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The semi-ripped, weatherworn poster yanked off of its oak pole, being examined by Cyrus, her dilated pupils darting all across the chipped print: “Now HIRING for exclusive time: henchperson positions. Bring your own admission, or die for not doing so.” The ragged poster featured an out-of-place cartoonish clown print that had a big, bean-like red grin, blackened eyes, and that Rudolph nose they all had on their whitened faces. There was an address at the bottom, written in black ink—likely from a cheap dollar store pen. It had not been specified, but anyone in Gotham could tell that this was Joker's advertising; she ran with that guttural instinct.
Cyrus's feet immediately turned to the direction of where the address claimed to be, her mind racing with scenarios that could happen; could she have lacked the so-called “admission” she should bring with her?—would she die if she lacked it? Cyrus let out a huff, her hands digging in her tan wide leg pants (that were stained in bodily fluids and substances that will be unnamed) to pull out a half-empty pack of cigarettes. “I have to get a new pack soon.” She mumbled, pulling out a lapis blue lighter to ignite the tip of her nicotine stick, inhaling the addictive fumes.
As she walked the melancholic streets, a drunken stranger with his buddy gave her a catcalling whistle—”Give us a smile, Rapunzel!” Cyrus quickly huffed on her cigarette again, the catcalls were a sign of bad luck to her—not that she was superstitious—since she believed superstitions created stupid and gullible people. His friend slapped the drunken man's back–likely being inebriated, too in some capacity, “Nah, she ain't Rapunzel! The raggedy bitch got black hair.” The young men laughed like hyenas passing by her. Cyrus grew bored with the simplistic citizens of Gotham, this chance of a job opportunity, being one of Joker's infamous henchpersons could entail her getting revenge on everyone who had wronged her, even if it was just two drunk men.
Cyrus stomped the cigarette and shortly arrived at the address, standing in front of two abandoned buildings. She checked the paper again, then stared between the buildings, observing the darkness engulfing the almost-empty space and unwelcome atmosphere of the entirety of it. A side-opening to one of the seemingly abandoned buildings was open to her view, flashed with a yellow light. Cyrus peered back down at the paper one more time, her mouth going dry from anxiety. She shuffled her way into the building, immediately being halted by a tall man with a clown mask depicting a wicked smile.
“If you're a cop, imma have to– hic– shoot'cha.” He reached for his holstered gun on his worn belt. Cyrus's uncovered right eye nearly popped out of her skull, hastily showing him the worn paper advertisement. “I am not a- I am not a cop. I was here for the- the job hirings. I brought my admission, too.” Her lips stretched upward, revealing a sickly jaundice hue on her teeth, likely from cigarettes and neglect. She even had a large gap between her teeth the man obnoxiously thought of shooting a dime through. The man gave her a narrowed glare behind the mask, “I don't know what the fuck you're talkin’ ‘bout, lady, but you can come in, I– hicc– guess.”
Cyrus pushed past the man, letting out a nervous giggle. “Eheh, thanks!” As she roamed the area, she noticed this building wasn't so abandoned—just a clever cover-up from the public. She noticed a small corner with its own bar—a few wooden stools with scratches on them, a counter, and a plethora of drink options. Cyrus slid smugly into a middle stool, attempting to ignore the bottlecap sized cockroach crawling up the cracked drywall. “Hey, can I get a bottle of beer?” Cyrus queried, quickly sliding a five and one dollar bill to the bartender who seemed to be running on thirty minutes of sleep, dark purple hair dye for validating compliments, and two espresso shots. The bartender didn't respond, giving her a beer from the cooler.
“My question is, why have this side-of-the-building, unassuming hideout for Gotham's most notorious criminals, then post– then post an advertisement out in the city of his address. It ruins the entire idea of security.” Cyrus tilted her head, the bartender finally seemed interested in conversation, straightening his thick-rimmed glasses and handing another seated henchman a whiskey on the rocks. “Because nobody cares about the Joker right now. It's been over a decade since his reign, and God, has he aged. They stopped caring about him since he broke free from Arkham, which is crooked, but he's planning something. I can feel it—we all can feel it. It will be big. He never leaves his office anymore, it's a mess.”
The bartender shook his head slowly, cleaning the counter with swift precision and a rag with unexplained smudges on it. The beer touched her pale-pink lips, sipping it slowly and running her tongue across them. “Never leaves his office, you say? That's funny. I was actually wondering where that office would be.”
Cyrus leaned in conspiratorially as the bartender cocked an eyebrow, “I know you're trying out to be one of his henchpersons and all, but he had a scheduled time for that. Barging into his office uninformed would be an actual death wish for you.” The bartender shook his head again, showing disapproval. Cyrus bit her lip softly, glaring to the ground. She took a swig of the beer and firmly placed it on the table. “I don't care what happens to me, man. I live– I live on the streets, eating greasy half-eaten pizza crusts for dinner, then roll with that for two days. People live in mansions, some people sleep on bedbug infested mattresses with cardboard blankets, food is expensive but abundant, you pay for water, and most importantly those people stay on top. How is any of that fair? I want to contribute to his work, I want… to send a message, like he does.” She muttered out.
