Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was an echoing ring of the telephone bouncing off the manors walls. The shrill noise grating on Alfred’s old ears, he set down his novel and rose from his chair to answer it. As his gloved hands wrapped slowly around the metal phone, an unexplainable eerie feeling created a sense of dread in his stomach. The phone continued to ring. He stared at it, grip tightening with every passing second. The pit in his stomach grew deeper as if the phone would explode if he answered it.

One last ring. One last deep breath. One last sense of evil filling his heart.

He picked up the phone swiftly knowing that if he hesitated for a moment he would put it back down. “You have reached Wayne manor, who is this that I’m currently speaking to?” He says fluently, his fear not outweighing his manners.

However, he was met with complete silence on the other end. Alfred could make out the soft drone of lights on the other side…soon, a flood of hushed whispers filled his ears. “Hello–?” He was cut off when he heard a very audible thud, followed by a curt shout and hurried footsteps. Alfred listened in awe, hearing heavy breathing and the sound of something dragging across the floor. “Excuse me? Who is this? Do you need any help?!” The butler’s hands shook with anxiety, the feeling of despair bubbling up, wanting to spill over into a horrified screech.

Alfred bit his lip, his body trembling with fear as he heard more concerning noises like a sharp metal clang—most likely from the phone being dropped or thrown up against something; Alfred knew what these sounds were: a struggle. Multiple assailants and one victim desperately trying to get away…but there was some underlying sinister energy emerging from the person on the other line, and they haven’t even spoken yet.

Nevertheless, Alfred forced his voice to lower; whispering into the phone’s microphone. “Hello…please, tell me where you are. I’m going to get help.” 

A long drone of silence.

Then, a groan. An otherworldly groan that caused Alfred to forget himself and scream. It was so…inhuman, almost like a beast of unknown origin was on the other side, trying to communicate with the human mind. Alfred clenched his jaw, his fear pushing on the back of his teeth. 

The final thing he heard was a disgusting gurgling, like a dying creature was trying to take in its final breath while blood was lodged in its throat. The bubbling of—what he assumed to be—bile and blood ceased, a loud splatter defiled Alfred’s ear before the line clicked, ending the call.

The butler’s lips moved, but no noise would come out. His whole body—his whole soul—shook with horror.

The victim might have been a victim… but it sure as hell wasn’t human. It was something unholy, sinful…maybe even undead . Alfred cringed at the idea, heart pounding against his chest, quick and shortened breath escaping his mouth. He stumbles over to the Batcave’s clock entrance, he has to let Bruce know. He has to know that some beast has been unleashed into Gotham.

                              ———

It was around midnight when Bruce got the call. A panicked Alfred shouted jumbled up sentences through the speaker, the only audible words being: fear, death, and beast. Bruce sighed heavily, this night was uneventful and he was hoping to keep it that way. With mild annoyance he tried to calm his butler down. “Alfred, Alfred.” Bruce could hear the older man’s mouth snap shut, teeth clacking against teeth. “I’ll be home in a minute, please just stay calm. I’m driving home right now.” Bruce emphasized this by revving up the Batmobile’s engine. There was an exasperated sigh on the other line, “…okay, Master Bruce. Please hurry…I’m afraid that something grave has transpired.” Bruce nodded towards the console, pulling out of the back alley he was nestled in and out onto the busy Gothman streets.

“Master Bruce.”

“Yes, Alfred?”

“Please stay on the line.”

“…Of course, Alfred.”

—

Bruce listened to the recording over and over and over again, each time bringing a bigger chill down his spine. The groans of a wild animal, the dying gurgle of a predator, the splatter of blood and guts leaving a mark on the creature’s final resting place. 

“I–I…I don’t know what to say…” Bruce utters, as he stares at his trembling hand. Trembling? He hasn’t trembled…he doesn’t even know how long, but this audio, this singular recording was enough to get him to shake. A deep frown etched onto his face, he has heard the sounds of people screaming in terror before getting blown to pieces, he’s heard the sobs of victims before getting killed by their attacker, he’s heard Joker’s laugh. But none of those sounds could evoke such a raw fear into him. It was almost primal, like he was the prey watching the predator die, but being too scared to leave its hiding spot. 

Bruce really doesn’t like being prey.

