The city was a broken tooth in the maw of the void. It wasn't Gotham—not even a cruel parody of it. It was something else entirely. Structures of fused, rust-colored metal twisted toward a sky perpetually bruised purple and black. Gargoyles weren't carved; they had grown, malformed and weeping acidic rain. The air tasted of ozone and despair, a constant, low hum vibrating in the bones—a sound less like noise and more like the universe groaning in its restless sleep.
Joker moved through the skeletal remains of what might once have been boulevards. His familiar purple suit was stained and torn, but still defiantly vibrant against the monochrome misery. His face paint—usually a vibrant canvas of madness—was smeared and peeling, revealing patches of unsettlingly normal skin beneath. His perpetual grin was… muted. A flicker, perhaps, rather than the full, glorious blaze of his usual hilarity.
This place was boring. Utterly, soul-crushingly boring. There was pain—yes, plenty of it. Suffering was abundant; the local inhabitants—hunched, scabrous things that scurried in shadows and gibbered in forgotten tongues—provided ample opportunity for cruelty. But it lacked spark. It lacked… purpose. There was no order to subvert, only pervasive, shapeless chaos and decay. No grand stage, no audience that truly appreciated the joke. And, most importantly, no him.
Joker sighed, a sound surprisingly deflated. He kicked a shard of twisted metal, sending it scraping across the grit-choked ground. "Honestly," he muttered to the empty, weeping air, "a clown needs a straight man. And this whole… dimension… is just one big, sagging punchline with no setup."
He stopped, tilting his head. The low hum of the void-city shifted, momentarily, almost imperceptibly. Like static clearing just long enough for a single, clear note to ring out.
A feeling.
Not the pervasive dread, not the biting cold, not the weariness of decay. Something else. Something… familiar. Like the ghost of a phantom limb, or the scent of rain just before it falls. It was cold, yes—but a different kind of cold. A deliberate coldness, sharp and precise, cutting through the ambient, formless chill. It felt like a shadow falling—not from a physical object, but from an absence of light that was actively created. It felt like a tightly coiled spring in a world of slack, broken mechanisms.
Joker's eyes, usually wide and darting with manic energy, narrowed. His head tilted further, listening as the sensation bloomed in his chest, then spread like cold fire through his veins. It wasn't a memory—not just a fleeting glimpse of red and blue lights or the smell of Gotham grime. It was… a presence. A weight. A specific, unique pressure in the psychic static of this desolate realm.
He knew this feeling. Oh, gods, he knew this feeling.
It was the feeling of a carefully constructed wall appearing in absolute anarchy. It was the sound of a heartbeat, steady and strong, in a symphony of whimpers and groans. It was the stubborn, infuriating insistence of order in a universe that had forgotten what the word meant.
It was him.
A slow smile began to spread across Joker's face. Not the forced, weary smile he'd been wearing, but the real deal. The one that stretched his cheeks, crinkled the corners of his eyes, and promised exquisite suffering. A smile of profound, ecstatic recognition.
"Well, well, well," he breathed, a low, delighted hiss that echoed slightly in the desolate quiet. The air around him seemed to crackle, responding to his sudden surge of energy. The grey structures looked a tiny bit less crushing—if only because he suddenly felt so much larger than them.
The feeling grew stronger, a magnetic pull, a psychic tether vibrating across the grim expanse. It wasn't just an echo from another life; it was here, now, in this impossible place. Like his greatest masterpiece had followed him through the cosmic drainpipe.
His chest shook with silent laughter. It started deep, a rumble in his core, then erupted outward—a joyous, cackling peal utterly alien and horrifying amidst the city's mournful silence.
"Oh, Batsy! You did keep up!" he shrieked, throwing his head back. Acidic rain splattered his face, but he didn't care. "I was starting to think I'd lost you in the inter-dimensional laundry! Got all tangled up with some… eldritch lint!"
He wiped a tear of genuine, demented joy from his eye. "But you're here! In this… delightful little cosmic oubliette! Hiding in the shadows, I bet! Still playing dress-up in the dark, are we?"
