Slipping Into Entropy - Part 15
Wandering aimlessly around the cell, irritated by the small quarters, Joker ran up to the door, intending to peer outside and see if anything was going on. What he wasn't expecting was that the door would open in front of him as soon as he hit it, sending him tumbling to the floor. As soon as he realized what had happened a manic grin spread over his face. He had to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle the peals of laughter, not wanting to alert the Bat to his mistake; in his anger, he'd slammed the door on Joker but forgot to screw the bolts into the door.
Ransacking the Bat's supplies like there was no tomorrow, he took whatever struck his fancy, another plan forming in his head. Tucking this and that into the pockets of his borrowed, oversized trousers, he skipped over to the vehicle sitting in the middle of the cave with a look of glee. The student is progressing nicely, but he still has too many ties. We should remedy that... Slipping into the Tumbler, he fiddled with the controls, figuring out how the basics worked and piecing it together with his hazy memories. Satisfied he could make the machine run, he started the ignition.
Meanwhile, much farther back into the more unfinished parts of the structure, Bruce was having a very difficult time making progress. His hands knew what to do; clip wire here, weld plate there, install this system, install that system, but his mind was a million miles away. He felt sick. Something parasitic was living inside of him. He had.....completely given in to that madman. He hated him. But, somehow, whatever he wanted he seemed to get out of Bruce. He swallowed hard, trying to focus on the tasks in front of him. The new cut on his chest stung when he raised and lowered his arms, but it was just another thing he wanted to forget. He bandaged it, it was deep but not extremely so, and it still hurt. He hoped it wouldn't scar.
Bruce couldn't believe how weak he was. It didn't seem to matter all that much at the time, but now it felt..... like he was betraying the people the Joker had killed, the people he had loved. The problem was that the Joker wasn't ugly to Bruce; what the man did was ugly, but he himself was....fascinating. Enthralling at best, intriguingly disgusting at worst. Like a pile of little mysteries. He had no idea where the man had come from, how someone like him had come into being without anyone in the world noticing until now. In those eyes, those scars, underneath the makeup and mannerisms the Joker held mysteries like gems.
The sound of an engine thrumming filled and echoed through the caves, tires squealing as Joker gunned it towards the exit passage of the hideout, the Tumbler weaving unsteadily as he got used to the controls. Ineptly maneuvering down the twisted passageway and towards the main roadways of Gotham, his tongue darted out of the corner of his mouth as he tried to keep from getting overly excited and forgetting the goal he'd latched onto. Don't forget, don't forget. Whoever and whatever I squish on the way over there is bonus points...
Nearly jumping out of his skin, Bruce's head instantly shot up at the echoing sound. His heart caught somewhere between his throat and the pit of his stomach as though it couldn't tell which direction to go. He was on his feet tearing down the hall before he had time to think. There was only one thing he owned that had an engine that roared and tires that screeched like that. He made it into the main room in time to see the tail end of the Tumbler shooting away from him. It would be up into the streets by now.
Bruce spun where he stood, hands flying to his head, thinking fast. The door of the Joker's cell was wide open. He couldn't believe it. There was no sign of force used on it at all. He had.....completely forgotten to lock the door. God. A cold wash of nerves ran over him. He had to move.
Running to the intercom, he contacted the penthouse. "Alfred! I need a car ready, now." No answer came in response, if the man had heard him, he was either ignoring the request, had left the building to find help, or simply didn't want to speak to him. There was no time to fix the kevlar suit, it was in pieces, which therefore made the Bat-pod useless to him. He had to do this without Batman. He hurried quickly up the elevator, finally taking it out of the emergency lock, and sprinted to the garage. There stood Alfred, waiting with keys to the Ferrari in hand.
Alfred did not look happy.
Bruce felt his gaze like a knife, sharper than the one Joker had used, but he didn't have time to talk. He took the keys and ran, the old man shouting at his back. "You ever let that happen again and next time, you'll wind up dead, Master Wayne!" Bruce was already closing the door, but the butler's words cut just like his gaze. Bruce fired the engine, Alfred stepped out of the way, looking more ill-humored than the young Wayne had ever seen him, and shot out after the stolen tank.
