Chapter Text
For a heartbeat Gotham City Hall was a glass lung, holding the breath of five hundred people. Then it shattered when the stage cracked open in a geyser of purple-and-green smoke and confetti that glittered like broken glass, and laughter, high, bright, and wrong, poured out of it while goons rushed in through the doors, leaving them open to show the smiling bodies of the gala security team.
“Goootham!” The voice rang against marble and gold leaf, a carnival barker in a cathedral, “Happy Thanks-taking!”
The spotlights snapped to him: a gleaming white tuxedo tailored like an insult to match the white and gold theme of the gala, tails flicking back as he bowed. The green hair was lacquered back, the smile carved too wide. The Joker spread his arms, and goons in cheap clown masks sluiced off the wings like grease, rifles and duffels thudding against the parquet. One by one, they ducked under the linen and clipped canisters to the undersides of tables, every click a metronome counting down something Bruce didn’t want to name.
Brucie Wayne smiled, faintly surprised, as if this were merely an uninvited magician. Inside, Batman mapped. Fourteen goons visible. Two by the main doors. Two at the balcony stairs. Eight on the floor rigging hardware, canisters every third table, valve housings improvised but consistent. Joker center stage. Harley Quinn at his right shoulder, gold costume sequins catching the sick light, her grin an inch too tight. Eyes flick upward, sideways. Reluctant. Potential ally if they can reach her.
Beside Bruce, Danny’s hand brushed his cuff and was gone, a small show of silent support without demanding Bruce’s attention. He appreciated it.
The crowd began to murmur again in the way a field of wheat murmurs right before a scythe goes through it. Flashbulbs hiccuped and photographed the Joker on the stage, the press that was present at the gala latching on to the showstopper. Near Bruce and Danny, Stephanie moved closer to Damian, expression blank as a mirror. Tim was somewhere behind Bruce, and he couldn’t look for him without drawing a target to him, but he trusted Tim to take care of himself. Duke was a ghost on the far end of the ballroom, edging along the wall towards the kitchen door where he might be able to escape without being seen.
The Joker slapped the microphone stand like a friend, “I’ve always wanted to host a holiday special, and what’s a holiday special without feelings?” He spread his hands and pivoted toward the crowd of Gotham’s moneyed and elected, who stood trapped in their tuxedos and borrowed jewels, “Because family,” he purred, “knows where the bodies are buried. And tonight?” He pulled the mic towards him to shout, “We’re digging!”
Harley leaned to the mic and spoke, too soft for the back rows: “You sure you wanna do this one, puddin’?”
He shooed her with a smile that had teeth behind it, “Honey, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
He snapped his fingers. A goon hauled a councilman onto the stage by the elbow. The man stumbled up the steps to stand in the spotlight, eyes blown wide, hands thrown up uselessly as if to fend off the room itself. Joker wrapped an arm around him and patted his cheek.
“Truth or Terror, my darling turkeys! Tell the truth? We all go home smiling! Lie?” He made a finger-gun to the man’s temple and clicked his tongue, “We spice the gravy.”
A laugh slid out of him in little warm pulses, like steam from a vent. He turned, scanned the crowd with theatrical glee until his eyes landed on Bruce like a static shock, “Ah! Brucie.” He gave a little bow. “I knew you’d host a gorgeous party. Gild the city, make it forget it’s a carcass. All that Wayne money, so brave, so generous.” He kept his smile and let his voice go flat. “So hypocritical.”
Bruce let Brucie’s mask shift just a fraction into concern and polite outrage, “If this is a robbery, there are far easier-”
“Oh-ho!” Joker clapped like a delighted aunt, “Listen to that voice. Listen how it never quite cracks,” He leaned toward the crowd, “That voice buys absolution, kids.” He tapped the mic stand with his knuckles, “But tonight…I want accountability. Wayne Tech promised us electric cars by THIS YEAR. I put a deposit down! Where’s my GODDAMN electric car, Bruce?!”
