intro post - Joker
the Clown Prince of Gotham .
- Blink one-two. Five ceiling tiles to the left, one down, is the keystone.
Dark brown eyes, nearly black with intensity and concentration, flicked from one
end of the room to the other. A tongue slid over dry, cracked lips and long-healed
scars that still twinged with flickers of ghost pain every once in a while. Or maybe
that was just him.
One cup gasoline and eight packing peanuts. One part motor oil and liquid soap,
two parts gasoline. Basic napalm ingredients.
The man who called himself the Joker had once prided himself on his extensive
knowledge of explosives, weaponry, and destructive items and objects in general.
Unfortunately, Arkham's security was tight. The inmates were watched everywhere,
even the showers.
To escape a strait jacket, one needs three inches of slack near the chest, strong
biceps, and endurance.
Shaggy off-green locks dangled haphazardly into his eyes as he slowly shook his
head, returning his gaze to the locked door. None of this trivia he'd learned over the
last ten years would be of any use to him now. A slow grin spread across his face.
They had him, yes. But not for long. It would only be a matter of time until a security
guard slipped up, or a doctor loosened the jacket a bit too much, or...someone
broke him out.
A small giggle bubbled from the chapped lips at this. His jokes were usually awful,
but that one just topped the metaphorical cake. No one was coming to save him. If
anything, he might get an assassination attempt or two. Not that he particularly cared.
His main mission had been accomplished, for now. Harvey Dent was dead and his
reputation destroyed, and Batman was emotionally scarred.
But it wasn't enough. In some dark, secret part of his mind, the Joker knew that his
job wasn't over. There was much more chaos to be caused, many more lives to be
taken. His own personal vendetta against society, his thirst for blood, had not been
sated. And it wouldn't kill him to get a little fresh air. Just a bit of time away from the
crazy house would do him good.
Thus, when the door opened, he did not look away from the light as he usually did,
to allow his eyes time to adjust to the sudden change. Instead, he stared into it,
watching the curvy figure approaching him from the light like his own personal messiah.
That is, if he believed in religion. He snickered.
He moved slightly, casting his face into sharp contrast. His eyes, clean of their
usual black greasepaint, appeared sunken and almost mournful. His pasty complexion
looked sickly in the light. The ever-present smile carved into his cheeks stretched
impossibly wide. "Hello, doc," he said languidly, letting his tongue roll over the words,
savoring them. "Or, rather, not-doc." He eyed the glasses cast carelessly onto the
floor. The shattered pieces glinted in the dull light from the overhead lamp. Then his
gaze darted back to the woman, and he adjusted his seat on the uncomfortable cot.
Pretty. Too pretty to be a doctor, he thought, one corner of his mouth twisting into
a smirk. And confident to boot. What on earth would a person like her be here for?
Unless...He leaned his back against the wall, seeming totally relaxed. "You can drop
the 'Mister', sweetheart. Everyone else has." His words were accompanied with a low
wolf-whistle. "Well, they sure have switched up their usual batch of docs. Eh, doc?"
he commented crudely.
"So what can I do you for?" His lips smacked at the ends of his words, lending a
sharp finality to his tone. "Some tests I'm due for? Maybe more...drugs?" The smile
stretched even wider.
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