[ Joker's scowl darkens, and his upper lip curls in disgust.
Once upon a time, he'd imagined there was some tiny spark of intelligence in this woman. Not a lot of it--Batman, she was not--but a modicum. During their many, many hours of "therapy" together, there had been more than a few moments in which Joker had seen her eyes light up with actual wit and awareness, like there might be someone alive in there. She'd been almost lovely then, with those big baby blues shining and her giggles hidden behind her hand. The first time he kissed her, he'd actually wanted to.
Now, of course, all that's over, and Joker knows it's entirely his fault. He's the one who manipulated her, played her, broke her. And now here he is, stuck in a cave with the pieces of her that are left. Which, apparently, are too brain-cracked to even follow a simple conversation. He's not sorry, exactly. But it does sometimes seem a waste. ]
I'm not saying Bats made this place, you half-wit. Nor am I saying that he and his buddies brought all these people here, just to keep me company.
[ He shakes his head and gives a wave of his hand, like she's a gnat he can just shoo away. ]
Think about it. Did Batman design Arkham, just for me? [ And there's a thrilling thought... But no. ] Did he choose the paint colors in Blackgate, or hand-select every single inmate for the sole purpose of convincing me it was real?
[ Joker's gestures are getting more flamboyant as he goes. At the moment, he has his arms spread wide, fingers splayed, as if to say, I ask you, good sirs, have you accepted Christ? ]
Of course not! But does that mean that he's incapable of sending me there?
No, no, no.
[ And he's back to pacing. ]
He uses what he has. That's his M.O. Gadgets. Tech. And what's the manipulation of space-time, if not the next logical iteration of that?
I mean, if he'd throw me into Arkham, why not send me here, if he found a way to do it? And to send you along, too, well. [ He glances back at her again, throwing her another sneer. ] That's just the icing on the proverbial cake, isn't it?
no subject
Once upon a time, he'd imagined there was some tiny spark of intelligence in this woman. Not a lot of it--Batman, she was not--but a modicum. During their many, many hours of "therapy" together, there had been more than a few moments in which Joker had seen her eyes light up with actual wit and awareness, like there might be someone alive in there. She'd been almost lovely then, with those big baby blues shining and her giggles hidden behind her hand. The first time he kissed her, he'd actually wanted to.
Now, of course, all that's over, and Joker knows it's entirely his fault. He's the one who manipulated her, played her, broke her. And now here he is, stuck in a cave with the pieces of her that are left. Which, apparently, are too brain-cracked to even follow a simple conversation. He's not sorry, exactly. But it does sometimes seem a waste. ]
I'm not saying Bats made this place, you half-wit. Nor am I saying that he and his buddies brought all these people here, just to keep me company.
[ He shakes his head and gives a wave of his hand, like she's a gnat he can just shoo away. ]
Think about it. Did Batman design Arkham, just for me? [ And there's a thrilling thought... But no. ] Did he choose the paint colors in Blackgate, or hand-select every single inmate for the sole purpose of convincing me it was real?
[ Joker's gestures are getting more flamboyant as he goes. At the moment, he has his arms spread wide, fingers splayed, as if to say, I ask you, good sirs, have you accepted Christ? ]
Of course not! But does that mean that he's incapable of sending me there?
No, no, no.
[ And he's back to pacing. ]
He uses what he has. That's his M.O. Gadgets. Tech. And what's the manipulation of space-time, if not the next logical iteration of that?
I mean, if he'd throw me into Arkham, why not send me here, if he found a way to do it? And to send you along, too, well. [ He glances back at her again, throwing her another sneer. ] That's just the icing on the proverbial cake, isn't it?