He slams his shaking hands onto the batcomputer’s keyboard, making the sign of vulnerability stop. Alfred hums, setting a nice hot cup of tea down before talking. “It left me quite speechless as well, Master Bruce. I–I just don’t know why the call made me feel so–”

“Petrified.” Bruce takes a sip of his tea, burning against his tongue. Alfred looks stunned for a moment, “yes…I was quite petrified. There was something wrong with the call, Master Bruce. As ridiculous as it may seem, I don’t think that there was a human behind that phone.”

Bruce runs the noises the victim made through his mind once again. The groaning, the gurgling, the splatter. The aura of unease…

“I’ll…I’ll consider it a possibility, Alfred.”

                             ———

A hole. A human sized hole. Perfect to bury things in, perfect to lay someone to rest in, perfect to dispose of evidence in. 

The dirt shifted. One could chalk it up to the wind, to the rain, to the endless elements…but the cause was much more foul. 

The soil pulsated, green oozing from the brown. A beast hungry to emerge from its grimy grave.

Evil.

Evil.

Evil.

Evil makes its sour presence known. Pudgy flesh grips at the dirt, the mud seeping into its mangled fingers. It reaches the surface, a creature of the unknown sinking its gnarly yellow teeth into his captivity. 

Ripping apart the bugs, and the blood, and the guts, the acid. Blood, guts, acid. Blood, guts, acid. Blood, guts, acid. Bloodgutsacid. Bloodgutsacid. Bloodgutsacid. 

That’s all that it’s made of. 

The red, brown, and green mingle together to create a brew of muddled vomit and hate. 

It grabs and gropes at the ground so hard that its fingers bleed. Its hand emerges, breaking free from confinement. Lightning flashes as its mutilated hand reaches up into the sky, like a demon reaching for heaven, for nirvana, for its own Garden of Eden.

A mouth makes it to the surface, ripped and twisted. It tries for words. Moving its lips in an inhuman manner, its jaw dislocated and unable to rasp out its say.

An animalistic groan escapes its maw. It settles on just making noise. Ferocious sounds escape it, they almost sound like laughter.

“Aaaaaaattsyggyy…” it wails.

Chapter Text

A butterfly. A symbol of rebirth, to become something more than you were before. A ugly worm before regrowing from a shell of change, emerging a beautiful creature of the sky. 

A butterfly.

That’s what it was when it rose from the ground.

Furious, dangerous, beast-like in a sick and twisted way. A once ugly person being put into their tomb of change, emerging a sickly green corpse. Its matted hair—covered in dirt and bugs—was the next thing to peek out of the earth below, then its head, then its mangled limbs. 

It was almost like the ground was giving birth to a baby of vile origins. Satan’s spawn slowly fighting its way onto the land of the living, only existing to wreak havoc. It continued to crawl, its missing hand, broken arm and leg proving the task to be quite difficult. Nevertheless, the bastard child ascended from Hell, its injuries be damned. 

With its body fully free from its casket, what was there to do? It couldn’t walk, that's for certain; the Creature’s leg is too tangled to be properly straightened out. It also couldn’t remember what even brought him to this moment in the first place. All It could remember—remember being used very loosely for it could only see flashes of what happened—was green, and heavy footsteps, the sound of hoarse breathing, a shriek, a splatter, a groan, a bang, and…

A bat flies over the Creature. 

A jet black swiftly moving bat. Its wings flapping intensely, with purpose, with meaning, with a goal. The Creature raises his handless arm to the animal up above. A demon of the night that will sneak up to anyone in the shadows. All encompassing dominance and fear used to manipulate the sensitive human mind.

Criminals were always a superstitious lot.

Creatures were always a superstitious lot.

Bats were always a superstitious lot.

Bats. That's what it all leads back to right? Bats. Bats. Bats.

The Creature can remember such a phrase being uttered… “Criminals were always a superstitious lot.” Yes, yes they were. So are Creatures, here one is now—scared of a tiny old Bat.

Bat’s can be superstitious too. How? Well, a Creature with no mind could answer such a question. Its “brain” is too focused on the Bat. How can a beast such as it be hard pressed on the mentality of a man when the Bat was much more interesting to gaze upon. 

Batman. That's what it all leads back to right? Batman. Batman. Batman.

…Batman?