He crooked a finger in his mania and two goons shouldered their way down the central aisle toward the small group of Waynes. Bruce didn’t move, clenching his jaw as he was forced to contend with playing hostage to a psychopath targeting him specifically. Fifty hostages dead before he could cross ten feet, but if he kept the stage, he kept his eyes. The goons didn’t reach for Bruce. Joker’s gaze had slid past him to the boy two seats down, posture straight, eyes burning: Damian.
“There’s my little prince,” Joker crooned, “Every castle needs an heirloom. Bring him up-I want to see if he’s housebroken.” The nearest goon reached for Damien, who glared with every ounce of his 13 year old teenage assassin rage. Danny, however, moved. It was nothing flashy, just a clean, pivoting step that put his body between Damian and the hand that wanted him. However, despite Danny’s slight frame, he did not hold back the punch he threw on Damien’s behalf; the goon dropped like someone had kicked a table leg out from under him. The other goons lifted their rifles a notch; murmurs surged and broke against panic like water against concrete.
The Joker froze, then laughed, delighted, clapping his hands together once, “Oho! The boyfriend.” He leaned toward the crowd, “Gotham’s favorite rumor with legs. Look at the cheekbones on this one, folks. Brucie always did have an eye for pretty little things.” A hundred eyes tried to look at Bruce and didn’t; a thousand whispers stood up and walked across the room. Internally, he was just begging Danny to leave it. He had to think of a way to buy time, Duke was almost out and Oracle was whispering in his ear that Red Hood was on the way.
“Take me,” Danny said, bright and steady. “You want a player? I’ll play.”
Joker’s grin went feral, “Well, who am I to deny a volunteer?”
The stage swallowed Danny when a goon escorted him up. Light burned the edges of his suit a sour green. Up close, the white tuxedo made the Joker look like a corpse laid out with too much foundation, and really gave Danny GIW flashbacks. Harley stood a step back, mouth tight; her eyes skittered across Danny like a hand with a tremor while her sparkling gold outfit reflected the lights. She grabbed one of the chairs from the tables at the edge of the room and brought it up to the stage, though she appeared discontent.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Joker sang, all teeth, “To tonight’s feature presentation: Truth or Terror, Bruce Wayne edition!” He swept an arm toward the audience, as if they were already applauding, “Rules are simple as sin. I ask a question. Our contestant answers. If he lies, I’ll know-because I’m a people person. If he refuses, we have… alternatives.”
Behind him, a goon rolled out a chrome rack of props including a bright pink chain, a humming baton, and silk ribbons that snapped too sharp. Harley grabbed the pink chain off the rack and forced Danny to sit in the chair, cuffing him to the chain and looping it around his arms to keep him trapped in the chair. She moved with her eyes lowered and her mouth drawn thin, mascara perfect and miserable.
Joker, beaming, produced a small stack of cards and gestured with them towards Danny, “Your eyes are very blue. Does Bruce tell you that often? I can’t wait to see them in pain! Ready, little robin’s egg?” He tapped the mic, “Round One: Truth or Terror?”
“Truth,” Danny said, steady.
Joker fanned himself with the deck printed with tiny bats, “Fabulous. Question one,” He didn’t even look at the card, “What’s Bruce Wayne’s primary private account number at Gotham First National?”
A ripple of ugly nervous laughter washed the room, like somebody had dropped a knife in a bowl of coins. Eyes slithered toward Bruce, then away. Brucie Wayne’s smile was politely baffled; even though Batman was watching exit lines and gun angles while keeping an eye on Danny for any signs of fear or panic. He had to assume that Danny had this under control unless he saw signs of panic. They only needed to buy ten or so minutes, Duke had almost made it to the kitchen door.
Danny cocked his head, “Oh, sure, let me just text his finance guy while you monologue.”
“Ooooh,” Joker cooed, “Deflection! Cute. Account number, darling.”
“You first,” Danny said, “What’s your therapist’s number? I mean, if you had one. Hypothetically.” Harley’s mouth twitched despite herself.
