Author's Notes: I thought that because I'm on summer break that I would be updating a lot faster; I apologize for that not being the case. When I'm far into a story, I begin to have writer's block because I tend to overthink everything, so I'm being very careful with that.
Also, I always have to refrain myself from posting a chapter as soon as I'm finished with it so that I can go back and revise whatever mistakes I see first. Unfortunately, my chapters are still no where near perfect after a lot of revision. Anyways, here you go!
****Follow the soundtrack on Youtube!****
(The Link is on my profile)
The Joker: Heath Ledger
Harley Quinn: Brittany Murphy
R.I.P To both of these amazing actors.
Summary: There's something maddening about the unexpected, but drastic changes calls for drastic measures.
For Now
"We found you hiding, we found you lying
Choking on the dirt and sand.
Your former glories and all the stories
Dragged and washed with eager hands."
Siouxsie & The Banshees - "Cities in Dust" (1986)
It had taken all of his will power to not have dropped everything and hitched a ride to California (to see for himself) when he read the top article on the newspaper. Well, more like shoot a driver in the head, hijack their car, and take it across the country. Now, that he thinks about it, that idea isn't too shabby.
He couldn't even fall asleep the night before, not that he slept much anyway—he hopes the henchmen hadn't neglected to restock the coffee grounds before they had been arrested, or killed, so that he could brew himself a steaming cup. After rereading every single word of that article last night, they were engraved in his mind. When he closed his eyes to try to get some shut eye, the words continued to play out behind closed lids. He found it aggravating.
Especially the address for the Californian house; it just won't quit.
With one steady glance at the laptop's bright screen, he stored the address in the depth of his brain.
After a long night of tossing and turning, his worry lines were more stubborn and his strands coiled around each other into an even bigger matted mess. Those two characteristics didn't bother him as much as it would to others. After all, he wasn't known to groom regularly in the natural fashion of this society. Civilians already thought he was menacing, what more could those two factors change besides enhance their previous judgment?
Twelve years ago...
"So, what do you think?"
Jack turned around to face a slightly alarmed Nicholas Falcone, one of his only friends.
Nicholas stared at his friend's smooth face smothered in face paint—his pale freckles hidden under white, brown eyes encased with black, and red on his lips. For a second, he thought the paint was in the act of the baggie of white powder Jack kepts in his front pocket, but he noticed the same brown eyes were clear if not with a hint of mischief.
The waxy aroma of the paint surrounded the half-litted room in the apartment they split half-and-half with the money they have acquired from small night jobs—"Just stand there with da automatics and look threatenin'. You two can get bigger jobs when ya're older."
After many naggings from his father who begged Nicholas to continue to stay at the penthouse until he was eighteen, Nicholas told his father, Carmine Falcone, "Think of it like I'm going to college and dormin'. I'm only gonna be a couple blocks away with Jack."
Nicholas chuckled and motioned towards Jack's face, "What's with the new get up?"
"What, you don't like clowns, bozo?" Jack joked.
Nicholas sat down on the worn-out couch due to clothed feet often residing on the cushions after long nights, "Eh, they're alright, I guess. You?"
"You want the truth or the half-truth?," Jack grinned, the paint contorting to the youthful lines of his face.
"Whichever mood you're in for." Nicholas chuckled, only of course he wasn't serious.
Jack began with a question, "Ever had a clown hired for one of your kiddy parties, Nicky?"
Nicholas laughed at a memory he had as a young child, "Yeah, once. I was so scared of 'im I literally pissed myself in front of my whole family and that freak."
Instead of a snarky remark, Jack continued, "Well, you see, if you really think about it..Clowns are fearless; they're not scared of what others think of them. In fact, they act goofy to make others laugh, even though an individual might be scared. Clowns just want to put a smile on your face."
Nicholas eyed him with tawny eyes, "I can tell you're telling half the truth because you aren't bein' serious."
"Okay, okay," Jack laughed, "I used to read a lot back in school..actually, whenever I had the chance to. This one time I read a book about medieval occupations; a jester either entertained a king or bored him. If it was the latter, he was to be "off with his head" under the order of a monstrous king."
"So...?" Nicholas brows creased in confusion.
