Chapter 4, Major Revision

The Joker had received his goods and still had to spare a thought for where to stash them. It was inconvenient to be disturbed at a time like this, but he always had a way around such things.

There was already a Joker in Arkham Asylum. Even if he trembled in his disguise, he would still do the job well enough to avoid the worst possible ending. Besides, what reason did he have to be dissatisfied? As the Joker, he could lord it over others, laugh to his heart’s content, inspire fear in everyone, and earn a great deal of money besides.

Of course there was risk of being exposed, but would his dear neighbors in Arkham ever go out of their way to report him to the guards or to Batman? They would rather see the dogs of law and order and their mutual enemy made a mockery of. If they did not join him in causing some grand calamity, that was already a mercy.

And when would Batman ever notice?

In truth, the Joker believed there was a certain understanding between himself and Batman: they both knew that the Joker’s game usually began only after he had already done something, and ended when he was locked back in Arkham.

As for the time before the game began and after it ended? That was for rest and for preparing the next game.

Please. Even for the Joker, when one of his carefully arranged games ran into a true life-risking player, its lifespan would never be long. It was often interrupted midway; the surprise segment collapsed completely; even the pleasure of playing was ruined. But that did not matter. That was precisely the classic performance they repeated again and again.

Because they were so in sync, the Joker brought his “surprises” to the world time after time. Why shouldn’t he?

Gotham forgave him. Law and justice yielded to him. In his hand he held the baton that conducted chaos, bloodshed, and death. The audience was the whole city, obediently following his cue, while the boys in blue were a pack of ignorant, crashing children, making mischief at his concert, and only the Bat danced to his music.

...

Nothing unexpected happened. By the time the cargo had been fully arranged, the Joker had not been disturbed even once.

He sat cross-legged on the sofa in the two-story house Bob had bought, thinking. There was a little space between the sofa back and the wall, and hidden in that gap was a small mouse of a girl, so dark and invisible she was almost shameful to look at. The Joker had long since grown used to it.

He had come out of those dim, airless cells after so long. It was time to make the world a little more interesting, to bring forth a new game.

Only disorder was normal. Only chaos was real. Yet people always liked to pretend they were noble and virtuous, endlessly spouting propriety and morality, cloaked in righteousness as they performed their little roles. Utterly hypocritical. They obeyed the rules by which society functioned... but did society’s constraints on human behavior make everything within it absolutely and unquestionably correct?

The expression on the Joker’s face was one of bored disdain. He curled an index finger and tapped the wooden armrest of the sofa. “Get me a cup of tea,” he said.

The little mouse hiding behind the sofa remained silent. He had not been expecting her to answer, but the moment she moved, the Joker added, “Not you. I was talking to the other idiot.” Of the two fools present, he had a little patience for only one, and not much of that.

Bob hurriedly brought him a cup of tea. The Joker did not bother making an issue of such a trivial matter. He took a sip, handed it back, then picked up the tailcoat and cane beside him and rose to leave. But then, as he turned back, something occurred to him.

His gaze, glittering with interest, settled on the hiding place behind the sofa. A new idea had come to him. “Well, child, will you come out on your own, or shall I drag you out? The ending’s the same either way, but it might affect your luck for the day.”

“You’ve seen so much death already, you’re far too familiar with it. So why not join in my game today and be my surprise guest?” His face stretched into a grotesque, exaggerated grin, his voice full of coaxing sweetness. As he spoke, he could not help the curve of his mouth widening further still, and he found himself anticipating the image already.

He waited patiently, certain she would come out on her own.

There was a rustling behind the sofa. He could not understand how she had managed to cram herself into such a narrow gap in the first place, much less get out again by herself, but after being squeezed a few times, she emerged in a state of disheveled, frizzy chaos.

The Joker bent down and reached out to smooth the乱 curls from her forehead. Beneath his hand, her skin was of course nowhere near as deathly pale as his. The child, no longer starving herself, no longer had hollow cheeks, and some color had returned to her face, but she was still small and slight. She wore pure cotton pajamas and stood barefoot on the floor. That was no fault of Bob’s; it was a bad habit she stubbornly refused to unlearn.

She looked down, still like a wooden puppet, with no excess emotion or feeling whatsoever. Like a clockwork doll, she needed only to be wound and given instructions before she would act. But obedience, in the Joker’s eyes, was a virtue that earned him a little more patience.

Satisfied, he patted the child on the head. “Follow me.”

He did not care whether it was appropriate for her to wear such clothes outside in this season. He stepped out first, and November weather was already cold, especially at night. The air conditioning in the house made things bearable, but once they reached the wide-open doorway, winter wind surged in and struck the child full in the face.

The bitter chill sent her loose hair and the edges of her pajamas streaming backward. Her balance was poor and her center of gravity unsteady, so she seemed almost to be blown along by the wind, yet she still followed behind the Joker. After he got into a plain black sedan, she stopped outside the car.

