[ WP ] - Joker seeks vengeance for the death of Batman

The Joker clumsily picked himself off the floor, though not yet standing in reality. He could only hear ringing, the undeniable reminder that an explosive had discharged nearby. He tried to gain his bearings but the pain that splashed across his wiry frame assured his disorientation. 
 
 He leaned against a file cabinet while he began to inspect the remnants of Gordon's desk that were now embedded between the stripes of his wool trousers. As he began to tug at the shards, the ringing was momentarily replaced by one of the many voices in his head. `` You'll rip them, Jack! And then where will we be, you silly goon?'' 
 
 `` We'll be where we always are...'' he trailed off, now looking up from his pants at the carnage before him. This is where he saw The Bat for the last time. A black torso lay motionless on the half-eaten desk, ribs protruding from its side, its opulence and majesty usurped by the awkwardness of death. The Dark Knight lay dead on a veneered desk, shaped by the faceless blast into a slumped pile of burning vinyl and flesh. 
 
 The voices took note of the image and sang a cacophony for Jack alone. It could drive a man mad, hearing them all at once - and it had. The voice of his father sang louder than most now. `` You gon na let them take your toy, son? You're a lady boy ai n't ya'? Shoulda named ya' Jill...'' 
 
 The Joker began to giggle quietly and with each seismic breath his laughter became louder and jangled. There was a hole inside him now, not like the Bat's but just as real. He could feel it ache. He could feel it burn. What was his had been taken. People should n't take what's not theirs. 
 
 He staggered to the carcass before him, still seizing and laughing. He reached longingly inside the wound. He smeared what was once Bruce Wayne across his long, craggy face and swallowed his laughter deep into his soul. 
 
 He felt loss and anger. He felt what the Bat felt. He felt what the Bat wanted. Jack wanted what the Bat wanted. Jack wanted vengeance. 
 
 As he stumbled from the remains of the Commissioner's office, he stopped momentarily to take a baton from an adjacent wall. It was time to find the evil that had stolen his triumph. The voices agreed. 
 
 The blast had shaken Jack loose. He was no longer the Joker. He was something else entirely: a new being, risen from the ash. He pushed on, out of the police station, his pants a ragged mess, his face dark with the Wayne boy's blood. As he marched on his new path, he felt lighter - he was lighter. He was the exact weight of one grenade lighter.