The Creature hunches over as it spews a green fluid across the soil, the ground drinking up all of the acidic liquid, asking for more greedily as the Creature continues its vomiting. Even more leaks out of different orifices, its ears, its eyes, a deep cut in the junction of its left shoulder and neck.

From the gaping hole in its chest. Physically and metaphorically.

The well of green suddenly dries up. No more spilling out of the wounds across its green body. And with none to think about, of course its mind settles back on the Bat. 

“Aaaatt…aaann” It groans, trying the name on its split lips. It feels a surge of joy run up its spine at the name. It says it again. 

And again.

And again.

And again. Never getting tired of the elusive Batman, almost like the name was destined to be said by him. God himself shoved to name down its throat until that was all it could think about, not like it could think about much. It groaned the name out once more, feeling giddy and tingly in all of the right places. Letting out a moan that sounded like a fit of maniacal laughter. 

“Aaatt annn! AaAtt annnN!! AaaAaTT AnnAnn!!!”

It rolled around on the ground like a teenager thinking about a guy in chemistry class. Nothing could make him happier than Batman…unless it was–

A truck flew by its tomb, distracting the Creature from its loose train of thought. Carefully it crawled from its supposed grave. Looking up a little he could see a giant structure, it smelled of metal, chemicals, and death. Perfect for a zombie to have just been born. 

It proceeds to drag itself to what it assumed to be a road, still it kept to the shadows—a nagging feeling in the back of its head told it to refrain from making itself known to the general populace. The truck that had once stopped its thought process quickly jogged it, on the side of the vehicle was a picture of a man. A man with jet black hair, eyes as blue as lapis, and a face that was still a hazy memory in the Creature’s mind.

“AAAttttt AAAnnnnn…” It concludes. There's no other person who would bring this much joy to the heartless creature. No other person who could tame such a beast, no other person that could hold this clown on a leash.

…Clown? 

What is a Clown if not a companion to the Bat? What purpose does a jester serve if not seated at the right hand of that father? A Clown needs its Bat as much as a Bat needs its Clown, a match made in heaven and hell. 

How poetically cynical.

The Creature recognizes this. 

In this story he is the Clown, and he’s missing his Batman. He’s missing his God.

He has passed on, but given a second chance of life because of his purpose .

There is no Bat without a Clown

There is no king without a jester

There is no God without Jesus

There is no Batman without Joker.   

With a newfound determination he moves quickly, digging his torn nails into the ground below. If he can not walk then he shall just crawl to him. Nothing will stop him. Nothing will ever block him from his salvation. “Aaatttsyyy…” He growls, inching closer to a dark alleyway just north of Ace Chemicals.

Ace Chemicals.

That’s when it all really started wasn’t it? Joker bared his teeth in frustration. His memories of his death were still fuzzy in his mind, but he knows that he’ll put whoever did this to him through absolute hell. Forcing him to degradingly drag himself to the only person that he really trusts to help him, once he gets his hands on the son of a bitch…so God help them.

He’s careful to stay out of sight. Sticking to the black shadows that ridiculously tall buildings cast upon the narrows, the concept is so Batman-like that Joker had to laugh a little—even if the hole in his chest ached ever so slightly with every wheeze. 

He squirmed over to the end of the dark alley, his blood stained lip twitched upwards when he saw a loosely covered manhole. With as much grace as a drunk man Joker shoved the metal cover over, free falling into the murky depths below. 

He heaved as he emerged from the sewage, some of it getting into his permanently opened mouth. No matter how disgusting he felt, he still carried on; gripping onto the concrete ledge that made of the sewer’s walkway, he lifted himself onto the solid ground, panting when his back met concrete. The harsh landing caused a sharp throb to shoot through his spine. He arched in pain, letting out a tired groan. 

The pain, the smell, and the lingering sense of death did little to deter him from his mission.

He rolled onto his front and began to army crawl to his goal. His chin scraped against the floor, his arms had concrete burns all over them, and his legs had gone numb long ago. Still he persevered, he needed his God, his man, his Bat.

Then maybe this can all be fixed. 

Flashes of guns assaulted his mind. Green poured out of his sensitive eyes. Death was right around the corner. He could feel it, waiting for him, ready to snatch him from the mortal plane since he had failed the first time.

Flashes of crowbars assaulted his mind.

Front hand.

Back hand.

Front hand again.

Push.

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.

Front hand again.

