"C'mon, freak."
The guards drag a man down the hallway, gripping hard on the straight jacket wrapped around his body. They jostle him around, tugging back and forth without allowing him to get his footing. The prisoner is already disoriented from the drugs in his system. A necessary evil if the transfer was to be a success. The two men hold on tight, refusing to give any leeway despite the assurances from the Blackgate officers.
Smart.
They know better than to believe a few doses will be enough to hinder any attempt at lunging for their throats if the chance presents itself. This man is perfectly capable of doing that without his hands. One of the new transport guards learned that lesson the hard way.
A malicious grin spreads across the Joker's face, relishing in the metallic taste still in his mouth. He slumps down further, letting the guards carry his weight if that's what they really want. If his arms weren't pinned to his chest, they would've already been choking on their own blood, begging for mercy they'll never receive. He's capable of many things, but that isn't one of them.
"What the fuck are you smiling about?" Elbowing him in the ribs, the tall, dark-haired guard laughs at the dark eyes narrowing in on him. "Don't give me that look, fuckface. You're not in Blackgate anymore, remember that. This is a whole different ballgame."
Joker's brow arches up and his lips back over his dingy teeth to give the man an incredulous look. As if he didn't know where he is... This isn't his first rodeo. He knows the effect his appearance has on other people and purposefully makes use of the unattractive assets.
"Gross... Geez, every time one crazy goes, another comes strolling right in..." The guard shakes his head, jerking the clown up when his bare feet start dragging behind him. "Get on your damn feet already! You keep messing around, I'll knock you out and drag you face-down across the floor. We have other shit to do, besides lugging trash around."
"Ahh... Thought this was part of your job. Guess you're in the wrong line of work, uh-" Dark eyes glance at the name tag on the uniform. "Harold..." He will make sure to remember that for later.
"Shut the hell up..." The two men pull him up, trying to get him on his feet. A cackle that makes their grip tighten on his sides pours from his ruined lips, causing them to freeze on the spot. Everyone knows when the Joker has one of his fits, it's followed up by something terrible. This time, it's not from anything he plans to do at the current moment. No. He's laughing at them. They are already tired just from carrying his weight, that's why they're making him stand on his own.
So weak...
"Stop being so rough with him. No matter who he is or what he's done, that man is still a patient in our facility. Our job is to keep everyone safe, not take our anger out on someone that's restrained."
Harold looks back when another guard approaches them. The man's tall with blond hair and meticulously-ironed uniform without a single unwarranted crease in sight.
Joker clicks his tongue, glaring at the newcomer. Another one of those guys... The urge to mess up his clothes is tempting. They're too neat that it's agitating. This man will be locked in the vault for later as well.
"Tch. Stop being such a pain in the ass. Didn't one of your friends get killed because of this maniac's stunts? Why are you defending him? If it was me..." Brown eyes narrow down at the clown, using the hold on the straight jacket to shake him back and forth. He can't help grinning as his head lulls from one side to the other from the force.
"Enough! It can't be helped... Is hurting a patient going to change anything? The whole point of this place is to rehabilitate men like him. How is abuse going to make a difference? No wonder the patients don't trust us and are acting out." The man's expression turns grim, watching the two other guards look at him like he was insane.
"This thing is not a man. Second, there is no rehabilitating anyone here. You damn well know that already. Arkham is just a hyped-up super-prison. If we don't offer counseling and medication, the funding gets cut in half. It's what separates us from Blackgate. Besides, the meds make these loons easier to handle." Harold sneers, looking down at the clown curling his lips.
Joker sighs, becoming impatient from waiting for these two to finish up rambling about whether he should be hit or not. The guards will do whatever they want as soon as this other guy leaves anyway, so what's the point? It doesn't matter. The beatings are just one way to pass the time.
All it takes is a few words through the cell door to get them to come in and fight. When things became too monotonous, it's better than nothing. These guys are too easy to rile up, letting their emotions cloud their judgment. That's what makes this fun... To see someone pretending to be so composed, then lose their shit in just a few minutes. They're like putty in his hands, easy to manipulate at every twist and turn.
"Hah... I don't want to have another conversation like this with you guys. Don't let me see this happen again or I'll have to inform Dr. Arkham about your conduct." The blond-haired guard folds his arms over his chest, eyeing the men in front of him.
Joker rolls his eyes up into his head, craning his neck back at a painful angle. This is becoming incredibly boring... Of course, every conversation and action gives him more information than they probably would like, and it'll be useful for when the time comes.
