THERE IS ONE IN EVERY DECK.

ARKHAM    ASYLUM        .        its  the  dead  of  night        * &        all  is  quiet . . . hugo enters the interview room where two guards wait patiently .with them is something more beast than man . “ GUARDS , LEAVE US . “ alone . . . . finally . let the games begin

silence  that  seems  to  stretch  on  for  an  eternity        .        then        .  .  .  .        “        𝙸’𝚅𝙴    𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳    𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁    𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴        ,        “        ——–        there’s  something  insidious  about  his  voice        ,        something    insanely    vile        .        “        * &       𝘪  𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦  𝘵𝘰  𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘵        ,        𝘪𝘵𝘴  𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴  𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵  𝘮𝘦        .  .  .  .        𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥        .        “       nothing  out  of his  mouth  has  yet  to  be  a  fib        BUT    GIVE    IT    TIME        !        deceit  comes  naturally  to  someone  like  him        :        a  cold        ,        callous  man  that  owns  nothing  in        𝐭𝐡𝐞    𝐰𝐚𝐲    𝐨𝐟    𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐲        .        

“        𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙴    𝚃𝙾    𝚂𝙴𝙴    𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴    𝙾𝙵    𝙼𝚈    𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙺        ?        “        in  his  hands  are  folders        ;        folders  that  contain  information  on        the    most    forgettable    cases    in    arkham        //        the  ones  who’s  minds  no  one  would  notice  were        .  .        tampered    with        . 

ᵒᶰᵉˢ    ᵉˣᵃᶜᵗˡʸ    ˡⁱᵏᵉ    ᵗʰᵉ    ᵖᵃᵗⁱᵉᶰᵗ    ʰᵉʳᵉ    ᶰᵒʷ        ;        𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙾𝙽𝙴    𝚃𝙷𝙴    𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳    𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃    𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃𝚂    𝚃𝙾    𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙴𝚃        .        someone  there’d  for  whom  there’d  be  no  moral  outrage        OR        not  a  care  in  the  world        if  he  were  to  suddenly  lose  his  his  mental  faculties        ,        rendering        gotham’s    nightmare        more        .  .  .  .        𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦  𝘵𝘰  𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦’𝘴  𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴        .       

in  fact        ,        they’d  not  a  clue                    [        imbeciles        !        ]       𝐈𝐂𝐘    𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐒    𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆    𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃        on  the  other’s        ,        he  slides  them  across  the  table        .        an  encouraging  simper  plays  on         THE    GOOD    DOCTOR’S        lips        ——–        it    even    reaches    his    eyes        !        but  he  knows  how  to  fool        * &        when  it  comes  down  to  the  nitty  gritty        .  .  .  .        𝘩𝘦’𝘴    𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺    𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵    𝘩𝘦    𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴    𝘺𝘰𝘶    𝘵𝘰    𝘴𝘦𝘦        .  

PATIENT    FILE        :        THE    JOKER        -----        @chaosent·        . 

   TICK,  TOCK.  THE CLOCK ON THE WALL SINGS LIKE A BOMB.    the joker pictures it blowing off,  and it delights him.  he laughs,  sharply and by himself,  with a disregard for the doctor’s attention that,  real or faked,  only further alienates him.  in the geometry of the room N#013,  the clown’s bare,  pale face elongates as a continuation of the white walls behind.  his scars stretch around his grin,  their darker tissue standing out like grooves in the tiled walls.  everything in the room is white,  even the light.  under its halo,  the shape of his smile is raw and alive with the trembling of a new giggle.  it’s how it goes.  tick,  tock.  the doctor doesn’t mind the clock singing.  he has other thoughts chirping in his ugly little head.  

        ‘  heheehe—  well i am the highlight of this place.  ’

   joker can tell each of them apart.  he can tell them by the stink.  the neon light flickers in reaction to the clown jerking forward,  eagle-like,  snatching the folder from almost beneath dr. strange’s stringy fingers.  there are pages on pages of psychiatric cases,  most of them uninteresting ;  as if leafing through a newspaper,  the joker flips a wrinkled file and hops on the next.  arrays of photographs slide beneath his eyes.  of names,  and numbers,  and more names.  over the sound of the ticking clock and strange’s crowlike voice is the rustling of the pages.   ‘  hmmmh,  ’   he hums.  in his hands the folder opens to the file of an ordinary textbook sociopath,  but it’s not so much at the specific case as the entirety of strange’s walk of fame that joker stops.  

                                            𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙸𝙻𝙴   𝙶𝙸𝚁𝙻               ,               𝙻𝙾𝚂𝚃   𝙶𝙸𝚁𝙻               ;               𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴'𝚂   𝙽𝙾   𝚆𝙰𝚈   𝙾𝚄𝚃   𝙽𝙾𝚆 .                              the   gun               still               echoes   within   the   halls   of               arkham   asylum               —               still   trembles   within   her   hand   as   eyes               shift               towards   the   dead   body.               𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃   𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄   𝐎𝐅   𝐇𝐄𝐑 .               there   should   be               an   ounce               of   remorse   there               ,               right         ?               WRONG         !               the   remorse   had   disappeared               a   long   time   ago               ;               ever   since               doctor   harleen   quinzel               had   become               harley   quinn.               ever   since               they               had   considered   her               too   fragile               to   be   outside   in   the   streets   of   gotham   city.               𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑   𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄   𝐒𝐇𝐄   𝐇𝐀𝐃   𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄   𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓   𝐎𝐅   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐄 .               she   supposes   she   can   now   add               criminal               to   her   resume.               ❛               they               always               said   i   was   a               good   gal               —               guess   i   proved   ‘em   all   wrong   .   .   .               ❜               laughter   bubbles   from   crimson   coated   lips               —               blood               ;               her   own               ,               the   guard   she   shot               ,               she   didn’t   know   anymore.               oceanic   hues   shift   upwards               —               𝐔𝐏   𝐓𝐎   𝐇𝐈𝐌               —               with   lips               curling   up               in   a   maniac   looking   smile.               ❛               ya   know               —               he               wanted   to               kill               ya         !               heard   it   before               .   .   .               back   when   i   was               —               ❜               another   laugh   follows               ,               cutting   off   her   sentence               &               the   gun   is   near   pointed   towards   her   head.               ❛               —               wasn’t               crazy.               they               all               did.               ❜               tone   becomes   more   serious   then               ,               eyes   wide   as   they’re   transfixed   upon   him.           ❤          @chaosent·

         THE ODD SMELL OF GUNFIRE BLENDS WITH THAT OF DISINFECTANT.    the hallways of arkham asylum are infested with the sharpness of the latter,  like a landfill with the smell of rotten things.  soon,  blood adds to it.  a splash of red colors her mouth,  like a bad attempt at lipstick.  red also pools at their feet,  filling a halo around the guard’s head.  the joker can’t help but look.  there is no thick layer of greasepaint that can cover the way his dark eyes glint,  enthralled.  the clenching of his jaw almost projects its own shade at the side of his bare face,  bony and strong in structure and almost too pale to be human,  even paintless.  there’s a flick of his tongue over his bottom lip and the stringy scar splitting it,  almost a signal for his  kneeling beside the corpse in ritualistic slowness.  for what seem like interminably long instants,  the joker just ignores her.  pretends to,  at the very least.  his sure hands pull the gun from the dead guard’s firm grasp.  it’s weighty,  and loaded.  

             ‘  couldn’t have imagined.  ’