"We're approaching the island, everything ok back there?" Bills voice blared through the tiny speaker. Through the thickened glass, Ben watched him lift his finger off the radio's button. Ben rolled his eyes at the preposterousness of it. They were escorting an unconscious man; they didn't need radio updates from the front seat to the back seat – they didn't need bulletproof glass to separate them. They didn't need the armoured compartment or the arsenal of weapons hidden under the false floor in the cabin. They could carry out this job with a rowboat and some ropes if they wanted. But if there was one thing BORED did best, it was effluence. So they had had the SWAT van stolen from Gotham city, flown to a secret lab in Switzerland, remodelled into an amphibious security vehicle, and then airdropped into the ocean 100 miles from the island. All the while, their charge had remained tightly bound to his steel bed, under a sedating drip. Ben had removed the drip an hour ago. He had to be awake when they dumped him on the beach so that they could explain the rules to him. All this for one guy – just one guy! He didn't even seem like the kind of guy who should compete in this tournament. He was a weakling; short stature, with a little muscular bulk. Ben had managed to take him down and drag him into the truck single-handed, without even using the dart gun. Mick Bronson. The toughest, most feared character in the Gotham underworld. Ben didn't expect him to survive a single night on the island.

But Ben said none of this. He just sighed to himself, and placed his finger on the intercom.

"Yeah, we're good. I'll get him prepped to go, so you can just open the door, fling him on the sand, and we'll be out of here." Unbeknownst to Ben, the captive's ears twitched and his eyes opened a crack.

In a few minutes, they had arrived. The amphibious truck made a 180, and reversed up onto the coarse, dull sands of the beachhead. Ben unstrapped the prisoner. After loosing the arms, he looked at the mans face. A balaclava; which he had been wearing since the kidnapping covered it. Ben began to pull it off, to make sure he was awake. Bill turned the engine off, and began walking to the other side of the vehicle. A low thump signalled the closing of his door. Ben saw the eyes of his covered charge shoot open. In an instant, the prisoner was up. Half freed from the straps, he grabbed Ben by the throat, and slammed him against the solid steel wall of the compartment. He leapt up, kicking loose his remaining bonds, and grabbing Ben in a solid lock with his arm behind his back. Desperate, Ben started hammering on the side of the van; the sound reverberated loudly inside the tight space. The man sighed loudly.

"You know… he can't hear you." Ben continued, beating anxiously on the wall. "Ok, ok, in 3 seconds you're going to stop… or, we'll do this the hard way. Alright… 3… 2… alright, hard way it is then." Suddenly the man twisted his arm further up his back. Ben's other arm went limp, and his knees buckled in pain. With a violent his, the stranger rammed his palm into Ben's elbow – snapping his arm with the crippling blow. With a hideous crack, the joint was broken, and a piece of bone broke the skin on the inside of his arm. Ben howled at the blistering hurt; it seemed to stretch out through his entire body, spreading through his system, pulsing gently, but brutally on his brain. His broken arm seemed to go numb, but the rest of his body felt the agony, as he writhed about on the floor. For a split second, the thought crossed his mind, that this man was far stronger than when they encountered him before. When they had kidnapped him he had seemed to weak; now Mick Bronson was abnormally strong. Ben did not dwell on this thought for long; the pain was too much for him to bear, and he slowly watched as the already surreal world around him faded away, and away, and away…

The former hostage didn't dwell on his brutal attack for long either.

"Hush shshhshsh… if you scream someone might here you now, won't they…" He was right.

Outside, Bill had heard the muffled bangs, and the even louder screaming. Most likely it was an escape attempt; and Ben had been forced to injure the prisoner. Just in case though, he drew out his gun from its holster at his hip.

He inserted his key into the massive lock on the door, and began to twirl the lever. The truck had been designed like a safe; nobody could get in or out without having the key and knowing the code. Bill opened the door, cautiously at first. On seeing Bens familiar hulking figure standing at the doorway, he opened it more quickly. He failed to notice two things. Firstly; Bens entire body was limp, supported by a pair of arms in faded purple sleeves. Secondly; one of the arms supporting Ben also held his gun.

