He walked down the street with determination in every step. Back on home turf, his movements are filled with grace and ease, enough to unnerve those who would swerve to go around him. He saw their scrunched up faces and tried not to laugh. He considered what would terrify them more. Maybe it's the fact that he's in a stained hoodie in the middle of Crime Alley – looking like a common pickpocket has its advantages, though. It could be the fact that his right leg almost gave out on him many times while he walked in a straight line. And yet, no one, not even the police, tried to talk to him. To block his path. Good, he thought, the last thing I need is a delay.
In his excitement, he did a little dance, sliding past people with a grin and a nod of his head. Those that saw his face walked just a little faster. Before long, he made it to a familiar address. With a slightly altered face. Plastic surgery making it a beauty amongst the beasts surrounding it. He pondered for a moment, fingers playing piano along the small parcel in his hands.
How to do it?
With a massive smile on his face, he handed it to the bouncer and told him who to give it to. He is then shot in the head.
A violent shiver ran up his spine. Not that, not again. Even now, he wasn't completely healed. A memory struck him, and he backed away before the black-clad man at the door could fully register him. He sprinted down the side-alley, wobbling at every land on his right leg, and used the dumpster to launch himself to the fire-escape. Still too rusty to fall, just like he remembered. He clutched the parcel to his chest and ascended, grunting from effort.
Crouching by the window, he slowly opened it and peaked in. The office was definitely cleaner than he liked; less organized, more for show. The superficial aesthetics made his stomach churn. He snaked in, his hood keeping his face a shadow to the security cameras. He rushed to the desk – gaudy, with gold inlet designs. The more he saw, the more he was tempted to mark his territory. But he hadn't had a drink in a while, and leaving DNA to find would be a mistake. Well, at this moment, anyway.
He sat the parcel down, taping a note on top. He slid out the window and was half-way down the block by the time his target burst through the door, gun at the ready. The target growled, eyes flicking around the seemingly undisturbed room. With slow steps, he flicked the light on, and his eyes immediately landed on the parcel and note. He didn't think, he simply approached it, and lifted the note.
He shredded the note and tore the parcel open, purple paints leaving stains on his fingers and palms. His hand rose to his mouth, and his face blanched – if that was even possible. Falling to his knees, The Joker noticed the ajar window from the corner of his eyes. He retrieved the phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial.
"We have a problem."