Humans. Monsters. Heroes. Villains.

Chapter 1: White.

Plenty of humans were monstrous, and plenty of monsters knew how to play at being human.
- V.E. Schwab

* * *

White walls. White rooms, white sheets on the white beds, slick white floors and white shelves.

Everything was white.

It all blended together after a while, became a blur that he couldn't be bothered to pay attention to. White, white, and more white. White jackets and white pants. White hallways and white rooms where people stared at him and tried to figure him out. White jumpsuits on the other inmates. There was hardly any color in this Asylum.

If he could, he would brighten the place up. But he couldn't, because they took his knives and explosives and made him take off the grease paint and wash out the green dye when he first got there. Well, more like they tied him down to the white bed with white straps while they washed off the grease paint and rinsed out the dye.

Well all this was happening, he just laughed, laughed hysterically and twisted around and struggled because it was funny when their eyes got big. It was funny when they flinched. They were all afraid of him, and for good reason.

He still wasn't sure why they made him take off the paint and the dye. Maybe they thought it would help him to have his scars out in the open or something. It sure sounded like something the Asylum workers would think.

It didn't help him, of course. He knew it wouldn't. They took his war paint, but he didn't need it yet. He wasn't currently in battle. Someday, he would get it back. It's not like he'd be stuck in this cage forever.

If he could, he would stain the white walls and floors and hallways with their crimson blood. He would decorate the walls with bright red patterns. That would brighten the place up. But they had taken all his knives when they took his suit and replaced it with the blank, boring Asylum jumpsuit.

White. Again.

He lost track of time, after a while. People came and went, trying to talk to him, trying to figure out what "made him tick." What his "motivation" was. Why he killed and robbed and created chaos. Why he laughed and laughed and laughed some more, and was unfazed, no matter what they said or did.

Because he had to have some sort of motivation, right? He had to have some reason for doing the things he did.

This just made him laugh harder. He giggled and snickered and chuckled because it was funny to watch them try and try and fail to figure him out. Frustrated psychologists and doctors and who knew who else came and went. They would try for a while, then give up on him. It was no use, they said. He's an unsolvable puzzle. He just does things for the fun of it. He has no motivation.

And they were right.

But the Asylum kept trying. Kept sending in more people, kept watching them leave, kept trying again and again.

It got quite tedious, after a while.

He got sick of watching them stare and take notes on practically his every move. At first it was entertaining. After the fiftieth time seeing this, not so much.

He got frustrated, seeing them narrow their little eyes at him and scribble notes onto their white notepads that they kept in the white pockets of their white coats. They were on the other side of a glass wall, with guards surrounding them on all sides, so he couldn't get to them even if he tried. Well, maybe he could. He'd never really tried before.

Honestly, he probably could escape if he wanted to. But what was the point? Sure, the Batman was fun to mess with, but as long as he was around no real damage could really be done to Gotham. The city couldn't burn completely until that stupid Bat was out of the picture. And that didn't seem like it was going to happen anytime soon.

So he waited. He waited, and waited, and then waited some more. And all the while he grew even more frustrated and sick of that stupid color.

White.

Really, it would look much better with some red mixed in here and there.

Other inmates came, but seldom went. Days, weeks, months passed. Then years. He wasn't sure how many. They hardly ever let him out of his cell. After a while they started simply bringing his meals to him, because trouble often broke out when he was allowed out to the cafeteria to eat.

Once, someone in the cafeteria called him Scarface. He beat the guy unconscious and almost stabbed him with a fork. They didn't let him out to eat again after that.

It had been ages since he saw Gotham. Vaguely, he wondered what it looked like now. If the Batman was still around. If any new villains were wreaking havoc while he was locked up in this white prison.

He missed his face paint and his suit. And his knives. He really missed those, especially when those stupid doctors sat there and stared at him for hours.

Boy oh boy, he would have loved to have a knife right about then.

After years of white rooms and padded cells with thick doors and stone-faced guards and frustrated doctors, after months of silence and syringes and mushy food -

He started to get bored.

Sure, it had been fun at first. Seeing their terrified faces whenever he so much as looked at them. Hearing the whispers, the confused doctors, the maniacal laughter and stories he made up to stop them asking so many questions.

But after a while it got repetitive. Boring. Tedious. And always with that same lousy color.

White.

He began to hate it. With a passion.

It was only a matter of time before he snapped. He knew now that he had to get out of there. Batman or no Batman, Gotham was going to get a visit from an old familiar face. Just as soon as he figured out a plan, got some more greasepaint, and got his suit back.

And some more knives. He was gonna need those, and soon.

The Joker sat in his cell, plotting in silence. The only sound to be heard from him was the occasional delighted, maniacal snicker.

Every time one of the guards stationed outside his cell heard that chuckle, shivers ran down their spines.

The Joker smiled to himself. He was coming back, and Gotham would never see it coming. Hopefully the Batman wouldn't either - if he was still around. It would be a glorious comeback, one that would set the whole city ablaze.

This time, he was going to burn it to the ground.

And one thing the Joker knew for complete, absolute sure?

It was going to be fun.

A/N
New story! Yay!
This is actually something I've been planning for a while. Obviously, I don't own any of the characters except the ones of my own creation, and there will be a few of those;)
The Joker is a really hard character to write, so I hope I did an ok job. Let me know what you guys think!
This chapter was kind of a prologue-type thing, and there will definitely be more action as the story goes on.
Anyway. I'm really excited for this story. It's going to be a lot darker than all the other stories I've written so far, but there will be some humor and such thrown in as well.
Thank you for reading! I hope you guys like it:3