[ Joker sometimes has trouble telling what's real and what isn't, but that's usually just the result of something going wrong with his meds. A guy can't go from being on enough anti-psychotics to make an elephant weep, to nothing whatsoever, without expecting things to get a little funky. So when he wakes to find himself in a barren purple hellscape, being chased by crystalline mosquitoes that leave weird marks on his skin, Joker figures his doctor's just fucking with him again. Any minute now, Barnum and the Stooges and Elvis will all come out in clown suits and instruct him to dance the hokey pokey. He knows how this goes.

It's only when he spies Batman staggering ahead of him that he realizes something's wrong. He's seen Bats in these things before, of course, but always in the form of a monster or a sexpot. He's never seen him like this.

The cape's tattered, for one thing. Like, really tattered. Way more so than it has any right to be, unless Batsy's just been in a fight with a jet engine. And Bats isn't moving quite right, either. Joker's seen the guy hurt or limping or semi-conscious more times than he can count, but this time it's... almost like Bats has lost control of a leg. Or is a zombie. Kind of hard to tell.

Either way, it's not the kind of thing his mind would just cook up on its own, surely! Which means that maybe, just maybe, this place is real. And maybe Bats is here with him. And if that's the case, old Batsy baby will either be able to get them out of here, or will have to spend an eternity hanging out with Joker on his own. Neither of those options sound terrible, really.

Joker brightens, and hurries to catch up with him. ] Yoo-hoo! Oh, one-legged limping Louie! What on earth happened to you?

[ Oh, look, baggies of a special powder that'll keep you going when the going gets tough. Whatever might this be, children?

Joker tastes a little with a gloved fingertip, and is disappointed to discover that the word EDIBLE on the front wasn't just somebody trying to be cute. Whatever this is, it's not quite the pick-me-up he was hoping for. But it is, well, edible, so...

He downs about a third of a bag, slaking the worst of his hunger and thirst, before deciding that, if he's going to be in this weird-ass hallucinogenic world for a while, he might as well make the most of it. And doesn't civilization lie in the details?

He sets the small cooler up as a table, and arranges a few more baggies on it like teensy place settings. The one across from him is for Bats, of course. To his left, the Commish. And to his right... Well, he supposes that one can be for Harley, although he's damned glad she's not here at the moment.

Joker settles in for a pleasant meal with his imaginary friends, grateful for the company even if it's only in his head. He whistles. Sings children's songs. Works his way through a bag and a half of the powder, which he's really starting to get a taste for, in spite of it being so tasteless.

And when he spies someone new--a real someone this time, with a body and all--entering the cave, he lights up like a Christmas tree. ] You must be the neighbor! Come in, come in. We were just having supper.

[ Joker's used to the whole drop-your-pants-and-let-us-measure-those-vitals part of intake processing, thanks to years of essentially using Arkham as a Motel 6. When the Dismals request that his clothes come off, it's almost a relief: they've clearly read the same script he has. Though it would be nice if they had a plastic bag for his personal effects to go into. That suit was expensive...

Once the suit and its various bits of paraphernalia are off, Joker stands there, in bright green boxer shorts printed with flamingos, and cheerfully participates in the questioning process. Virtually none of his answers are accurate--including things that can be easily proven, like his height, weight, and blood type--but he delivers them all with a smile. He lets them take his blood. He lets them run a cotton swab on the inside of his cheek. He lets them marvel at the acid-stripped blobs that pass as his fingerprints.

And yes, he's been with a lot of prostitutes, but so what? Who hasn't, in this day and age?

He tries flirting with the medical team, and gets nowhere. Bored, he turns his attention to the other Moonfucked in the area, most of whom--disappointingly--don't seem to have been as good at getting naked as he was. While two of his examiners giggle to themselves about Chroma (which he's trying not to take personally), Joker catches sight of someone passing within conversational range and seizes his opportunity.

He wolf-whistles. Flashes that trademarked Joker smile. ] Well, hel-lo, gorgeous! [ Is he actually interested? Probably not. But hey, life's short, and he's lonely. Get on over here and be hit on by a clown! ] Say--don't suppose you've got the time? These bastards took my watch. [ They didn't; it's safely in his jacket pocket. But who cares? ]

[ Want to plot/chat/whatever? Hmu at sharkattack! ]