"Enough madness? Enough? And how do you measure madness?"
—Grant Morrison

|•|•|•|

Ember didn't get much sleep that night.

Although she was fairly comfortable in her favorite pair of teal and white checkered pajamas, everytime she closed her eyes, Noah's dead body flooded her mind.

They'd required her to identify the body. He was nearly unrecognizable, half of his body severely charred by the explosion, his skin melted off in several spots, empty eyes agape in fear. She could still remember the shiny black wedding band that sat neatly perched on his finger, a finger that had be deteriorated to nothing but muscle. 

Painful sobs wracked through her chest as she screamed into the pillow, her hands clenching into fists as she relived the worst memory of her life... a memory that was only aged a whopping six months.

Everyone seemed to leave after Noah died. Her adoptive parents stopped calling, her friends did too. Nobody wanted to spend time with the sad, thirty-year-old widow. No one wanted the burden.

All Ember ever would be was a burden. Her birth parents didn't want her, her friends didn't want her.

No one would ever want her.

|•|•|•|

The Joker sat at his desk, his bare face in his hands as he tapped his foot irritably.

Several photographs of the infamous Batman illuminated the computer screen, articles upon articles questioning his whereabouts following Harvey Dent's death on display.

"Batsy, Batsy, Bat-sy." The madman sighed, his fingers shuffling through the stacks of papers covering the surface in search of something, anything to lead him to the masked man.

"Fuck." He grumbled, his gaze flickering over to the clock.

Five-thirty AM.

An hour and a half ago, he'd given Ember two gym bags full of her own clothing. She, however, would hopefully never find out about the mess he made in her house, the photographs of herself and her hubby mutilated, his eyes blacked out in the frames, along with a red smile covering his lips.

He'd perfectly staged her departure. A typed note had been mailed to the little boutique she worked out, by the name of Charlie's, announcing her official resignation.

To Gotham, Ember Laine DeLoughrey no longer existed. She'd simply up and left, migrated to a new life in a new city, courtesy of her husband Noah's untimely death.

If all went well, Joker and his men would be terrorizing the streets of Gotham tonight, and he could hardly wait. The thought of him causing mischief for the first time in over half a year actually made his dick quite hard.

Maybe... just maybe... if he caused just enough mischief, a Batman would come out to play...

He giggled quietly at the thought, a black ink ball-point pen held between his thumb and pointer finger as he scribbled several potential "plans" in the margins of a lined slip of paper, a grunt escaping his lips as he hastily crossed it out almost immediately, the pen toppling from his grasp as it collided with the wood of the desk.

"Do I really look like a guy with a plan?" He muttered to himself, swiping several slips of paper aside with his palms as they toppled to the ground, his feet carrying him quickly in the direction of the bathroom connected to his room.

His gaze fixated on the reflection in the toothpaste splattered mirror, his legs locking into place in front of the sink as his eyebrows furrowed together in deep concentration.

Joker's ungloved fingers crept upwards towards his bare complexion, deep black bags cupping his eyes from a mixture of lack of sleep and black greasepaint stains.

His thumb glided over the deep indents of the scar imprinted in the flesh of his left cheek, the ragged edges of the destroyed tissue sliding between his fingers as he attentively studied the deformity.

"Fucking ugly." Joker seethed, his bottom lip quivering with rage as sudden images of that dreadful event came crashing onto him, his knees nearly buckling in angst as his fists tore at his greasy, green mangled curls.

"No, no, no, no, no..." he muttered, a strand of unaudible words tumbling from his lips as he vigorously shook his head.

What was the matter with him?

He needed to kill somebody, and fast, before he lost his mind entirely.

Six-thirty AM.

Gotham's highways were packed with an abundance of vehicles, occasional horns honking irritably as several individuals realized that they'd undoubtedly be late for work.

The Joker sat in a deserted alleyway, just outside the Narrows as he picked mindlessly at his fingernails, his face covered solely by the blackness of his hoodie's hood as he patiently awaited the return of a man named Billy, who apparently had been residing on the streets for fifteen years. This morning, Billy would finally be put out of his misery.

He tapped his foot expeditiously, his bottom lip pulled tightly between his teeth as his favorite switchblade rubbed up against his outer thigh through the thin pocket of his jeans.

It was a bit peculiar for him to wear this type of outfit in public, but he was still freshly escapen from Arkham, and had absolutely no desire to return, especially so soon. Even his face remain bare, not a lick of greasepaint present as he sucked impatiently on the inside of his scars.

"Hey!" A deep voice barked from the entrance of the alley.

Joker's gaze darkened, his scars tugging upwards into a menacing grin as he slowly rose from his spot on the grimey ground, the palms of hands promptly dusting off his bottom as he rid the material of the dirt.

"Can I help you?" Joker called, careful not to get carried away and use his typical tone. Instead, he'd taken a lighter approach: using his genuine, deep voice, one that only rarely came out, and hardly ever to his men. Unbeknownst to them, this side of the man simply didn't exist.

"I believe this is my alley, douche." A pudgy man threatened, his thick neck tucked deeply into his grey turtleneck, his dirty blonde hair thrown astray from the wind as he shuffled towards a heap of objects, ranging from empty food cartons to collectibles.

"Billy, is i-t?" Joker pried, his tone shifting slightly as he over-enunciated his "t".

His hand shoved deeply into his pocket, twirling the closed blade between his fingers as he awaited the proper moment to strike.

