His body was numb, shaking violently from head to toe, his hands clawing at the edges of the wheeled stretcher that was being pushed back, he hoped, to his cell. His lungs were on fire and frigidly cold water drizzled from his mouth and nose, escaping in spurts as he struggled for breath.
He hated water. He hated water ever since he had fallen into that vat of chemicals so long ago. The vat he had been born in.
The stretcher stopped abruptly. He felt himself being lifted up by large, rough hands. They moved over his body, probing him, aggravating his many gashes and swelling bruises. He didn't move. He told himself he could move if he wanted to, but he knew he was just deluding himself. He couldn't move anymore. He needed to rest. The Joker felt the unfamiliar hands run down his shirt, brushing over one of his splintered ribs, before stopping suddenly. They started undoing his pants.
Oh shit. Not again. Not again. The grin returned. He lifted his head just centimeters off the stretcher.
"Oh, no you don't, big boy. You still g-gotta p-pay me for the last times-s…"
It's amusing to think that a place like Arkham Asylum would have something so normal as a receptionist, but it did. One could only wonder what kind of stories she had to tell. Her small desk was located in the far corner of the lobby, which was a small room with wooden benches scooted up against the sides of the walls, which were decorated with motivational posters.
The receptionist might have looked up from her nail filing as the Dark Knight and Harley Quinn strode past, but they didn't pause to look. They walked briskly through the labyrinth-like corridors of the Asylum. Occasionally, a security guard would walk up towards them as if to ask what they were doing, but then change his mind and slowly back away cautiously. It was a strange feeling. They knew the Batman there.
Quinn grinned. "I wish I got that kinda treatment," she said. "How do ya do it? Oh, wait, I know. It's the cape, ain't it?"
The vigilante gave her an unsettling look. She gulped. "Yeah. The cape. Definitely the cape."
He stopped in front of an office door and, pulling the harlequin to his side to restrict her movements, and entered without knocking.
"Dr. Burton, I need to see the Joker." His voice was deep and menacing.
A small man with a shock of white hair and glasses jumped in his seat, sending papers flying off the large oak desk in front of him. He adjusted his glasses on his bird-like nose.
"W-why, Batman…what an unexpected pleasure. I see you've apprehended miss Quinn again, marvelous. I'll call a guard to take her off your hands if—"
"Where's the Joker?" He stayed in the shadows behind the door. It always seemed to have a more menacing effect on people, he noticed. The psychiatrist flinched.
"T-the Joker, you say? W-why, is there something wrong?" He started wringing his hands, a nervous habit. He was hiding something. Or maybe he was just petrified.
"I need to talk to him. Where is he?"
"Well, I don't think he's available at the moment. Maybe if you came back later—aah!" The masked man leapt at the doctor, grabbing him by his collar and raising him off the ground so they were eye to eye. Harley whistled and clapped from the background.
"Yeah! Go Mr. B! Whoo!"
A terse glare from beneath the hood shut her up with a squeak. He glared at the small, dangling form in his hands.
"If you tell me what's really going on here…NOW…I assure you all charges against you will be decreased. If you don't…" A slightly evil smile crept its way into his lips, "I'll hand you over to Lt. Bullock. Personally. And we all know how upset he gets, don't we?"
Burton emitted a high-pitched, giggling whine and nodded his head. Batman lowered him back into his chair slowly.
"Talk." He took out a small recorder from his utility belt. "Tell me what's happened to the Joker…"