On the street, police cars sped ahead of him, he was easily going ten times the speed limit but none could be bothered to notice him. That more than anything told him the Joker was not playing subtle. He swerved around slowed traffic, flipping on the television in the dashboard. The newscaster was running down the street with his team, pointing to crushed cars, some in flames, speaking rapidly of the Batman being spotted wreaking terror on the streets of Gotham.
Doesn't matter if you can track me, Batsy. I took your ride. The thought made him cackle aloud as he zipped down the roadways, already purposefully steering to cause the most chaos and damage possible. Cars were crunched or forced onto sidewalks, into buildings and pedestrians alike. No few startled people crossing with the stoplights were suddenly missing limbs, consciousness, or the breath of life itself. It took little time at all for the police to catch onto what was happening, the media right on their heels.
Joker had found the gun turrets mounted on the car and was having fun. He was slowly winding along the roads towards his destination, but a few burnt cop and media cars along the way was just an added thrill. Not only did it stave off the moment at which he might be caught, it diminished the numbers of those who would actively try to hunt and trap him. If they weren't his equals, they were merely an annoyance, dealt with accordingly.
Joker did his very worst, leaving catastrophic damage in his wake to preoccupy whoever was following his progress. Debris from broken and battered buildings and cars were everywhere, fires springing up faster than fire stations could respond and spreading rapidly. Soon the number of cars trailing after the Tumbler were far fewer, though not from a lack of desire for the chase. The madman smashed through the decorative iron gates housing his goal, knowing exactly where it was; even as a non-native of the city, certain landmarks and pieces of history were famous. Plowing over a number of gravestones, he centered the armored car right beside the plot housing the famous Waynes. Pushing the buttons that released all the delayed-reaction bombs the machine had, Joker opened the door and ran like hell for cover.
Bruce was entering the trail of wreckage. Police were still going by, most cars were turning out of the place as fast as possible. He ignored the cops on the ground beside EMT shouting at him to turn around. The news team on his monitor was ahead of him, but they were keeping their distance, and switching back and forth to the wreckage on the street and the reporters at the station. The tank was spotted rolling into the city's landmark cemetery. Bruce slammed the gas down, not understanding at first what the Joker would be doing there. It was a wide open space, there were no buildings relevant to him nearby, there was only..... In the distance ahead, not four blocks down the road, a giant ball of flame erupted through the trees. He was at the gate seconds later. He left the car and began running across the lawn and....and suddenly realized where exactly the explosion was coming from. His feet slowed, eyes locked at the scene before him. His mouth went dry, and he could no longer put one foot in front of the other. Absolute disbelief washed through him.
Joker, in the meantime, had taken refuge where few would think to look; hardly anyone went into tightly locked mausoleum buildings but for the occasional caretaker. Picking the lock and relocking it was insanely easy, even in the rush he was in. Dust filled the air as the building rocked with the explosion, causing the man to cough and cover his mouth and nose with his sleeve.
The flames rose high; miniature explosions followed the first as the Tumbler's fuel and weaponry caught fire. The force knocked Bruce to the ground. He could feel the heat from where he crouched, and he was forced to duck his head. When it subsided a little, he moved forward. He could barely see through the fire, the Tumbler was a ball of orange, but the towers...the towers where his parents had lain were missing. He moved further into the heat. He couldn't see them. His eyes burned, he had to squint and cover them with a sleeve. There, stone on the ground, scorched.....one of the monuments had been split in two, half still sticking up behind the burning tank. The other had fallen into rubble at the ground.
Bruce stared for a long time, or at least felt like it, at the pyre. Shock was all he could feel, the beginnings of despair pulled at his mind but couldn't quite break through.
Finally, a new blast came from under the incinerated tank, the ground beneath it flying out as well. Then another. Then a third. Bruce had to back up in order to avoid it. The gigantic tires were blowing.
