BB POV

The name Prankster was nothing but an insult to me.

There was nothing funny about what I was doing. Absolutely nothing.

Shooting at people isn't funny. Blowing up office buildings isn't funny. Filling up ventilators with laughing gas isn't funny.

It wasn't funny to me. But somehow it was all for laughs when it comes to the Joker.

The laughing only stopped when I did things that weren't part of the plan.

I never allowed myself to kill people. Never. I shot at their arm or leg or stomach. Never at close range. I just didn't have the guts to do so, even if it wasn't so upfront or so personal. Even then, I could still hear Joker's justification for it:

"It ain't personal my boy! Just pull this little tidbit and BOOM! It'll be enough to blow their minds!"

And then he'd imitate a massive explosion.

"Hahahahaha! Ahhh... God, I just love puns! Don't you my boy?"

I didn't. I really, really hated them with a passion. Obviously I couldn't say that aloud or he'd beat the hell out of me. Or whip me. Or feed me more dead dogs or dead cats or dead rabbits.

Needless to say, nothing changed. The only thing that did change was that he maximized my suffering.

There were these brutal training regiments. Combat practice, target practice, mixing chemicals. He expected perfection and efficiency. If I didn't work fast enough, the whip made sure to straighten me out. But that wasn't what filled me with dread. What really scared me to death was morphing.

He would force me to shape shift in rapid succession. The process was excruciating... and life-threatening. It felt like my organs and vessels and tissues and bones were being stretched out, compacted, and reassessed too quickly, too violently.

Often, I'd faint from the pain.

The Joker would splash cold water on my face, force me awake and I'd start over and if I didn't change fast enough, he'd threaten to starve me. If the threats didn't work, he'd beat me up. One time, he brutalized me so badly I couldn't even walk from the pain. Another time, I was knocked unconscious and another time he broke my nose. I would wake up with a nosebleed, his smile hovering over my face.

He'd finish the job. Every time.

If I didn't kill his target, he'd murder them for himself.

It felt like a movie sometimes. His index finger pulling the trigger. The bullet flying off and striking the face. The body falling down, thudding to the ground. The pool of blood seeping through the pavement.

Sometimes the face or the chest or some other body part leading to the fatality would be disemboweled from the impact. Usually I'd freeze up, my throat closing up, my heart breaking every time. Every time it'd shatter, a small part of me being scooped away.

Usually I'd be too overwhelmed and vomit out whatever dead animal I was forced to eat last night.

"Aw, come on! Jesus, Prankster, can't you just keep a hold of your lunch once in a while? Why'd you always gotta be spoiling the fun, huh?"

And then he'd point the gun at one of his henchmen and, without batting an eye, kill them off, without any reason for doing so.

I'd continue to retch until nothing but saliva came out of me.

There'd be moments in which I was so broken, so fragmented that I'd forget my own name.

Chained to the wall, wailing, or singing a Swahili song, I'd lose myself. I'd grimace, tears streaming down and find out to my despair that I can't remember who I was.

I couldn't see my parents' faces clearly anymore. They faded off, blurring, back into a past I could no longer claim as my own.

And suddenly, as I was forced awake, as I was beaten once again, as I was kicked and punched and whipped at, as my back tore open and my nose bled profusely and my left fanged tooth grew more and more out of place, I'd recall, to my horror, who I was.

And then sob out at all the purity I've lost.

I was losing resolve. I was losing whatever innocence I had. I couldn't bear it. I'd often see through myself, the water bowl serving as a mirror and whisper, "I don't like you." Then I'd hear the Joker's giggling building up to outrageous laughter. And we'd go back to causing mayhem. People kept calling me the perfect sidekick to Joker's villainy.

I wanted to just die. Just leave this earth. Do myself a favor and just end it. Yet a very small part of me wanted to live. A part of me refused to believe I was beyond redemption, beyond any decency.

But I shut down mentally. I was an emotional wreck, crying myself to sleep, singing old African songs to myself, seeing my parents in a blinding haze. I could only ask, 'Is this what it's like to go absolutely insane?'

