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Disclaimer: Property of: Warner Bros, DC Comics, Legendary Films, Chris Nolan, Christian Bale and Heath Ledger. I own nothing! But imagine if I DID…
Slash warning! Lose all hope, all ye who enter here.
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Chapter 2: Laugh, Pagliaccio, so the crowd will cheer!
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Fish.
Brightly swimming colored fish. Swimming out, swimming in--darting behind coral formations. All is peaceful, all is fine.
An anemone sways in the current, tiny orange fish hiding amongst it's tendrils. Bright yellow trigger fish flutter by, then a school of tiny silver waifs, glittering in the ocean light. Shrimp and tiny hermit crabs go scuttling across the sandy ocean floor, nipping krill and the like out of the clear blue water. Tiger fish. Rock fish. Resting comfortably near a coral ridge, serene. Calming. Sea cucumbers shining the sun back to the surface. Sponges, housing tiny defenseless little creatures.
It's a pity, in all this sweet, sweet serenity…no one thought to look towards the drop-off. If they had, someone would have seen the school of barracuda floating there. There went the bright yellow trigger fish. The silver schools, the shrimp-- op, no more shrimp and tiger fish.
Pieces of fin and scale floated around the now blotchy, reddened water. A fish head drifted gently towards the sandy floor, only to be snatched by the mouth of an eel. A tiny black fish watched nearby, horrorstricken at the slaughter of the coral reef. Unable to save. Unable to lift a fin to help. Somewhere, a clownfish was laughing his painted head off. Just who gave the barracudas directions in the first place?
All this, and more, painted on the ceiling of his dark, dark cell. Yesterday, it was a South American jungle. Something with bears, he didn't really remember. He -thought- it had been yesterday…maybe it was the day before. Maybe it was Tuesday. Oh, well. But more often than not, it was Batman.
There wasn't much to do in Solitary. No lights, no bed, no food. The Joker found it exceedingly boring. So, while he laid, staring at the ceiling, his legs flush to the wall…simple, delightful daydreams kept him busy. He was still giggling at the lax-faced black fish, lifted a foot from the wall and poked it's side.
The Joker was decidedly not staying in Arkham much longer this time. The joke had grown stale. He wanted to play a new game, and he wanted his playmate. He watched the black fish flutter around, looking for the clown fish…it'd be fun to have him in a bowl, all to himself. With a bitty cave to hide in.
The Joker made a note. Pet Store. Little black fish.
He was going to name him Battykins. The thought made him laugh.
There was a clang, and the room was filled with white. His painting faded away, burned up. The Joker arched his neck and looked towards the door, still in throngs of giggling. Two figures stood in the door, silhouetted against the light.
"Good morning, Joker. How are you feeling?"
"Splendifferous, Doc. Is it chili day in the cafeteria yet? Can't miss my weekly heart attack." He smiled at their upside-down forms. The Doctor sighed.
"You can come out of Solitary now, if you think you can behave…"
The Joker shrugged, his shoulders tight inside his straight-jacket. As inconvenient as it was, he sort've liked the thing. It squeezed places uncomfortably, pinching broken bones, cuts and bruises. Cuts and bruises the Bat had given him. Light reminders. He was always there. Always.
His lips smacked as he opened them.
"Ahm….sure. I can do that. Doc." Who knew he would have gotten into so much trouble, just for cutting off an inmate's finger with plastic craft scissors..?
"Mm. We'll be keeping a very close eye on you for the next few days." The doctor motioned for the orderly with him to get the Joker to his feet.
The clown merely smiled. He didn't like the man's glasses. Those black chic frames, with lenses too small for his eye shape. He thought briefly on jamming the earpiece into his ear. Then it really WOULD be an earpiece.
As he was led down the hall, The Joker mused on his latest escape route. After 27 consecutive break-outs, you'd think these yahoos would wise up, and keep him bricked inside a cell.
Not really.
He didn't think about it all that much. He only knew he was going to leave soon.
