Team anarchy, Round Six, fic: Home Pyre
Title: Home Pyre
Author: Fairlyfelonious
Prompt: "I can’t remember when I had my first waking nightmare. They’re too disturbing to call daydreams." - Devour (2005 film)
Summary: The Joker wants to see Gotham burn to the ground once and for all, and his admirers from all over the world have come to help.
Words: 2876
Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, the Joker, Scarecrow or the Jokerz, and I'm not making any money off of this fic. The slightly altered lyrics I used in the link is originally from "Treasure Island". "Ring around the rosy" is a nursery rhyme sometimes thought to be referring to the black plague, and is also not mine. Rating/warnings: R, violence, sexual situations, sadomasochsim
Author note: My inspiration for the crazy college students who follow the Joker was from ieatpeople, who uses something similar in her fic.
"A healthy man does not torture others. Generally, it is the tortured who turn into torturers." - Carl Jung
Sometimes, when he fought his Batman, time rolled and twisted around him, wrapping him in its warm embrace rather than moving towards the future in an arrow-straight line like it did for everybody else. When he was alone, he couldn’t remember the past and he didn’t care about the future, but when Batsy was with him, fighting him, giving him his wonderful pain, the past and present would blur together until he couldn’t tell the difference between them. Sometimes after he saw Batman, he’d dream so vividly and so often that he thought he could will his dreams to come true.
He thrashed around in the ratty matress that passed for a bed, lost in a combination of memory and dream, all swirling around him in a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of images.
“Where are they?! Where are the bombs?! What’s so funny, you sick freak?! Children’s lives are at stake, and all you can do is laugh-”
“Something funny, Jacky? Ya think I’m some kind of Joke, that I can’t push ya past a point where ya won’t be able ta laugh off the pain? Well come here, boy, let’s put a smile on that face!”
“Should have let you fall, you-”
“Worthless waste of space! I shoulda beaten you outta your mother as soon as I found out-”
“Won’t let you hurt anyone else-”
“Kill me, then. Kill me! Ya know you want to. I bet it makes ya feel powerful, ta beat a man who’s already down. I bet it makes ya feel like GOD.”
Batman froze, suddenly repulsed at his own actions, just like Joker knew he would be, and yet he could see the barely visible trembling, that tell-tale sign that Batman wanted, no needed, to hurt him again.
“Tell me where they are!”
“Fine. Ahhahehehe, fine! I’ll tell ya, Bats, but only if ya promise one thing.”
Batman froze, every muscle taught with dread.
“What do you want?” he said in that wonderful growl.
The Joker’s eyelids fluttered as his eyes rolled up into his head, and he licked his lips in anticipation.
“Redraw my smile, Bats. I wanna feel your blade in my mouth. I want ya to mark me as your own.”
Batman made a noise somewhere between a sob and a moan and clamped his lips shut to prevent himself from being sick. He then straightened with resolve, and slipped a bat-shaped blade between his lips. Joker shuddered with lust as he got his first taste of steel and blood…
He started awake, somewhat surprised to realize that he was gnawing on his own cheek. Blood was dripping out of the side of his mouth, and he licked it away with a quickly darting tongue. He giggled when he became aware of the evidence of his interrupted fantasy. Ah, yes, it was definitely time lure out his playmate out into the world again.
He took the prepaid phone off the overturned box that served as a bedside table, and held down the number two on the keypad.
“Jonny? Tell the kiddies that it’s time to play with fire.”
Every year on Halloween, college students from all over the country and even the world traveled to Gotham to binge drink, raise hell, and most important of all, pretend to be someone else. The gothic architecture and broken down grandeur of the old part of the city gave it the perfect allure for that holiday, and it had become an even more popular tourist destination in the last few years with the appearance of Batman and the masked villains he fought.
The amount of tourists that flooded the town the weekend before Halloween numbered in the millions, and even with the surge of vandalism and petty theft that always accompanied them, it created almost too much chaos for the overworked and understaffed police force to handle.
It wasn’t so unusual to see people dressed as Batman or their favorite villain on Halloween night, but even for those used to the theatrics, it seemed like an unusual amount of party-goers were wearing grease-paint or clown masks. It unnerved some, but most just dismissed it as some morbid college-age trend, and didn’t look any more deeply into it.
Batman was not one of them.
Across the city from the warehouse in which the Joker was based in the Narrows, his call reached the Scarecrow in an inconspicuous apartment near Gotham University. Scarecrow promptly contacted a former disciple on campus, who started the countdown on a website he had created especially for tonight.
He was a scientist. He didn’t need to broadcast his deeds for the whole world to see, unlike the Joker. Let the Harlequin of Hate take the credit for tonight. He was going to have his own brand of fun: namely, enjoying the fear of everyone around him. He knew better than to trap himself inside, tonight.
The Master of Fear slid his burlap mask over his head, and picked up a few spare containers of fear toxin as he went out the door.
“Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down,” he sang quietly to himself as he walked out into Gotham.
Batman was perched on the rooftop of the GCPD for the first time in the six months he had been labeled a murderer, anxiously hoping that the message he had sent the Commissioner on his cell phone would be answered. He had this clawing feeling in his stomach that the Joker was planning something big, and the anticipation of the impending chaos of the Halloween weekend only made it worse.
He could always tell when the Joker was planning something, now. Everything changed in some indescribable way in the criminal underworld when the Joker was ready to make a move, as if he was a force of nature, gravity that pulled everyone around him in one direction. Bruce didn’t have any hard evidence that the Joker was up to something, but he knew, deep in his bones, that whatever happened tonight was going to be just as bad as the first time the Joker had thrown Gotham into chaos, perhaps worse.
He heard the echo of familiar footsteps ascending the staircase before he heard the door open or saw his ally; such was the benefit of ninja training, that he was always attuned the smallest details around him and could rarely be surprised.
Jim Gordon stepped onto the roof cautiously, looking weary with the burden of the job he’d been given and, Batman recalled with a twinge of guilt, the constant stress of having to simultaneously condemn and aid a trusted ally. Even though he remained certain that lying had been their only option at the time, he constantly felt the need to take back his decision whenever he spotted a new line on the Commissioner’s world-weary features.
He couldn’t afford to second-guess himself, though. He’d learn long ago that no matter if you occasionally made bad decisions, second-guessing your instincts was far more likely to cost you your life, or someone else’s. With that in mind, he shook himself from his pointless ruminations and silently stepped out of the shadows.
“You came,” he growled, allowing some surprise to show in his masked voice.
"Yes. It’s still not safe to be seen together,” he warned needlessly.
Batman merely nodded.
“The Joker’s planning something tonight.”
The commissioner tensed slightly in alarm, as if just hearing the man’s alias was enough to send his body into flight or fight mode. Batman didn’t blame him.
“How do you know?”
“Did you notice the unusual amount of students in town this weekend?”
“Almost twice as many, I know. Don’t tell me that this has something to do with them. My men are going to be overworked as it is.”
“It does. I’m certain of it. I’ve already spied on a couple of costume parties-different areas of town, no repeat guests-in which all of the guests were either in grease-paint or had ritualized facial scarring. None of them were talking about any specific plans-I doubt they even know, yet-but they all were talking about anarchy and chaos, as if it’s a god they have to worship and obey.” Disgust was thick in his voice.
The commissioner frowned, rubbing his mustache.
“You think they’re terrorist cells.”
“Yes.”
“It could be some sort of strange…trend. Kids can find the oddest things appealing, and it isn’t the first time that a mass-murderer has gotten more than his share of fans.”
“This isn’t just some passing trend; from the way that they were talking, it sounded like a cult. Any one of those kids would give their lives for the Joker if he asked them to, and even if he didn’t.”
Gordon sighed, looking more tired than ever.
“I’ll contact some people in the National Guard, ask them to be ready to come to our aid, just in case. I assume I can count on you, too-”
Batman didn’t even get the chance to disappear before Gordon finished his sentence, because at that very moment, buildings, bridges, and landmarks all over Gotham were instantaneously destroyed in dozens of simultaneous explosions. Bruce barely had time to grab Gordon and jump to the next building when the police station collapsed beneath them.
Shana Johnson, who by now only answered to the alias Nix, looked down at her soldiers, watching them carefully for any sign of weakness. Satisfied for the moment, she stepped up on the make-shift podium, nothing more than a packing crate that she had up-ended in the middle of her living room. She took a deep breath and thought about what to say to the dozens of willing sacrifices before her that would help cement their faith, then remembered what Mr. J had told her in her letter. Don’t plan, just do. Anarchy is the only answer to an unfair world.
Nix knew that if she believed in his truth enough, everything would be fine, like always. She would take his advice. She would say what her heart told her was right. No plans. Action.
“Tonight is the night we throw off the illusions that have blinded us our entire lives! In our deaths, we’ll finally find freedom!” she shouted exuberantly, her face flushing with lust-thick jubilation.
Shana had been a philosophy and pre-law double major, but the contrast between the hope that the Constitution promised and the reality of so many people’s lives made her realize that the philosophy that founded her country, the vaunted Age of Reason, was an empty promise, and she had been right in the middle of it, holding up an outdated institution built on illusions and falsehoods. Now she knew better. Now she knew how the world really was.
All it takes is one little push, just like Mr. J promised, she thought, fingering the scare above her right eye, and everything becomes so much clearer.
Shana looked down proudly at the eager faces of her classmates staring up at her, awaiting her orders. She grinned brightly and cocked her automatic rifle, adjusting the rounds she had draped over her shoulders.
“Chaos! Death! Freedom!” she yelled, shooting a round at the ceiling of her decrepit student apartment and giggling when the people on the floor above started to scream in horror.