"Fuck you too, John..." Gripping the binds harder, the guard pushes the clown forward, wanting to get away from the nosy man watching them.
Going down the hall, Harold grumbles to the other man helping out with their newest resident. Muttering curses under his breath, his irritation is apparent while his eyes dart along the doors that line the walls. Little does he know, the man being pushed around is intently listening to every word that falls from his lips.
"Goddamn asshole... I can't stand him one bit, Derek. All he does is fucking put his nose into everything. Piece of shit... Always acting like he's better than the rest of us." The shoes stomping against the floor only reveal how irate he is to those watching, even if he doesn't realize it.
"I know, right? Who the hell does that dick think he is?"
Harold's about to retort when he freezes, looking at the grinning man next to him. Realizing the mistake he almost made, he pulls out the black baton from his waist, hitting the back of Joker's knees.
"No one's fucking talking to you!" Grabbing a handful of faded green hair, the guard jerks his head back harshly when his knees gave out from the blow.
"WOO! HAHAHA! How'd ya know I like it rough, Harold?" The clown cackles when the grip on his hair tightens, yanking his head back further.
Grinding his teeth from the rage filling him, the guard suddenly stops when he notices the toothy smile and how those dark eyes light up at the beating. He's itching to smash every disgusting tooth out of this maniac's mouth.
"Woah! Woah! Chill out! Can't you see he's baiting you? I was working here the last time they brought this guy in. Don't let him get to you or you'll be sorry. That's exactly what he wants!" The red-haired guard holds up his arm, trying to block the weapon from making contact.
Joker pops his lips, feeling agitated and narrowing his sight on the man getting in the way. He remembers him... What a pain in the ass. Pushing a breath through his clenched teeth, his jaw shifts when he's pulled back to his feet.
"Yeah... You're right. I wasn't thinking. Let's just get him to his cell. I need to have a cigarette..." Harold sighs, giving the patient a shove while he trying to shake off the temptation to beat him to the floor. That's how these guys always are. Besides a few little quips here and there, the clown hasn't really done anything to him in the tens minutes since they met. It's not like he killed his family or cut something off his body in the past, but the guards come up with any reason to pull out those goddamn nightsticks. His appearance, crimes against others, what he stands for… They don't need to find a legitimate reason to lash out, just being him is more than enough for them.
"That sounds nice right about now..." The clown grins, waiting for another push or tug. He can see the wheels turning in the man's head, debating his next move. From the tense facial muscles and how his jaw clenches, it must be a real battle to resist grabbing that weapon. The sight only makes him sneer in anticipation of it.
"Just shut up." Looking forward, Joker rolls his eyes, knowing it won't take much to make this guy snap. He's going to be easy...
Snaking his tongue out, it traces along his bottom lip, sliding up to the corner of his scar. The cracked skin is always annoyingly dry, more so when his greasepaint's not on. That's one of the irritating parts of being locked up and not having easy access to the usual things at his disposal. That and the itchy orange jumpsuits the patients are shoved in to...
With his arms pinned to his chest in the straight jacket, he can't scratch anything. This one isn't even cleaned and smells like sweat. There's no doubt the guards saved this especially for him after hearing about the transfer.
Walking down the bleak hall, cells are lining the white walls on either side. Instead of the normal metal doors that have a little window for the guards to look through, Arkham opted to use a different approach when a large amount of funding was donated from Wayne Enterprises.
Now each cell has a large pane of bulletproof glass, with small holes strategically placed for the guards to point their guns on a patient if need be. This gives the inmates zero privacy for 'safety reasons'. Too many times there've been incidences that occurred from the guards not watching properly or having a limited view from the hall to know what they're doing. With the see-through doors, everything can be observed at all times.
None of the guards have the time or patience to sit and look through the tiny window of every cell at all hours of the day. Now they can walk up and down the halls at intervals, while the CCTV cameras placed in different spots act as another pair of eyes.
Each room has another directly across from it and the ones on either side are separated by a short distance. The cells themselves are small... Only a tiny bed and what used to be white walls below a dingy light coming from the ceiling. If the patients have to use the bathroom or bathe, they need to be escorted by the guards. Just like with the doors, Arkham learned the hard way not to give too much freedom... It will only bite them in the ass. Having access to pipes and the sewers have caused too much trouble from the people living here being more creative than originally anticipated.
Joker hums a little tune while he's guided pass the cells, glancing around at the array of orange-clad familiar faces. Eyes peer through the glass when he walks by, some widening with surprise and others narrowing in anger. A wicked grin spreads across his face from the other residents taking an interest in his arrival.