Joker’s eyes glittered. He leaned in, “That sounds like a refusal to answer, honey, so Terror it is!”
The baton sang to life with a hive-hum that made teeth ache and electrical currents that were visible even from where Bruce stood as Joker grabbed it off the shelf. He pressed it against Danny, and the young man arched in pain, but Danny’s jaw flexed as he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t give Joker a sound to pocket.
“Round Two,” Joker said sweetly, pulling the electric baton away to twirl it in his hands, “Truth or Terror?”
“Truth.”
“How much does he pay you?” Joker asked, bright and brutal, “For the smiles. For the suits. For letting him parade you like a new car he can park like trash on the street when he’s done. Come on, number please. Hourly? Nightly? What’s the rate for making Gotham believe the prince can still love something that isn’t a mirror?”
Danny smiled like a blade, “You asking for a receipt? I can Venmo you a spine.” A few gasps echoed around the room along with a stifled laugh that died fast.
Joker tutted, “Let’s make it multiple choice for the attention-challenged. A) Charity case. B) NDA with benefits. C) Whore. Circle all that apply.”
Danny’s gaze cut into the white paint and the cracked red grin and didn’t blink, “None of the above,” he said, voice clean, “Try D) I showed up because I wanted to. That’s the whole invoice.”
Joker rolled his eyes, “How wholesome,” he groaned, “And a lie.” Then he flicked two fingers towards a goon who handed him one of the silk dance ribbons. The Joker, however, of course, did not dance, but instead whipped the supposed silk against Danny’s face. The silk ribbon cracked across his cheek with the sound of a camera flash, leaving behind a thin line of blood. The Joker smiled, then leaned in to grab his chin and hold him while he licked the blood off his face.
“Mm, you are so pretty with that blood on you, whore. Round Three,” Joker chirped, pleased, as Danny struggled to shy away from his touch, “Truth or Terror?”
“Terror,” Danny said, in an ‘I dare you’ tone. Bruce recognized the tactic, giving the Joker some of what he wanted to try to keep him from getting bored. Danny was choosing to hurt to keep the game in his hands. A decent tactic would be to alternate between Truth and Terror as the best way to keep the Joker’s attention on him, but it meant submitting to torture.
“Such a trooper,” Joker purred, reaching down to grab the edge of the chain. He moved it from the chair, and handed it off to a goon who attached it to a hook at the top of the rack of colorful torture tools.
“You and Brucie rehearsed this, didn’t you? Step one: look endearing. Step two: suffer prettily. Step three: make sure the money looks good doing CPR.” The chain tightened with a theatrical snick, pulling Danny’s arms above his head. He hissed between his teeth, a small sound swallowed by the mic. Bruce tensed, fear for someone he loved fogging up his brain even as he tried to stay focused on tracking his children. Stephanie had been able to sneak to the back of the crowd. Duke had one goon between him and the kitchen who needed to be distracted for him to escape. Damien hadn’t moved, thankfully, since he was sure Joker would notice given Damien had been his initial target for this fucked up game.
“Round Four,” Joker sang. “Truth or Terror?”
“Truth.”
Joker stuck the mic between them like a cigarette, “Let’s hear a little about you, sweetheart. Where did you come from?”
“Small town,” Danny said. “Bigger secrets.”
“Parents?” Joker asked, almost idly, and Bruce’s spine stiffened, “Or are you a sad little orphan boy like all the others Bruce picks up?”
Danny’s mouth twitched, “They’re alive.”
“You sure?” Joker cooed, “You ever check?” The baton in the Joker’s hands sang as he swung it unexpectedly. It was vicious, and it threaded a note of pain through the air you could taste. Danny stood it without a sound.
“You like winter, Danny?” Joker asked suddenly, head cocking. He was sniffing something, a current he didn’t understand yet, “You smell like the cold.”
Danny blinked lazily, “Better than smelling like you.”
“Oh, snap!” Joker shouted, delighted again, “Did you hear that, Harley? The boy’s got bite!” Harley’s mouth tugged like a suture.