Jack had a deep look of concentration, "Wait, I'm not done. You see a jester is just a pawn in the king's castle...and that's what I am now in your father's family."
Nicholas wanted to defend his father, he wanted to defend his family, and tell Jack that what he had said wasn't true because he wasn't some stranger who did what he was asked of, Jack was his closest friend. And so far, they haven't really witnessed anything too gruesome for Jack to be thinking in that sense.
Out of no where Jack busted out in a snort, "Bedsides, don't you think it's a good disguise?"
Present time...
There was no one present at the hideout for him to lash out on. Not his useless, nameless henchmen; not Skelton or Kelly. Not Harley; although, he will deal with the little blonde harpy later. And, not Batman; the Bat has been under the radar for quite a few times. With a glare directed at the ruined and lumpy mattress with cotton spewling over the side, he blamed it for last night's troubles, even though it was under his own doing.
A frenzied kick towards the bed had the Joker cursing under his breath as he held his shin that had made contact with the metal frame. He sat down and examined a lump form on the tender spot of his shin. He watched long enough to see the purples and blues embroider under the surface of his skin.
And he came to an old conclusion of sorts. He wanted complete anarchy, despite last night's event with the cops and the mob still fresh in the city—that never stopped me before. He was certain.
This time it would be based on a whim, rather than a heist that has been previously planned. This wouldn't be personal on any level, it would just be an unfortunate event among the city. He would be alone at it again.
Eleven years and five months ago...
He wasn't given a gun this time, but he was supposed to stand guard and keep an eye on the victim while he waited for his turn. Nicholas wasn't in the room with him, he was in another room with some other unfortunate being while they waited as well. Jack was alone for the first time as he stood guard in the pitch black room, except for a lamp that pointed at the victims face on the desk.
Jack stood in the shadows as he thought back to what he overheard earlier. The victim and his sibling's father owed quite a bit of cash and seemed to be holding out on Falcone.
He stood with previously washed dirty blond hair and a few hours old face paint, sweating due to the lack of air conditioning in the abandoned building during a heatwave coursing through Gotham. He blew towards his own face to cool himself for a moment and briefly wondered why Falcone had to choose tonight to have him play security.
He studied the victim who sat at the vintage desk made of thick mahogany wood. His arms were bound by old, prickly rope—surprisingly, the rope seemed like an afterthought—and duct tape was bound over his mouth. He was trembling—breathing hard with his nostrils while emitting embarrassing, although hardly noticeable, whimpers as sweat ran down his forehead.
Despite the drastic setting, Jack recognized the boy that was being held against his will.
The boy had the same dark buzz cut that he sported when Jack had attended high school with him. He was slightly older than Jack, although always in the same grade. No matter how much Jack had dreaded it, he had to face the boy in middle school until Jack had discontinued attending their Junior year of high school after he met Nicholas.
Throughout their school years together, Jack had witnessed the boy abuse his status and pick on anyone who he believed was inferior—Jack was one of them. Even though Jack had a couple of the girls swooning after him, he still kept to himself—always with a book in front of him at the school's library, or pitying himself with vinyls at home.
Before meeting Nicholas, Jack was never aware of how close the mob operated in this God-forsaken city. Before tonight, he never knew that even those he's seen before were tied to the mob one way or another.
He felt sweat run down his forehead and wiped at it with his sleeve. Jack noticed some of the white face paint gave way to his sleeve as he rubbed and cursed under his breath—he still wasn't used to wearing war paint since he only wore it during cooler nights, unlike tonight.
He turned his attention away from the hostage when he heard abrupt yelling and gun fire that had startled him upon his musings coming from the other side of the door. His anxiety was spiking at the unknown commotion. He wondered if they were under attack—he's never experienced that predicament and didn't know what to do if it happened. Just fight back, I guess.
Looking at his bare hands, he remembered that he wasn't given any form of protection in case anything went wrong, but he did have something he could use if he had to. He felt for the knife in his skinny jeans and gripped it in the palm of his sweaty hand, hoping it didn't slip from his grasp. He thought he could brandish it to threaten if need be.
With all the commotion coming from the other side, he noticed the boy moving his tied hands under the vintage desk. "Hey, cut it out," Jack forcefully demanded in a deeper tone.