The cycle repeats like an endless loop, but he’s on the other side.

He’s the one feeling it. He’s the one getting the front hand, then the back, then the front hand again. 

Flashes of guns assault his mind because it was a gun that killed him. A straight shot through the chest, clean and quick, he should’ve died instantly. But he didn’t. He lived on until they caught him and gave him front hand, then back hand, the front hand again.

Flashes of crowbars assault his mind because it was the crowbar he killed with. The torturous cycle of wham, pow, kablooie, and K.O. being used against him. Is this what people call a full circle moment? 

How poetically cynical. 

What was he even going to get out of these sewers? He didn’t where he was going and he’s to fucked up to even go a little bit faster. He craves his God but…

Does his God even crave him?

The thought makes the Creature vomit. Hurling red onto the gray flooring. 

Red, not green. 

It’s dying for real this time and it won’t come back.

What’s a Clown without its Bat? Nothing, it is nothing. It has no desire to cheat death if there is no reason. It is nothing but a beast waiting for death to take its breath away.

“...on a Monday. Christened on a Tuesday…” 

What? The Creature opened his eyes—that he didn’t even realize were closed—and looked ahead at the origin of the sound.

“Grew worse on Friday. Died on Saturday. Buried on Sunday. That was the end of Soloman Grundy.” The voice droned on, getting closer and closer to the Creature’s location.

The Creature groaned in confusion. He doesn’t remember this face, but it looks familiar. He knows he’s probably seen it a thousand times, but he just can’t make out who it might be. 

“Grundyy.” The big gray man murmurs, pointing at himself. He then points at the Creature, “name.” He demands. It looks around with mild confusion before humming out a low sound, the Creature didn’t know what the sound was supposed to mean. Grundy—which the Creature assumes is his name—looks delighted with the answer regardless. “Ahh, it’s just you.” He says slowly like his mouth couldn't move any faster. “What do down here? You not come often.” It looks like he wants to say something else, but decided against it. 

The Creature let out another series of hums that could’ve meant anything, one the noises even ended with a sharp cackle, what for? What was it laughing at, what’s so funny? It’s almost like the Creature’s body is acting upon its own accord, not listening to its senseless brain and just going with what it knows. Grundy looks completely understanding though, he acts like the combination of short and long hums—complete with wild groans—is his first language or something.

When the Creature’s ramble ends it sighs heavily, looking down at the ground with a somber stare. It didn’t understand why it was sad, it didn’t understand its stupid undead body at all. But Grundy understood. Grundy gets it. Grundy is like him.

Him?

No he is an “it” because he’s a brainless monster. He’s not a person, he’s not human, he’s the undead. He’s a beast…goddamnit.

“Don’t be sad, Batman was looking for you.”

Joker’s head snaps up. He moans out, which causes Grundy to nod. “Yes, he was here a few days ago. He asked about you.”

A feeling of pure euphoria runs through the clown’s body. He giggles and shouts in excitement, flapping his hands—well hand—in pure joy. Batman wants him! He’s looking for him! He’s worried about him!

His God, his king, his bat, his man craves his Jesus, his jester, his clown, his Joker.

Joker groaned with a tenacious tone, he knows what he’s here for, and he’s sure of it. 

His love for him brought him back. His heart is still holding on, still beating because of pure love. Joker paws at the wound on his chest; it aches, spilling over with a ooze of green and pink—he may be hallucinating the pink color, but what of it—his heart speaks for itself, “take me to him! Bring me to my love.” 

Grundy, oh sweet Grundy, seems to understand nonverbal talk better than anyone because he lifts Joker onto his broad shoulder; the clown sat on his right, his one good hand digging into the zombies crusty white locks.

With heavy stomps, Grundy navigated the two across the sewer. Dizzying twists and turns jumbled up Joker’s already scrambled mind. Split-second visions of a tall woman, the every so ominous green —god, how much as he thought of that color today—and rain falling heavily on a dirt floor screwed with his head. It made him feel like a personal chef was making eggs with his brain, funny imagery, but what wasn’t funny was the five minute stop they had to make so Joker could puke.

Other than the throw-up breaks and smell of literal shit everything went great…until they made it to a dead end.

