage of his creation, it had taken two days, almost all the knifes that were available to him, a massive amount of man power and a whole lot of duck tape, but it was finally finished. He wasn't however prepared to fully congratulate himself until the finishing touch was applied. A perfectionist at heart, nothing was fully complete without that little Joker touch.

Reaching into the pocket of the bloody apron, he retrieved a paint brush, black handled and white tipped, new and high quality. He dipped the fresh white of the bristles into the crimson of his apron, tarnishing its 'new brush smell'. Leaning down on the floor in the centre of the warehouse, he wrote, re-diping when needed and with harsh manic writing:

DEAR NEW GUY (THATS YOU ARTIST)

I'M THE wild card IN THIS DECK, I DON'T PLAY WELL WITH OTHERS. CEASE YOU ARTS AND CRAFTS OR I'LL SHOW YOU WHAT A REAL GENIUS CAN DO!

HUGS AND KISSES, JOKER :D

SPLIT!, was the resounding noise as he broke it in half with one easy gesture, bending it back with both hands as splinters reared back from the black, revealing the pale wood underneath.

Ha, quite therapeutic, he noted, as images of broken necks and spines appeared in his anarchistic mind, sending him into a fit of laughter that echoed about him, scaring the flies in the absence of any other living thing.

Discarding the apron to reveal the soiled guards uniform, red with past escapades, he made sure that his work would be found. Those victims who had gone missing no doubt having family's who would report them as such. He switched off the lights, one by one the beams that lit the warehouse shutting off until he stood in complete darkness.

He made for the door, pushing the fire exit open and laughing as he heard the alarm go of.. If only I could see their faces. He mused as he looked back one last time before disappearing into the night, with the rest of his agenda for the evening. "Toodlepips guys but I can't stay for the after party". He slammed it shut behind him, breathing in the fresh night air , ah, gotta love that dead rat smell in the morning. He looked down at his stained, red speckled watch, not in the lest bit shocked at the time. 3:56. He merely shrugged nonchalantly and begun walking, a giddy spring in his step and a smile as always playing on his lips.

The area was dimly lit, each of the vast warehouses and factory complexes spanning for miles along Gothams Harbour and industrial district, few street lamps dotted about and the ones that were glowed shyly with an amber haze rather than the sharp pale yellow of the more pedestrian parts of the city. The Jokers eyesight was, however, very acute. He could see extremely well in the dark and at this time of night had no trouble in navigating the shadows of its more isolated alley ways.

Ah, what a beautiful night. His thoughts begun to escape him as he journeyed, I do hope Batsy doesn't pop up, though I do enjoy his visits and the many broken bones it brings. His smiled widened, I do wonder what surprises he will have in store when he sees my masterpiece. He will be angry no doubt, but his anger is what I live for. That and his seriously serious attitude. He laughed, Where else would I gain so much amusement. Joker begun to skip, no one about to see the wholly bizarre man and his behaviour.

Joker walked for some time, neither his mind or physical body growing tired, the maniac being powered by an adrenaline which many would ride only for a few hours. But the Joker could live off it and he lived for it. After two hours he had reached the edge of the Industrial district, the vague light of morning seeping into the skyline in a pinkish aura, invading the dark Gotham sky like a foreign entity playing out the vanquishing of it foe. Oh Joker you are poetic. He indulged his mind and had done for so far in his trek. He begun to talk aloud, a little too aloud, but that wasn't a problem for him. If anyone were to poke their drowsy heads out from their windows, ready to silence the rude passer by, they would no doubt recoil in horror and probably never sleep again upon seeing the Joker walking through their neighbourhood. Especially in the state he was currently in.

"You know what I miss?" He questioned, emerging from an alley into the furthest of Gothams derelict neighbourhoods. What?, an equally cackle ridden voice in his head pressed. "The sound of birds in the morning. That truly Zippidy-doo-da feeling of the morning being audible to the tired ears". You mean instead of police sirens?. "Exactly, not that I don't too leap with joy upon hearing them also, perhaps a remix of the two would be in order. A siren bird if you will, Penguin could do that right?, he does the bird thing?". Yes, but you can't have both, that's Two-faces thing – remember to take that left turn!, the voice added. "And alas mere gimmicks stand in my way again", he finished as he slipped into a narrow gap between two apartment buildings, any larger man, including the Batman would struggle with.