The thought made him tingle. Leaving meant Gotham. Gotham meant chaos. And chaos…led to Batman. It all comes down to Batman.
There was a skip in his step.
Laughing it all away.
They turned the corner, and stepped into the rec room. The Joker glances over the place as the Orderly unbuckled his straight jacket…every single person was crowded in one corner, a flicking blue light shining from inside their cluster.
"Hey…hey! What's everybody doing over there--?"
The Orderly moved forward--only to be snatched back by the clown. The Joker slipped his straightjacket down his arms, took hold of the now half inside-out sleeves, and hooked the thing around the orderly's neck.
He sighed as the man took a minute or two to die. As much as he -liked- to have watched his face, the Joker was in a -hurry-. The body slumped to the floor. He took a moment to stare down at him, and the pale dimming eyes, before swiping a ring of keys off him, and going to one of the game cabinets. While he was ripping boxes all to hell, stealing anything sharp, pointy--or shiny--he could get his hands on, he noticed the murmuring coming from the television corner.
More specifically, he noticed the word, 'Batman.'
Suddenly, that was far more important than any ill-conceived escape attempt. The Joker marched over, and started shoving people out of his way.
"--Wait your -turn-, Joker."
The Joker side-glanced the rather skinny, emaciated man next to him. He was looking rather pleased with himself. Not that he had paid much attention to any of the people in Arkham, he was sure he had seen him somewhere before.
"Ah, this would be why…I don't follow rules. Someone…mentioned the Bat. Man."
"…You haven't -heard-?"
The Joker tilted his head lightly. The Batman? Something he didn't know? Something had happened? What hadn't he heard about. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind, as his hands clenched, teeth ground. These -things- had heard something about Bats that he -hadn't-.
Crane smiled. Since coming to Arkham as a patient, he found the Joker a fascinating individual. He was envious of the doctors here that were allowed to have him in session, to pick his brain. Oh, what a joy he would have been to have…and as he watched him now, his--desperate fixation on Batman. So many puzzle pieces. So little time.
"You've been in the hole, haven't you."
Crane never had the chance to defend himself. The Joker had snatched him by the neck, and held a sharp-tipped compass to his eye. He let a soft whining yell, staring at the silver point in apprehension. Oh, a puzzle indeed--what a mind, what a mind!! What he wouldn't give for his fear gas, right at this moment!
The Joker licked his lips, eyes narrowed calmly into the face of the Scarecrow. It finally clicked in his brain where he had seen him, watching the reports on Gotham what felt so long ago. But that didn't matter right now.
"..you…are going to tell me…what, I, ah…haven't -heard-…about the Bat. Man."
Crane choked a little, hands desperately holding the wrists of the Clown.
"It's--really very devastating--for Gotham, that is--though, with the way you, uhm--act--it might do just as much damage to you --"
The hand tightened around his neck, and the compass came all the closer to his iris.
"Augh--You'll understand! Why--I'm reluctant to TELL you…and--ckkh--seeing as I'm the per..son in your immediate company…not telling you m-might keep me alive longer…"
The point dug into the tender skin around his eye. Crane wailed, the sharp metal cutting through the thin fold of flesh, and scratching the side of his eyeball.
"--ALL RIGHT!! ALL--ALL RIGHT."
The penetration stopped, momentarily. The Joker gazed at him expectantly.
"You were saying."
Crane panted, caught in pain, adjusting his grip on the arm holding his neck.
"…The Batman was on the prowl last night. Some higher up was kidnapped from Wayne Enterprises. They've been playing it all night, every hour, over and over."
Crane's eyes darted towards the television, blocked by another row of patients. An unpleasant feeling rose from the Joker's toenails to his hair follicles. What was it. What WAS it.
"…The Batman. Is dead."
"….what was that."
Crane spared a look at the Joker again, and suddenly went cold. It was time to flee. No one in this room was safe. No one in the building was safe. He look towards the television again, and recognized the popping snowy-like roar of the recorded rain. He had watched the report a thousand times, he had memorized the odd voices here and there, of the people who -saw- it happen. This was his only chance.