Grundy, oh sweet sweet , Grundy had led to two to the closest route to Wayne manor. Of course they couldn’t just waltz right to the man’s house through the pipes, stick their heads through the toilet and let out a little “hola!” While Wayne was in the middle of a shower. And being Batman and all, Bruce made sure everything was kept under heavy security…and that means everything .

Also, Grundy didn’t even know what line it was to get to his house. No big whoop. They can just crawl out a manhole and walk like normal…right? Well, no. What, did you really think it was gonna be that easy for a eight foot tall gray man—that’s the size of an elephant…maybe that was an over exaggeration—to just pop out of the sewers with a constantly leaking fluid friend in tow?

People would flip their lids, running around like mad waiting for Batman to save their asses, or they might look and stare…but ultimately sum it up to a normal day in Gotham, still waiting for Batman to save their asses. And while luring the bat out to his location sounded like a good idea, for once—and the notion is absolutely ridiculous—he didn’t want to cause trouble.

He just wanted to be alone with his love while he breathed his final dying breaths.

In.

Out.

Slowing heart beat.

In.

Out.

Chaste kiss, a soft goodbye.

In.

“I…love you.” Would slip out of their mouths, all quiet and  uncertain because they aren’t ready for full commitment yet, nor will they ever be.

Out.

Dead.

Joker sighed at the idea. That was the type of romance that his slowly dying mind forced onto him, and in all honesty…it didn’t sound too bad.

Also, what was more romantic and interesting than literally crawling to your king’s castle. A simple public disturbance wasn't extravagant enough for him anyway.

So, with oddly nimble fingers, Grundy slid the steel manhole over. The night air—all musty and polluted—mixed with the sewage smell, mingling together to create a stench that can only be described as ‘your two hippie roommates having sex in their grow-house.’ A scent that the clown had a love-hate relationship with. It was disgusting, absolutely foul, sickening to his core…but it was familiar. Homey in a way. The smell is so…Gotham, so crime, so grunge, so Batman.

Grundy glanced up from the manhole, scanning the area for any foot traffic. Seemingly satisfied with his observations, he picked up Joker and dumped him onto hard concrete of the back alley the two had found themselves in. Joker groaned in protest, Grundy only shrugged. “I too big to walk around without making trouble. You must be alone now. It was nice seeing you.” The zombie smiled with such familiarity and fondness that Joker almost died—again. There’s no way he didn’t know Grundy before all of this, he spoke with so much compassion, with so much…

“So you come down here how often?”

“…that’s none of your concern.”

“Haha! Let me guess…twice a week? Three? Four? No–no, all seven days!”

“Jesus, it’s just once. Every Wednesday.”

“Aww…that's actually really sweet. You coming down here and all. I’m sure he appreciates it.”

“Yeah. Come on, just a little longer. I’m sure you’ll like him.”

What. The. Fuck?

Joker holds his aching head, keening over just as the manhole cover closes. He snaps out of his stooper to grasp at the metal. Cold flesh against cold metal. He doesn’t remember it like that, he shouldn’t be remembering anything at all, but he can’t help it.

He can’t help but remember that smile on Grundy’s face as Joker tosses raw chicken his way, or the little twitch Batman’s lips would give whenever Grundy tore the food apart, or his booming laughter that echoed through his mind on an endless loop. 

He roared as his head split open. His once repressed memories rearing their ugly heads.

It was just a hunch.

His fingers scraped at rough concrete, trailing blood in his wake.

A stupid hunch that he shouldn’t have even acted upon.

The location was starting to look more familiar the further he moved towards the manor.

He walked right into a trap.

His everything hurt as he crawled through bushes and trees, the howling wind giving him some relief from a sort of phantom heat that encased his body.

Men clad in black surrounded him, he fought as best as he could. His best wasn’t enough.

He saw them. The pearly gates that led straight to his savior, his goal, his knight, his king, his god, his everything, his bat.

He used his remaining strength to crawl, taking a dropped phone—a woman’s phone, he saw it fall out of her pocket—and dialing the man he trusted most. 

The barrier of gold is almost taunting in a way. A giant ‘W’ frowned down upon him. His decaying form wiggled with a foreign discomfort, but that did not deter him. 

His transformation was already under way, whatever was happening to his body was happening without an issue. Groans and moans and splattered green. He dropped the phone and then a loud bang.

