2014.04.04 - The Court of Owls: Marriage Counseling

When one wishes to find the Joker, normally it's a very difficult process. The greatest detectives in the world have failed when he does not wish to be located. As if he just vanishes into some private darkness before he's ready to unveil the next act. Yet those who responded to a sighting of the Batman heading to Crime Alley would be rewarded with a rare opportunity. Some time after, with a large explosion shaking the building lightly at some point, the rear exit to the alleys is pushed open. And there stands the Joker. Suit crumpled, dusted, and hair a mess.
But there's no smile on his face, standing within the dark as rain begins. Pattering down, heavier and heavier, until he is soaking wet. Sirens are heard before he begins to walk without haste, winding through the city at a snail's pace. It would be easy to track him. Too easy. He finally stops at the back of an old building, yanking aside a board to slip within the darkness. A two story apartment; dirty concrete foundation, old-style brick, boarded up with the front door reading CONDEMNED. There are no thugs visible, and certainly no traps were on the route he took. Curious, indeed. But what would one make of it...?
Someone's made something of it. Someone who moves within the shadows, dressed in black.
Nearly a full minute after the Joker has pried his way past those boards, a figure descends from the rooftops of Gotham. Draped in a cloak of black, he sinks to the ground, melting to it -- before rising, slow and languid, to walk toward the entrance. Two bright, gleaming eyes of gold -- perfect circles that stab into the darkness -- stare within the depths of that building.
There are traps, no doubt. Or maybe there aren't -- it doesn't matter. The cloaked figure lifts his hand; something *fwpts* against the front door. Several seconds of silence pass... before --
KA-THWOOM.
The explosion rattles through the base of the building, down into its foundations and up to its rooftop. A distant car-alarm begins to screech, hollering in complaint; several dogs join in, howling and barking. The figure strides forward in the smoking crater of the front entrance, standing in the shelter of the entryway.
"We need to talk."
Amidst the rubble, bits and pieces of wood falling down, there's nothing visible. It is the entryway to the apartment; the front area, a number of rusted mailboxes visible to the right, a now-damaged desk to the left. To either side are hallways leading to the first floor rooms. But wet footsteps can be seen treading along the tile, to the second story stairs. There is no response from within. Not a word, not a rustle. Deathly silence. The Joker is in here -- in one of the rooms upstairs, doubtlessly. It is nearly pitch black, but such should be of little concern to the agent of Gotham's oldest and original syndicate of power...
The figure in black does not ascend those stairs; he remains standing at their entrance. His voice is muffled; filtered, electronically -- it becomes a deep, thrumming rumble. Like the threatening growl of an avalanche threatening to descend. Except beneath the synthesized voice, there is no hint of anger -- no frustration. It's almost... coldly detached. Serene.
"He needs you. Now, more than ever."
Still not a word. There's only a peculiar muted thump on the ceiling above and to the right; letting the figure know which room he is, at least. It was body-sized, centred in such a manner that the figure is likely now sitting on the floor. What follows sounds like very, very muffled speaking. Detachment. Words alone aren't going to reach the Joker. The agent of the Owl will need to risk going to him, and getting his attention. Something few in this city, regardless of physical might, are ever comfortable to do.
Those brilliant yellow eyes swing up to the sound of that thumping; there is an almost bird-like grace to the way his head cocks to the side -- swiveling, as if it were attached to a ball joint. And then...
He moves -- slitting through the darkness like a keen edged dagger. Not up the stairs -- but directly below the position of the thumping. There is a pause, an adjustment -- a soft *fwpts*, *fwpts*, *fwpts*, *fwpts*... and then he steps back. Waiting, patiently.
And then:
KA-THWOOM. Again. The explosion is much smaller, this time -- occurring simultaneously at four points. Load-bearing beams are neatly shorn through by the carefully administered bursts; the floor above now has little to nothing supporting the weight beneath it. The bright-eyed figure stands outside the range of what is likely to be... a minor avalanche of shoddy, half-rotted timber, tile, and whatever else happens to occupy the floor directly above.
What comes down is a great crash. The twisted wood and structure was already tenuous, condemned many years ago. The precision of the agent allows it to fall down in almost a singular piece; a great crash sends debris up in all directions, wafting heavily amidst dust that shakes the very building and causes the whole thing to shift an inch to the left.
Yet sitting dead center within it, legs carefully crossed, is the Joker. He seems almost undisturbed, as if he had walked in and sat down after the devastation took place. A number of children's toys are spilling in all directions. Some are from pre-school; those little push-boppers full of colored balls, stuffed animals, block toys, forming a great pile in all directions.
The only one that Joker is holding is a round blue piece of ancient plastic with a yellow lever upon it. After dull silence fills the air, he pulls it.
"The cow says... ...mmmmoooOOOOOO..." The source of that muffled speech heard earlier.
"You've broken my quiet place." the Joker says, voice soft. Only then do green eyes shift to stare at the owl. Everything in his body composure is someone defeated, almost petulant. But there's a focused, deadly edge to those green eyes, as if the countless shuffle of insanity has been condensed to a deadly blade.
"I don't want to play right now. ...If I were to run across one of my other toys..."
Another slow pull. "The chicken says.... cluck-CLUCK! Cluck-CLUCK!"
"I'd *break* them. And I'd regret it. Yes... regrets..."
The man with the yellow eyes is a looming black spectre; the glow of those scorching yellow lenses dulls the eyes' sensitivity to the dark, making it all but impossible to see the figure who lurks behind them. Only a shadowy outline, broad-shouldered and draped in a cape; two devil-like horns emerging from above the gleam.