“He’s got something.”
“I’m bored talking about you. You’re boring. Let’s get back to Bruce,” Joker’s smile curdled, “Round Five. Truth or Terror?”
“Hm, Terror.” Joker switched out the baton for the not-silk whips, and then walked around Danny fiddling with the ribbon like a panther waiting to strike. When he was behind Danny, he cackled and began cracking them against Danny’s back. The suit provided some protection, but the whips tore through it quickly. Danny did a great show of trying to hold back his pain, but it was clear that Joker wasn’t stopping this time until he got Danny to react. After 12 hits, Danny finally whimpered on the 13th. Joker made a play of checking his cufflinks as he stepped through the blood that was now dripping on the floor from the whip. Bruce felt himself slipping out of the present and into that special mindset he had cultivated that allowed him to think and react in truly awful situations. He had to remind himself that injuries heal, and Danny would be fine. Danny, especially, could heal more than most.
Then Joker leaned forward, pressing his hands to the bloody welts on Danny’s back and rubbing them like a curious boy playing with a new toy. He intentionally stretched the largest cut, then poked his finger into it, causing Danny to scream in pain for the first time that night.
“Tell me what’s in his safe,” Joker said idly, “The one behind the painting he doesn’t show the press. Combination, contents, all the little sins that make a man of marble feel like meat.”
“Mostly cufflinks and inconvenient morals,” Danny said, panting, “Oh, and a label maker. You’d hate it.” A few fractured laughs; but more flinches as the Joker frowned.
Joker’s eyes slicked over Danny like oil on tile, “Round Six. Truth or Terror?”
“Truth.”
“Does he apologize when he hurts you?” Joker asked in a voice almost kind, and the room recoiled like he’d thrown something at it.
Danny’s shoulders squared invisibly, “He doesn’t hurt me.” The Joker stepped up behind Danny, setting his hands on Danny’s hips in a mockery of a lover's hold, ignoring the blood from Danny’s back that was seeping through the tattered remains of the back of his suit.
“That’s a shame, because you hurt so prettily,” he said, then slapped Danny hard across the face. Bruce jumped and took a step forward, but the guns pointed at the audience of hostages forced him back.
Joker laughed quietly in Danny’s ear, “He cares,” he crooned, “Isn’t that precious. Round Seven. Truth or Terror?”
“Terror.”
The ribbon snapped again, a bright sting as the Joker let go of Danny. Harley was very still, Batman noticed, as she pursed her lips at the way the Joker was acting. She was like a person listening through a wall for a thing she didn’t want to hear.
“Round… mm, where are we?” Joker looked at his wrist like he wore a watch, “Oh, who cares. Lightning round. Truth or Terror?”
Danny’s mouth twisted. “Do I get a prize?”
“You’ll get to keep your teeth, so that you can look pretty for the newspapers when they photograph your dead body,” Joker winked, “Truth: Where was Brucie Boy the night Falcone’s docks burned? Not the press shot-the hour nobody can find his driver.”
The question hit like a thrown glass. Bruce’s world narrowed; his body didn’t move. He had alibis stacked like cards, neat as threats. He couldn’t help running several things over in his mind, from the ‘robin’s egg’ comment to the bat themed cue cards Joker hadn't really used but instead stuffed into a pocket. Had Harley told the Joker who he was? Had Joker figured it out? Or was it just coincidence?
“Probably at home,” Danny said, bored, “Reading a book with no pictures and pretending it’s relaxing.”
“Wrong answer,” Joker sang, “Terror.” He switched out the whip for the electric baton once more, but he pressed the end of it into Danny’s back wounds hard enough to push him, straining his shoulders against the neon pink chain holding him up. Danny shrieked in pain, and Joker grinned while making eye contact with Bruce.
“Truth,” Joker said, staring now at the billionaire with a sick grin, “How much would it cost to get you to bend over for me?”