Joker huddled down in the little building, preparing himself for a long wait. The police would take awhile to put out the fires and comb the area for the perpetrator before moving the search to another location. It was after that that he could move, that Bats would no doubt come for him. His mouth twitched upwards, wondering just how far off the edge this would push the man. Perhaps he'd end up closer to himself, drifting with few real ties to a past.
It was around then that the police and firemen got close enough to the scene to discover Bruce. The rushed in to pull him away from the flame. He didn't protest until the need to find the Joker came over him. He had to be here. Bruce was sure of it. He would want to fucking watch.
He fought his way free of the rescuers, but there were so many of them, and he knew not to hurt them intentionally. But right now, he couldn't stand it. Playing Bruce Wayne, going with them, letting them console him, ask him questions, letting them take him away from the scene, from his real mission, he couldn't play the facade any longer, so he broke free. While doing so, he looked frantically round for the Joker's laughing face, but it was nowhere to be seen. He had to get out of there. The police wanted to take him in, the firemen wanted to get him checked out, and the journalists were headed their way.
Bruce fled. The police were focused on finding the tank's driver, who the assumed was Batman of course, to keep a firm hold on him. He caught a glimpse of Gordon, shouting to his team, straining to be heard above the roaring fire engines. Police were scattering over the grounds, searching for the wrong masked man. The young Wayne, still in shock, drove away from the scene and its gathering onlookers as fast as he could. His heart grew heavy on his way back to the underground lair.
He wished he could have watched - the way the soil and shards of stone would have flown through the air, the way tendrils of flame would have lapped at everything around the point of impact until charred ash filled the air and ground. Joker wondered how long it would be before Bats found out what had happened. If he'd even realize why. He'd done the man the biggest favor that could probably be done for him, something he would have been incapable of doing for himself, despite the need. Too firmly tied and tethered. He'd never free himself, and when it rained, he'd be quick to drown...
Bored in the dull, quiet little alcove, Joker peered at all the nameplates in the wall. Curious, he tugged on a piece of decorative scrollwork until it came out of the wall, then smashed and levered it against one of the panels, trying to pry it loose. The seals on one eventually broke, hissing a morbid, sickly decaying dust into the vault. The man had to pull his shirt over his nose to ease his coughing.
Wrenching at the nameplate until it came off, clattering onto the floor, Joker peered into the grave cavity. He found the answer to his question; all that was left was bones. He reached in without hesitation, pulling out pieces of dry, dusty pieces the color of old ivory, turning each of them over in his hands as the disjointed thoughts in his head combined to form an idea.
When Bruce entered the garage, he found he couldn't get out of his car. He couldn't function. The fire and rubble were burned into his eyes. God. What had the Joker done, why? The back of his throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. His hands still gripped the steering wheel; his whole body was frozen in place. Breathing was difficult. It was the second time the Joker had winded him today, on a whole new level. He closed his eyes, screwed them shut, trying to compose himself. New grief, dug up from the past, threatened to overwhelm him.
With his eyes shut and body hunched, Bruce didn't hear the footsteps advancing until a soft knock landed on the car's door. He looked up, half startled, half embarrassed to be caught in a moment of desolation. Alfred stood outside. He held little expression, but the lines of anger in his features were gone. He'd been watching the news, there was no way he'd missed what had happened. Seeing Bruce's acknowledgment, he opened the door, and gave Bruce a hand out.
"Alfred....." Bruce shook his head, unsure how to express his remorse.
"You knew what he could do," the butler said in response, though gently, "Now you know even better."
Bruce understood that the symbolic desecration of the Waynes' graves hit Alfred as hard as it hit him, their son. "He took the Tumbler. They think it was Batman." With new purpose, Bruce lead the way into the building, "I need you to get hold of Lucius, the suit....needs to be fixed. I've got a tracker on him, he won't go far."
Putting together a quick replacement to the fabric underneath the kevlar and fiber mesh was difficult, but Bruce needed to pull Batman's suit back together as soon as possible. Lucius took one look at it, then turned his gaze to Bruce, then back again disbelievingly. Immediately, Bruce anticipated the words ready to leave his lips. "What in God's name did you do?"