“Chaos! Death! Freedom!” the crowd roared back at her as one collective voice.
She spun on her heel, and led the heavily armed crowd out into the streets of Gotham, where they met up with hundreds of thousands of their fellow believers, all under the age of twenty-five, all ready to die for their cause this Halloween night.
Joker was skipping along the burning streets alone, having ditched his fanatically devoted psychiatrist, Harley Quinn, a few blocks back. He wanted his reunion with his soul mate to be a bit more…private, and from the doe-eyed looks Harley had been giving him lately, he doubted she would approve.
“Hi-ho, Hi-ho! A pyro’s life for me!” he sang at the top of his lungs as he aimed his flame-thrower at Gotham’s already demolished courthouse. Suddenly a heavy weight barreled into him from behind, and he was sliding with delightful pain across the pavement. Batsy’s heavy body pinned him to the cement staircase, and he twisted his arm painfully above his head so that the joints locked, causing him to drop his flamethrower.
He laughed and ground his hips up into Batman, moaning at both the wonderful friction and the predictable look of horror on Batsy’s face.
“Oh Bats, if I’d known you missed me this much, I would have worn something special for you-ahhhaha!” He screamed with laughter when Batman punched him in the face, causing his head to smack back against the stairs behind him. He saw stars.
“What’d I tell you about starting with the head?!” he gasped, giggling as the stars danced in front of his eye for a few seconds before they faded into red and green afterimages.
“Call them off! Gotham is destroying itself, children are destroying themselves, and it’s all your fault!”
“Oh darling, I can’t! I can’t control a force of nature. They did this on their own-”
“Like hell you can’t! Call them off!”
“Only if you, ah, do something for me, first,” he said, licking his red, red lips and looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes.
“...You’ve got to be kidding. I am not going to do that with you.”
“No, you’re not. I’ve got something better in mind.”
Batman just froze, waiting for him to elaborate but too wary to ask him about his plan himself. The Joker didn’t understand why. Men like Batman enjoyed causing pain. All he was doing was making both their dreams reality…
“I want you to use one of those wonderful bat-shaped blades on your gauntlet to…redraw my smile.” He thrust his erection into Batman’s armor once more and threw his head back, moaning and giggling at the same time.
Batman made a sound somewhere between a sob and a growl, but his voice, when he spoke, was hoarse with poorly concealed lust.
“That’s even worse.”
“No it’s not. It’s not. It’s everything you ever wanted. To have control over the people that destroyed your life. To hurt them. It’s why you roam the street at night, beating up anyone who doesn’t follow society’s rules, it’s why you blame yourself, every time someone innocent dies. Well, it is your fault, honey. It is. And you know you wanna hurt me for it.”
Batman closed his eyes in something that looked close to pain, but wasn’t from any external wound that the Joker could see, and when he looked at him again, the anger in his eyes was replaced with pity. The Joker responded with a wordless snarl, sounding like the mad dog he was so fond of comparing himself to. Batman tightened his grip on his wrists and body when he began to struggle underneath him.
“I’m not going to become like whoever gave you those scars just so you can prove your sick point about humanity. Not everyone’s like you. Not everyone becomes so consumed in their rage that they have to make everyone pay. I’m not going to mutilate you. I’m not going to let whoever made you like this win.”
The Joker clenched and unclenched his bound hands. He missed his knives. Twitch. He missed, missed missed his knives.
“Nobody made me like this,” he growled, his voice low, inhuman. “I am THE JOKER. I made myself.” His eyes rolled around in his head. Past here, present there, gone, gone, gone. “Hurt me, Batman. Hurt me! I know, I know ya want to,” he taunted, but Batman finally saw the taunts for what they were, in the absence of the manic joy that usually lit up the Joker’s eyes. Begging.
Bruce’s stomach clenched with nausea. He couldn’t fight someone who wanted pain that much. He wouldn’t ruin himself like that. He’d have to come up with an alternate option. Coming to a decision, he let go of the Joker’s wrists with one of his hands to reach for the sedative darts he had been using on the Joker’s followers all night, cursing when his captive proceeded to slip his hands easily through the weak point between his thumb and forefinger.
Where is it, where is it, where is it! Batman frantically thought as his hand moved over the many contraptions on his belt. He felt the Joker struggle to remove what was almost certainly a knife or a grenade or something else ridiculously destructive from one of his coat pockets at the same time and gasped in relief as his hand finally closed around one of the darts. He grabbed onto it and stabbed it into the Joker’s shoulder as fast as he could.
The man underneath him froze in shock, his eyes wide like gaping mouths and fixed on him with a strange mixture of hatred and unquestioning devotion.
“Hit me. Please. I want, I want it. I want you to hit me. Please, just…” Joker trailed off, his eyelids becoming insistently heavy. He only struggled for a moment more before he slumped in Bruce’s arms, limp like a doll, like a sleeping child.
Bruce cried.
.