She hesitated for a long while, then lifted her vacant, expressionless gaze and looked at the Joker.

She needed a further instruction, or else she would remain frozen there outside the car. The Joker was already quite familiar with this clockwork wooden doll. So were his men. One of them got out from the driver’s seat, opened the door for her, and lifted her inside.

The vehicle moved off, heading toward the Upper East Side, where the Joker had arranged everything and where all the principal players in his plan were waiting to make their entrance.

The Joker sat with her in the back seat and, without even looking, tossed the cane straight into her lap. There was a dull thud, as if it had struck some bone, but it hardly mattered. Neither of them cared. He looked out the window, in excellent spirits.

Bob stayed behind at the little house. He had not been called, which meant he was not needed. Besides, Bob knew full well that aside from caring for the little girl the Joker kept, he had no other value. If the Joker gave no orders, it was better for him to remain here. But if he followed and got mixed up in those wretched affairs, that would mean he was on the verge of being finished.

In Gotham, that city of madness and chaos, self-awareness mattered more than anything else. Perhaps it had been misfortune that Bob had been singled out from the crowd by the Joker, but life like this was steadier than before. The Joker was also remarkably generous when it came to money, never shortchanging anyone.

Bob stood at the door and watched the child he looked after climb into the same car as the Joker, and could only pray that she would still come back after today, so that he would not lose his job.

As for the Joker, he had merely brought along a little tagalong. The command to “follow me” had never been explicitly revoked, so she would continue obeying it. Of course, the Joker had also tested what would happen if he left her behind midway or vanished to attend to other business; in such cases she would simply shut down on her own.

Even though he had already confirmed that her consciousness had shown a slight recovery, at its core she still pursued death, still remained just as miserable. So she was interesting and uninteresting at once. The Joker only wanted amusement, and therefore she had to become interesting. He would make sure of it.

When they reached their destination, the Joker was surrounded by a group of Joker Gang members as he headed toward his objective, and no one cared about the stumbling child following behind.

She walked at the very back of the crowd, wearing an extremely thin set of pajamas and barefoot against the ground. This was late November, with temperatures only in the single digits to low teens Celsius. Anyone dressed like that would certainly catch a cold and run a fever, yet no one dared say a word.

They entered an office building that looked as though it had been abandoned for some time. The ground-floor lobby was full of junk, and only a few bulbs glowed overhead. Upstairs, however, broken bulbs and severed wires had all been replaced and reconnected, making the place shine almost gaudily, like many of the buildings around it.

There was another group of people wearing Joker masks, assigned to guard the hostages who had been beaten unconscious and tied together.

Once the Joker arrived, he claimed the only intact office chair on site. He spun once in the wheeled seat and laughed, sweeping his cane through the air. “Let the game begin.”

It was a classic choice game. The kidnapped hostages had been divided into two groups, and a little “design” had been added to the bombs placed near each group, along with modifications to the remote control.

With the remote in hand, one could rescue only one side. The other would explode into fireworks at the moment the choice was made, at the moment it was abandoned. Of course, there was also the possibility that they would all explode into fireworks. Who could say for sure?

If the signal were jammed, the remote would be useless, but the bombs might not be limited to one kind... mercury switches, pressure-triggered mechanisms, all of it was perfectly ordinary.

Once the Bat or his little assistant arrived, whether they tried to seize the remote, jam the signal, or disarm the bombs on site, it would all be part of his game, and all of it would be enormously entertaining.

But such a game was rather too transparent and simple. Usually at times like this, the Joker would also provide another option, one even more important, or perhaps more deadly. He naturally understood his old enemy’s thoughts, habits, and choices, and he would set even more traps accordingly.

A game had to be enjoyed to the fullest. The Joker never half-heartedly played his games.

So, on the other side—

A subway line in Gotham’s Upper West Side, still in operation, was struck by an explosive attack, after which the signal was cut and all contact lost.

The nature of the event was grave enough. With so many people trapped and out of contact, and with reports already emerging before the attack had fully begun and before the signal had been jammed, the uproar outside was immense.

Public opinion on the internet and television was overwhelming, pressuring the Gotham City Police Department to divide its forces and send them to the scene, while also calming the families of the stranded who had arrived from all directions, dealing with the questions of the media, and, because it was November and year-end was approaching, placating officials who absolutely did not want a major incident that might damage their records. The police were ordered to resolve the matter at once, suppress the public outcry, and ensure that no stain marred their reputations or resumes.

The boys in blue were driven nearly mad. Their incompetence was already more or less common knowledge among Gotham’s lower classes; only those living a little better could still believe the police were worth relying on.

But they should at least be grateful that night had fallen, and with it the hour when certain nocturnal creatures went out to work.

The Bat-Signal blazed to life, casting the great Bat emblem upon the clouds above Gotham Police Department. In fact, Batman, guardian of Gotham’s night, had already set out the instant he received the message, before the signal even lit up.