The dull grey bricks were an unwelcome close up, but not a view he was subjected too for long as he finally came to the end of the slither of path into a clearing. He spied the faded green painted metal steps that zigzagged down the north face of one of the apartment building and congratulated his memory for leading him correctly. Saving him from having to fire him, which last time had caused his mind great unrest. One may ask how you fire your memory, the simple answer being, he's the Joker. No part of his mind is properly fixed and most of it doesn't get along with the rest explaining how its so easy to do away with the less cooperative of the screaming horde.

He swiftly hopped one or two fences and the blockade of dumpsters which were in the way, arriving at the base of the stairs, their assent faster than any, and silent so as not to wake any occupants that may still be lingering in the decaying building. Haheha, I have neighbours, me!, The Clown Prince of Crime. The thought made him break his silence, laughing through his own reply, "I should pop round for a cup of sugar later", he joked, but then begun to seriously consider it, wondering what it would bring about. Just one of many ways to break his own incessant boredom.

He walked through the door-less frame that was his entrance through the top floor, and running down the other set of steps inside. The white paint was peeling from the walls, graffiti everywhere like some street gallery, the messy running paint dried in pools at the edges of the floor where the cheap tiles where long missing. It was after three flights he found the right floor, and soon, at the end of the long corridor, the right numbered address. 24J.

He knocked, awaiting reply. Nothing. He Knocked again and again he waited, and yet no one answered. Again. Joker frustrated, his permanent up and down mentality taking a plunge, slammed his palm against the door twice, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. Deep within the apartment he could hear movement, the undisguised footsteps of the owner, shuffling about.

Joker, still waiting, an annoyed twitch flickering at the corner of his lips, leaned against the frame. When the door finally creaked open, the middle aged balding man cowered at the sight of Jokers tall form towering over him. Arnold Wesker shivered under the clowns gaze, stuttering his senescence's. "oh-h-h, it-s-s you", was all he managed, holding the side of the door as if it would provide him any kind of protection.

"Morning Arnold", Joker grinned widely in the smaller man's face. Arnold's throat went dry and in his attempt to speak was overruled by his own mouth. "Aren't you going to invite me in?", Joker pushed, leaning in close, wedging his foot in the gap of the door.

"Of c-course", Arnold managed, faintly beginning to open the door further, but pushed aside by the rude clown as he barged past him.

"Nice place you have here, very derelict chic", the Joker mentioned, sauntering into the living room where he stood next to its balcony window. Wesker, still in shock and on the verge of hyperventilating shut the door as calmly as he could, following his 'guest'. Upon his entering of the living room, he saw the Joker leap into one of the cheap red armchairs, his feet falling on top of the magazine covered coffee table. He stretched out like a cat, appearing just as tall despite now being lower down than his host. "So", he begun, "Is he here?", Joker questioned, raising a leafy green eyebrow.

Wesker stared at the Cheshire cat face and winced as he spoke, "He-he-he, Yes" he finally revealed, fumbling with his hands, his palms sweaty and shaky.

Joker smiled, "Calm down Wesker, I'm here purely on business, no need to worry", Wesker felt a little relief until he heard the clowns next statement, "If I wanted to kill you I would, but I've had quite a lot of that lately and desire something more close to home, if you know what I mean?". Hiss eyebrow raised further and Weskers confusion increased.

"And that would be what sir?", he dared to ask.

Joker clapped his hands together, interlocking his fingers, "You know exactly what I mean, I left it here last time, or at least with him, but you were there so you know where it is. Am I right'". Joker said now raising both brows in a sinisterly calm manner.

Realisation dawned on Wesker, "Oh, right", his panic now reaching its limits, "I'll go get him, he'll be pleased to see-"

"No!", Joker stopped him, holding up his hand suddenly. "Fetch me the suitcase I left here last time first, I want to look my best for him", Joker fluttered his eyelashes, "You know how it is, always wanting to keep up appearances and the like". Jokers excitement grew a little as he watched the timid old man flusteringly exist the room. He heard the sounds of draws opening and cupboards shutting and finally smiled with relief when again the man entered the room, suitcase in hand.

It was an old dog-eared item, battered with time and covered in fading leather, but was a sight for sore eyes in the Jokers case. He quickly fiddled with the number lock, entering the seven digit code, and pulled back the brass latches, the click sound soothing his erratic mind. Once open the Joker stood up placing it on the coffee table. He flipped it open and the room erupted with laughter, Wesker cowering in the corner away from the mad man.

