M.A.D. || Joker and Larya
Oh, dear God, he’d found a school bus.
Talk about a fortuitous day, there were still kids inside. Now there were more kids, if you counted by pieces. The Joker sat on a bench about eight rows back in the bus, leaning back against the upholstery with his neck tipped so that the back of his head rested on the top of the seat. There was mould on the ceiling, a faint greenish brown collection gathering on the bumpy white surface. He smiled--it almost matched his hair. He stretched his legs before letting his feet drag back along the metal, so that he sat slouched with his knees pointing in opposite directions. From the front, it was nearly impossible to tell that his shirt had ever been a pale blue. The fabric was drenched, stuck to him, clinging tightly to his abdomen and it smelled heavy. Some would argue it was probably because of the shameless waste of human life. He thought it was because of the metallic, irony blood bits. Point one, science. He knew he wasn’t holding up well.
He could feel it, his arm ached and it tingled and whatever the Batman had done to it had certainly done him no favours. Oh. He owed him one for that. Most definitely. But for the moment...The blood that flecked his face--flecked... He pursed his lips. Perhaps flecked was an understatement. Blood mingled with the red lipstick like old friends at a cocktail party, and in terms of unwanted guests--blood also dribbled down from his nose, dripped off his chin--one of the little brats had punched him in the nose before it died. Made him look like he'd tried to eat one. He hadn't. The clown rolled his eyes. Canibalism. Ew. So uncivilized. Tacky. But the rest of the blood, the stuff that covered his shirt from chest to stomach, and his good arm from his elbow all the way down to his restless fingertips, belonged mostly to other people. He tongued the hole in his gums. The red tin helmet man most definitely packed a punch. Interesting character. He coughed. Felt a little nauseous.
The truth was he was very vulnerable and had no way to call for any help. It was hardly an isolated circumstance, he was used to being the only piece left on the board. The only thing to do in times like this was take himself out of the game, nurse the wounds.
“Whadda you think…uh,” He flipped open the binder that the corpse at his feet had been holding, scanning for a name. Ah. “Ted?”
No response. Not surprising. He’d liked Ted--Ted had made a very entertaining burbling sound as he’d pushed the letter opener further and further back into his trachea. He’d been the last kill. Heh. The Clown had almost cut his head off--had just kept sawing at the neck until the letter opener broke. Now he didn’t even have that.
A sigh.