The feeling pulsed again, a definite bearing now. Not just 'somewhere,' but 'that way.' A vector in the pervasive hopelessness. It wasn't magic—not telepathy in the traditional sense. It was… a resonance. Two opposing frequencies locked in an eternal dance, unable to exist without the other, even across the fabric of reality. His chaos calling to his order. His punchline sensing its setup.
His eyes, once dull with boredom, now blazed with feverish excitement. His hands, previously hanging limply, clenched into white-knuckled fists trembling with anticipation. The hunt. The game. The meaning of it all. It hadn't been stripped away—it had merely relocated.
"Don't worry, darling," he cooed to the empty, ruined street. "I feel you. Like a bad penny in a cosmic wishing well! Or a straightjacket in a padded universe! You just stick out, don't you?"
He began to walk again, with newfound purpose—a spring in his step that belied the crushing gravity of the place. He followed the pull, the almost imperceptible shift in the oppressive atmosphere. He didn't need maps in this non-Euclidean nightmare. He had his heart. Or whatever passed for it. That black, shriveled thing that beat only for the Caped Crusader.
He moved with a predator's grace, surprisingly quiet for someone in brightly colored rags. He melted into the larger shadows cast by grotesque buildings, using the broken landscape as cover. He wasn't rambling now; his senses were sharpened, scanning the environment with manic intensity. He observed the scurrying creatures—did they flinch more violently in certain directions? Did the air thicken near a crumbled archway? Was that faint metallic scent… grappling hook oil?
Every flicker of movement, every unfamiliar sound against the backdrop of groaning decay, was filtered through the lens of his new, exhilarating objective. This place wasn't boring anymore. It was the biggest, darkest playground he'd ever been given—and the ultimate prize was hiding somewhere within its twisted structure.
He passed shattered spires that groaned like dying beasts, crossed squares littered with petrified remains of… something unfortunate. The psychic pull guided him, growing warmer, more distinct—like following a breadcrumb trail made of cold dread and unwavering resolve.
"Almost there, Batsy," he whispered, hoarse with delight. "Can't you feel me coming? That little tingle up your spine? The one that says playtime's over, and the real fun is about to begin?"
He fantasized aloud, sketching scenarios in the blighted air with his hands. "Caught in a girder, are we? Legs tangled? Oh, wouldn't that be a giggle! Or perhaps trapped under a pile of… whatever this stuff is? Don't worry, I'll dig you out! Might take a while, mind you. Got these lovely long fingers now…" He wiggled his pale, slightly too-long fingers in the dim light.
His pace quickened. The pull was strong now, emanating from a particularly dense cluster of ruined towers in the distance, where the air felt coldest and the silence was most profound. He could almost taste the grim determination, the solitary vigil.
He vaulted over a collapsed wall, landing silently on the other side. The chase was on. It didn't matter that they were in a place that defied logic, that seemed to exist only as a cosmic trash heap. It didn't matter that the rules of their old world likely didn't apply. Some things were eternal. Some dances never ended.
He emerged from the final alleyway leading into the cluster of towers. The feeling was intense here—a freezing point in the ambient chill. He could feel the weight of his antithesis, close now, moving perhaps? Or still, waiting?
A full, thunderous laugh ripped from Joker's throat, echoing off twisted metal and broken stone. It was the sound of pure, unadulterated mania—amplified by the joy of reunion. A challenge and a promise.
"HERE WE GO!" he roared, raw and laced with glorious anticipation. "I found you! Or rather… you found me finding you! Ah, semantics! Doesn't matter! The band's back together, Bats! Isn't that just the funniest thing?!"
He felt the slight recoil from the presence nearby—a tightening, a readiness. Yes. Perfect.
He spread his arms wide, embracing the bleakness around him, the promise within it. His grin was a rictus of pure, terrifying joy.
"This hunt isn't over!" he shrieked into the desolate air, sound bouncing back distorted and mocking. "It's only just beginning! And this time, darling… this time… the joke is going to be epic!"
He launched himself forward, disappearing into the deeper shadows between crumbling towers. The sound of his retreating, manic laughter was the only living thing in the dead city—a terrifying harbinger of the inevitable confrontation to come. The long, dark dance had found a new stage.