He banged. He groaned. He wailed. He screamed. Until the heavens foolishly opened, letting a demon onto their holy grounds. But none of that nonsense mattered when he ran out. With urgency and a foreign concern that did not deter him. Joker grinned wildly, laughing like a maniac on cocaine. He’s here! He’s finally here! All of this was for something! This clown had a reason to die now, the mission is over…he can rest. “I…ove…”

Everything went black…

A butterfly. A symbol of rebirth, to become something more than you were before. A ugly worm before regrowing from a shell of change, emerging a beautiful creature of the sky. 

A butterfly.

That’s what he was when he rose from the green . 

With a shocked gasp Joker sat up quickly from his tomb of fluids. He panted as he spat out some of the liquid that made its way into his mouth, he felt it slosh around in his head before he threw it all up completely—something he’s been getting too used to—the clown dragged himself from the pool with weak and shaky coughs. His once missing hand now attached back to his less green body, only a few stitches showing that there was any damage at all. He felt around his body, the deep gashes that adorned him gone without a trace. Even the sizable hole in his chest had completely disappeared.

Before he could ponder any longer he heard a voice with an annoyed lilt come towards him.

“No–no, god Talia. Don’t worry I’ll have him in and out…you’re the one who caused this anyway. Oh my–fine, fine! Jesus.” There was a soft beep, then Joker could see who the voice obviously belonged to.

There he was in all his bat-glory was Bruce Wayne, dressed in blue sweatpants and a black tank top—which didn’t get Joker a little excited at all…why would he be…?

“B-Batsy?” The clown rasped, his voice strained and hoarse from under use. Shocked at his own ability to actually talk, Joker grabbed at his jaw; he moved it around with as much wonder as a kid in a toy store, but his eyes never left Bruce. “You shouldn’t talk, not until you drink something first.” The millionaire pulled a water bottle out of what Joker could only assume was his ass, giving it to the clown, his fingers lingering as the two accidentally touched.

Joker didn’t realize how thirsty he was until the water was right in front of him. With much vigor as an over eager virgin, he ripped the cap off the bottle, chugging the drink with small moans in between each gulp. Bruce, ever the bat-angel, handed him another bottle when he finished the first one. The cycle repeated for two more bottles before Joker felt refreshed. He left out an exasperated sigh, wiping his mouth of any remaining liquid with the back of his hand.

Bruce cleared his throat before there was any time for awkward silence to fall upon them. Joker looked over with so much adoration, his smile shining brighter than the green ooze he was just submerged in. “You…you helped me?” The clown questioned, his smile growing into inhuman when Bruce furrowed his eyebrows. “Well…I guess you could say that. I mean, I couldn’t have just let you die when there was a means to…” Bruce cleared his throat again. He shifted with unease, like he was trying to fight his own conscience.

“You should’ve let him die.”

“…but I am a selfish man.”

“To save me?” Joker finished. Bruce stared for a moment before curtly nodding. 

There was a beat of silence, not awkward but comfortable. Unfortunately, Joker had to address the giant elephant in the room. “So…what the fuck was all that about?” He laughed, though it came out more nervous than his typical cackles. Bruce’s face was all stoic like usual, but Joker knew that the question made him uncomfortable. “It was an accident.”

Joker scoffed, “bullshit.”

The millionaire clicked his tongue, shoving his clammy hands into his pockets. “I promise you it was an accident,” he takes his palm out of right pocket before lending it towards Joker. “Here, let me help you up. We have to get out of here before Talia gets mad at me.”

The clown feels his blood boil. “Talia?! That bitch?” Bruce frowns, muttering something along the lines of “don’t call her that.” Joker grabs the other’s hand, forcing himself up on shaking legs. “Of course she had something to do with this. God, it’s always her causing some shit.” He groans, an exaggerated tone escaping his mouth. Bruce frowned even deeper, his stereotypical ‘Batman’ expression adorned his face. His grip on the clown's wrist tightened, bordering on a cobra’s deadly hug before smothering its victim, Joker didn’t react to the warning; his eyes narrowed, staring directly into Bruce’s sapphire orbs.

Batman, uncharacteristically, was the first one to back down. Loosening his grasp on the thin wrist with an exhausted sigh.