"Perfecto!", he yelled, pulling a very precious item from the case, "Baby, I missed you". He spoke to it, holding in his hands a folded up purple pin stripped suit. "Lets never part again". He stroked the crooked fake acid flower poking out from the jackets pocket. He proceeded to check the case, ensuring everything else he needed was in there and once satisfied congratulated Wesker.

"I trust very few people with my suits you know Arnie, your lucky its in good condition or I'd wear your skin instead", He laughed loudly once more. Wesker now sitting in the other arm chair, his panic diminishing despite the worsening of his predicament. "Back in five", he speedily said, fast walking to the bathroom on the other end of the apartment, leaving Wesker alone to wonder how he ever found himself keeping such company.


Across Gotham: Diamond District

Commissioner Jim Gordon dug the heel of his foot into the burnt carpet, the black choked fibres coming apart as he did. The floor was grey and black as was the whole room. All colour had been starved from the place like a famine, leaving behind only their brittle monochrome forms. All character had departed from the place, a shadow of its former glory.

Gordon, looked up through a large window, the glass of each small panel smashed, leaving only the prison like bars, the finishing touch to the grim decoration. He paced about in the large living room, observing the vast damage of the blaze. He neglected the hard hat which the other officers were wearing, the fire-fighters long departed once the structure was deemed safe enough to enter. Gordon had tore though the house, and upon finding the crime scene had told all other officers to wait outside as forensics did their job.

Gordon was gasping for a smoke, but exercised self control over the less desirable effects of his stress. The cold pale morning was drifting in, a damp feeling rising in the air as the water used to put out the blaze mingled with the morning dew.

He had arrived at the scene early, just as the fire had been dealt with, the wait of assessing the structure frustrating but now an obvious move as Gordon looked up through the hole in the ceiling where the second floor of the mansion had collapsed in, the black wood splintered at the edges. Above that the third floor also had collapsed, creating a void within the whole building. This was the only room where the third had also collapsed, being that the gas line which exploded was directly above them in the third floor, or what used to be the third floor.

He paced furiously as he waited, wondering what was keeping him. He could hear the click of the cameras and mumbles coming from behind the door at the end, which forensics had shut behind them, Gordon surprised it didn't bring the whole place down judging by its current state. The foundations of these old houses were always stronger than they looked, unfortunately the people who lived in them were usually the complete opposite.

"Commissioner", came a low vice from across the room. In the door way to the ruins of the lounge stood the Batman, his black façade blending in with the scorched decorum. Gordon sighed, ceasing his pacing and stared at the vigilante.

"What took you so long?", Gordon grumbled turning from him and looking out the bars of the window again at the faint misty scene of the city, obscured by a blanket of trademark Gotham fog.

"What's the situation Gordon?", the dark knight said seriously, avoiding the question. He remained still and silent at the door way, his eyes unmoving and form seeming as if it was raising from the blackness around him, a demon of the ruined mansion.

"Its him", Gordon said quietly, "I know it".

"Artist?", Batman replied, less of a question and more of an assertion.

Gordon nodded morbidly.

"How many?", The vigilante pushed.

Gordon motioned with his hand to the door, "Two", he paused briefly, "One Mr Klark, Benedict Klark, a wealthy art critic and Gotham gallery sponsor", he pushed his glasses up and his brow creased, "and his wife Laura Klark. They were attacked last night at around two AM, they had just got back -"

"From the Wayne funded charity night at the Gotham gallery. I know". Batman cut him off.

"Yes, it would appear he and his wife were held hostage for some time before. .", he trailed of involuntarily, "Before their murder".

"Any leads", he pushed.

"No yet" replied the commissioner. Just then the young forensic from the Narrows opened the door. Upon seeing Batman he glared, saying nothing and turning to Gordon, pretending not to notice the vigilante.

"All done in there, we'll head back to the station and assess what we've found. I'll have one of the officers call with you with the results, should be about three hours". With that he left, followed by the rest of the team who's white plastic suits stood out stark against Batman's as they shuffled past him with their equipment, and cameras. They ducked under the police tape cordoning of the building and proceeded through the front doors.

Now alone, Gordon nodded towards Batman who swiftly moved towards the door, opening it gently. The black wood brittle, parts flacking where the varnish had been boiled in the heat. It swung open with a creak, the metal of the hinge also damaged in the severe temperature of the blaze.