Crane freed one of his arms and pointed.
"Look. Look, look--they're playing it again--see? Someone recorded it--!"
As the compass was removed from him, the skin wetly snapping back against his eye, and the hand left his throat, Crane nearly ran to the door of the rec room. He heard the orderlies, security guards and doctors running down the hall already.
He spared another look at the Joker, shoving his way to the television, stilling to watch it.
They wouldn't have a chance.
He stared holes into the back of his head, aching to read it, to know what he was thinking, what he was feeling. To taste his fear.
The Scarecrow turned and fled.
Another day, perhaps. Right now, he needed to get out of there.
If there were -any- survivors…he would be pleasantly surprised.
--
Gordon paced back and forth behind a two-way mirror.
He hadn't eaten.
He hadn't slept.
He hadn't the heart to go home, either. To tell his son, his hero was gone. He hoped to God he was in bed. That he hadn't seen the news. That he could be happy, for just a few more hours.
He glanced behind him. Half the force was in this room, crammed into one of the corners, waiting to hear something, anything. Anything that would give them closure. Bullock stood near him. He had been silent since they had brought in the Hatter. Gordon knew. He had seen it happen too.
When he had come back, Gordon had to write up the report. He had to write details. Put it on paper…that he had seen Batman die. In the other room, the television was blasting. The rest of the force were searching news channels to see if there was any sign, anything new. There were no other news. There was only Batman. Dead or alive. The whole of Gotham was holding their breath. 12 hours. It had only been 12 hours, there was still hope. There was still a chance, he might rise from the abyss again.
Sometimes, he felt so alone in this City. He was the only one who was fighting for Gotham's happiness. The only one, who wanted peace here. Then, there was Batman. A lunatic in his own right, but just what Gotham needed. People believed in him. Gordon believed in him. He was the only one who truly knew what he was. He was a hero. A true, honest to goodness hero. And now, he was gone. And he was alone again.
Maria was in with the Hatter. When he wasn't going on about croquette, all he did was talk in rhyme. Halfway through 'You Are Old, Father William', Gordon had to be restrained by Bullock to keep from going in there and pummeling him.
They had found a thousand things on him. Nanobots, microchips, small but ridiculously powerful bombs--his entire hat seemed to be some sort of mechanical arsenal, equipped with small pistols, packets of sleeping gas, and more nanobots. Jervis Tetch was a mad genius. Emphasis on mad.
"Mr. Tetch, do you know what -day- this is?" Maria had switched tactics. They had to understand just how out of touch he was, before they asked anymore questions.
"Today? Today? Why, today is my very merry Unbirthday!"
"The -date-, Mr. Tetch. What is today's date."
"Date, date? Oh, I like dates. Go very well with tea. I do believe it's tea time already."
"Tea time, Mr. Tetch?"
"Oh, yes! Ever since I performed for the Queen, and she screamed at me, "HE'S MURDERING THE TIME, OFF WITH HIS HEAD", time won't do a thing I ask. It's always 3 o'clock now."
"Mr. Tetch. What did you do to Batman."
"Batman? Ohoho--heeha! Batman! In a changing world, in a world of glee, in a world of near insanity, you must guard against a catastrophe, have yourself a cup of tea!"
Bullock slammed his fist on the steel table, causing Gordon's coffee cup to shake.
"We ain't getting NOWHERE with this guy."
"He won't tell us anything--not about the kidnapping, Fox or Bruce Wayne--…and not Batman."
"I bet he did somethin' screwy to him. Didn't the Bat tell you he had some mind shit, or something?"
"That's what the boys in the lab told me too--half the nano-technology Tetch carried with him are mind-altering machines. It's possible he attacked him with one of those--maybe Batman's…resources just weren't good enough…"
A heavy silence set in, while the Hatter rattled on behind the glass. Everyone on the force felt it. Emptiness. Hopelessness. No one had bested the Batman yet. Not even the Jo--
Commotion broke out in the next room over.