A vein rose in Bruce's temple. "Dog." He stared down at the mangled fabric rather than the R & D mastermind. "Big dog."
Lucius gave him a look, but made no comment. He got right to work, employing Bruce's help when needed, but it would take some time. Meanwhile, dead set on any kind of vengeance he could enact, Bruce decided to have a look into Arkham's database.
He had nothing but time. Time and, perhaps, a manic, impulsive sort of determination. He shed the borrowed shirt, patiently working at the threads until he had the ties he needed. He'd been struck with an image in his mind, and with nothing else to distract him, the idea had taken hold. He had to break open a few more of the little plots, rummaging around for pieces that would have the proper size.
Had anyone sane and somewhat normal been able to peek into the mausoleum and see what was going on, they would have been sickened and disturbed. The skinny man within was covered in a layer of dirt and gravedust, apparently wiring human bones together with threads of cloth. He wriggled the fingers of one hand, looking pleased when the bony fingers atop his own curled and moved in response. His facial expressions were somewhat shadowed - he'd managed to find a rather large skull, his own eyes peering out of the sockets, his mouth visible where the lower jaw was missing.
Bruce pulled up the data Gordon had dug up for him. He wasn't sure how legally they were obtained, but that was fine by him. Even having influence as a member of Arkham's board, Bruce Wayne probably wouldn't have been able to secure this man's complete personal records. He had to refocus himself every few minutes, flashes of his parents' graves, the smoke, the Tumbler kept flooding back into his mind. He could force them out of the way until they chose to attack him again, but he couldn't lose the rock that had lodged itself in his stomach.
There wasn't much more to be learned from the text on the flickering screen. Apparently all dental, print, and DNA records had still had no match. They hadn't been able to pinpoint his location of birth from physical or linguistical clues, nor been able to wrest information from the man himself. After each doctor had gotten a different story out of the madman, they had decided to apply sodium thiopental. The results were even more discouraging; the man had rambled even more, but the stories had become more fantastical, leading the staff to conclude that the patient himself might have no recollection and be unconsciously compelled to create tales to fill the memory void.
Therapy had been a complete disaster, often resulting in injury to the doctor, patient, or both. There were so many issues and disorders layers on one another that they hardly knew which angle to attack first. They had no previous models of someone with antisocial, histrionic, narcissistic, emotionally unstable personality disorders combined with countless other psychological twists and turns - less so when there seemed to be no way to gather what past events might have molded the man into such a monster. Even when he wasn't harming others, he seemed prone to self-mutilation to fulfill some masochistic need, and paired tendency for self-neglect, even fighting the guards over hospital hygiene procedures, only aggravated matters.
The staff eventually decided to keep him heavily sedated with barbiturates and various drugs affecting seratonin uptake, hoping that it would at least take the edge of most of the disorders. It was noted that it made the patient much more pliable and easier to control, but still did nothing to solve any of the underlying causes or prevent some of his outbursts and violent actions. Inappropriate laughter, jokes, and anti-social disorder tendencies still occurred.
Bruce jotted down notes as he went along. The only useful bit of information he gained were the names of the drugs and dosage the asylum had kept him on. The rest, Bruce felt very little pity for.
He spent an hour configuring the tracking system to receive the signal in the Joker's neck. After that, he had far too much time to himself, waiting for Lucius to finish patching the suit back together. Without purpose, he fell into thoughts of the old cut open again today. The Joker mocked, destroyed, everything he believed in and held close. It had gotten personal with Harvey, and Batman's ideals trod upon. It had gotten personal with Rachel..... Bruce winced, thinking of her. Now there was absolutely no mistaking how personal the Joker was taking his attacks. Bruce's head bent, his hands clenched, he rose them to the level of his head and held in a scream. He wanted to kill the Joker. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. NO. He wanted to stop him. He wanted this madness to END. More than anything.
He had a new plan now, he had to rely on that.