The door swung, as it did the scene slowly peeling into view like a twisted page turn in a children's story book. Batman lost composure ever so slightly, but not enough for the Commissioner to take notice. The detective removed his hand from the door, standing emotionless once again staring into the case study of sickness that lay before him.

The skin of the victims was indistinguishable from the surroundings, dark and charred, the only difference being the small crusty drops of blood, bubbled and burst on the surface like demonic froth. The faces and bodies, race-less, genderless, classless and identity-less in their fire stripped forms, their only character their grotesque physiognomy.

Batman was no stranger to the damage fire could do to a person, having unfortunately been on the end of Fireflies rage more than a few times, acquiring a number of harsh burns which had added to his collection of scars, ever growing in his nightly escapades. It was not uncommon either for him to be called to a crime scene where fire was a factor, having a vast amount of knowledge on the subject and a reputation which would suggest so to others. But this was different, this wasn't just another crime scene, perhaps if it were just the corpses, but a more sinister factor waded into it. And it sent a chill right up Bruce's spine.

Wires, burnt black and dull by the fire, but no less noticeable were curved round the joints of the bodies, wound across them and running like jutting out veins across both the black forms. The metal positioned them, holding them up like puppets, the ample strength of the copper substance just enough to support them.

They danced, frozen in time, the bizarre sculpture of seared flesh, positioned in such a state of elegance. The hand of Mrs Klark, placed gracefully over that of her husbands, his hand resting on her scorched waist as hers curled round his neck. Damaged remains on damaged remains.

Gordon looked ahead coldly, following once Batman begun to move further into the room. It was a big room, sort of a small ball room, with what looked to have used to be fancy tiles and regal wallpaper. The Batman paced around the sculpture, precisely placed in the centre of the room, the light from the broken windows shining down over it, framing it in a grid of small squares. He felt his fist tighten.

"We uh, we couldn't wait", Gordon interrupted the silence, "We needed to gather what evidence we could so I sent them in early". With no reply from the Batman he continued to fill the silence, "I know you like to get in first, but we couldn't leave it, I'll tell you everything which comes back from the labs".

"That won't be necessary", at last he spoke, "I'll get what I need from the GCPD database". With that he pulled his scanner from his utility belt and approached the sickly sculpture, carefully surveying it closely.

"WHAT? How?", Gordon demanded.

"I hacked into it a few months back. Remember when you got shot and were in that coma?, Detective Bullock took over for that time, wouldn't tell me a damn thing". The device beeped three times, signalling to the vigilante it was finished analysing. He replaced it in his belt and brought forth now a small pair of tweezers and an evidence bag.

"You had no right to go behind my back!", Gordon exclaimed angrily. He trusted Batman, always had. Everything he did he did for the good of Gotham and its citizens, he would never question the vigilante. But God damn it he wished that Batman would ask him once in a while for permission, passwords, whatever it was that was needed. Just so there was at least some pretend, of want of a better word, authority he had over him as a police commissioner. Their mutual understanding was born of a goal of protection, a shared vision of safety for Gotham, Gordon would never get in the way of Batman, not since the early days had Gordon ever tried to limit his endeavours. If Batman wanted to get into the GCOPD, Gordon would have let him.

"I know", Batman admitted, peeling a flake of flesh from each of the bodies and placing that too in his utility belt. "It was during Two face's last rampage, I would have asked or told you, but things were out of control and Bullock was being too difficult". He looked at Gordon sincerely, though the shape of his mask hid his expression, showing Gordon nothing more than one of many blank stares he often received during their encounters.

"Well, it doesn't matter now does it, you probably do more with it than most of the forensics anyway. But next time at least act like you need my help", he said half smiling, suddenly remembering he was at a crime scene, the faint sign of cheerfulness diminishing immediately.

"I will", Batman replied, heading to the door, "I am well aware I would not be as good as I am without your help Jim".

"Yeah well, likewise Batman, I like to think we make each others jobs easier and more worth it". He turned but the dark knight was gone, vanished as usual. Gordon stared though the window at the Gotham mist, which would soon part and reveal more than just bricks and mortar, but far sinister events.


Batman strapped himself in fast, revving up the engine of the bat-mobile and quicker than anything was one, speeding down the roads of Gothams lower levels. He flicked the coms unit on, "Alfred I'm returning to Wayne manor, I need to analyse some skin samples and check the GCPD database".

"Very well sir", came the voice of his trusted friend. The dark knight leant down to switch it off when Alfred's voice once again sounded off, distressed and full of worry "Sir!, sir are you still there?", the Butler said in a panic.