"…What in all hell?"
"Bullock, see what it is."
Bullock strode to the door, and just as he reached for the handle, it burst open, six officers rushing in, the others yelling in the background.
"COMMISSIONER!"
"--What? What is it, what??" Gordon's heart leapt into his throat. "Batman? Did they find him??"
"N-no, sir--"
"It's Arkham--!"
"Arkham?!" Bullocks hurried from the door. "What about Arkham--?!"
"I-It's…The Joker, sir. He's escaped."
Gordon blanched.
He shoved passed all the officers and ran into the room, where the television was blaring.
"…oday at Arkham Asylum. 67 people have been reported dead--the number of bodies is steadily rising--, and 191 have been found gravely injured, so far. Officials are saying the incident was caused by Gotham's most wanted, The Joker. More on this story as it unfolds--and I'm certain the entire City is in agreement, that now, more than ever, we need you, Batman. I'm Carol Jennings, Channel 7 news. Back to Ian Urias at the water front, Wayne Enterprises, Ian?"
"…Bullock…take a team to Arkham…round up as many men as you can…I want the last person he talked to, the last person who SAW him. I don't care if they're in ICU, get me IN there."
"All right--you heard him, come on--"
"Dawlings!"
A red-haired officer came trotting over.
"Get Maria out of there. I want Tetch in holding--no less than eight people, guarding him, at all times."
"Eight people--Commissioner?"
"Trust me."
Gordon spared another glance at the television as Dawlings ran off. Something, deep in his gut told him…the Joker was an unhappy fellow, right about now. And he was going to want the man responsible.
--
Another loud clang shook the dwindling group of hench-clowns. They had been told to stay, right there, until the boss had come back. He had been locked behind that plain metal door for hours. He had just turned off the TV, lined them all up, and disappeared. Some of them mused on if he was planning to kill the lot of them. Some of them wondered if he was trying to kill himself. Others just wished he would come back, and tell them to do something, anything, anything but stand there and listen to him do God-knows-what behind a door full of methane, nitro, and gasoline tanks.
Suddenly, everything went still. The distinct sound of a record needle scratched, and they all listened in unparalleled anticipation, for the familiar clicks of the closed door.
"Vesti la giubba,
e la faccia infarina."
It began in the middle of the tenor aria. He had stolen it, because of the clown on the cover. He had painted a smile on his sad face. He wanted to know why he was so, so very sad...so, he played the record. Just to know why. The Joker slid to the ground, next to the file cabinet that held his recently swiped record player. Pawn shops were some of his favorite raids. They had -things-. Not just superficial expensive stuff, but -things-.
"La gente paga, e rider vuole qua.
E se Arlecchin t'invola Colombina--"
He tore the record packaging apart. How was anyone supposed to understand, when he was speaking another language. His make-up dripped in grayish, reddish gloopy drops off his face. Irritated, he vigorously rubbed his face on his arm. The water just wouldn't -stop- coming. It was like the rain, it wouldn't stop pouring--he would cut out his eyes if he had to, to make it stop.
As the cardboard went flying, a small leaflet floated to the ground. The Joker snatched it up. Italian-to-English translation.
"Ridi, Pagliaccio, e ognun applaudirà!
Tramuta in lazzi lo spasmo ed il pianto
in una smorfia il singhiozzo e 'l dolor, Ah!"
Laugh, Pagliaccio, so the crowd will cheer! Turn your distress and tears into jest, your pain and sobbing into a funny face.
"...laugh...into...a...funny face. A -funny- face. Funny. Face." He flitted his hand a few times. Funny-face. That was a pet name, wasn't it?
"Ridi, Pagliaccio,
sul tuo amore infranto!
Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il--VVVVVVVVVVVVVVHHHTTT!!"
A gloved hand snatched the record off the player. The Joker was hanging off the file cabinet, screaming nonsensically at the vinyl thing, smashing it into oblivion. Laying crumpled at his ankle was the rest of the translation.