It took two seconds for Bill to notice the problem, and in that time, Mick Bronson launched Ben's deadweight body at Bill. Bill started to bring his gun up… and had no time to see the missile coming. He collapsed under the unconscious Ben on the cold, wet sand.

Without a moment's hesitation, Mick Bronson leapt from the back of the truck, strode over to the tangled pair of bodies, and pointed the gun straight at Bills emerging head. He fired – spreading a mass of blood all over the sand. The shot echoed around the vacant beach, rebounding off the nearby cliff side, and eventually dying to the howl of the wind.

When the echo stopped, the now freed captive took a deep, long breath, drawing the gun smoke up into his lungs.

Suddenly he burst into laughter. Crazy, maniacal laughter. He shrieked, and guffawed at the unmoving bodies of his victims. He paused for a moment, listening to the sounds of his own echo, then started all over again, laughing all the more. Eventually his laugh died down into a faint chuckle. He skipped across from where he was now standing, and bent down over Bill and Ben. He turned Ben over, giving a little flinch and chuckle as his mutilated elbow struck the harsh sand. He began searching through the pockets of the deceased Bill. He found what he was looking for; the keys to the truck. There was the door/ignition key, a much larger key for the back hatch, and another much smaller key. This, the man knew, was the key to the false floor in the front cabin; filled to the brim with guns, grenades, and other necessities for wilderness survival. He was about to trot on back to the front of the truck, when he heard a faint groan.

"What happened!" The voice came from Ben's limp and broken body. Bronson rushed over to him, and leaned in to his face. "Why did you do that?"

"Hush now, sh. SHUT UP! Lemme explain; you see, where I come from, cops and robbers play this little game of hide and seek. You know, the mob comes and rips off a lot of people, and the cops come to stop them – some stuff happens, and some people die, and nobody ever comes out on top. Now, I've lived in their world for my whole life and I know how it all works. I know the good cops and the bad cops, and the tough robbers and the slime… and I've played in their little game, and I've come out on top. Now, as you can understand, besting the mobsters, and besting the police, I'm on the run… a lot. But I've been running from them, and hiding from them and still stolen from them for years. And it's been so… boring.

"I thought; why don't I go to a place where I can kill people, who are not cops, or robbers. Find a place where people are a whole lot more… fun to kill. Now you and your buddy, I have enjoyed your presence, and taking you out has entertained me immensely. But this is just the beginning. This island. This tournament… there's a lot of people here that I would enjoy taking down."

"Wait a minute! You're not Mick Bronson!" Ben was in pain, dazed and now so utterly confused by what the man had just said – it had only just hit him then. The stranger burst into laughter again.

"HOOHAHAH – AHHAHHOHOHEHEE… Me! Mick Bronson? Well, of course not, what would you expect! Mick was a good friend of mine. I hijacked his heists several times – and when I heard he had a debt to pay to some corporation, and he would be forced to compete for his very life – I knew I just had to take his place. So I paid him a little visit, and he took it quite well considering he was hanging upside down from a meat hook through his leg. And then when I walked out of the building, you mistook me for him! How did you do that! Aha, oh, the mask!" The man ripped off the balaclava, finally revealing his face to Ben. Ben flinched – his whole body shook in shocked horror. The mans face was painted like a clown… or a ghost of a clown. His hair was green – dark and dull, but it glistened greasily in the overcast daylight. His entire face was painted completely white, except for his eyes, which were surrounded by dark black makeup, and his smile. His hideous, disturbing, ironic smile. The smile widened on seeing his reaction. Ben tried to look away, but the psychotic visage filled his entire vision. Blinking uncontrollably, he began to notice he scars. Camouflaged at first by the red painted over them, it became clear that the mans mouth had been sliced from the tips of his lips, along both his cheeks. A Chelsea grin.

"I'm the Joker… and I'm here to burn this island to the ground, with everything and everyone still on it. But don't worry. You won't have to go through that torment."

Quick as a flash, the Joker produced a switchblade from somewhere within his purple suit jacket. Ben flinched, and squeezed his eyes shut. He neither saw nor felt it, as the knife pierced his heart, and the whole world went dark.