"Yes, Alfred what is it?!", Bruce desperately answered.

"Its on frequency 04, quick you must listen!". With that Alfred's voice was gone, Bruce immediately turning on the police radio.

"This is officer Colbert, hello?, anybody? I need forensics and as many officers as possible. Some one get Gordon, Jesus, you haven't seen what he's done to them, Oh God-"

"Calm down rookie, what's your location?"

"Mason on third, down near the old meat house, please just send some more guys, its Joker. I think it was him, but its sick man, real sick. I'm outside by the car. . . I can't . . I can't be in there man, this isn't what I signed up for".

At the mention of Jokers name Batman made a sharp turn, heading back into the city, towards the Industrial district. Praying it was not as bad, that this time the madman hadn't gone too far.


Joker admired his messy reflection one last time, sad to see such a terrifyingly unconventional and horrific look go to waste. Shame only my victims will have seen my macabre façade. He thought, "Meh, It was wasted on those losers", he replied as he threw cold water up into his face, stark white skin again becoming clear. He turned on the shower, setting it to its hottest setting, feeling the steam burn his skin before he even plunged his head underneath it. The Joker had a vast bank of knowledge when it came to removing blood, especially congealed blood, and it wasn't easy or comfortable, but being a man of many uncomfortable experiences, little now bothered him, least of all minor scalding.

He stripped off the worn uniform savouring the memories of the truly thrilling nature of his escape and the events after it, partially thanking Artist for spurring it on. But upon thinking of the name became once again annoyed and remembered why he had broken out in the first place. His downer caused him to leap into the burning water, barely gritting his teeth as the fluid washed over him, swirling away the red and crimson tones down the rusted plug hole. He remained like this, head leant on the white tiles, the hot water running over the back of his and torso where he hadn't bothered to swipe at during his 'crafting'.

After five or so minutes he shut of the water, emerging into the still heavy steam that clogged up the air of the small bathroom. Opening the small window he let the city's cold air in as he dried off, his pale skin still a snow white despite its temperature, the only evidence of a rise a faintly dark patch under his eyes and sunken in cheeks which were more grey than red.

Once completely dry he performed the much anticipated event of dressing himself, glad to feel himself again as he put on his purple trousers and orange shirt. He strapped on his green suspenders and green bow-tie, tilting it deliberately for that askew effect. Socks, check, black dress shoes, check. He slipped on his purple jacket, its tails beginning around his lower waist and stopping at his knees, a fine crease between them.

In its pockets he found his playing cards, almost a thousand dollars, a hand buzzer, a knife and a mint. He crunched the mint as he pulled from the suit case a pot of hair gel, slicking his hair back with it. After he had done so it rose slightly as always, some strands of the hair falling out of place, but perfect to Joker none the less as he glared into the eyes of his own reflection.

"Ahh, I almost forgot", he realised, leaning back down into the case, pulling from it a long cane with a jesters head atop it. "How could I forget you". He returned once more, finding a purple fedora among the chattering teeth and Joker gas bombs, a green which matched his hair ruining around the base of the headdress.

Applying to his appearance the hat and cane he smiled in delight, "There's noting like a classic". And with that he broke the mirror with his cane, laughing as the shards flew about the bathroom in a shiny sharp rain.

When he emerged he was swinging his cane, sliding on his shoes into the living room where Wesker still remained, his eyes glued to the exact same spot as when Joker had left a short while ago. When Wesker looked up he was unsure weather he was either less or more terrified of the clown, now fully resembling his famous appearance.

"Whaddaya think Wesk's", Joker said giving a mocking twirl. Wesker smiled shyly.

"Classy Boss", He thought was a good answer, and relief swept him when he saw Jokers pleased expression.

"Now", Joker begun, "Next order of business. Where's the little guy?", Joker walked to the window, spinning and leaning on it, staring Wesker down like a crocodile.

"He's here", the older man replied, motioning to a large black box beside the arm chair. "He'll see you now, he says you have to turn around". Weskers voice was now emotionless almost, wavering on the edge of indifference.

Joker cocked his head, but upon further thought humoured the man, swirling around to the morning view of the ally the window offered its residents. He heard the noise of Wesker opening the box and the assuring sound of wooden clanking as the little man applied his puppet. After a few adjustments Joker finally heard the person he had come here to see.

