The rooftop sniper exhaled slowly, his finger resting beside the trigger guard. Through the high-powered scope, he tracked the two figures retreating through the smoke-choked dockyards - the magician in his bizarre outfit and the clown girl skipping beside him. The crosshairs lingered for a moment on the back of Hisoka's neck before sliding away.
"Status?" The voice in his earpiece was distorted but familiar.
"Bane's down," the sniper reported, his voice barely above a whisper. "The clown girl and the magician took him out." He watched as Harley Quinn did an impromptu pirouette around a burning crate, her laughter carrying faintly across the distance.
There was a pause on the line, then: "And the Venom?"
The sniper's eye flicked to the sparking remains of Bane's delivery system. "Compromised."
Another pause, longer this time. When the voice returned, it carried a new edge. "Take him out."
A slow smile spread beneath the mask. "With pleasure."
The penthouse smelled of stale champagne and gunpowder. Harley Quinn sprawled across a shredded velvet couch that had probably cost more than most Gothamites made in a year, her boots leaving scuff marks on the polished mahogany coffee table. On the massive flat-screen TV, news footage showed the aftermath of Joker's latest attack - a electronics store now quarantined behind police tape, victims being loaded into ambulances while laughing through their tears.
"Yeesh," Harley said, popping her gum. "Mistah J's really crankin' up the crazy, huh?"
Hisoka perched on the windowsill like some exotic bird of prey, idly cleaning blood from a playing card with his tongue. The neon lights of Gotham cast shifting colors across his sharp features. "Mm," he murmured without looking away from the cityscape. "He's throwing a tantrum. How... predictable."
Harley's phone buzzed on the table. She snatched it up, her painted grin faltering as she read the message: "Haly's Folly. Midnight. Bring the magician."
Hisoka's hand flashed out, plucking the device from her fingers before she could react. "Ah," he said, his golden eyes scanning the screen. "The clown wants me dead."
Harley forced a laugh that came out too high. "Okay, okay—here's the thing. Joker don't lose. Ever. And when he's this mad?" She gestured wildly at the TV. "He burns stuff. Like, whole city blocks kinda burnin'."
Hisoka's grin widened until it nearly matched Harley's painted one. "Even better."
The abandoned amusement park loomed against Gotham's night sky like the corpse of some forgotten dream. The Ferris wheel hadn't turned in two decades, its gondolas swaying like hanged men in the cold wind. A single spotlight flickered to life at the entrance, illuminating a sign smeared with what might have been red paint or blood:
"WELCOME, MAGICIAN! LET'S PLAY A GAME."
Harley perched uneasily on the broken head of a carousel horse, her usual manic energy subdued. The walkie-talkie in her hand crackled to life.
"Is he here yet, puddin'?" Joker's voice was singsong but carried an undercurrent of something darker.
Harley forced a giggle. "Nuh-uh! But ya know Hisoka—he loves makin' an entrance!"
A playing card whistled past her ear, embedding itself in the horse's glass eye with a sharp crack.
"Did someone call for a magician?"
Hisoka stepped into the spotlight, his golden eyes gleaming with predatory amusement as he surveyed the decaying carnival. The rusted roller coasters, the boarded-up game booths, the faint scent of burnt sugar and mildew - he took it all in with the appreciation of a connoisseur.
"Ohhh," he purred, stretching his arms wide. "This does look fun."
Harley's grip on the walkie-talkie tightened until the plastic creaked.
The Hall of Mirrors was Joker's masterpiece - a labyrinth of distorted reflections that turned even the simplest movement into a surreal nightmare. Hisoka strolled through the maze, his boots crunching on broken glass. The moment he passed the threshold, the doors slammed shut behind him with finality.
Joker's voice boomed from rusted speakers: "LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND FREAKS! TONIGHT'S MAIN EVENT—HISOKA MOROW, THE MAN WHO STOLE MY HARLEY! LET'S SEE HOW HE HANDLES... A LITTLE REFLECTION!"