The older boy continued the motion as Jack walked over to investigate his actions. Suddenly, the door jostled in its hinges as forceful kicks tried to barge through it. Jack nervously turned to face the door as the yelling and gun shots continued. What's going on?
Before he knew it, the boy was free of his restraints and ripped the tape off his mouth with a painful grunt. As Jack turned to face him, the boy jumped out of the only window in the second-story room without a second thought—his instincts for survival kicking in.
Jack rushed and looked over the ledge and saw the boy land in a pile of trash bags seemingly unharmed. He turned to see the door cracking under all the pressure, and decided to follow suit of the boy. He took a deep breath and jumped off the same ledge, ready to chase after him in the alley below.
Soon after, he recovered from the fall and went running in the same direction of the boy he couldn't allow to escape. It's either his head or mine.
As he continued down the narrow path, the gun shots from the building decreased and the boy's footsteps continued to slap against the cement while he cried out. "Help!"
Jack was inching closer, and even though the boy had a bigger build than him and was slightly faster, he wrapped his arms around the boy in front of him when he had the chance. With his arms secured tightly around him, Jack allowed his dead weight to pull him down onto the ground.
A chunk of face paint flaked off onto the other boy's face when Jack tackled him. Jack struggled to hold him down by his shoulders to keep the boy from running away. "Hold still, dammit!"
He struggled to keep his weight on him while hoping the others were on their way to take the boy hostage once again. They never showed.
The boy had instinctively blinked when a flake of paint landed on his cheek, but when he opened his eyes again they widened in astonishment. His eyes met a familiar face revealed by smudged paint due to the heat. His initial shock didn't lighten up, it increased, and so did his blubbering.
"J—Jack?," he realized then that this is where the boy had gone missing to about a year ago.
Jack didn't say anything, he just continued to hold him down and tried not to show his nervousness. His anxiety continued to increase due to the boy finding him out. If the boy gets away, Jack knew he was done for it—either locked away or hunted from the mob due to his own lack of judgment. He had to take action, he just had to.
He flicked open his switch blade and held it against the boy's throat in hopes that he'd stop yelling or talking enough to be able to wrap his head around the turn of events. It's not suppose to be like this.
This only served to increase the boy's panicked demeanor. The boy began to beg for his life as tears escaped. "Just please! Let me go!"
As Jack pushed down further with the knife in hopes of shutting him up, the boy starts struggling even further while snot coated his hairless upper lip, "I'm sorry, man! I'm sorry for what happened—for what I've done!"
There's no turning back now.
Panicked of getting caught by passer byers or the police or anyone, Jack began to shake as he slid the blade across the skin with inexperience, all while repeating, "I'm sorry."
When the right amount of pressure was applied, blood speckled onto Jack's facial features. As soon as the blood hit his face he dropped the blade near the boy's gurgling throat. In shock of actually going through with it, he got off of him and watched as the boy struggling for breath ceased.
Time seemed to stop and his ears were ringing, and he couldn't hear anything else besides the sounds from his memories.
This boy who once picked on him with the same tired one-liners now lay with blood seaping through a slashed throat; Crimson red began to coat and stain the cement beneath the body .
With wide eyes, Jack dragged himself away to a wall. Sitting against it, he wrapped his arms around his legs and closed his eyes. He took deep breaths, refusing to release the tears stinging his dark orbs. He began to rock to and fro and paid little attention to the little itty bits of broken glass and whatever else littered the cement of the alleyway.
He dared a peak at the body in front of him, and caught a glance of a broken blood vessel in one of the pupils due to straining. Unintentionally, he caught the wound he had created on the pale neck with his gaze.
He leaned to the side to heave and rid his stomach of its contents until he was just gagging on stale air. He spit out whatever remains of bile stayed in his mouth and wiped at his painted lips—further smudging the paint that he reminded him of blood.
He thinks his name was Daniel or Darryl, he couldn't remember for he never really understood him or his motives back in school. But apparently, the boy's father worried about himself more than he did his children, and never showed up—Jack wondered if his old man would have left him for dead as well this boy's father did.
