Characters: The Joker, Victor Fries, Oswald Cobblepot
Pairings: Indirect HarleyxJoker
Chapter Rating: T
Summary: The Joker at long last emerges from solitary confinement, and he's in for a nasty surprise.
Warnings: Language, including slurs
WOW HI NOT DEAD. Sorry this update took so long, I won't bore you with excuses. I feel bad for making my lovely (albeit teensy) readership wait around, so tonight's gonna be a double update kind of night. Beyond that, Joker's finally in the game, and not a moment too soon. It was beginning to feel like false advertising, having him listed as a headlining character like that. Sorry to admit, he's gonna slip back into the ether for another few chapters, but when he comes back, he'll stay back. I. Swear.
Anyhoodle, enjoy!
xxxxx
Unfortunately, the sun gladly rose over Arkham on January the Twenty-Third, beaming as if its arrival didn't mark the dawn of a new, grim, and aggravating era at the hospital. Yes, the days of semi-productive group therapy sessions and appropriate usage of rubber bands were over until further notice. The Joker was out of solitary, and he wanted the world to know it. At the very least, his fellow prisoners were painfully aware of the fact when he burst gleefully into the mess hall, trailed by a small troupe of guards and orderlies.
The Clown Prince made a singular effort to greet each of his hospitalmates. Every. Single. One.
Loudly.
"Hia kids! Daddy's home!"
He strut in like he owned the place, and most of the diners around him averted their eyes.
The clown bopped from table to table, person to person: victims who's gut reactions ranged from very annoyed to moderately terrified.
He often greeted with his hands as well, clapping backs a little too firmly and occasionally throwing things. His shadowing council of babysitters knew it was no use trying to correct this behavior.
"'Morning Snowmieser!"
He brayed at Victor Fries and was promptly ignored. The Joker then pouted in mock disappointment, as if he had expected a different response. "Aw now, don't give me that cold shoulder, Vic. We all know deep down your just as lonely and attention starved as Pengy over here. Speaking of-" he took a smooth, exaggerated sidestep in The Penguin's direction. "If it isn't my favorite disco duck! What's new blubber thighs? Getting good altitude with that Rocket chick?"
Oswald's face tightened into a puckered sneer, and he tried to wave the chalk faced burden away with a flick of his thick wrist. "Egress, you discommoding dunce."
Joker scrunched up his nose. "Sheesh Ozzy, don't such a prig." He glanced around the dining commons with wild, excitable eyes, wetting his lips and clasping his hands together. "Now where's The Great Wesker? I owe him a special candygram." His tone darkened slightly, seemingly out of nowhere, but his smile only expanded. The attendants semi-circling him exchanged concerned looks. Somehow, Napier must have identified the "anonymous informant" who snitched about the spork-enabled "tunnel to freedom" in his cell. And that was bad. Bad for Arnold at the very least, but also a burden to the staff. At best, it meant extra vigilance and pains taken when it came to Wesker and the clown, but at worst, it meant liability and a dead body to account for. The hospital simply could not afford another incident. Before one of the orderlies could address the issue, however, Oswald did it for them.
"I recommend you reserve your energy. Mr. Wesker escaped this weekend." He didn't bother to include any more information on the subject, unable to bear the notion of fielding the hissy fit that would surely ensue, but the squat little aristocrat hummed merrily to himself, knowing that would find out soon enough.
'He'll be the staff's problem then,' he thought, stirring his oatmeal cantankerously. 'Not mine.'
The Joker's face lightened into one of vague disappointment. "Oh. Well that's too bad. But hey, I suppose it can wait."
Mr. Napier did not give off the impression of being a patient man, but in actuality, patience was one of his few virtues, if it could even be referred to as such. In his case, it was less a sign of good character, and more of a predatory feature. His mouth cracked once more into a ghoulish grin, and he waltzed off, waving his arm in vigorous greeting.
"Hey Harv! How's it goin' Left Brain Boy, you old bastard!"
Dent grimaced and stared deeply into his waffle, while The Joker's dancing orderly band rushed after their charge like a platoon of giddy solders. Following a moment of well-earned silence, Victor turned to his reluctant companion and smoothed a crease in his specially made thermal Arkham uniform.