Green gas hissed from vents hidden in the floor, swirling around Hisoka's legs. He inhaled deeply—and laughed. Not the toxin's forced hysteria, but genuine amusement.
"Fear gas? How quaint."
In the control booth, Joker's grin faltered on the monitor. His fingers tightened around the detonator.
Hisoka flicked a playing card with casual precision. The razor-edged projectile shattered a mirror to reveal a gunman hiding behind it. The man barely had time to register surprise before a second card sliced his throat.
From the rafters, more gunmen opened fire. Hisoka moved like liquid shadow, his Bungee Gum sticking bullets in midair before sending them back at their owners with deadly accuracy. Those who survived the ricochets found themselves yanked off their feet and crushed against the walls like insects.
Harley watched from the control booth, her usual grin absent. "Uh-oh."
Joker's eye twitched. "Fine. Fine! Let's try Plan B!"
The floor of the big top rumbled as six armored drones unfolded from hidden compartments. Each was shaped like a deranged toy soldier, their painted smiles cracked and peeling. Electric batons crackled in their hands, and their chest compartments housed twin toxin sprayers.
"Meet my special friends!" Joker's voice echoed through the speakers. "They don't feel pain!"
Hisoka's grin widened. "Neither do I."
The first drone charged, its baton sparking with enough voltage to stop a heart. Hisoka sidestepped at the last moment, slapping a palm against its chest. The Bungee Gum adhered instantly, and with a flick of his wrist, he sent the drone crashing into the ceiling where it stuck fast.
The second drone swung its baton in a deadly arc. Hisoka caught the weapon, ripped it free along with the drone's arm, and used it to impale a third drone rushing from behind. Sparks flew as the damaged units collapsed in a tangle of limbs.
A fourth drone managed to get behind him, its toxin sprayers hissing to life. Hisoka didn't even turn—he simply bent backwards at an impossible angle, his legs scissoring around the drone's head. With a twist of his powerful thighs, he crushed the metal skull like a beer can, giggling as lubricant sprayed across his face.
Joker's smile faded as the last drone fell. "...Okay, Plan C."
Harley groaned. "We gotta stop namin' plans after letters!"
The center ring of the abandoned circus was a perfect circle of cracked concrete, surrounded by the skeletal remains of bleachers. At its heart stood a massive jack-in-the-box, its once-vibrant paint now peeling to reveal rusted metal beneath. The clown face leered with a grin too wide, its eyes seeming to follow Hisoka as he approached.
The air smelled of burnt sugar and something fouler beneath—chemicals, sweat, and madness. Joker's voice echoed through the rotting big top:
"HISOKA MOROW! FOR YOUR FINAL TRICK... MAKE YOURSELF DISAPPEAR!"
The box sprang open with a shriek of rusted springs. Inside wasn't a clown, but a vat of bubbling toxin—thick green liquid swirling with violet streaks. The concoction pulsed like a living thing, tendrils of vapor already curling upward. Wires and tubes connected it to pipes running beneath the carnival, ready to flood the streets beyond.
Hisoka sighed. "Predictable."
The attack came from behind—a whisper of fabric, the barest hint of breath against his neck. Joker lunged with a jagged knife, the blade smeared with something that glistened green-black in the dim light. Not fear toxin this time, but something more personal.
Hisoka moved like shadow given form. His fingers snapped up with unnatural precision, catching the blade between them. The metal shattered with a screech, leaving Joker clutching nothing but air before Hisoka's knee drove into his ribs. The impact lifted Joker off his feet, his breath exploding from his lungs in a bloody spray.
Before the clown could hit the ground, Hisoka's hand shot out, seizing his wrist. The twist came fast—too fast—bones popping like firecrackers as tendons tore apart under the pressure.