Danny coughed, but still had enough energy to snark, “Not enough money in the world for that, dude.” Bruce started as he realized what this was. It was a test. Joker didn’t know he was Batman, but he did suspect, and he knew Batman well enough to know that he would rather reveal himself than watch a loved one be tortured.
“Well, that’s a shame. Guess I’ll have to make you then,” Joker said, pulling out the ribbon once more and cracking it against the backs of Danny’s legs. He cackled as the whip tore the back of Danny’s pants to shreds, even as he hit it across the younger man’s ass as well, until everything was only a mess of blood and ribbons. Danny wasn’t crying, but his voice has given up halfway through the brutalization.
“Truth,” Joker said softly, having given up on the charade of giving Danny a choice, “When this is over, are you going to leave him?”
Danny’s mouth frowned, “No.”
“Because you love him?” Joker asked, voice sugary as acid, “Because you like the apartment he pays for? Or because you want to be the pretty face known for scamming Bruce Wayne?”
Danny’s eyes cut to Bruce again, a flash like an anchor thrown in a storm, “Because I don’t run.” Danny’s tremble was gone as he fisted his hands above the cuffs.
Joker’s laugh rang false, “Then you’re stupider than you look,” he said, and it was the first time the words didn’t sound like fun to him. Joker kicked the chair from earlier over to be in front of Danny, the back of the chair facing the tortured man. Then he pulled the chain off the hook, uncaring that the upward pull dislocated one of Danny’s arms with a cry. Without the chain holding him up, Danny slumped over the back of the chair, which put him in the perfect position for Joker to tie the chains down to the two arms, restraining the bloody, beaten body for Joker’s purview.
“You know, there are so many delicacies I rarely get to try, so tonight I feel like indulging myself. Just how often do I get to fuck a pretty little thing like you? I have to be careful not to break my sweet Harley, see, but with you?” Joker moved some of the shreds of Danny’s clothes out of the way, then saw the plug that Danny had been wearing for the gala, “I get to do whatever I want. Oh, and look at this! Were you and Brucie planning a special night tonight? What a gift. More for you than for me, seeing as I wasn’t planning to stretch you anyway, but how fun to think I get to deny Brucie this special treat.”
The Joker reached down and pulled the plug out of Danny harshly, causing him to flinch, though the pain was small in comparison to the ribbons of blood on his back. The Joker then began to unzip the front of his pants, running his hand through the blood on Danny’s back for a bit of lube to rub himself. Harley looked away, small tears in her eyes.
“This chair really is the perfect height,” Joker commented, walking closer to slap his dick against Danny’s back. He tilted his head left, then right, contemplating, before he grinned and reached towards the largest cut on Danny’s back. He shoved one finger into it and wriggled it around. Danny screamed as the Joker then released his dick to put his other pointer finger into the wound, then he began to pull it apart. Danny screamed and kicked, but whatever the chains were they were holding him in place. Bruce could only watch in horror, his own actions frozen by every glance at the goons with guns pointed to the audience.
After a moment of Joker tugging at the wound, he seemed dissatisfied, despite Danny crying in pain over the chair, exposed in a bloody heap for an entire audience, half of which had cameras. So, Joker pulled out a knife from his pocket, and stabbed Danny in the side. The young man gasped in pain with a wet sounding gurgle as Joker twisted the knife, making extra effort to blend Danny’s organs with it. Then, he pulled the knife out and stuck his finger in, making Danny gasp with pain.
“Oh, yeah, that’s much better,” the Joker cooed, pumping his dick in time with his finger going in and out of Danny’s side. Then, when he removed the finger, Danny closed his eyes and braced himself for what he knew was coming. The Joker’s dick was so much bigger than his finger in the wound.
“Oh, fuck, that feels good!” Joker said, grabbing Danny harshly to push his dick into the younger man’s side. “Ah, fuck, I never get to do this. I wanted to with that little bird a few years back, but I couldn’t hang around or I would have exploded along with the little brat!”
Joker pumped his dick in and out of Danny’s wound, coating the floor in blood as Danny slumped, finally falling unconscious from the pain.