And in my own disbelief and disgust I'd actually feel just this tiny bit of pity for the Joker.

And then, just like that, I'd hate him all the more.

Nothing mattered to me anymore. Everything was hopeless. I was hopeless.

Till that fateful night. When we encountered the Dark Knight himself... and his own sidekick: Robin.

That night wasn't any different from any other night we've caused madness and chaos. The Joker, a group of his henchmen and I, banded together, in his warehouse. He gave me a gun to use just in case I got caught.

"You either kill them off my boy or..." he mimicked a pistol with his fingers and imitated a gun going off on his head. "You kill yourself. And just to make sure—"

He whipped out his own pistol and pointed it at me. I got the message. He'd finish me off, like he'd always done to other victims.

I only nodded in response. By this time I've long since stopped fighting.

We all split up. Since I was very small for my age, due to malnutrition, I was able to hide behind a tower of cardboard boxes, patiently waiting for an ambush.

Suddenly, Batman and Robin burst through the window, broken glass spraying everywhere.

"Show yourself, Joker," Batman said coolly, calmly. I was petrified of Batman, really. He'd managed to successfully beat the Joker on more than one occasion. And yet my master came back for more.

I loaded the gun with ammunition. The Joker then shouted, "Attack!"

That was my cue along with the rest of his henchmen. I peeked through the boxes, carefully aimed at Batman, only to freeze at the sight that lay before me.

A boy. With spiked hair. A mask covered his eyes. He had on a green and red and black suit. He fought one of the henchmen valiently without any weapons.

Batman yelled out, "Robin, behind you!"

Another henchmen almost swung a punch at Robin. The boy ducked just in time, and his fist accidentally hit the other henchmen Robin was originally sparring with.

My head was wailing at me, a cacophony of voices tellling me to shot him and another set of voices reminding me he's just a kid, like you were. Like you are.

You can still redeem yourself.

No, it's too late.

It's never too late—

No, I've hurt so many people—

You never killed them—

Doesn't excuse anything—

You were forced to—

I had a choice—

Just a kid—

I HAD A CHOICE!

A gunshot. His leg. Robin falls. Screaming.

The Joker laughed hysterically, only to be put in a chokehold by Batman. I look at my right hand. The smoke, the smell of gun residue. The gunshot came from me. I realize I'm shaking.

"Robin!" Batman yelled out, worriedly. He looked at at Joker, at his rictus grin, his eyes with pin point pupils. The remorselessness, the ruthlessness. He choked him even more till he let him fall roughly to the floor. He was unconscious. He then kicked him. I heard an audible crack, making me cringe.

Batman rushed to Robin's side, ripping a part of his cape and wrapping it around Robin's injured leg to make a tourniquet.

Batman kept assuring him, "Its going to be alright, son. Nothing fatal. We'll get you patched up in no time..."

The whole time, Robin glanced at me. He followed the trail of smoke to the boxes. And then he saw me. My eyes met his own. Blind rage were hidden there, hidden behind that mask. He kept looking right through me. It rattled me beyond repair.

His face grimaced and he mouthed at me,

"I. WILL. GET YOU."

I couldn't watch anymore. I turned around and shrunk within myself. My conscience plagued me. My thoughts were a whirlwind.

Batman carries Robin gently and exited through the main doors of the warehouse. I walked up hesitantly to Joker, who is still unconscious. Blood is bubbling out of his mouth. His nose is bleeding. His gelled hair had fallen on his face. I realized I felt nothing. No sympathy or lack thereof.

'What have I become?' I thought.

"God... what have I done?" I said aloud.

What am I doing? Why am I adding to my own perdition? Why am I excusing myself? Why? Why?

Batman is so unlike him. He's so unlike him. He cares for Robin. He treats him like a son. The Joker only treats me like a slave at best and a punching bag at worst.

I looked at him once more. This time, for the very first time, I made my choice.

I pulled off my black ski mask. I threw it disgustingly at the Joker. And then I ran, without looking back. I bolted out, and ran outside, vowing I'd never allow myself to be complacent.