Joker collapsed to his knees, his broken arm hanging at a grotesque angle. Blood-flecked laughter bubbled from his lips as he stared up at Hisoka through sweat-matted hair. "Hah... hah... you ruin everything..."
Hisoka crouched before him, golden eyes gleaming with something between amusement and disappointment. He studied the broken clown—the hitched breathing, the trembling hand pressed against the concrete, the grin that never quite left his face despite the pain glazing his eyes.
"And you bore me."
Hisoka's foot came down in one smooth motion. The sound of breaking bones was wet and final, Joker's fingers flattening beneath his heel like overripe fruit. The poisoned knife clattered to the ground, its blade now embedded in the ruin of Joker's own flesh.
For the first time that night, the laughter stopped.
The explosion of smoke came without warning—a thick, choking cloud that erupted between them. Hisoka leapt back as a dark shape descended from above, the gust from its landing clearing the smoke to reveal Batman standing between him and the broken Joker.
"Enough."
Hisoka straightened slowly, his grin never faltering. He tilted his head, studying this new opponent with the curiosity of a cat examining an unfamiliar bird. "Oh? The detective wants to play?"
The first attack came too fast for normal eyes to follow—twin batarangs screaming through the air. But these weren't ordinary projectiles. As they neared Hisoka, they emitted a piercing whine, a sonic frequency that vibrated through his very bones. Hisoka's Nen flickered—his Bungee Gum losing cohesion as the vibrations disrupted his aura's flow.
Before he could adjust, Batman's second gambit unfolded. A canister rolled across the ground, erupting into thermite smoke that burned the oxygen from the air. Hisoka's lungs seized as the atmosphere turned thin and acrid, forcing him to hold his breath—limiting his Nen's potency with every passing second.
Then Batman was on him.
The Nth metal knuckles gleamed dully as they cut through Hisoka's defensive aura like it wasn't even there. The punch connected with Hisoka's jaw with a crack that echoed through the abandoned circus, sending the magician staggering back a step. A thin trail of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"Tch." Hisoka dabbed at the blood with his thumb, examining the crimson smear with something like admiration. "You're interesting."
A wet chuckle drew their attention. Joker, broken and bleeding, was dragging himself toward the toxin vat's control panel, his shattered fingers leaving smears of red across the concrete. "Bats..." he wheezed, "you gotta see... the grand finale..."
A blur of red and black descended from the rafters. Harley's mallet came down like a meteor, obliterating the controls in a shower of sparks. "NOBODY'S KILLIN' GOTHAM TODAY!" she screamed, her voice raw with something between fury and liberation.
In the sudden stillness, Batman and Hisoka locked eyes—one the embodiment of relentless justice, the other a force of pure chaotic will. The moment stretched, taut as a tripwire.
Hisoka's tongue darted out, tracing the blood on his lip. "Next time, detective..." he murmured, already fading into the shadows, "I won't hold back."
Then he was gone.
Gotham General's ICU housed its most infamous patient behind three inches of reinforced glass. Joker lay amidst a tangle of wires and braces, his spine held together by titanium rods, his shattered hand encased in a metal frame. The heart monitor beeped steadily—unnecessary, really. Everyone knew the Joker's heart had never followed normal rhythms.
And he was still laughing. Soft, wheezing chuckles that bubbled up through the painkillers, as if he alone could hear the punchline to some cosmic joke.
Harley's shadow was conspicuously absent from the visitor's chair. The nurses would later report a broken window, a trail of glitter, and a single playing card left on the sill.
On the roof of GCPD headquarters, Batman stood vigil over his city. Below him, the carnival's wreckage smoldered—another nightmare contained, but never truly extinguished. The wind carried the distant wail of sirens, the ever-present soundtrack to Gotham's endless war.
And high above, on a rooftop half a mile away, a scope's crosshairs lingered for just a moment on the Dark Knight's silhouette before sliding away into the night.
"Next time, magician."
TO BE CONTINUED.