#secondgenerationhood

[tdksideblog-blog]

I hope you choke on a fork

;jadfshjfashjasdfkhl;ilhyu

[subversivesmile]

@secondgenerationhood​ (accidentally) issued a challenge for sad things.

December 24th—Christmas Eve. The Joker had never taken a Christmas Eve off before, as he viewed the holidays as a wonderful time to inflict pain and terror on Gotham City; tearing Batman away from festivities was the way he enjoyed celebrating the season most.

And yet, this year, there was only silence on the Joker’s end. His normal hideouts were deserted, as Jonny Frost had given his goons time off, seeing that the Joker seemed unlikely to pull any heists any time soon.

He was right.

The Joker wandered throughout the house he’d occupied for the last year and change, aimlessly meandering from room to room. In the main hallway, his fingers brushed against the tinsel that lined the walls, Jasmine’s laughter echoing through his mind as he remembered reeling her in with it as if she were a fish, planting a kiss on her cheek, then helping her very pregnant self to waddle into the hallway and hang the tinsel all along it.

Quickly, he turned away, stepping into the living room, only to see the large wreath that hung over the fireplace—the one Jasmine had picked out specifically, saying that she enjoyed the colours of it, practically begging him to purchase for her.

His eyes fell on the tree from there, remembering each and every ornament that they had hung with care, even if such gentleness would normally never have been his thing. The presents, still wrapped, sat under the tree; had been accumulating there for almost a month, though now they would never be opened. He’d spent a surprising amount of time picking out gifts both for Jasmine, and for the twins they were expecting, for once in his life thinking of someone other than himself. The Joker’s throat grew tight as he stared at the bright (and many metallic) wrapping paper that covered the many children’s toys he’d had custom made, or the various gifts (from home decor items to jewelry to weapons to a swift bake cookie maker) he’d collected for Jasmine.

Almost an hour later, the Joker was lifted from his melancholy by the sound of a knock at his door. It wasn’t the approved knock, and yet, as he walked towards the reinforced doorway, it became clear who it was. The sound of Christmas Carols managed to penetrate even the thick door, giving him pause as he approached. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with people, and as he threw open the door to scare them off—

A woman in the back could have been mistaken for Jasmine, in the right light, and with how quickly she had turned to flee with the rest of the carolers the moment he showed his face. She could have been Jasmine, if Jasmine wasn’t.. wasn’t.......

The Joker closed the door quickly, blocking the face from his memory, storming into his study; the one room safe of all reminders. Or at least, the one room that should have been safe. Instead, the box from the hospital sat on the center of his desk. Her personal effects; all that he had left of her.

Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, the Joker crumpled against the double doors of his study, his eyes never leaving the box. On what should have been the happiest day of his life, spent together with his wife and their two newborn children, he was instead totally and completely apart from the world. Before Jasmine, he had never felt lonely, but after she and the twins had been ripped away from him, the warmth and happiness she had brought him had been ripped away as well. For the first time since becoming the Joker, he felt truly, miserably a l o n e.

[subversivesmile]

The Joker was going to be a father. Normally, that wasn’t something he would have tolerated; he’d once beaten Harley within an inch of her life for daring to be pregnant without asking him first, and he’d promised her hell if it ever happened again. But this time—this time was different. It wasn’t Harley this time; it was Jasmine, and that made things more complicated.

It had taken months of work to get her to the point she was at now, where she adored him and hung off his every word. And yet, despite that, she was still a woman, and that meant certain hormones and tendencies, and he’d seen enough nature documentaries to know better than to get between a mother bear and her cub. Getting between Jasmine and their developing child... He wasn’t willing to risk all of his hard work on one gamble.

Especially not when the alternative did have certain upsides. The fact that she was carrying his child was binding in a way. Not only was she emotionally dependent on him, but soon enough, she would have a biological tie to him, keeping her at his side, and that was something he knew not to underestimate.

On top of that, not only could he use the child to drive further distance between Jasmine and Batman, but if he raised the kid right, it could prove to be quite a useful pawn. No one suspected children of horrible things, and he could use that to his advantage. Assuming he taught the brat loyalty and a lack of morals early on, it could prove itself quite convenient.

It was decided; the baby would stay. It was a decision that would likely cost him Harley, but then, they had been drifting apart ever since he’d brought Jasmine home anyway. Besides, if Harley left him, he could always find a way to weaponize that, to use it against Jasmine. He wasn’t sure how yet, but assuming it came to pass, he would make it work for him.

The thought brought a smile to his lips, and he glanced down at the woman in his arms, giving her every indication that the smile was because of her as his hand brushed lower, coming to rest on her stomach. Normally, she was easy to read, but with her face resting against his chest, and with the unpredictable moods that came with pregnancy, he couldn’t be sure what was going through her head.

When he finally spoke, it was with a certain gentleness, a certain tenderness that had taken him weeks of secret practice to get right, knowing the lie needed to be a convincing one not only in words, but in demeanor. “A penny for your thoughts, love?”

[subversivesmile]

secondgenerationhood replied to your post: ♦

Rude

Is it not better to be malleable—to be flexible—than to be rigid, unfeeling, and unbending like a certain caped crusader I might mention? Is it not better to be able to change, to adapt, to learn, as opposed to being stuck in the past?

