A/N: Welcome to me trying to get into the Joker's head again. One of my favorite lines from the whole movie has to be "Some men just want to see the world burn" (and seriously, who doesn't like that line?) so I took that, coupled with my thing about fire (I'm practically a pyromaniac) and this is what came out. Write me a review if you liked it and enjoy!
Disclaimer: As much as I would love to take credit, I can't.
Five Ways the World Burns
It's amazing, what you can do with a little dynamite. With a little lighter fluid. A little flame and you can send the city spiraling into chaos. One little explosion and they all go running. One little black plume of smoke bursting into the sky, and you can hear the screams from a mile away. These people, so afraid of a little heat.
He loves it.
One spark starts a fire that cannot be control. That's the part that he revels in the most. It only takes a little push, just like gravity, and everything goes tumbling down. A little spark and the inferno rages higher and hotter and invincible.
He's just the fire-starter. He builds the base, lights the match, and watches the flames.
And watches as they scurry around, trying to put out the fires. Watches as funny little men in black masks try and fight destiny and fate. Watches as they all get burned.
Why so serious?
There's a twisted smile that lives permanently on his face. It's made of makeup, and beneath it made of twisted scars. Twisted, twisted, twisted.
He has a hundred different stories to explain those scars. His wife, or his father, or an armed robbery. A hundred different stories and none of them have the full, twisted truth. But it's fun to play pretend. It's fun to see their faces when he tells them how the scars came to be, fun to look into their eyes before he cuts that same smile right into their skin. Its fun to watch how the light goes right out, like a fire doused by water.
And the real story behind the scars? Well, the only important thing to know is that the one who made those scars is nothing more than ash.
He made sure of it.
He watches as the green, green money—green like envy, like jealousy, appropriately the color of greed—is consumed by red and orange and touches of blue heat. He watches as the edges turn black, as those crisp, smooth edges curl and crumble. He watches their faces, watches them as they watch the meaning of their pathetic lives turn to ash.
He's locked in a white, white room, arms pinned to his side by a white, white jacket, and they poke him and prod him and ask him questions, pick his brain, try to figure out who and why.
And he laughs and laughs and laughs, 'till they drug him up enough that he can't laugh anymore.
And then he laughs on the inside. Laughs because they think they've got him trapped. Laughs because they think they can figure out what makes him tick.
He laughs, because they don't understand that he's not a man at all. He's a force of nature, just a force of nature that can't stop and can't be stopped, who can't be held in their pathetic cells. It's only a matter of time, only a matter of time before the walls break down and he's back out.
He laughs, because his name is Chaos. His name is Fire.
Throw water on the fire and it looks like it goes out. But really the embers smolder, down where the world can't touch them.
Really, the fire always comes back.