The bartender sighed audibly and cartoonishly exaggerated, the wet rag smacking into the wooden counter. “You know what? Fine. You can get yourself killed. He's up the stairs, go down the hall, take a right, then a left, you got him. His office is hard to miss—and save your little melodramatic speech for him, not me.” And with that, Cyrus left her beer on the counter and her admission. The air suddenly grew hostile as she walked through the building, henchmen staring at her with inhospitable gazes. She mentally drowned out the idea of their eyes on her as she went up the creaky, rusted stairs that could snap at any given moment, definitely a health hazard—but then again, this entire place was one.
By the time she was up the stairs, she felt her stomach drop. It was completely silent except the murmurous buzzing in her eardrums. Her feet felt heavy with each step, like weights had been forcing them down. She finally reached the door, hesitantly knocking. She heard a loud crash, a groan, and a singsong ornery tone out of the voice: “Come in.”
Cyrus twisted the doorknob, swinging the door wide open. The room reeked of mildew and chemicals, the smell hitting her like a semi-truck. Her nostrils flared up, although she said nothing. There was little to no light, only being illuminated by a hanging lightbulb, gray moths swirling it graciously. The room itself was scattered with books, newspapers, and ripped and/or crumbled papers. There was a vanity with a picture of the late Harvey Dent and Batman taped to it with profanities and sketches in red paint on it. The biggest thing in the room was the board. With dozens of pinned photos, newspapers, and other documentations on it.
Cyrus snapped out of her observation to see the tall man with dark fashion. His expression was painted in a grotesque manner, ink-black bloated eyes and crimson lipstick that stretched up to his unforgiving scars. His purple leather-clad fingers were fidgeting with his dark patterned tie.
“I am not familiar with your profile-ah. Let me guess… You're one of those applicants for my wonderfully crafted uh, advertisement, aren't ya?” He grinned at her, his teeth dull and riddled with plaque and shamefully yellow color. Cyrus nodded slowly. “I am. There- there are some things we need to discuss.”
He raised an eyebrow, and responded to her with a drawl. “Oh my, my. Let's discuss your peculiarities and requirements, shall we? I am stoked-ah.” He clapped his hands together loudly, the sound echoing throughout the small office.
“I don't want to be paid.” She stated bluntly. He cocked his head to the side and stared at her for a good three seconds. “I don't pay ‘em much but they're still paid because they do my bidding-ah. Why don't you want to get paid, special girl?” He leaned forward with amusement. Cyrus shrugged, beginning her long-winded philosophy. “Wouldn't that ruin the point of our position in society?—as Anarchists? Why would we take control of the currency that takes advantage of everyone else? Currency abides by nuance in the system, a rule in the world we dislike and want to destroy. Why would I want to participate in that? I want to tear it down. Don't you?” She pointed her finger at him.
“...You're uh, passionate. I'll give ya that. I understand your-ah complex wishes, and I actually admire it. Good job, encore, I salute ya.” He mocked a bow. “I suppose you'll do. Now the guys aren't used to a woman around ‘em so expect some temporary backlash. I don't have a schedule for you, but if I call you, you come in. I don't care if it's four in the morning, you come in. I don't care if daddy died, you come in.” He barked out, suddenly getting serious. Cyrus blinked slowly.
“I see. I can make that happen.” She thought of his words, “if daddy died”. Those three words replayed in her head—her father was luxurious, providing, and father-like. Nothing was really… wrong with him. Her father didn't exile her from the house, she left. Some say she was dumb for doing that, but that's for you to decide.
“And— Hey! Listen. I don't want-cha zoning out while I'm giving you instructions!" He suddenly roared on top of his lungs. In response, her body twitched in anger. “And you don't yell at me.” She started with an unmoving firmness in her voice. He stared at her again, somewhat baffled and speechless. He grabbed her by the blood-orange collar that was underneath her dark blue vest. “You think you can bark out orders at me, darling?” He grinned at her, suddenly, she shoved his hand off of her, and just as quickly, he pointed a gun at her. “You think you can?!” She yelled at him despite the weapon. “You're a hypocrite. You speak of abolishing systems and spreading a message, yet you go against your own beliefs. Your own organization has its own hierarchy. Your henchmen below you, you on top. What kind of Anarchy is that?! You'll go against your own ideology and call it power. It's just control, the same kind you fucking hate.”
"...” Joker stared at her, stunned. She was a walking enigma, perhaps she had figured him out—like a cracked lock. “You're hired.” He says, calmly—putting the gun down. His ego fractured, and hers, swelling.