He had no reason to be careful anymore. For all intents and purposes, he OWNED the whole damn city. Anyone with half a brain knew that he couldn’t be stopped. Not anymore. Maybe once, in a city called Gotham that bore little resemblance to the beautiful snow-covered garbage heap he now called HOME, someone would have been able to put an end to The Joker before he was even born. Well, REBORN. But no such person existed, and now not even the great BATMAN himself had the balls to finish the job once and for all. He had come close once, but no, his big bad BAT needed him just as much as the reverse. It was a comforting though, especially in the midst of what he considered BORING and trivial days at work.
It was one of those days and, HAUGHTY and reckless as ever, he strolled into one of the musty, broken-down building on the pier in the old part of the city, accompanied only by Frost. The doors SQUEAKED open to reveal The Clown Prince of Crime, and the crew who had been working on unlocking the shipping container FROZE. For a long moment, the warehouse ECHOED with nervous breathing and three steady CLICKS on the ground, one after another: left, right, cane.
He stopped just in front of the container, Frost at his side, and pale skin that once held two strips of dark hair shot up expectantly. “WELL?” The crew suddenly sprang to life once more, SCRAMBLING to cut the chains from around the container. With an eardrum-shattering CLANK, both rows of constraints fell to the grimy floor, and Frost bent, one hand reaching for the handle.
With another grinding SCREECH, Jonny pulled the door up, revealing the terrified contents of the container. A sickening, wolfish GRIN spread across The Joker’s painted lips, emerald eyes darting around, examining the shivering, scantily-clad cargo and mentally saying a thanks that they had the good sense not to SCREAM or try and run.
As he was about to step foot into the container for a closer look, a noise in the rafters of the building pulled his attention. The smile VANISHED from his face, and his head SNAPPED towards the ceiling, gaze now SHARP and searching. “I think we have a visitor,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
There were plan As and plan Bs and plan Cs, alternates and substitutes, taking into account the potential for change. And Tim had them lined up in his head, connected by the what ifs and maybes. And, this? This had been calculated--the chance that the Joker himself would make a personal appearance. The Clown Prince of Crime’s unpredictability meant that even when he wasn’t expected, Tim had to account for the probability of him showing up.
He had to leave. Call for backup.
Like Bruce--he had practiced rational control of his emotions despite stimulus. The sight of the contents of the container meant he had to squash the urge to dive in and start hell alone. Tim avoided losing battles. This? The Joker, Freeze, and the lackeys? He knew his limits. Best case scenario still generated worst case probables. Nobody would be saved. This logic ran through his head in scant seconds as the Joker stood distracted and unaware that a cape haunted the ceilings of his warehouse.
Whatever the building was made of it blocked communication. So Tim shifted, moving silently through the beam to an open window--
A creak, a soft crack of metal.
He hadn’t taken into account the building’s material giving him away. It wasn’t enough to drop him, but more than enough to effectively blow his cover. Prioritizing three movements, Tim switched on an emergency tracker and flicked it outside, unlatched and dropped three smoke bombs from his belt, and pulling free his grappling hook, he aimed it at the open window ledge.
He had to make it outside. Verbally call for backup if the tracker didn’t do it’s job.