He glanced up at the sky, whatever bit wasn't obstructed by the tall buildings of Gotham. A glaze swept over his eyes as he lost himself within the depths of his mind—the boy's dead body still fresh.
He heard from many teachers' lessons about bullying, how bullying often resulted from poor parenting. It never made sense to him; his father was the epiphany of a poor father figure, yet Jack had still been polite to those who did him no wrong. His father had never controlled his own actions upon others; the emotions he had felt because of him were taken care of on his own time, locked away from others.
For a brief moment his eyes cut through the boy's prone figure. He was nothing but a coward, he thought. He acted tough around their other schoolmates, but Jack had just witnessed the boy's true persona in his final hours.
And despite Jack's fear and inexperience of having held the knife against a living person and having to go through with it, for once, he had felt in control as he held the boy's life in his hands.
Suddenly, the ringing stopped. And, the sound of a car's alarm cutting into the night from several blocks away brought Jack back into this very moment.
After hours of sitting in the same spot, he picked himself up using support from the brick wall behind him. He tentatively walked over to the boy's body. With a final glance, Jack picked up his drenched switchblade. He wiped the blood off the blade along his jean-clad thigh as he walked away into the dead of the night.
The police found the body at first sign of daylight.
Present time...
He knows there are some leftover sticky-bombs from previous plannings in the basement along with some automatics if he needs them; they could come in handy.
But, where could it take place? He figured planting the bombs at another corrupted bank was too obvious, plus he didn't want to deal with the mob right now—not until he settled his business with Harley.
Other than there, it didn't really matter where the bombs would be set, he doubted Batman would get involved, and cops were easy to escape from. He's known a trick of slipping out of tight handcuffs since he was a teenager—he always keeps a spare bobby pin hidden in his inner cuff along with a miniature Boker Medallion switchblade.
He snagged the map of Gotham off his desk and taped it against a wall. Taking the switchblade from the desk, he threw the blade at a random location on the map.
Bingo.
Five years and three months ago...
He'd switched his dirty skinny jeans, t-shirt, and Converse sneakers out for a suit. His curls had grown out a bit into a scraggly, untamed style—similar to what he'd later be known for. The name, Jack, had been gone for a while, he was to be addressed as the Joker. Jack's new persona worried Nicholas for he had a first-class view to his friend's gradual descent into darkness. He had never seen anything like it before.
The Joker was now the go-to for who ever didn't want to get their hands dirty—Nicholas hadn't even so much as cut off a finger at this point, nor did he plan on it. Just the idea was sickening.
Nicholas had since moved back in with his father and mother in their luxurious penthouse, leaving Jack, or the Joker, at the messy apartment by himself. He didn't want to be near his friend anymore; his warm presence has since been iced over producing endless shivers within Nicholas. Jack, or the Joker, never genuinely smiled anymore with his ex-signature crinkly youthful eyes. Now, the Joker leered while cold and calculating. Nicholas's friend was long gone and has since been replaced by an anarchist who cared for nobody, and he blamed himself.
The Joker had been waiting when they threw him into the room. His name had been on the hit list for a while, although it wasn't hard for them to find him. The bastard had no money and no place to go to—hasn't had money since he lost his job to an injury and had spent the rest of what they had on alcohol. The Joker hadn't forgotten about him nor the fact that he had let his own family to rot with him.
As his back had hit the ground in full force, he pulled out the oldest card in pleading for a chance in survival, although it always failed.
"Please! I have a wife!"
The son of a bitch was lying, he'd spew anything to save his own ass—he had a wife. The Joker had seen his mother's name under the obituaries in the newspaper months ago. She had had a terminal illness. And, this fucker who had no doubt caused his mother's illness had the audacity to mention her for his own selfish sake. "You don't have a wife anymore," the Joker stated.
The fucker had his eyes closed in fear.
"Anyone else?" After no response, his mood worsened.
"No son?" The Joker sarcastically remarked in his adopted nasally tone.
He continued to sob while avoiding eye contact with the man who was without a doubt going to kill him for the money he owed. The Joker smirked at his kneeling form—my old man knows his fate.
"No child waiting up for you to tell you of their great day?" The Joker challenged his father.
With his gloved hands, he forced the graying man to look up at him. "Huh? What's he gonna think when daddy doesn't show up?"