“Oh, we can’t have that, sweetheart, I don’t want you to miss a single minute!” Joker exclaimed, pulling out for a moment to reach back and grab his electric baton. He pulled Dany up by his hair so his jaw hung open and shoved the baton in, easily blocking Danny’s airway with the ridged metal stick. Then, Joker stuffed his dick back into Danny’s side, and turned the baton on. Danny woke with a muffled scream, his entire body tensing from the shocks.
“Oh, that’s nice, you tightened right up, with some extra tingles!” Joker explained, using one hand to hold the baton in Danny’s mouth and the other to grab Danny’s thigh and push his dick into the wound further. Danny squirmed, and managed to get small breaths of air, but the electricity didn’t shut off, and Joker kept slamming the metal baton into his throat without care.
“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, you see this Brucie? This is what you do with a whore!” Joker crowed, looking down and making eye contact with Bruce as he slammed in a final time. Joker groaned, and Danny could feel the salty sting of cum filling his wound. After a moment, the Joker pulled out and tucked himself back into his pants, pulling away the baton at the same time.
“Ah, that felt good. I should indulge myself more often. Oh, but look at this poor thing, he never got to get properly fucked, now did he?” Joker crooned, poking at Danny’s asshole. “I’m all out of juice I’m afraid, oh, but wait, I bet this would do the job nicely,” the Joker said, his voice darkening towards the end.
Danny felt something hard probe his asshole, and he barely had time to realize it was the baton before the Joker managed to wriggle the end of it in. The ridges tore a bit at Danny’s hole as Joker pushed it further in.
“Good thing you worked so hard lubing this up for me with your spit, eh sweetheart? Alright, almost done with my art. Harley! I need tape!”
“Right away Mistah J!” She said with a quiver, stepping forward with a role of tape. Joker grinned, and pressed down on the button to activate the electricity. Danny screamed and squirmed, but the Joker taped down the button to keep the baton running until it ran out of battery.
“Excellent, now, Harley dear, hold this hand in place, just like this for me, see?” Joker instructed. Once she was holding it out straight, with just the edge barely inside Danny, Joker back up a step. Then, he raised his foot and put it on the end of the baton. With his full body weight leaning onto it, he shoved the ridged baton into Danny without mercy. When it stopped about 8 inches in, Joker kicked with the force he might use to kick down a door, until he could force the baton in further. Until, finally, there was only enough sticking out for a hand to wrap around.
Danny was writhing in pain, he didn’t know if the baton had forced his intestines into the wrong shape or if it had just broken through and stabbed into him, but he knew something inside was deeply broken. He was practically gushing blood out of his asshole from the ridges on the baton, and the electricity kept forcing his muscles to tighten around it.
“There we are. Go back over there Harley, and tell me thank you for taking such good care of you.”
“Thank you for taking such good care of me,” Harley said faintly, glancing down at Danny.
“Ah, can’t injure the help too much or they won’t be able to help. Harley is such a treasure, I just can’t bare to lose her you see. She is the love of my life,” the Joker said as he grabbed the handle of the baton and leaned on it while admiring Harley, not caring about his weight pushing the metal baton further into Danny’s organs. Danny screamed as the electricity continued to arc through him, a constant, buzzing torment, forcing every muscle to clench around the baton in a sick parody of intimacy. Each spasm was a new hell, tearing at already ravaged tissue. He was officially convinced that this sucked more than dying did.
Danny’s vision swam, the gold and white of the gala blurring into a nauseating kaleidoscope. He could feel the blood, hot and slick, pooling beneath him, a terrifying testament to the internal damage. He tried to focus, to find that cold place inside him, the one that let him control ice, but the pain was a fire, burning it all away. He was just pain and blood and the Joker’s delighted humming.
“See, Harley?” the Joker chirped, his voice a sickening counterpoint to Danny’s choked sobs. He wiggled the baton, a small, experimental movement that sent a lightning bolt of pure agony up Danny’s spine and made him arch against the chains. “Art! I’m creating art! It’s interactive, even! He responds so well.” He leaned closer, his breath smelling of cheap champagne and madness. “You’re a wonderful canvas, sweetheart. So resilient.”
