and i thought my jokes were bad

The deck of Jokers keeps on enchanting. It takes a few days. The ones with various sweethearts get various visits.

Slowly, everybody's aura builds up.

They're not just less powerful than the Bells'; they're different. Joker auras don't tell you they're attached to magic and power; it's not 'look at me, I'm important' or 'look at me, I'm magical' but 'look at me', the end.

Except that that is not the end at all.

Their auras track emotions, like the Bells', but far more responsively. They can be whimsical one second and terrifying the next; they can laugh while their auras cry and cry while their auras laugh. It's all in how you play it.

The initial differences are subtle. Beast's aura can make him seem more human, or more beastly, whichever form he's in. The others of variable species don't seem to do anything similar, at least not to nearly the same degree. Ghosty's is the most interesting, because she can show her aura without manifesting physically; suddenly she has a presence even when she technically doesn't.

Micaiah's aura is the first one to manifest an obviously unique feature, although 'unique' isn't quite accurate, because after a few more hours of spellcasting they all have one:

A soundtrack.

Pretty soon, they're all cuddled up in one of the guest rooms and the music is going strong. With the whole pile of them together, somebody's aura will start playing a song and the rest will either pick it up or add embellishments. It's tremendous fun.

In the week following the Joker's escape, things are quiet. No sightings or exploits make the news. As far as anyone can tell, he vanished out of his cell overnight and then left town.

He didn't leave town, of course.

At exactly the time they would have had their next session, down to the minute, he breaks into Harleen Quinzel's apartment—politely locking the door again behind him—and settles onto the couch in her living room to wait until she gets home.

It takes a while. Pretty soon, he curls up and goes to sleep.

He went to sleep after that with a smile on his face, even considering what happened in between.

Then, just to make it even better, he dreamed his way to Milliways again.

Now he has a deck of cards, the comfiest armchair by the fire, and a table just big enough for a cup of coffee and a game of solitaire. Whatever arbitrary force dictates his outfits around here has decreed that tonight he gets the clothes he wore to his interrogation, right down to the green-and-purple socks. He hasn't bothered going up to his room to get a jacket, although he did duck into the bathroom to check his makeup; it's a little smudged, but not worth the bother of a touchup.

Tonight, you're all gonna be a part of a social experiment.

Through the magic of diesel fuel and ammonium nitrate, I'm ready right now to blow you all sky-high. If anyone attempts to get off their boat, you all die. Each of you has a remote to blow up the other boat.

At midnight, I blow you all up. If, however, one of you presses the button, I'll let that boat live.

So, who's it gonna be? Harrvey Dent's most wanted scumbag collection – orrr... the sweet and innocent civilians? You choose!

Oh—and you might wanna decide quickly, because the people on the other boat may not be quite - so - noble.

---

"Oh, y'made it!" the Joker exclaims, turning away from the window overlooking the water. "I'm so—thrilled."

He doesn't sound it. He sounds pissed the fuck off, actually.

The Joker sits quietly, at first. Until the commotion dies down, until the silence in the room is nearly absolute, and a little longer after that.

Eventually, though, he starts to mutter.

"I want my phone call," he says to his own hands, folded between his knees. "I want it." Looking up at the man stationed by the door, he repeats with emphasis: "I want it! I want my phone call."

(warnings: violence, homophobic abuse)

Not many people in Gotham care enough about the Joker at this point to follow him; even fewer would be any good at it if they tried. He doesn't go to much trouble to throw off pursuit on his way home—no more than he has to just to get from point A to point B in broad daylight in the full getup without leaving behind a trail of bewildered and unnerved witnesses.

It's just a quick stop to freshen up, anyway—drop the grenades back in the bathroom cupboard where they belong, change into a jacket whose smooth lines hide rows of mismatched knives instead. He's running out of three different kinds of cheese; it's time to go grocery shopping.

Risk is what makes life fun.

He takes off his mask and holds it by his left hip, waiting. One second, three, five, ten. One of the guys in the car has seen him before, face-to-face; the other one was recruited over the phone. The trick is going to be getting through this whole job without saying a word until it doesn't matter anymore.