It took the small team of Lucius and Alfred hours to finish repairs to Batman's armor. The sun was setting quickly, and Bruce was the definition of anxiety. He'd contacted Gordon to get word on the hunt for Batman. Of course, they had made no progress. But they hadn't found the Joker either. The Commissioner hadn't exactly been relieved to learn that the clown was responsible for the fireworks in the city's cemetery, but he had been glad for the information all the same. At least Batman hadn't been involved. In the meantime, Bruce took a trip to the Asylum.
Joker pressed his ear to the door of the mausoleum, no longer hearing the echoes of voices and footsteps outside. As far as he could tell, the cops had retreated with the dusk to pursue "Batman" through the streets and present a strong front against the other plagues that came out at night. Slipping cautiously out the door, leaving it open a crack, a living skeleton went out to play and explore among the tombs, taking the opportunity to examine his handiwork from earlier that day.
It was a typical night for the hospital staff. The less violent, but still criminally insane patients were having a carefully supervised evening in the Rec Room, nurses and security staff ever alert for the slightest whiff of trouble. Dr. Jeremiah was also up and about; rather than sleeping lightly and fitfully as per usual, hand ever close to the telephone, the elderly man was holed up in his study. A slew of new records had been found in the basement levels of the house-turned-hospital, and someone needed to at least glance over the information.
Bruce called ahead, letting the doctor's receptionist know that Mr. Wayne would be stopping by for a visit, in lieu of recent events. She asked if he wanted to speak with the doctor, but Bruce was on his way up the stone steps and into the fortress already. He moved down the halls quickly, passing the front desk and smiling at the secretary who waved him by. They were used to Mr. Wayne stopping in occasionally. He held a certain amount of sway with the board, and was probably their top personal funding provider. Ever since the situation with the former Dr. Crane, Bruce had taken more than a casual interest in the mental hospital.
Shocked out of his studies by the harsh ring of the phones he had placed in every last one of his personal rooms, Dr. Jeremiah was on his feet in an instant, the phone to his ear within seconds. Old he might be, but Arkham tended to weed people out if you weren't quick to respond; more than one staff member had turned into a patient, and several dozen more were now permanently disabled or otherwise out of commission.
"Yes? Who is it this time? Which ward?"
"No emergency yet, sir. It's Mr. Wayne. I would have given you more warning, but he just-"
"Yes, he does that. He thinks the world his playground, as always, but he makes sure this corner of it is well funded. Let him come up, but you will alert me immediately should anything happen during his visit."
"...yes, sir."
On his way to the office, Bruce made note of the lab he passed, spying several medical lockers inside. One of his hands fidgeted against the crumpled piece of note paper inside his pocket. He'd been inside the room once, he knew where they kept most of the drugs they prescribed to the patients.
Finally reaching Dr. Jeremiah's office, Bruce saw that the man was already up and about. He looked more edgy than Bruce had ever seen him. Deciding that bustling in and putting the man more ill at ease would probably not be in his best interests, Bruce tapped lightly on the edge of the door frame.
"No need to knock, Mr. Wayne. You seem to make a habit of strolling wherever you please no matter what anyone else has to say about it. Besides, you think I'm so old that my ears don't work?" Easing his creaky frame into a leather armchair, he gave the young millionaire a distinctly crotchety look. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
Restraining the urge to cast his eyes to the ceiling at the incongruent greeting, Bruce gave the cantankerous old man a smile that wasn't quite a smile, but more of a pulling back of the sides of his mouth. "I'm sure I don't have to ask if you've been keeping up on the news lately." Bruce glanced around the room until he turned his gaze back to Dr. Jeremiah with eyebrows raised high in mock wonder. It was more than obvious the doctor had been paying very close attention to news of his most infamous escaped patient. There was no doubt in Bruce's mind that he'd seen Wayne Enterprises' most recent press conference gone awry as well.
"I'm sure I don't need to tell you, Mr. Wayne. I take the well-being and care of my patients very seriously." The dry note in his tone suggested that, given his observations of the man's behavior on the Hospital Board, he wasn't confident that Bruce took his role as anything more than a fun diversion. "I am hoping the police will capture the poor man and return him promptly next time so he can be properly sedated and restrained, rather than letting him run loose to damage himself and anyone else unfortunate enough to get in his path. I would only trust hospital staff I've personally trained with his care; he doesn't conform to any of the standard psychological models taught at any school."
