Welcome to My Master, My Joker! Hope you like and continue for more!

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Prelude

If I knew I would end up dying in that warehouse, protecting the love I would never truly have, fighting the final fight I would do for him, and causing him pain by my triumph and defeat.

I would still do it.

He would only laugh anyways.

If I knew that I would be brutally beaten senseless for interrogation, forcing a laugh like my Master's to burst through my lips, howling and cackling full of pain and irony.

It would never be as good as his though, his manic laughter echoing, pressing its way into my skull, twisting and turning and changing every fiber of my being.

Who knew that death would come for the young,so ruthlessly, cowl disguising his face, my poisoned blade protruding from his black kevlar, his groans of pain like songs of triumph in my ears.

My Joker would be proud.

As my vision fades, I imagined my Joker, his laugh reverbrating in my heart as he delivered a swift kick to my blade, shoving it deeper than I could through the Kevlar.

A shout of pain echoed, Batman's, and I smiled in all my misery and pain.

"Stupid fool. How will you be my Wildcard if you're dead?"

Was that my Joker?

A gloved hand was pressed upon my cheek, and I leaned into its familiarity as he crouched down in front of me. The hand seemed softer than before, not its harsh roughness I turned to love. My eyes weakly looked up at the painted face looking down at me with cold eyes. His beautiful scars painted red like his lips, his white ghostly face, and green eyes shrouded by black grease paint.

It was him.

"I'm sorry. I-I tried."

"You impress me, Be glad to die for me." His almost soft drawl sending shivers down my spine.

"I-I-I am... I'm happy to die for you. Y-you saved me." I wheeze, tasting the warm salty iron invading my mouth, crimson leaking from the corner of my mouth.

His next words were soft, something I'd never heard from him. It was soft, a whisper but filled with a emotion I'd never heard for him. Sadness.

"You will not go unmissed." With hazy vision I saw him reach into his pocket, his prized switchblade glimmering in the moonlight basking my battered body against the wall, laying in my own pool of blood.

"Pl-please." I begged, my lungs shaking as it was getting harder to breathe. To die by his hand, would be the best of all, than to quiver away helpless and broken and waiting to lose consciousness.

His blade sunk slow into my rib cage, my own gloved hand fisting his purple trench coat, my right hand firm on his, pushing his blade deeper, blood flowing faster from my mouth, on the very verge of choking on it as I leaned my heavy head on his firm shoulder.

Then he laughed. His laugh, loud, and perfect. Its high manic cackle, intertwined with his spurts of ho's and ha's.

It was saddening I wouldn't hear it again.

But to die by his hand is the best death I could ask for.

Because he saved me, if he hadn't I would have died by the hands on Gotham's streets long ago.

Hoped you liked the short prelude with things to come!

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