'Guess news still doesn't go too far 'round here...'
"Oh, my old buddies!" He snickers as guards look at him with disgust, not picking up on the sarcasm.
'Hmm... Scarecrow, Professor Pyg...' Dark eyes flickered from one room to the one directly across, before moving on to the next set. 'Lock-Up, someone who doesn't matter... Double X, some old hag... Clayface, Riddler... Two nobodies... More nobodies and a fat guy... Crazy Quilt, Falcone... Another nobody with an even more nobody across from her...'
Joker makes several mental notes of who is here and which rooms they are being held in. Details are very important. Information is everything, after all.
"Here you are, ass-clown. Enjoy your stay, 'till you die." Harold pulls out a keycard attached to a retractable cord from the breast pocket of his uniform and holds it over an electronic pad. The moment it connects, the red light turns greens with a beep and the glass door opens up.
When the clown stands there for a moment to eye his surroundings, Harold hisses in annoyance. The guard shoves him hard through the threshold of the cell, making him lose balance from the meds and straight jacket. He can't brace himself and collides hard with the cement floor as he topples over.
Joker grit his teeth, shifting his legs and trying to sit up. That man's finding a comfortable spot on his list... One day very soon, he's going to make the buffoon smile and not at his jokes.
"Ahh... Home sweet home!" The two guards raise their brows at him while the glass door closes, not understanding what he seems so happy about. Most patients fight and flail when they're being dragged in, not wanting to be trapped in a small cell with no way of getting out… Then again, none of them are the Joker.
"HAHAHA!" They're all so dim... The only reason he was brought in is that he let them. If he wanted to run away, there were plenty of chances in Blackgate, and when they were transporting him to the asylum.
"Shut up, freak..." Harold stands next to the glass door, waving the other guard off. The red-head shifts his head to the side in confusion, before something apparently dawns on him from the stupid expression filtering over his face. The clown stares at the pair suspiciously when the other man nods, turning to walk away and leaving him alone with Harold.
'Wasn't this asshole gonna have a cigarette? What's he waiting around for?'
The guard's back is to his cell. Even if the holes through the glass were big enough to fit his hands through, he won't be able to reach him. If only he took a few steps back, Joker can grab the back of his uniform and yank him closer to smash his head against the heavy glass… If it wasn't for this damn jacket, that big-mouth would be done for.
'Too easy for someone like him. He deserves a personal touch...'
Stretching his legs out in front of him, he runs his tongue up his scar in irritation. They purposefully left the straight jacket on him. They usually do that for the first few days, even though they're supposed to take it off after transporting him... Until he does something that warrants putting it back on. When he realized it would be a long-term accessory and was called a 'freak' from some shitty brat, that's when the teeth came out. That punk was a Blackgate employee anyway, not that the Arkham guards care.
The dirty jumpsuit is making his back itch something fierce. Scooting across the floor towards the bed, he shifts around, trying to use the corner to relieve the annoyance.
"Hah… That's the spot." Dark eyes watch the guard while moving against the metal frame. Noticing the guard's watching something in the opposite direction, he follows the trail towards the cell across from him.
Shifting his head to the side, Joker stops what he was doing. His brows furrow when he sees what the guard's staring at. Using his feet, he drags himself across the floor and up towards the glass door, trying to get a better look at what's so interesting. This might come in handy down the road.
In the little, dingy room across the hall, a woman is sitting on the cold floor. Her back is propped up against the side of the bed, quietly reading a book.
The small woman has long pink hair that curtains around the orange jumpsuit all the patients wear. The unusual shade goes straight up to the roots, making the clown question whether or not it's dyed. No one in Arkham is given anything to color their hair with unless she was just brought in too. Even then, there should be some natural roots poking through. His own hair needed it a while ago, but those are trivial things.
Narrowing his dark eyes closer to the glass, he's able to better view of her appearance while she reads. Her complexion is incredibly fair, a stark contrast to his own naturally tan skin, and more similar to the white greasepaint he likes to smear across his face. Bright green eyes flicker around quickly, drinking in line after line of the words in front of her. A violet rhombus-shaped mark is etched into her forehead, making the clown's neck to crane back as he scrutinizes the odd symbol.
Is it a tattoo? A gang insignia? A drunken mistake?
'What a weird-looking person... and that's coming from me.'
He muses over the possibilities, watching the woman across the hall. She has a delicate face with pink lips, the bottom one being sucked into her mouth while she grazes her teeth over it, completely absorbed into the book. It's far cry from what he usually sees in a place like this...