"So you came back Clown, shame you ain't dead, been nothing but trouble to me and this moron here". Scarface introduced. Joker smiled while facing away, turning to see the scratched puppet perched on Wesker leg, the large crack on its face travelling from its forehead down its neck, passing over its wide black eyes. "I see you found you shit, congratulations, now what the hell do you want?", Scarface continued getting straight to the point.

Joker resumed his position in the armchair opposite Wesker and Scarface, leaning in close so he was more conversing with the puppet than Wesker himself. This was how he preferred it.

"Well my dear friend, thought I'd stop by is all. Can one friend not visit the other?" he asked rhetorically .

"We ain't friends freak", said the menacing tone of the puppet. Its jaws opened comically as Wesker controlled it. Or perhaps it controlled him, the Joker had never been entirely sure but was happy to go along with whichever.

"Awww, your breaking my heart Scarhead", Joker mocked the wooden man, grasping where his heart was and placing a hand on his forehead in a faint gesture. "And I thought we-", he bit his fist, pretending to tear up, "Had something". He again smiled, swearing he saw the wooden brow of the puppet frown. But he was just as loony as Wesker so he didn't think much of it.

"Listen Joker, Arnie here may be a little pussy, but I ain't, don't fuck with me or else I'll see you never stop smiling", Scarface's hand ran across its wooden neck in a cutting motion. Adorable, thought Joker.

"If only you would Scar's", said Joker, done with the warming up banter. "But I'm not here for empty threats", he leaned in as if to intimidate the wooden man, "I'm here for your services".

"Services?, Last time I gave you my services, wakko Wesker here almost ended up in Arkham", Scarface sounded angry, Weskers shudder just noticeable. "Plus you still owe me for that truck you busted up in the process, ain't easy to pay a mechanic too keep quiet you know, 'specially when the bat beats them to a bloody pulp".

Joker reached into his coat pocket and threw the roll of money he had found on the coffee table, "Five hundred", he declared, "Cash". Scarface eyed the Joker and then his head turned to Wesker.

"The fuck you waiting for Wesker, count the man's money, you making me look like a bad host". Wesker did as Scarface told him, quickly fumbling through the money. His brow sweated when he finished.

"Uh boss", Wesker said unsure.

"What!", Scarface spat back, his body jilting on Weskers arm.

"There's nine hundred here". His voice shaking under the gaze of both Joker and Scarface, two sets of black inset eyes observing him like owls with a limping mouse.

"For the mirror", Joker explained, breaking the silence. "I, uh, Well I slipped", He lied, smiling.

"The mirror don't cost four hundred dummy", Scarface cut it, "heck, I doubt everything in this apartment put together would cost four hundred dollars". Scarface added grinding his wooden teeth.

"That's actually something I've been meaning to ask", Jokers tone sounding more casual, "Why you lying low here, I mean I can see Wesker living here, but you Scarface?".

The wooden man's voice was frustrated and deep, "There have been . . . complications". Was all he said.

"Care to elaborate", Joker again cocked his head and raised his animated eyebrows.

"My police informant squealed when put under pressure, gave away the names of my associates and all my safe houses. We currently run things from here now until my partner can arrange something more suitable". Scarface said, taking the nine hundred from Weskers hand in one snatching swing. "But don't change the subject clown", he said getting back on topic, "what's the extra four hundred for?".

"Your services, as I said before. I need guys, not many of them, but a few brawns to match my many brains if you catch my drift". Joker's voice low and eerie. "Four hundred upfront now, Ten grand when the jobs done".

"Ha, you expect me to believe you have that much money", Scarface scoffed.

"Will have Scar's, will have. Once I carry out the job". Joker reassured.

"This job", Scarface begun sceptically, "What is it?".

Joker smiled wickedly, "Raiding the Gotham gallery. I have something I want to do there you see. I am currently on a quest to reassure my title as top anarchist in this town. Another kid has unwittingly wandered into my sand box if you get my meaning, and I'm not having it at all. I'll plant my plastic spade his head before I roll over into the corner". Joker sounded angry, his fists gripping the arms of the chair. His purple gloves creaking as they scrunched.

Wesker put his back as far as it would go into the chair.

"I am on a mission my friend, a mission to annihilate this imposter. I am erecting piece's of my own all over Gotham in the hope that he will see them and know of his impending doom, like a cat playing with a bird before the fatal blow". The enjoyment in his voice was evident when talking of Artists 'fatal blow'.