His father faced the floor once more as he cried, "I don't have a son!"
The Joker watched as his shoulders began to shake and his breathing increased rapidly. He almost didn't catch his next words, "I've lost everything and it's all my fault."
That's all the Joker needed to hear—that's all Jack had ever wanted to hear, that it wasn't his own fault that his parents turned out to have unfortunate lives. He wanted his old man to admit defeat, and to put the blame for all their troubles on his own shoulders.
"Look at me," the Joker demanded.
His father looked up, and the Joker stared deep into his familiar orbs—a gene his father had passed onto him. There was no hint of recognition in his father's trembled gaze. For a moment the Joker expected himself to be back in his bedroom with the same pair of jeans he always wore with clean dirty-blond locks while gazing at the white ceiling as the turntable next to his bed spun.
His father had looked every bit the same since the last time he had caught a glimpse of him, back when his days were lived day by day. He recognized the white collared shirt with blue stripes. He always kept the very top button undone. There was just one thing different about him, alcohol had finally taken its toll on the aging man in front of him.
He blinked once and was back in the present. Surprisingly, his father still gazed at him in fear. The words escaped his painted, scarless mouth. "Are you sorry?"
His father had seemed to know what he meant. He felt his scowl vanish as his father replied in a careful whisper, "Yes."
He caught his father's clueless gaze one last time before he revealed a pistol from his coat. He was supposed to make his inevitable death painful, but he figured the others wouldn't dare touch on the subject.
Soon after, his father now lay on the floor with a bullet embedded in his forehead. His final breath caught in a motionless chest.
The Joker left the room, without a word to anyone, so the others could dispose of the body.
Present time...
The fire from the burning building reflected off the Nissan's rearview mirror begging for his attention as he drove away consumed by cackles. Each glance of the smoke consuming the air was rewarded by a new wave of loud giggles.
There was blood smeared on the passenger window due to a bullet in the skull to an unfortunate fool who happened to stop at a red light just as the building had burst into flames. The cops were surely on their way and the Joker needed a fast getaway. The first chance he had seen, he took without a second thought. He dragged the body out of the driver seat and drove off. It had all been so funny.
"I need a fucking vacation," he muttered under his breath after the giggles had subsided—an address kept in mind.
He pulled out a folded piece of newspaper out of his back pocket while keeping the steering wheel steady. It was the same article he had read the other day; it now consisted of harsh scribbles in red circling the petite blonde in the picture. Ha Has bleeding through in red sharpie, engulfing the blurry sand of the picture, but it wasn't funny. It wasn't funny at all.
Author's Notes: Now, you've gotten to know a little bit about the Joker's friend (who was briefly mentioned in chapter seven as "friends" due to the fact that the Joker was also talking about the others he has met in the mob) who got him involved with the mob in the first place.
And, in case you missed it; as a child/teenager, the Joker spent his recess and lunch in the library reading about anything and everything, which is why he has a vast array of knowledge under his belt.
Oh and, the idea of the Joker wearing skinny jeans before becoming the Joker is a shoutout to the writer, knit-wear, on her amazing Joker/Harley origin fic, A Fairly Honorable Defeat. It's under the Batman Begins/Dark knight category. I highly recommend it!
So, I just realized that this fic only has about four chapters to go. That may change though, depending on how it turns out.
THANK YOU TO ALL MY REVIEWERS:
Andra Cand: His arrival will be...let's say..entertaining.
XxxoxoxxX: Thank you for your input for last chapter. I meant for their goodbye to be deep, to show Harley's tragic love life. I totally missed the parallels between the two pairings while writing; thanks for pointing it out.
lala3366: Unfortunately, the Joker is a violent being by nature, so there will be a huge struggle. Your questions will definately be answered in the coming chapters.
LadyAsaka: Yes! I get frustrated sometimes when I read fics about Harley, and her psychology background is completely ignored, which leaves only a naïve, blind follower. Harley is so much more of a complex character than that.
It would mean alot if you left a nice little review filled with thoughts/helpful criticism/praise (whichever, anything really). Hopefully, next chapter will be written and uploaded much quicker.
Until then!
6/30/2017