"Fuck off, creep." Billy grunted, plopping his fatass onto the ground as he unwrapped a half eaten sub. Lucky for Joker, the sun had yet to rise, and the shadows of the alley had obstructed the mans view of his face.

"Yah know," Joker began, that high pitched voice tumbling from his lips once again as Billy paused mid-bite, his eyebrow raising in familiarity as he observed the stranger fiddling with something in his pant pocket.

"You're pretty-uh, fat for a homeless m-an." Joker dryly joked, the switchblade emerging from his pocket as his thumb quickly flicked open the blade.

Billy opened his mouth to shout in protest, but the Joker had already clamped his palm over the beefy mans face, squeezing his cheeks between his fingers as he knelt before the trembling man.

Billy mumbled inaudibly beneath Joker's fingers, his eyes widening in fear when he suddenly felt the cold tip of the small knife against his forearm.

"It looks like you're in a bi-t of an un-for-tu-nate situ-ation, my friend." Joker mocked, the hand clutching the blade darting upwards towards his face as he swiftly pried the hood from his head, a mess of flourescent curls falling into his eyes as Billy got a good look at his prominent scars.

The man cried out beneath Joker, his thick fingers darting upwards to attempt to pry the mans hand from his mouth.

Joker only mockingly chuckled, his knife quickly gliding against the skin of Billy's hand, splitting it open with ease as he cried outward in pain, muffled heavily by the clamped hand that prevented any sound from escaping the alley.

"Typically, I like to have a liiiittle fun with my toys, but I'll make this nice and quick." He promised.

Billy opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced immediately by the blade penetrating the beefy flesh of his neck, slicing through the crochet turtleneck as if it were butter.

"Nighty niiiight..." Joker taunted, twisting the blade further into the mans neck as fresh, warm blood coated his hand, seeping through his fingers like water as he marveled at the feeling, his eyes rolling backwards in his head as he let out a satisfied groan.

"Fu-ck." Joker moaned, pulling his bloodied knife from the lifeless man as he drained out onto the sidewalk, a sense of euphoria overcoming the Joker as he closely observed the life drain from the man, his eyes staring blankly back at his scarred face.

Once he was fully satisfied with his first kill in half a year, he wiped the blade of his knife clean against Billy's sweater, his tongue darting outward to wet his lips as he clicked the blade back into place and quickly discarded it into his pant pocket once more.

Joker rose from his kneeling position, the bones in his legs cracking slightly as he stretched outward, his fingers lacing around the fabric of his hood before pulling it over his hair once more, shielding his face from view as he stuffed his hands into his sweatshirt pocket and pranced away from the scene.

It was nearly sunup, and he was thirty minutes from home, makeup-less and dressed a bit too casually for his liking.

He'd knicked Spalding's 1982 Mustang from the front lawn, avoiding taking the van as it would probably draw a bit too much attention to himself, especially in this neck-of-the-woods.

The palm of his hand rest on the door of the vehicle, the top tucked nicely into the trunk as he effortlessly swung his legs over the door, landing perfectly in place on the leather seat as he readjusted himself, a giggle falling from his lips as he landed incorrectly on his groin.

Images of the dead homeless man, Billy, suddenly filled his deranged head, the visual of him slowly bleeding out onto the concrete made Joker's dick twitch in his jeans, his tongue darting outward to trace the outline of his scarred bottom lip, thrusting the keys into the ignition as the engine roared to life.

It was rather exhilirating, being out in the open with a clean face. He was a wanted man, and yet here he was, just on the outskirts of the Narrows, reclined in a classic convertible Mustang as he peeled the car from the entrance of the alleyway, not looking back as he sped away from the scene.

Suddenly, Ember's face bombarded his mind, his knuckles clutching the steering wheel tightly as they turned bright white.

She was effortlessly flawless; her platinum blonde hair flowing neatly past her shoulders, waving slightly at the ends, curling inward to cup her heart-shaped face. Ember wasn't a natural blonde, as her natural roots began to peek through slightly, drastically different in color as they were nearly black in hue.

Her lips were almost always chapped, and Joker suddenly considered slinking into the gas station that appeared on his left, knicking an energy drink and a tube of chapstick for his toy.

Her eyes were dull, brown in color, like his. Nearly an identical shade, but hers would fluxuate between light and dark depending on her mood, he'd noticed. Her mood the past several days, however, was that of loneliness.

And she fucking hated him.

Before he knew it, he was thrusting the gear shift into park, unlatching his seatbelt as he climbed from the vehicle, his hands stuffing into his sweatshirt pockets once more as he jostled the door of the gas station open with his elbow, a small bell chiming overhead as the small Indian woman behind the counters gaze flickered upwards to meet his.

Joker turned his head quickly, avoiding her prying eyes as he shuffled between heavily lined shelves, his eyes focusing on a small section of chapsticks as he snatched a random one, licking his lips as he, too, noticed that he could also use a tube. Irritably, he grabbed a pack of two before exiting the aisle and retrieving an energy drink from the refrigerator.

He wasn't entirely in the mood to outrun the cops this early in the morning, so he sighed heavily before approaching the counter, his hooded head hung low as he placed the two items next to the register, his hand darting into his pant pocket to remove his wallet.

The tiny woman quietly scanned his items, clearing her throat uncomfortably before requesting three dollars from the man.

He shoved a five into her palm, grunting something along the lines of "keep the change" as he ripped the plastic bag containing his purchased items from the counter before swiftly abandoning the establishment.

Ember's lucky she's pretty. He thought, his gaze lingering on the tubes of chapstick as the engine roared to life once more.