"Ah. Still an incoherent lunatic, I see." Is that... a hint of amusement? "It's time to stop sulking. He's confused. You can give him focus."
Then, perhaps with, again, that lingering hint of amusement: "All strong relationships require communication. So, communicate. Send a signal -- remind him of what his job is."
"To stop you."
"..." Those green eyes narrow, lips peeling back in something of a grimace. Again he pulls on the toy, causing the warbled voice to thrum out.
"The horse says... nnNNNNEIGH!"
"Someone else got to him." Joker finally hisses, and there's anger behind it more than anything else. "Someone ELSE stressed him. Pushed him over the *edge.* Only /I/ can!! Only I can break him, KILL him!!" Slowly he shifts to stand, in a languid and smooth manner that's almost supernatural.
"Was it you?" he asks then, head casting forward until shadows swirl across the majority of his angular features, making him seem almost like a porcelain doll. "...Are you the ones getting in the way of my FUN?"
"Does it matter?"
The shadow doesn't move; he doesn't even seem to breathe. The amusement is gone from the voice; only the smooth, cold calculation remains. "You want to be the most important person in his life. I want to help you. Think of me as..."
The amusement returns. Just for a moment: "...a marriage counselor."
Slowly, Joker begins to grin. Twitching back to something more familiar, more twisted. That focus he has melts away into the madness. Which can be much more dangerous; with it comes the irrational, unpredictable genius who has one of the greatest personal bodycounts in history; done by his own hand, not through proxy, army, or military might. "Does... does it? Does it matter..." Joker states, allowing that thought to roll around within his head, as if running through and endless bouncing maze. His head tilts one way, then the other, each time his expression indicating a different answer.
And then, the grin. It returns in earnest. Eyes seem to sharpen, grip on the blue plastic toy increasing. "No. It doesn't. Because nobody can break the Batman... but me. Hah. I just... just got taken off guard!! You're right. IT DOESN'T MATTER. Such a simple, simple solution. It must have been that damnable Riddler... making me weave in circles for such a boring punchline..."
The handle of the toy is pulled down hard.
"You are just a hiccup. You know something I don't. Twisting a knife in an old wound. I'm almost jealous... but I'll find my own crack in his armor again. I always do!!"
"And like any good spouse knows, if you're going to make up after a lover's spat, you'd best come baring a gift."
The figure does not seem to move... but something does tumble to the ground in front of him, landing with a metallic jingle near the Joker's feet. A set of keys; they bare the small logo of a nearby storage unit.
At last, those yellow eyes start to fade -- as lids descend to eclipse them. "Go buy yourself something fancy to wear. Have a night out on the town. And remind him why you were always his first love, Joker."
"No. I'm his only love. Flings come and go..."
The lever on the toy is released at last.
"But I'll be with him until the *end.*"
That warbling voice continues. "The bomb goes..."
Violently, Joker hurls the plastic toy in the direction of the man opposite. A split second later, a surprisingly intense explosion rips into the air, sending sharp, bladed shrapnel in all directions. Joker is struck a dozen times, but none of them bite deep or fatal; raking his cheek, ribs, and legs.
The explosion hits, ripping through the figure; the shadow falls to the ground as blades of metal tear through it -- gouging holes through the cloak of darkness. The eyes, not yet completely shut, fall -- and something shatters with a dull, vicious crack.
And then... nothing. The shadow is a heap, on the ground -- unmoving.
Slowly flicking out his tongue to lick the wound at his cheek, the Joker leisurely walks across the wreckage of the collapsed floor, moving to nudge his foot appraisingly at the figure opposite. Almost curiously. The attempt simple -- to kick him over upon his back.
The foot nudge finds, rather than solid flesh, bone, or metal, nothing but cloth; all that remains of what the Joker struck is a cloak -- torn, tattered, and riddled with shrapnel. Beside it is a plastic mask -- and in its eyesockets, there are a pair of yellow-tinted glasses with light-bulbs duct-taped behind them. A small microphone and speaker are taped underneath the light bulbs; some simple wiring attaches them all to what appears to be a computer chip no larger than a waffle.
The cloak -- and the mask -- were dangling from the ceiling from a coat-hanger; the lights used to blind the Joker. He must have switched it out at some point... very early on in the conversation. The keys were thrown from a distance; the man responsible is long gone.
The plastic mask itself is nothing more than a cheap dollar store halloween mask -- a cartoonish image of an owl.
"Hoohoo." Joker states, picking up the plastic mask and turning it to hover it over his face. "An owl, hmm? How interesting. I don't recall of a villain called the Owl. Or the Hooter. But a BIRD is more likely to be a hero. They never fall far from the nest!!" He turns to walk back up the rubble towards the earlier tossed key, not particularly caring whether the man lived or died. "What was it that a group of owls were called? Hmm." A finger pokes the lightbulbs free, turning it into something able to be worn again. "It was courtly, I believe." He places it carefully on his face, humming gently. "A senate...? No... A congress? A congress of owls? No..."
The mask is taken out and looked at, held at arm's reach. Blood idly splattering from the brutal bomb he earlier through.
"A court...?"
Long moments pass, head tilting to the side. And then he tosses the mask away. "No. Parliament. Yes! A parliament of owls. Riddler would be proud... I really must get him back in the business. Didn't I have a--YES. Oh yes. The LASER SHARKS."
The keys are plucked up and tucked into a pocket, as he whistles carelessly, heading towards the door.
Owls. Owls. Owls. It's in his head now. He remembers so many beautiful tales. Immortality. Sacrifices. Brutal secrets. Eyes in the rooftops, before there was any bats. And then, like smoke in the wind, the train of thought is lost.
Time to check out his new toys.
Category:Log