"How long do you suppose it will take?" His voice was steely, almost metallic even without his self-designed suit. Perhaps it was for this reason that his question seemed more like a statement than anything.
Cobblepot sighed and shoved his tray to the side in defeat. After a lifetime of almas caviar and fine wine, he was another Arkhamite who simply couldn't hack it at mealtime. "I can't imagine more than a day or so," he said. "For the love of God, let's hope we're not in the room to see it."
xxxx
Those bastards!
Joker let out another enraged cry and slammed the sole of his right wingtip into the nearest wall. The result was little more than a cheap squeak and echo, which only made matters worse. His temper frothed and his straight jacket fucking itched.
That pack of hellbound cocksuckers!
He attacked the wall again, this time throwing his whole body into the blow, cracking his shoulder in the process.
With a grunt, Napier stumbled backwards onto his cot, still seething impotently. His arm felt horribly jammed now, but of course, he couldn't run a rain check or anything, being trapped in an endless self-embrace, courtesy of Arkham staff.
Thank God the cell across the way was empty. The manic jester liked to seem aloof and above it all, nay, he had to. It was part of his shtick, his image! And The Joker was an icon, after all. He couldn't allow a competitor see him like this. Even when he was unhinged, it was usually to the tune of manic glee, not unexpendable, restrained rage. He must have looked like a sour child just then, gnashing his teeth like a caged animal. After not too long a time, Joker's mind turned back to the current objects of his animosity.
A plagiarist, a stool pigeon, two fags, a slut, and Harley. God, if there was ever a fucking joke, that was it.
He could see them so clearly in his mind, bumbling like Keystone Cops and bickering like The Honeymooners. Not a one of them would know what to do with their freedom once they got it. Not a one of them would use it properly. He'd have laughed at the very notion of it if it wasn't so insulting.
They snubbed him, the whole ugly pack of 'em. Harley snubbed him, of all people! That was the biggest shock of the entire affair, which was a pretty prize to take, considering the fierce competition.
He couldn't believe it still. It was downright unfeasible. The clown's own girlfriend: his most loyal henchwench and bonafide co-dependent escaped not with her so often adulated hubby, but instead with the specky shrimp who sold him down the river, effectively trouncing his otherwise flawless escape plan. She ought to be walloping that creepo into a bloody mash, not fucking consorting with him. And that no account hippie Isley had helped her do it too. And The Joker's much-hated imitator, the obviously green with envy Edward Nigma. And "Hat Guy," the stuffed shirt dandy that he was. And that funereal sourpuss Scarecrow. The whole bunch of them were completely deplorable in their own special ways.
Joker stood up again and began to pace, already preparing to exact his revenge. His first order of business, of course, was busting out, and lucky, now was a good time to do it too. With the fucking Rat Pack newly on the loose, much of Arkham's staff was tied up trying to poach their asses and haul them back to their cells. They'd have their hands full, who would notice if one little patient slipped out under the cover of the night?
But there was, of course, a trail of whitecoats at Joker's own heels, since he was newly a social patient and oh-so very dangerous to boot. The thought of his own acclaim lightened his mood, albeit slightly.
Yes. The Joker was scary. He was very scary, and the fact that he knew his own power made him all the worse to his targets and opponents. He was also a wily, clever little shit if ever there was one. And so deliciously spiteful too, like no other. Oh, his contemporaries were criminals sure, but The Joker was a stone cold villain. He made no bones about his utter depravity either. There was something distinctly not right with each of the Gotham Rogues, true, but there was something even less right about Joker in particular, and he capitalized on it like no one's business. The maniac never really could figure why he differed from the others this way, but there was no point in getting hung up on silly unanswerable questions, especially not of the psychobabble variety. What mattered was his presence in the city's criminal underbelly, his domain. Imprisoned or not, his influence wasn't going away. All he had to do was get back out and take advantage of it.
Feeling his anger truly subside, Joker's pacing became slower and more deliberate.
There was really
truly
No need to be upset. In fact, what was he thinking getting so worked up like that?
He probably wasn't thinking at all, actually. That kind of behavior was not necessary, he knew. He'd deal with the situation properly, it'd be no sweat really. Hell, it might even be
fun.