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At the beginning, before the Joker was the Joker, he was the Red Hood. And then, before that, no one. He had a name. The Joker no longer recalls it, nor does he care to. He doesn’t know if he had a family or a home or a job. He doesn’t even know what color his hair had been, and the Joker prefers it this way. Who he was is hardly important. Who can worry about the past when there’s so much to do?
After this no-name man was the Red Hood. He ran a gang, whose goals elude the leader to this day. He doesn’t remember why he did what he did. He doesn’t know what exactly he did or who was involved.
Well… He does remember someone who was involved, but he wasn’t a gang member.
He was the Batman.
Like the Red Hood, the Batman was a maniac. Someone who decided to wear a mask and traipse about the city at night. Someone who coped with his traumas through violence and anonymity.
The Batman was insane. And he was perfect. The yin to the Red Hood’s yang. The missing puzzle piece. The Red Hood’s better half.
The Joker doesn’t remember much about his time as the Red Hood, but he does remember the Batman and their highly-calculated dance. He remembers robbing and poisoning and maiming all for the attention of the Batman. And then, once the Red Hood had his attention, he had to find more and more elaborate ruses. Ways to keep things fresh. The Batman was the cool constant, and the Red Hood was the fiery wildcard.
But one night, their game came to an end. The Batman went too far. The Red Hood fell.
Down.
Down.
Down.
He hit the chemical bath like a glass on the kitchen tile, shattering on impact. And the pieces of the Red Hood sunk deeper, deeper, deeper. The Red Hood took on water, dropped to the bottom. He never came up for air.
But a new man emerged. A new game began. This was faster. More dangerous. More intimate. The Red Hood knew the Batman like a teacher knows a student. The Joker knows the Batman like a mother knows her child. Everything the Batman does, the Joker understands. But that trust just doesn't go both ways. And though the Joker understands this too, it still hurts.
“I’m hurt.”
Batman grunts.
It isn't enough. “I trusted you. I’ve always trusted you, and what do you do?” The Joker kicks Batman in the teeth. It does nothing but make Joker’s toe ache, but he keeps doing it. The drugs have slowed Batman down. The restraints keep him still and perfectly accessible to the Joker’s shoes. “You failed.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” His voice is wheezy. The Joker holds no sympathy.
“You were Mr. Reliable! Good ol’ Batman, never kill a fly! And then, what? Did your butler die or something? Did you realize that I never really killed little JT? What was it? It's like I don't even know you anymore.” He kicks Batman once and then gives him a moment to reply.
“I didn't mean to.”
“Liar,” the Joker hisses. “You don't do anything on accident. So why?”
“I told you. It was a mistake.”
Kick. Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick .
Batman spits blood.
“We’re both mad, but I’m the one who kills people. You aren't. That’s what makes us work! That’s our zing!” He kicks Batman again. “And now? Now, there’s no zing. What am I supposed to do, Bruce? Your little bird’s nest isn’t nearly as fun. Nightwing always cracks jokes before I can. Robin’s so invested in your tech girl that I’d never get his full attention. And Todders is… Well, you know.”
Batman knows. The Joker knows that Batman knows. But there’s an itch in his skull that he needs to scratch. Everything should be laid out on the table. Nothing should be left unsaid.
“Little Jay’s a killer now too. Guess the robin doesn’t fall far from the belfry, huh?”
“Enough,” Batman growls. He jumps to his feet, hands free as frayed ropes fall away. But it doesn’t matter.
Batman grabs the Joker by the throat. Slams him against the wall.
“Go ahead, Batsy,” the Joker goads. “Go ahead and kill me. Again.”
Batman’s scowl doesn’t change, but the grip on the Joker’s throat relaxes a bit.
“Betray me all over again.” The Joker watches Batman carefully, the smile never truly fading from his lips. “I trusted you to play your part. I have always trusted you, no matter what. And now you’ve finally done it, and all you got was a slap on the wrist. You got away with the crime, but it’s your knife in my back.
“Whatever happens next, Bats, is your fault.”
Bruce wakes up with a gasp. He falls back on his pillow and cringes at the way his sweat-soaked shirt sticks to his chest.
“You didn't kill him,” Bruce tells himself. “You didn't kill him.”
But he didn't save him either. And if he was capable of saving him and he failed to…
Well, there's a fine line between failure to save and murder. Bruce isn't sure which side he falls on.
(But the Joker knows. And Batman will pay for his crime.)