𝗮 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 fortune, fame, human greed, twisting yourself into the darkest reflection you could become, staring directly into the spotlight until you go blind.

⠀ ✦ ( 𝗥𝗨𝗟𝗘𝗦 ) ✦ ( 𝗗𝗢𝗖 ) ✦ ( 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗦 ) ✦ ( 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗥𝗢𝗟𝗟 ) ✦

✦ ( 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿 ) — ⠀⠀⠀Hellebore, any/all. ⠀⠀⠀No NSFW, please discuss shipping beforehand. ⠀⠀⠀Content rated 16+.

✦ ( 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘀 ) — ⠀⠀⠀chapter zero: The Court Jester.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀Smile! You're on camera!

𝒐𝒉, 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒂 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒆...

...that's 𝐍𝐎𝐓 it.

( 𝗣𝗩𝗡𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗘 ) -- a fandom and character blog containing everything pertaining to ALEXIS KAYE aka 𝑷𝑼𝑵𝑪𝑯𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑬, as run by Hellebore.

CHARACTER ASKS // EDITS // REBLOGS

( 1 - out of character ) - mun notes

( ooc ) — INFORMATION ( ooc ) — HEADCANONS ( ooc ) — QUESTIONS ( ooc ) — YAPPING

( 2 - in character ) - Alexis Speaking

( ic ) — QUESTIONS ( ic ) — STORYLINES ( ic ) — LORE POST

( 3 - prompts ) - means of engagement

( prompts ) — STARTERS ( prompts ) — GAMES

( 4 - topics ) - topics of interest

TBD

( 5 - lore ) - the main "plot" this blog loosely follows

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗜 : The Court Jester

( 6 - storylines ) - AUs with other blogs

Punchline sits in a dark room, in a building hidden away somewhere in the Narrows. The screams of the city below can be heard through the screen, reaching through the dark curtains over the window to reach her microphone. Her eyes do not stray from the knives in her hands as she speaks, flipping the switchblade around in her hands. Open and closed. Open and closed. Open-

"It's not really about strength at the end of the say, is it? As if I am doing the impossible, by turning to face the monster that we can all feel breathing down our necks."

"When I look at this city, I can tell there's something wrong with it. There's something here that needs to be fixed, and we all know it- there something disgusting under these floorboards that's been rotting since the house was built. And that's why Gotham needs, and demands, and deserves to have someone that will say something about it. People think that I'm here to make jokes, or hurt them until they cry and that's the furthest thing from the truth out there."

"The trust is that I saw you. I see all of you, and the way that Batman treats us. The way that the villains try to break us. The way that these systems, they way that they were set up, and the way that they are being broken down, is crushing people like you and me. You think my message is noble? Thank you. I'm saying it for you. I'm screaming it for you."

The problem with the Joker is that he's everywhere. Even after all the drama that no one would care to know about. Even before she even became Punchline, or Alexis Kaye, or anyone who was someone, the Joker was there. He loomed over the city, it's people, and every thought that they had.

Her fingers twitched, tightening around the hilt of a blade. Of her knives this one was her favorite. Part of a pair, twin obsidian kerambits with blades curved into claws and sturdy handles wrapped in soft leather. She had learned, through all her time in the Joker's corner, and all her time fighting to get out of it, that not all knives were the same. Some where made to slice, some where make to stab, to throw, to carve-- kerambits were made to tear. To bury deep into its target's flesh and shuck them open like a oyster being split in two. She had watched blood and guts and bone pour from the wounds that these knives had made, a sight that she found herself fantasizing seeing the Joker in.

...perhaps the problem wasn't that he was looming over everything, but that she only ever looked in places she knew she would find him. Or painting his face on the blank white canvases of life that she walked through.

Alexis didn't think of herself as a petty person. Or an obsessive fangirl. Or someone that never had the stability to move on. But she was a spiteful person. A fact that became ever clearer as she unsheathed her beloved knives to tear through the fabric of a circus tent and step into the endless darkness before her.

"Alright then, Mister J."

"Let's see what we're working with."

She'd heard through the grapevine that he was planning something again- putting together the pieces on the board and shuffling around the deck until the jokers and the aces came up first. Something about bombs and toxins and the chemical plant that spat him out all those years ago. If that even was the pit that he crawled out of. Alexis had her own reservations around trying to assume who, or what, he was, or where he came from. And, while Alexis was not a petty person, that ACE chemical plant, and all the vats of acid boiling in it, belonged to her now.

The one thing that Alexis has learned— through all her years stuck in this city that she calls home— is that it will always find new ways to destroy itself. Gotham has always been its own little version of hell. From conception, the city was doomed by the gargoyles that they installed on every single rooftop. It was doomed by the families that built it, and all the people that moved in after. Through all her years stuck in this city, she’s learned to be fairly certain that there would be no version of Gotham city that wouldn’t have decaying rats crawling out from the sewers.

It seems that she was right.

Something broke the world that she called her own little rotten home. Something took it and the fragile threads that tied its existence together, and snapped it into pieces. A plate thrown against the wall, and left in shatters on the ground. She didn’t see the point in mourning it, which saved her the energy necessary to avoid getting cut on what was left. Apparently, some had not yet caught onto this. She had found some that were still sobbing over the porcelain. She had founds a disturbing amount that were still stumbling through the room with their eyes sealed shut and their feet smearing blood across the tiles.

She has stood on this street corner for half an hour, fiddling with the handle of one of her knives and watching the same man walk the same route— unaware of the copies of him following each step. Their feet fall into the same places, as they move five or so minutes apart. A red shirt. A blue shirt. A polo. A suit and a tie. But he is always stuck in the same distracted haze that prevents him from looking up. She’s considered, at least three times now, throwing a rock at one of them to see if it breaks the loop.

In truth, Alexis almost did, going as far as to pick up a chunk of the cracked pavement and tossing it up in the air to test its weight. But her attention was drawn elsewhere before she got any further, locking eyes with the shape of a person not too far up the road.

Another thing about this city- the way that people materialize out of nothingness, as if the air itself coughs them up to turn them into something worthwhile. Or at least, to turn them from the product of pollution into the source. She almost finds it funny. At the very least, she finds it interesting enough to let the potential weapon in her hand fall to the ground.

"Nice night," she calls, her voice carrying across the street. The words go seemingly unheard by the man caught in his infinite, spiraling loop. Her heels click against the cobblestones as she makes her way towards the other. Like an animal sidling closer to its prey, drawing a blinded sheep into the wolf's den, with the promise that there is a warm barn inside.