“Fine,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’ll explain when we get out of here.” The closer Joker looked at his gruff face the more he could make out the obvious exhaustion in his features, his eyes lined with a slight rim of red, deep purple bags underneath…had he been crying ? The man’s cheeks were slightly sunken, obviously from lack of eating. The clown even noticed a few new wrinkles in his aging face—it made him think that this was all from the clown being gone. 

He rested a hand on his hip before continuing, “Talia doesn’t want us in here for too long.” Bruce gestures toward the dank cave the two were currently settled into. Joker just shrugged, “who gives a shit what she wants?”

Bruce’s brow furrowed again, “ I do.” He hissed, Joker shivered with slight arousal. “God, you never fail to fire me up!” The clown jokes, biting his chapped lips. The gesture obviously made Bruce feel slightly uncomfortable because he immediately released the jester from his grasp, taking in sharp breaths before turning around and walking out.

“You either follow me or you can get lost down here, your choice.”

Joker grinned, following his god, his king, his night, his knight, his bat into the abyss.

Chapter Text

It was a hunch.

A stupid hunch that he shouldn’t have even acted upon.

But the itch in his skin was too severe to ignore, a tingling in his flesh that made him shiver with disquiet. His suspicion started when trucks were hauling some sort of cargo into Ace Chemicals, a place that has been shut down ever since a certain incident involving a certain clown. So his confusion was greatly warranted. 

Next came the lights, a bright green glowing that could be seen through the windows. Then the smell, then the banging of metal, then the groan of rusted pipes, then the rain falling heavier than it used to then the—

Joker couldn’t take it anymore.

On a rainy evening he threw himself into one of his many stolen cars and raced up to the—supposedly—abandoned factory. Each mile passed, each ache in his bones. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong . But he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

Maybe it was Professor Pyg’s newest scheme. Or it was Eddy doing something stupid, or Harvey causing a ruckus. Or someone else, something else, anything else. 

But that color. That all encompassing green light was too familiar. He remembers Batman handling a substance like that in the sewers. Lazarus is its name. 

“A dangerous thing that brings life…but at what cost?” Batman explained. 

But…it can’t be that , right? Bruce made sure that every pit was destroyed long ago. There’s no way that someone got their hands on it and was mass producing some at Ace Chemicals.

Right?

Joker’s foot landed heavily on the gas. No time to think, no time to focus on the sense of dread that tickled the back of his mind, no time to call Bruce and tell him about this. He only had time to swerve in and out of lanes, sweat dripping down his face as he took a sharp left, then right. Then…

He’s here. 

Joker clambers out of the car. He wraps his—well, technically Edward’s—parka around himself, trying to fight back the cold night air along with the freezing rain. The clown stares up at the tall metal structure…why is it so much creepier than he remembers and why does it feel like the floor is sinking in on itself.

And why does he feel like he’s going to die tonight?

He lets the thought loom over him for a while. Death, but not at the hands of the bat. The idea makes him want to vomit. “Maybe I should just call him.” He mummers, rubbing his hands together for much needed warmth. He begins to walk back to his car when he hears a fit of maniacal laughter come from inside the factory, the green grow roaring to life once again. The curiosity comes back, the hunch making its way to the forefront, his self restraint moved to the wayside as he stepped into Hell 

“What. The. Fuck.”

Large containers of Lazarus line the interior of Ace Chemicals, each vat with its own set of ninjas occupying it. Speaking of ninjas, there's like five hundred in the room as we speak, and all five hundred heads snap to Joker, the outsider. 

Before any of them attack, a woman dressed in all black shouts an order in a language that Joker assumes is Arabic. The assassins hesitate which makes the woman bark out another order, this time harsher with a more threatening tone behind it. This time the subjects listen to the queen, bowing down before the Virgin Mary.

“It’s nice to see you, Joker.” The woman says smoothly, her voice dripped with a sultry slur that Joker could not only recognize, but also found very sexy. None of that though, this is a super serious and dangerous situation that he’s found himself in! One that—if he played his cards right—could turn into a massive orgy. Okay, okay, he actually has to focus.

“Talia?!” He looks up at the catwalk overhead, he squints his eyes to confirm his suspicions, but he knows that there’s only one lady that would have an army of ninja working for her. He hears her giggle, “like I stated before: it’s nice to see you Joker. You know how lovely it is to see the homewrecker that ruined my relationship.” He could see that genuine hate in her eyes as she speaks, did he feel bad for her? No, but did he understand what she’s going through…also no. But he can always be there for a fellow girl. “What the hell are you doing here?” Woah, that came out more aggressive than he intended, but he just couldn’t help it. His mind was racing a mile a minute trying to figure out what she’s up to.