Harley stood where he’d left her, a statue in gold sequins. Her face was a mask of conflict, the painted-on smile stretched thin over a canvas of horror. She kept her eyes fixed on the Joker, but Danny could feel her gaze flicker toward him, quick, guilty glances like pinpricks. She was a coward, he thought through a haze of pain. A coward who was letting this happen.
“Round… whatever number we're on!” Joker announced to the silent, horrified room. “Let’s call it the ‘Applause’ round! If you think our boy here has had enough, clap your hands!” He paused, listening to the suffocating silence as the crowd was frozen in horror. “No? Tough crowd. Fine, then. Bonus question!” He leaned down, his face inches from Danny’s, the grin a terrifying slash of white paint. “What’s the one thing you want right now, more than anything? Be honest.”
Danny’s mind, fractured by pain, seized on the question. He didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to lie. The words ripped out of him, a raw, guttural sound that was barely human. “I want you to die.”
The Joker’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened. “Close! Very, very close. But the correct answer was ‘more.’” He gave the baton a vicious twist.
That was it. That was the moment something inside Danny snapped. It wasn't a muscle or bone, but a mental block. He stopped fighting the pain, stopped trying to hold back the screams. He let the fire have him. And in the heart of that fire, in the absolute zero of his despair, he found the cold. It wasn't a gentle frost this time. It was a glacial rage, ancient and absolute.
The air temperature in the ballroom plummeted. A sharp, audible crack echoed through the room as a thick layer of ice instantly sheathed the Joker’s hand on the baton handle. The psychopath yelped, trying to snatch his hand back but just pulling the rod out of Danny. The ice crept down his hand, slowly crawling up his arm like a living thing.
“Wha—?” Joker stammered, staring at his hand, now red and raw from the instant frostbite as the ice kept moving. “Get it off!”
Then the stage itself began to groan. A spiderweb of white fractures spread across the wooden floorboards around Danny, shimmering with an eerie blue light. The humidity in the air crystallized, falling as a fine, glittering snow that didn’t melt. The goons shifted nervously, their breath pluming in the sudden arctic chill.
Danny pushed himself up with a strength that shouldn’t have been possible, the chains rattling. His head lifted, and his eyes were no longer just blue. They were glowing, burning with the cold light of a distant star. His skin, where it wasn’t slick with blood, took on a faint, pale luminescence.
“You,” Danny’s voice said, but it wasn’t just his voice. It was layered, echoing with the sound of cracking ice and howling wind. “Should have picked Truth.”
He raised a hand, the movement slow and deliberate. The chains holding his other arm snapped, not with a metallic clang, but with a brittle shatter, as if they’d been frozen solid. He didn’t even look at them. He looked at the Joker, who was finally, truly, staring at something he didn’t understand.
The baton, still frozen in the Joker’s grasp, began to hum, but it wasn’t the Joker’s electricity anymore. A visible frost crept from Danny’s body, encasing the exposed end of the baton. The humming grew louder, higher in pitch, vibrating through the entire stage. The ridges on the baton, designed to cause maximum damage, were now being forced apart from the inside by expanding ice.
With a sound like a glacier cracking, the electric baton exploded.
It wasn't quite a firework but a burst of razor-sharp metal shards and frigid energy. The Joker, who had been trying to break the ice by smashing it against the wall, caught the full force of the blast across his face and chest. He screamed, a high, thin sound of genuine shock and pain, stumbling backward and clutching his bloody, lacerated face.
Danny didn’t watch him fall. He collapsed back onto the stage, the glow in his eyes fading, the cold receding back into him as quickly as it had come. He was left shivering, bleeding, and broken, but the baton was gone. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the Joker’s pained whimpers and the drip, drip, drip of melting ice onto the blood-soaked stage before the crowd rushed forward.