[subversivesmile]

♦

x |  Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned.

Malleable.

[subversivesmile]

GOODBYE

x | Send me “Goodbye” for the last voice message my muse leaves for yours before they die.

Batman was supposed to be unshakable. He was supposed to be a pillar of all that was good; of law and order; the man who would never kill, no matter what. And yet, it appeared he’d finally managed to get his opponent to snap. Their fights had always been brutal, but the look in his rival’s eyes… The Joker shivered in excitement as he huddled in the alley, knowing he had only a brief reprieve before the vigilante found him again.

His fingertips drummed a beat into the dumpster he was leaning on for support, as he listened to the ringing of his phone. Soon enough, his call went to voicemail, and for the first time, the Joker felt panic. This wasn’t how his plan was supposed to go. He was supposed to reach Jason; to join forces with him, to subdue the Bat, and then enjoy his company together; to reap the benefits of the last year and a half of conditioning.

“Jason, please pick up,” the Joker whispered urgently, as the greeting played, even knowing it would do no good. “Pleasepleaseplease.”

The beep played, indicating that it was recording, as a shadow passed overhead and the Joker glanced up fearfully, before quickly beginning to speak; to explain; to beg. “Jay, I.. I got in trouble. The Bat’s after me, and I think he’s finally snapped. If I don’t come home tonight, know.. know that I care about you, and everything I do, I do for you. The front door key is in our bedroom, under my pillow, and if you find my gang, they’ll treat you righ—”

There was a loud crash as the vigilante landed beside him, startling the Joker into almost dropping his phone. When the hero spoke, his voice was low and animalistic, more of a growl than real speech. “WHERE IS HE?”

Over the phone, there was no way to tell what was happening, no way to tell that the vigilante was lifting the Joker up by the throat, holding him against the wall. No way to tell, save for his whimpers of pain, and the panic rising in his voice, barely contained by his defiance. “I’m not telling you; you’ll never hurt him again!”

Despite the strength of the words, the Joker cried out in pain as the grip tightened, dropping the phone, clawing desperately at the gauntlet holding him airborne. One look at the vigilante’s eyes told him all he needed to know, and he cried out, “Jason, save m—”

There was a sickening crunch, and then the clown’s body went limp. “You’re not worthy to even say his name,” the dark knight said after a moment, releasing the new corpse and allowing it to fall into the filth of the alley.

Those words, and the sound of heavy footfalls leaving the scene, were the last sounds the voicemail picked up, before the phone’s speakers cheerily announced that the message had reached the end of the allotted time, and would be sent with all haste. Moments later, a new voicemail alert would show up on the screen of Jason’s phone, ready to disturb the warmth of comfort of the new home the Joker had provided for him; ready to crack his world open with tragedy once more.

[eyesinshadow-blog]

It was just past three in the morning, and Cassandra was sweating like crazy—something he generally hated, but couldn’t be avoided at the present time with his present job. He was cutting it close on this one, but his client’s instructions had been clear; he had to be as thorough as possible; there was to be nothing left of his rival gang’s storehouse.

As the memory of the sum promised to him by his client played through his head, the dim light provided by the glowing lines along his skin surged in brightness, and in the back of his mind, he saw a beam come crashing through the ceiling, pinning him beneath it in the blazing inferno, leaving him trapped for what little remained of his life. Nimbly, Cassandra darted to his left, narrowly dodging the crashing lumber as it fell in reality, before resuming on his course. From the sounds the building was making, it was clear even to those without what might be considered psychic abilities that the structure was on its last legs.

He was cutting it close, but in order to make sure there was nothing left of the building (or any occupants that might have been inside), he’d needed to set fire to nine crucial points within the structure—only then had he been able to See a pile of ash with no visible remnants. But now—now he was paying for the time spent confirming the building’s fate. There were fifty feet of smoldering heat between him and the window which was to be his escape. Forty feet, and he could hear the southeast corner of the building collapsing into the basement, undoubtedly due to where he’d set the first fire. Thirty feet, and he could feel a veritable wall of fire at his tail. Twenty feet, and he could feel the floor shaking below him, giving way.

The tattoos across his body surged with light as he launched himself forward, just barely making it to the edge of the windowsill, before pulling himself up and vaulting over it. There was very little noise as he landed, catlike, on the ground behind the collapsing building, the heat from the out of control flames only barely more manageable now that he was out of the blazing building.

As the marks across his skin faded, the man retrieved his mottled black cloak from where he’d set it before entering the building, throwing it over him and pulling the hood up. The hard part was over. Now, all he had to do was return to the client.

Traversing the roofs and alleyways of cities was normal for him, and it was where he felt most at home. And yet, within a block of two of the scene of the crime, he became aware of an uneasy stirring around him. He didn’t have to time to confirm what causing it, not while he was on the run, and so instead, he simply ducked into the nearest dead-end alleyway, racing towards the end of it with slightly augmented speed, then whirling around, the visible tattoos on his face and hands giving off a dim light, betraying the enhancements to his speed and reflexes.

With the wall at his back, he withdrew his knives from their sheathes, holding them with an easy familiarity as he called out, “Whoever you are, you can come out now; the game is up.”

[jckescver-blog]

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