Laugh, Pagliaccio, at your broken love! Laugh at the grief that poisons your heart!
He slid back down again, panting, his cheek pressed against the cold, green-colored drawers. He still held a spiral of the record in his hand. He turned, pressing his spine against the file cabinet and tossed it away.
One of the shadows, from the glowing reddish lamp in the corner. ...it looked like bat ears.
He hit his head against the cabinet.
Oh, he remembered that feeling--it was weaker, so much weaker, barely the same intensity, it didn't nearly hurt as good--...
He did it again. Harder.
He was back in the interrogation room. His head, pressed against the recently broken glass. Oh, what decadence--
Over and over, he smashed the back of his head against the metal file cabinet. The record player idled dangerously on the corner of the cabinet. Dark purple, black and green splotches danced before his eyes...he was almost there...back in that fluorescent white room...with -him-...
His sight returned to him all too quickly. The Joker heaved a sigh.
If he couldn't find anything -nice- to listen to, he wasn't going to work on this at all.
There were two other records laying by his arm. Someone named Ted Waring. He'd try him first. He roughly wiped his face again--maybe if he cut out the corners of his eyes, it would stop. That should work, since it seemed to be coming from -there-.
The Joker gripped the top of the metal thing, and pulled himself up. For some reason, his legs were trying not to work. He yanked the record out of it's sleeve, and tossed it away. Idly licking his lips, he put the record on the still spinning table, tossed the needle down in a random place, and dropped loudly to the floor again.
"--amer and Lover are always in tears
The Clown spreads sunshine around
The life with a smile is the life worthwhile
The Clown till the curtain comes down."
The Joker murmured along with the melody. He liked it better than the Italian fellow. He was much cheerier.
Life with a smile is the life worthwhile. How sweet. He liked that. A lot. The Joker glanced upwards at the shadowed ceiling. All the saaad, sad faces of Gotham...the weeping, reddening eyes. They shunned him, hunted him, just as vigorously as they hunted himself. They were liars. Liars. If they weren't sad about it, they should be smiling.
The corners of his scarred mouth turned slowly upwards.
He would -make- them smile.
The Clown crawled unsteadily across the room, to the table he had been working at earlier. He grabbed one or twenty wires, frames, fuses and doodads, and started to work on something new.
One last number, before the curtain falls. Before the Joker took his final bow.
For his Batman.
He was going to make honest people out of Gotham.
That was what his Dark Knight had wanted, wasn't it? He wiped his wet nose. Honest, true, good people. He would do it. For him. he would -make- them that way. And everyone would have a smile on their face...
"Even though you're only make believing
Laugh, Clown, laugh!"
The Joker stood, grinning, wandering over to the corner where a number of unmarked tanks were standing up straight.
"Even though something inside is grieving,
Laugh, Clown, laugh!"
He kicked one of the tanks over, and sent it rolling into his table. Things crashed to the ground.
And he laughed. It hurt. It hurt, and it hurt so, so good. He couldn't stop, either, standing before his table, connecting wires, writing out formulas he didn't know he knew how to understand, his hands, his arms, his chest, head, legs, all shaking, trembling--uncontrollable unfathomable empty mirth rushing through him.
"You're supposed to brighten up a place
And laugh, Clown, laugh!"
Sparks here--a cloud of smoke there--
"Paint a lot of smiles around your face
And laugh, Clown, don't frown!"
Inane giggling, followed by a loud crash of metal scraps.
The door finally slammed open. The hench-clowns stared, their boss sidling up to them, handing them a long, scratchy list.
He wouldn't stop laughing. Not even long enough to tell them to leave. They slowly backed away, watching him as he crumpled to the ground, cackling to the sky, holding his stomach, heaving, as his record played behind him.
It was time to play.
"Dressed in your best coloured humour
Be a pallietto and laugh, Clown, laugh!"
--
He's finally lost it.
Next time: Would you like to see a magic trick? The case of the disappearing Bat.
R&R PLEASE! I do so love you all.