"That's exactly what I'm worried about. I need to know what you've learned about him, anything," Bruce held out his arms imploringly. "Somehow, this "Joker" has got his sights set on me; now in order to avoid any more run-ins with the man, I need your help." His eyes searched out the doctor's and meet them beseechingly. "I want him back in here just as much as you do, believe me." He paused. "Hoping can only take you so far." He leaned against the edge of the doctor's worn desk, posture as open as possible.
Clasping his hands together, Dr. Jeremiah leaned back into the chair, looking more like an exhausted old man than he ever had before. "I cannot predict what he will do, where he will go. Of the observations I've made of him, it's never been wise to dictate a 'pattern', as he always seems to make more exceptions than rules. However," he added lowly, giving Bruce a serious look over the rims of his bifocals. "I will say that you probably have less to fear from him, physically, than you would had he not taken interest in you. He is like a child, one with no sense of morals but an intelligence beyond his years. Because you interest him, he will most likely want to toy with you, watch your reactions, stay close by... but he will be far less likely to actually injure or kill you while you happen to be retaining his interest. Most of our 'accidents' with him have happened when he was angered or bored and the staff member had nothing about them that he found interesting or pleasing."
Unstoppable forces....immovable objects. Bruce's blood ran cold. He had suspected all this, of course. The Joker seemed so irrationally fond of Batman. But a part of him, more than a tiny part, had hoped that perhaps it was all a ruse. Part of some larger scheme. One that didn't throw himself in the center of it. In taking on the role of Batman, he had done more harm than good, inspiring this man to come to Gotham and seek him out. That weighed heavily on his shoulders. Bruce's eyes closed in a moment of concentration. "You have no idea where he came from....?" He'd been given several hints that the Joker had not been a previous resident of Gotham.
"No, no physical records that we can discern. We taped various conversations held with him and had a trained linguist specializing in American regional dialects come have a listen. She thought that he sounded like he may be from the Chicago area, or some rural location near there, but we have yet to find anything else to solidify the possibility. You must realize," he added, knowing that his elaboration would most likely go straight over the flighty playboy's head, "that there are a great number of unsolved cases in this country. Missing persons reports, kidnappings, even things that never get reported to the authorities for some reason or another. Our Joker doesn't match any of those missing person files, and no relative has come forward since his first capture. This leads us to speculate that either his family is deceased, or the man has changed past recognition."
Bruce gave a slight nod, his eyes focused for a moment on the wall behind the doctor, the gears in his head turning. He refocused his attention once Jeremiah had finished with the 'criminally insane for dummies' part of his speech. He hesitated, searching for the right way to word his next question. "There is.....something else. He doesn't feel pain. Not....like he should at least. Some of the guards at the conference wounded him pretty good. He laughed at them. Like it was a joke." It was a leading question, and Bruce hadn't thought it wise enough just yet to bring up a suspicion he'd been forming about whether previous damage to the man's brain or nervous system had been inflicted. Every time he had met the man he had delighted in forcing Bruce to hurt him. Enjoyed it even. He began to wonder just how much the madman felt it.
"Ah, yes. That little detail has always made restraining him difficult. He doesn't take any threats seriously, and any sort of physical repercussions have always seemed to have the opposite effect they have on most. We were concerned when he was first admitted that he had some sort of damage to his nervous system, but after a few tests..." He shrugged. "There is nothing wrong with his nerves; they certainly are working and direct feedback to the brain. The root of that peculiarity lies in his brain itself; he either has his sensory input filtering to the 'wrong' portions of the brain, thus stimulating endorphins, or has been trained somehow to interpret the information from his senses differently. The only thing that ever upset him, truly, was the solitary confinement room. We only ever tried that once," Dr. Jeremiah murmured remorsefully. "I instructed the staff not to do it again. However, even after that particular experience, our Joker seemed to not wholly remember the experience or take threats of a repeat visit seriously."