The subway line under attack was still of unknown status. Even though he had also received additional news—that the Joker had kidnapped a group of people and was waiting for him in the Upper East Side—he could only send Robin ahead first. And, of course, because of his partnership with James Gordon, a team of police officers was also dispatched to the scene.

The Upper West Side and Upper East Side lay on opposite diagonals, separated by a large park and a broad river, which meant that once Batman made a choice, he could not promptly attend to the other side.

The major choice was being offered to Batman. Meanwhile, inside this building, the Joker idly spun a revolver in his hand. Whether it held bullets or a tiny prank flag, no one but he could know the secret.

He wanted amusement for himself. With a look of feigned delight and eager anticipation, he asked the child standing before him, “Good child, who do you think I should choose?”

Those people were all unconscious. On one side there was a family of three; on the other, the old, the frail, the sick, and the disabled. He believed the choice would be an easy one.

Choose the family of three? They looked so warm and happy. Why not let them keep on being happy? Choose the four old, weak, sick, and disabled? Their lives were already hard enough. Perhaps today they needed to cash in a little luck from God, so they would not miserably lose their lives while unconscious.

...

Batman arrived in the Upper West Side in the Batmobile before the police could get there. Entering the subway station alone, he saw nothing but people wearing Joker masks, picking up bills strewn across the floor. He could tell without question that the money was real. Everyone was occupied with the task. On the large display that had once shown train times, several words now flashed:

Joker Day of Revelry

Beneath it was the event description: “Wearing a Joker mask means you are participating in this event and may freely pick up any ownerless cash that has been dropped. Theft, violence, bloodshed, and death are permitted. The Joker takes responsibility for all of it.” In the lower left corner, a countdown timer was still running.

His sharp gaze swept over the crowd. Once the bills on the ground had been picked clean, the masked people, their faces and identities concealed, looked one another over. They had no idea who any of the others were, and they did not care. Unable to restrain their greed, they soon began shouting and shoving.

One person cried, “I saw you grab so much!” while another simply started violently tearing at the coat of someone beside them. The man screamed, but when half the coat had been ripped away and a shower of bills spilled out, fear first seized him, then gave way to a different kind of feverish excitement.

A few people in the crowd seemed to be passing messages among themselves, but as they turned, the increasingly chaotic scene completely obscured their movements.

The wail of police sirens drew nearer, and violence continued to erupt at the scene.

The atmosphere was manic. Batman took out a device and detected trace amounts of an emotionally stimulating gas in the air, though it was not lethal. For now there were more urgent matters. He seized one person, dragged him to a corner, and interrogated him. From the man’s mouth he learned that the subway had indeed been halted by explosions, and that those of them who had been buying tickets, passing through the gates, or waiting to board had been forced up to the ground floor. Anyone not wearing a Joker mask had been shot.

Batman asked in a low voice, “And the countdown?”

The man suddenly began trembling and stopped speaking. Only when Batman grabbed him by the collar did he finally cry out in terror, “A timed bomb!”

Just before the officers rushed into the subway station, Batman’s figure vanished into a corner, whereabouts unknown.

On the other side, Robin and the police team were also held up. People wearing Joker masks were roaming the streets. They carried no dangerous weapons, yet every one of them was filled with a savage urge to attack. In fact, they were not members of the Joker Gang. But just as the Joker had always known of their existence, Batman, Robin, and the GCPD all knew—

The Joker Gang was often a mixed crowd. Once someone put on a ridiculous Joker mask and stepped onto the streets, more and more people merged into the ranks: admirers of the Joker, and many others who used the mask to vent their own anger and malice. They would never dare do anything wicked in front of others, but they had the courage to blend into a troop of maniacs.

Often, these were the crazier ones, and they brought even greater chaos. Yet there were far from few of them, no fewer in number than the official Joker Gang members. Unlike those fixed, familiar faces, they could change clothes, don a mask, and mingle with the crowd today, then turn around and return to ordinary dress, and no one would know who they were.

That made them all the harder to deal with, and they undoubtedly delayed Robin and the police in their rush to rescue the hostages kidnapped by the Joker.

Inside the abandoned office building, before the child could answer, the smile on the Joker’s face did not fade. He reached out and stroked the top of her head. “Why so stingy? Answer me, will you? Otherwise I really do feel like I’m performing a one-man show.” He feigned pitifulness. To be honest, wearing that deathly white face made any expression look exaggerated, only more ferocious and terrifying.

The night was deep. Cold wind blew in through the shattered floor-to-ceiling window, and her pajamas seemed terribly thin. Her whole body was trembling, but she lifted her parched, dead eyes and met the Joker’s crazed, malicious gaze.

She had sealed away her self-awareness, making the outside world difficult to understand, but under the Joker’s gaze she slowly realized something and began to understand.

To respond was painful and difficult. If she never responded, if she never perceived anything, then she would not be hurt.

But she lifted a finger and pointed at herself, a tiny smile appearing on her face. In her eyes, dry as barren wells, there surfaced a longing for death.

She wanted herself to die.