Looking her over, his brows raise when he glances at the hands holding the book. There's strange material covering them with only the tips of her fingers exposed. They appeared to be metallic fingerless gloves, but the way they move when she turns the page shows they're not stiff like he expected them to be.
'Interesting...'
Seeing the way Harold is staring at her and how absurd she looks, only serves to pique his interest. What's a woman like her doing in a place like this?
It's clear now that Harold isn't standing outside of his cell just to guard him. He's watching the woman across from them, although the reason isn't entirely clear. What it because she's attractive? Is she a problem? Did she anger or do something to him?
This chick doesn't look like the type to cause trouble, but appearances can easily be deceiving. He learned that a long time ago. No one's sent to Arkham for nothing.
Glancing at Harold, a mischievous grin spreads across his face. Time to push some more buttons... Leaning in towards one of the holes closest to him, the clown shifts to get closer, licking up the side of his scar.
"Whatcha reading, dollface?" Cocking his head to the side, he stares at the woman, patiently waiting for a reaction.
Nothing.
"What's wrong? Hmm? We're neighbors now. Shouldn't we get to know each other, get a little more comfortable? We're gonna be here for a while. I can always slither on over when big-bad Harold isn't around." Peeking up towards the guard, his grin tugs at the scars in the corner of his mouth at the buffoon's revulsion. "Ya can always read to me while I lay my head on that pretty, little lap. If you're a good girl, maybe you can run those dainty fingers through my hair..."
The woman glances up from the book, her green eyes shooting over in his direction. He doesn't understand why, but when she looks at him, he feels the ungodly urge to straighten his back. It doesn't matter, that's something he can muse about later. If he even remembers, which probably won't happen unless this gives him a good laugh.
'Go ahead. Let me see that look of disgust...'
That's how everyone reacts when they see his scars. Fear has a good running for the top spot... It always brings him joy to make people feel uncomfortable. In a different life, they might've made him feel that way about the puffy, jagged marks around his mouth, but that's so long ago, he can't recall that sensation anymore. That and quite a few others have been lost to the passage of time.
Green eyes gloss over his face, trailing down to the straight jacket pinning his arms to his chest. Part of him is more annoyed now about the guards leaving it on as she inspects him, running his tongue over the forked scar splitting his bottom lip. Her face is expressionless, giving him nothing to work with. He arches a brow, waiting for that sickening look everyone has to cross her features.
Suddenly, almost out of nowhere, she throws her head back and laughs. A hand clutches her chest as she squeezes her eyes shut, practically falling over from becoming hysterical.
Joker grits his teeth, seething just under the surface. What's so goddamn funny? His scars? His appearance? The straight jacket? The way she looks at him and laughs hits a nerve, making the vein in his forehead throb. He wasn't expecting her to react like that... She's supposed to be horrified that he even spoke to her… Instead, she's laughing like a maniac, the way he probably would have. Hers sounded very different compared to his. Instead of a piercing, raucous noise he makes, this one's similar to chimes in the wind... Chimes that he wants to rip down and set fire to.
'Fucking bitch!'
This woman is about to take the number-one spot on his list, mentally changing the order quickly. Harold was nowhere near getting under his skin, like this little witch.
"Dumbass. You better hope she doesn't get a chance to run her hands through that greasy mop on your head. Haha." Now the guard's laughing at him too. As soon as he gets a chance, he'll wipe those smiles off their faces and replace them with one of his own. Shaking his head to clear it, he has to get back on track.
"What's your name, sweetheart? What's a little thing like you doing in a naughty place like this? Did you steal that book? Is that why you're here?" The woman stops laughing and wipes the tears from her hysteria on the sleeve of her jumpsuit. Without another word, she goes back to reading, paying him no mind.
"Shut the fuck up already and don't talk to her... No fraternizing among patients, unless you want to fraternize with my nightstick." The dark-haired man narrows his eyes down at him, gritting his teeth.
"You can't follow a rule and break one in the same sentence. It's against the rules." Joker let his eyes slide back, rolling his head along his shoulders.
"Just shut up." Turning his back to him, Harold looks back towards the woman in the other cell. The clown smiles from watching the guard. He gives away too much information with every word and action.
Too easy…
Glancing back at the cell across from his, he bites the inside of his cheek in irritation. That woman bothers him... If only his arms weren't tied down, there's no doubt by tonight he can get out of his cell and wrap his hands around that skinny, pale neck of hers.
This might turn out more entertaining than he originally intended.