"And just what did he do in there?" It was difficult for Bruce to refrain from asking how they'd managed to keep the man in solitary confinement. He'd had no such luck; somehow the Joker had slipped from his cell nearly every time Bruce had thrown him in. Though, he did have a good idea how they did it if they hadn't been adverse to using drugs on him, which they rarely were.
The doctor was silent for a moment, a regretful look deeply etched into his face. As much damage as his patients had done to others in the outside world, he still cared for them deeply, committed to doing his best to ease the pain of the battered and broken individuals locked away from society. "As the police no doubt found out, he's adept at dislocating his joints and wriggling out of normal restraint devices. He also has a high resistance to any and all chemicals we've tried on him. We gave him an even higher dose of sedatives than usual, put him in the set of custom restraints we had made so he wouldn't damage himself while inside. It really is just a smaller padded room, the darkness normally calms patients down..."
Gradually realizing he was rambling, Dr. Jeremiah coughed, continuing on in his gravelly tones. "Had he been able to get out of his restraints, I feel that he would have torn himself apart."
Envisioning the scene in Bruce's head, he was almost reminded of the night previous, when the Joker woke in Bruce's makeshift bed. The man had freaked out like he hadn't seen before, for a moment even muttering nonsense. "And then you turned on the lights, didn't you...." he muttered to himself. It suddenly amazed Bruce how interested he had become over the course of one night in this man's past and personality; anything that would give him the leverage it took to enact a vengeance worthy of what the Joker had done to his family's memory. In the name of defense. He had been interested before, more than he had wanted to be, but now.....it felt more justifiable to dig through the Joker's past.
"We hadn't even known anything was wrong. He was completely quiet when he was left in the dark to cool his heels for awhile, but when one of the staff came to check on him later that night..." The doctor shook his head. "Something in that puzzle of a mind remembers something worth fearing. He rambled on and screamed and tried to fight his way out of the room, then suddenly went back to nor-...his usual self. When we tried to do regression therapy, he didn't remember any of it, not even with the aid of some of chemicals we normally use to help ease memories out of a repressed state."
Bruce was suddenly paying very close attention. Something the Joker feared. Actually feared. If he couldn't use that, he'd be damned. "Do you know what triggered it? The room, lights? Did you have him on anything?" He needed something to use against this man, even if he didn't remember the fear, if Bruce found the key to it, he might be able to gain some kind of control over the criminal once more. Just like he had beaten Crane in the end. With his own fear....
"We honestly don't know. I forbid the staff to put him in that room again," Dr. Jeremiah gruffly responded, looking fairly indignant. "Just because the man behaves like a monster is no reason for my staff to return the treatment. No human being is born with such tendencies; every person is the result of various compounded experiences along with their inherant personality."
Nodding again, forcefully softening the features of his face, Bruce held back the urge to tell the man exactly how much the Joker deserved. If he had been born that way, Bruce might have found it easier to forgive him, or at least understand. Either way, he was who he was now, and that was putting every other person within his reach in danger. Bruce liked Dr. Jeremiah for his honest wish to help even the worst of the criminals he watched over, but he had little understanding of the world outside of his Asylum. In Batman's world, he couldn't afford leniency like this man did. "I really do appreciate your enthusiasm, Doctor," Bruce said honestly. He just hoped it didn't turn against the man in the future. "I.....I want you to let me know if you think of anything else. Immediately."
"Certainly." The doctor forced himself to swallow his bitterness and give the other man a smile. He was their main donor, but he didn't have to like the egotistical, womanizing prat. The sooner Joker was back within the asylum's walls, the sooner the playboy would forget all about playing at the fascinating world of psychology and go back to... yachting with models, or whatever he did to waste time and money. That was fine with Dr. Jeremiah, as long as he left real doctors to deal with the complicated matters within the hospital.
It wasn't hard to recognize the disdain emanating from the old doctor. It annoyed Bruce, but he was partially glad for it. The man would pay him little mind other than to say he was simply scared out of his wits by a convict who'd gotten a little too close for comfort. He stood slowly, stretching as if their conversation put him more at ease than it really had. "Thank you." Before he left the office, he turned. "I hope you get him back."