“Can I not visit my favorite city in the world?” Joker’s nose scrunches in annoyance. “You and I both know that you hate this dump, so why are you actually here?” Talia just smiles, gesturing to her little Lazarus operation she has going on, “what does it look like?” 

Joker doesn’t know if it's her smug look, or her bitchy attitude, or the toxic fumes he’s inhaling right now, but he feels his hands shake in anger. He clenches them. 

Once.

The ninjas stand up.

Twice.

They get into a battle stance.

Thrice.

Talia laughs and Joker charges. 

The army of mindless drones rush him, flinging shuriken and kunai and whatever the hell. All that matters is knocking these guys on their asses. 

Ten.

Fifteen.

“You’re doing better than I thought.”

Twenty.

Thirty.

“Way better than I thought…”

“Serves you right, bit–!”

His distracted state is what cost him. A minion had thrown him on the ground hard. Hard enough to disorientate him. Hard enough for Talia to pick up a gun, hard enough for her to aim.

Thank God she didn’t shoot. He picked himself back up before that could happen. 

Joker abandoned his—not really—parka for speed. With nothing heavy holding him down he felt as free as a bird. He ran through a couple more enemies and he could notice Talia getting more restless. She shouted from her mighty throne, fidgeting as she got tired of her soldiers being useless. “He’s one man! Hal yajib 'an 'afeal kula shay' binafsi?!” She quickly makes her way down from her imaginary throne because how dare she think she’s seated at the right hand of the father, that’s Joker’s spot.

She reloads her gun, yelling at her goons to make way. Good thing to because one had got him in the leg and another has created a giant gash on the junction on his neck, and boy did he need a break. He collapsed to the floor in all the chaos, his leg might be broken, same with his arm but that doesn’t stop him from wiggling away as Talia commands her troops, and that certainly doesn’t stop him from grabbing Talia’s dropped phone.

Despite his very broken body he still makes it pretty far in the facility. His bloodied fingers dial in the numbers with haste, his breath quicks when he hears Talia shout, obviously angry about her prey getting away.

“Find. Him.” She hisses. Joker feels his blood run cold, he peeks out from the vat of Lazarus he’s hidden behind. His breath hitches when the army comes closer and closer to his location. Joker’s head snaps back to the phone, he presses the call button swiftly.

Ring.

“Ma hada alsawtu?”

Ring ring.

“Yabdu waka'anah alhatifu.”

Ring.

“Daena nadhhab liltahaquqi.”

Click.

 “You have reached Wayne manor, who is this that I’m currently speaking to?”

“Kan hadha swtan bialtaakidi!”

Joker tried to open his mouth but he couldn’t say anything…his fucking jaw is broken.

And so, forgetting where the hell he was, he pounds his aching hand on the floor creating a very audible thud. A ninja shouts and he hears a hoard of footsteps flock to his location and…

He’s screwed.

Joker desperately tries to escape, dragging his limp body across the floor. He clutches the phone tightly in his hand, the person on the other side talks but he can not hear over the ringing in his ears. The ninja catch up with him because of course they do. He’s grabbed by his once white button up—it’s now dyed a deep shade of red—and flipped over. The harsh jerking forces the phone out of his hand, it clunks against one of the vats. 

With his only safety net ripped from him, the only thing that the clown could do was struggle. Thrash and squirm and wiggle with all his might. He banged against the metal containers, the vibration causing a little bit of it to spill over.

Just a tiny drop.

A small minuscule droplet landed on the gash in his neck.

He stopped flailing.

The ninjas leave. 

Then he groans, and moans, and growls, and roars, and throws up the hypnotic substance that is green .

Talia struts her way over with her big fancy gun, she gingerly picks up her phone and ends the call.

Bang.

With no hesitance.

Cruel, but respectable.

“Bury him out back, it seems that we have to move this operation somewhere else; he called Batman. If I remember, there's a deep cave just north of here…hmm? Oh of course, feel free to rough him up as much as you like. I certainly don’t care.” She laughs, sticking a sword straight through his right wrist, cutting the thing clean off.

“Serves him right.”