"I know the guy of which you speak Joker, seen his little spree all over the news. Personally I'd like to bring him down a peg or two myself, he's bad for business trust me". Scarface chimed, now agreeing with Joker more and more. "Wesker the remote". He added. Wesker handed Scarface the remote. He switched it onto channel 7 news, where they were showing footage of a serious house fire and some blurry amateur taken images of the inside through the windows. They showed the charred remains of two bodies, dancing it seemed.

Joker had not yet seen this, but it fueled further the fire of his anger which grew inside him. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn't help but see its sheer genius and imagination. He liked it. He wished he had thought of it. How dare he. Was all the mad man could think. However he reminded himself of his latest work and how much more shocking it was, reassuring himself that he was still top dog, even if the news hadn't quite got wind of it yet.

"The trick", Joker continued, "Is to watch, see what he does, where he makes his moves. I already have a good idea of where his next little slaughter will be", Joker touched the side of his nose and smirked an evil smirk. "The trick is to not only rival his murders with my own brand of violence, shadowing his. But to get inside his head a little, see what makes him tick.. That way we can eventually catch him and unpick him piece by piece". Scarface was now nodding and smirking too, Wesker witnessing the devious plot yet saying nothing to discourage it.

"At least the way I see it is to draw him out, let him have his fun, but always keep a looming dagger above his head, wait for him to fall into place and then-BAM!". Joker brought his fist down onto the coffee table, the magazines flying up temporarily upon the impact. "I'll get you into the gallery, your guys can loot and wreck what they want, so long as they don't bother me. And if Artist turns up, he's mine". Joker brought his fist up to his face, crushing the air, his eyes flashing violently.

Scarface was silent for a while, "I'm in". He eventually decided, "When do you want to do this?".

Joker's eyes intensified, his small black pupil shaking with wildness in the sea of toxic green. "When can your guys be ready?",

"Tonight", Scarface assured.

"Tonight then". Joker declared leaning forward towards the puppet,


"We make our move tonight"

The day passed quickly for Ivory, she slept in as usual, awoke in time for lunch with a friend and then quickly made her way back to her apartment, spending the rest of the afternoon in her studio painting.

She stretched, her shoulders aching from leaning down for far too long. Admiring her latest piece, she rested her stiff torso on the wall behind her, it's cold surface soothing her knotted muscles. Her hands, arms and face were laden in smudges of red and black, specks of deep orange here and there. The plain white shirt she painted in was baggy and sweaty and also suffered the war wounds of her frantic painting. But it was worth it, she told herself as she gazed at her work.

A large canvas lay before her, depicting a man and woman, waltzing in fire, their bodies were of fire and so was their surroundings, great curls and wisps of flame wiping around then as they turned in the heat of the passionate flames. They were almost life-size, but a little smaller, the black oil paint shiny and giving the work an almost demonic touch, recreating the scene she had created physically the night before.

She smiled though felt partial sadness that even if people admired her new painting, they would never see the real work of art that inspired it, never truly understand its meaning and see it as she did.

Her alarm went off on her phone and she swiped, the clock revealing it was past seven. Her smile again revealed itself. She was up like a bolt, filled with energy once again as he stripped off on her way to that bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes behind her. She savoured the ice cold water running down her face and hair. It was always a shock when it first hit her but soon she enjoyed it as she felt it wash away the paint stains on her body. As if it had cleared Ivory away from her being she leaned on the shower wall with both hands, resting her head. She smiled, savouring the feeling of purification and renewal.

She emerged, drying off and wrapping the towel around herself. She re-entered her studio and walked across the room to the mezzanine area, climbing the steps, bringing her closer to the skylight window. Once at the top she wandered over to a black set of changing blinds which separated off a small corner, behind which was her painting of Artist.

At the foot of the canvas was a black trunk, within which her nights entertainment lay. She changed quickly and excitedly, staring into the long mirror to the side of the canvas admiring her appearance. She placed her mask ceremoniously over her face as if it was the last part of her transformation. Her werewolf moment of transition. Gathering up her 'essentials' and a shiny new Shepherd handgun she had purchased in the lead up to Artists birth, she left, ready to conquer yet another violently artistic feat.


Okay so I said it would be two weeks, but what I really meant was like . . . four. But hey here it is, I swear I'll et to some romance sooner or later but I'm stretching this out a little because I want it to have pay off. (Bullshit excuse for wanting to sound all profound and crap).

I'll update soon, (I'll won't update soon)