"So do I, Mr. Wayne. So do I." With that, the elderly man rose, toddling off to his research once again. It was a wordless dismissal.
Striding away from the office, down the stairs, Bruce wasted no time in finding the room he had noticed on the way in. He spotted the security cameras, and with a little well placed maneuvering, walking underneath one and knocking it slightly off kilter, he was able to enter unnoticed. Immediately he searched cabinet after cabinet for the drugs on Arkham's record list. Nothing on it was kept out in the open cabinets, but Bruce was fortunately, like the Joker, an expert at breaking locks and putting them back together. Once he had obtained what he needed, he set back out into the street, waving a cheerful goodbye to the secretary on the way.
Getting word from Lucius that he had finished the suit, Bruce raced back to his lair.
"Just tell me you're not about to go and wreck all my hard work now," were Lucius' words of wisdom to Bruce as he donned the repaired armor. Bruce gave him a halfhearted smirk in return. He doubted Alfred told him exactly how the suit had gotten the way it did.
"Don't worry, this time I plan on ruining the other guy's suit," he shot back. Alfred looked away.
Bruce gathered his things, he still had the Bat-pod and for that he was deeply grateful. The tracker was now fully functional, and he took a handheld receiver before leaving the other two men to worry for him.
Every time Bruce left his underground lair, flying out into the city's streets as Batman, the high never dulled. Anticipation, excitement, anxiety, certainty, all coiled together inside his stomach. Tonight added a good dash of grief and vengeance in the mix as well. He would come prepared, as prepared as one could be when dealing with chaos, tonight though. He kept an eye on the handheld monitor. The Joker's signal had been pointing to the graveyard for the past quarter hour.
Joker, meanwhile, had been digging around in the crater that had once been a grave, picking through the pieces of the Tumbler and the other debris that he found. That's the thing about graves - people leave so many interesting things inside. They don't get that dead people just don't care. The rags and bones were getting a fine coating of dirt and soot as well as dust, adding yet another layer of scent to the already pungent smell clinging to the lunatic. A sparkle in the moonlight caught his eye, and he scrambled over the bent pieces of metal to get a better look, the rough shards in the soil cutting and puncturing his bare feet.
Digging in the soil to see the rest of what had caught his attention, he pulled on the shining strand and gave a yelp of surprise when a larger mass was pulled out of the earth with it. Squatting down, he found that the strand of pearls in his hand were still around the neck of their previous owner. Untangling the ivory beads, he slid them over his own neck with a clatter against the bones.
Chuckling to himself, he pulled the mass of bone and dirt back into the light. For an old corpse, she was still in remarkably good shape; the explosion must have severed the lower half, but the dried and dusty ligaments and tendons still wired the upper parts together. Struck by impulse, Joker gave a little mock bow, grasping the torso by the spine. "Ah, would a lady bonebag like to have a dance? You needn't worry about me stepping on your feet.... eheh..." He spun in a circle, grabbing one of the limp arms in mid-arc, humming to himself and paying no attention to the damage to his feet.
Batman tore down the street, deliberately avoiding the patrol cars interspersed through the area, still on the lookout for him. When he reached the graveyard, none were to be found. What cleanup had been done had been called off for the night. The Joker's signal still beat strong from the center of the wreckage, and Batman rode quietly through the cemetery gates. He saw the Tumbler's wrecked outline in the distance. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw after that.
Past the tank's carcass, high on a hill of stone and dust and wreckage stood the Joker's figure, swaying back and forth to the wind and a tune in his head, what was left of Bruce's mother held fast in his arms. Her torso hadn't been recognizable at first, cut in half it didn't look like a body any longer. The spine hung down at its base, her head was locked in an upright position, though lolled back slightly, one hand in the Joker's, the other forced over his shoulder. Bruce couldn't tell from this distance, but he was sure that her eyes were gone. He could however see tendrils of her hair swinging to and fro with the madman's rocking motions.
What welled inside Bruce in that moment was indescribable.