The sounds of cursing came from one of the houses, accompanied by the sound of things shattering, indistinct murmurs, and the nighttime cries of a terrified child nearby. On a utility pole not far away, an owl that had just woken up to find food stood unperturbed by these noises, its bright eyes gazing intently into the distance.
A small, thin boy was chased out of the house. He looked like he had just been beaten, something had struck his head causing blood to trickle down, his arm was dislocated with his shoulder looking oddly shaped, and he limped as he walked.
Arkham Batman and his group stood quietly not far from the house, watching without anyone daring to step forward. Once the boy had walked a bit further, Shiller leaned in to take a look inside the house.
"MDMA," he said, "he's already zonked out."
Arkham Batman lowered his head and crouched his body, seeing through the narrow doorway the man lying on the floor, dressed in tatters, barely clothed, with a body still fairly robust, surrounded by his vomit on the ground. Some small red pills lay on the table beside him.
The room was filled with a heavy stench of vomit, so much so that Constantine couldn't even enter, but Shiller and Arkham Batman seemed unfazed.
"Can he still be saved?" Shiller asked Arkham Batman.
Arkham Batman shook his head and said, "Judging by the traces in the vomit, it's projectile vomiting, likely a cerebral hemorrhage."
"No surprise..." Shiller started to say but didn't finish.
The two men left the house, and Constantine frowned, asking, "He just headed that way, should we chase after him?"
"Follow him, but don't let him notice," Arkham Batman said.
They walked in the direction the boy had left, following him from a distance, watching as he circled around and somehow got hold of a handcart, pushing it back again.
They jumped onto the rooftops of the low houses, evading detection. But just then, three figures appeared beside the alley.
"This should be interesting," Shiller said.
The three arrivals were Doctor Strange, Erik, and Charles, who quickly noticed the boy's house, as the vomit stench was spreading outside.
They went over, approached the doorway, and saw the man lying inside, with the boy standing nearby. Though the light was dim, they could make out that this appeared to be young Jack. Doctor Strange couldn't help but cover his nose and asked, "What's going on here?"
"He's dead," Little Jack replied.
"I know, but are you okay?"
"Got beaten, but not dead, that's something, right?"
"Is he your dad?"
"Yeah. Do you need something? If not, step aside, I need to dump his body into the Gotham River. If it rots at home, there's no way I can stay here."
Charles looked at Little Jack with some sympathy. Jack might've been ten years old by now, but due to chronic malnutrition, he looked only seven or eight, painfully thin, with eyes deeply sunken into his sockets, and limbs just skin and bone.
They watched him haul the cart inside with one arm. Doctor Strange couldn't bear it and said, "Is your arm dislocated? I'm a doctor, I can help you set it back."
Little Jack rolled his eyes at him, then slowly said, "What brings important people like you here?"
"We're from the orphanage staff," Charles said casually.
Little Jack gave him a curious look, lowered his eyes, and slowly walked to Doctor Strange's side. Doctor Strange reached out his hand, but the distance between them was a little too far to exert force, so he took Little Jack's hand, pulled him a bit closer, then bent down to check his shoulder.
Just as he brought his upper body close to Little Jack, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest. When he regained his senses, an iron rod had pierced through his heart.
In disbelief, he looked up, only to see the smile on Little Jack's face that was identical to that of the Joker later on.
"I thought you'd prefer someone prettier," he said, smiling, "Sorry, I'm afraid I'd kill those gentlemen when serving them, you'd better find someone else."
Charles also looked at him in shock, immediately realizing that the Joker was a born anti-social personality, not driven to madness by persecution from anyone, such madness couldn't be without some innate factors.
As the headmaster of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, Charles had met many children with anti-social personalities, but none were this...Charles didn't know how to describe it. If insanity was a gift, the Joker's talent was on par with Batman.
Anyone confronted with such madness would feel fear, and Charles was no exception. He was glad he hadn't used his powers to connect to the other person's brainwave but now didn't want any physical contact either, so he stepped back two steps, watching the emaciated child warily.
Even Erik furrowed his brow; he had seen many brutal individuals in this world, but the Joker was always an anomaly.
Just then, a group appeared behind Little Jack. Little Jack turned to look, finding a gun pressed to his forehead.
"What do you want?" Little Jack asked.