When the person on stage casually killed someone and waved toward the curtain—that familiar gesture, that cruel and life-disregarding attitude—it triggered something in Jude's memory.
A specific memory.
A terrible memory.
Christmas Eve. A knife through his shoulder. Laughter that sounded like madness distilled into pure sound. The moment when he'd genuinely thought he might die, not heroically but as a punchline to a joke he didn't understand.
A creepy chill surged up his spine, spreading across his skin like ice water. Goose bumps erupted all over his body. His scalp went numb.
Oh no.
Oh fuck.
After fighting the Joker for hours on Christmas Eve, how could he not recognize a parallel universe version of the same monster?
He just hadn't expected to encounter such catastrophic trouble the instant he arrived.
His eyes were adjusting to the darkness now. He could see the figure standing in the shadows beyond the stage lights more clearly.
Dark green curly hair. Skin as pale as a corpse—not makeup, not paint, but genuine flesh the color of death. A pointed nose. Two sharp, mean eyebrows that gave every expression a cruel edge. Lips as red as blood.
The clothing was what struck Jude as particularly wrong.
A slim-fitting black suit. Custom tailored. The kind of craftsmanship that cost thousands of dollars. Top-quality fabric that caught the light with subtle sheen. The cut made the Joker's figure look elegant. Slender. Almost refined.
The white shirt underneath shone brightly against the darkness. A dark purple vest and matching gloves added finishing touches—details that diluted the suit's elegance and added stage performer flair instead.
Are all Jokers in every universe so good at dressing?
The absurd thought popped into Jude's mind unbidden. Made him look down at himself reflexively.
Sweater. Jeans. Ordinary coat. He hadn't considered color coordination or style at all when getting dressed that morning. Apart from being warm, there was basically nothing eye-catching about his outfit.
Mainly cheap and comfortable.
With the help of these random thoughts—his brain desperately reaching for anything mundane to distract from the terror—Jude was finally able to calm himself down. A little.
He took a deep breath. Tried to relax his shoulders. Started concentrating on observing the Joker more carefully, looking for tactical advantages, weaknesses, anything useful—
And then his eyes widened again.
The iconic smile was gone.
The Joker's face was serious. Grim. Almost melancholic.
The Joker isn't laughing anymore.
Oh my god.
What the hell is this business trip for?
Is this still Gotham?
A Joker who couldn't smile was like—like Grundy suddenly developing complex philosophical insights. Like a Gotham City where people left their doors unlocked at night and didn't pick up things on the streets. Like John Constantine stopping his habitual betrayal of allies.
Like Batman suddenly starting to laugh.
Fundamentally wrong.
At that moment, a man in front of Jude finally walked forward. Trembling. His steps shaky, body vibrating with fear. Obviously not particularly willing to participate in this joke show.
More like walking to his execution.
Which, Jude realized with cold horror, was exactly what this was.
The system notification pinged in his ear.
[You have a new part-time job available. Please check it out.]
[THE CLOWN WHO CAN'T LAUGH]
Mission Introduction:
How strange would a Joker who couldn't laugh be?
Perhaps no less strange than Grundy when his brain started working. Or a Gotham City where people leave their doors unlocked at night and don't pick up things on the streets. Or Constantine who stopped betraying his allies. Or Batman who suddenly started laughing.
Note: You don't have to actually make him laugh. In fact, the Clown's gloomy face is quite funny, which proves one thing—the smile will not disappear. It will only transfer from one person's face to another.
Status: To be completed (0/1)
Reward: Local identity of the current universe ×1
Jude read the notification quickly. Parsing the implications.
The task required him to complete is to make a joke in front of the Joker. Which wasn't necessarily difficult—he knew jokes, could tell stories, had survived worse.
The difficult part was surviving after completing the show.
He looked at the weapon in the Joker's hand. A revolver. Large caliber—.45 by the look of it, equivalent to 11.43mm. If he got hit by a bullet that size in a vital spot, there was a certain probability he would die.
Actually, a high probability.
The reward was a local identity. He examined it more carefully through the system interface.
Member of the Gotham City Police Department. Official identity. Comes with salary and the right to open fire freely.
There was no doubt this was a must-do mission. He needed that identity. Needed the legitimacy. Needed the access it would provide.
After reading the panel, Jude looked back at the stage.
The Joker had raised his revolver again. Pointed at the trembling performer. His expression suggested he was not very satisfied with whatever joke the actor was attempting to tell.
Thoughts flashed through Jude's mind in rapid succession.
Should I attack now? Will I be able to save him in time? If the Joker shoots first, can I protect the others around me?
Analysis. Calculation. Strategy.
About half a second passed.
He made his decision.
"Upgrade [I Didn't Kill Anyone] and use it on the Joker."
[-$100,000 Asset Points]
[Skill Upgraded: I Didn't Kill Anyone - Extended Version]
[Duration: 24 hours]
[Targets: 2]
[Target 1: Joker (designated)]
[Target 2: Available]
[Skill Active]
The bullet went out.
On stage, a blood-red flower suddenly bloomed on the comedian's chest. He staggered. Fell to the ground.
The bullet went through him—Jude could see the exit wound, the hideous damage, blood immediately gushing out and staining the stage floor red.
But the notification appeared: [Skill Takes Effect]
The man wouldn't die. Couldn't die. Not while the skill was active.
Jude felt slightly relieved. He'd failed to save the previous victim—arrived too late, hadn't understood the situation quickly enough. But at least he'd saved this one.
At this moment, the Joker's voice rang out. He waved toward Jude with that gloomy, humorless face.
"Please come up to the stage."
Jude stepped forward without hesitation. No point in delaying.
"Step."
Huh?
The Joker paused. Turned around. Looked at Jude carefully again.
There seemed to be something wrong with this guy.
He watched the man in cheap street clothes walk out from the group of actors dressed in formal attire. Calmly. No trembling. No hesitation. Just walking under the spotlight like this was a normal Tuesday.
The man tilted his head toward the corpse—the bleeding, shot comedian—on the ground.
"Want me to clean it up?"
The Joker waved his hand nonchalantly. "If you need it for your joke, you can keep it."
"Never mind. There's no need."
Jude leaned over and deftly lifted the "corpse" from the stage. The man was heavy but Jude had practice moving bodies. Months in Gotham taught you things.
He casually tossed the bleeding comedian into the pile of corpses below the stage. The pile was already substantial. Bodies stacked like firewood. Blood forming a puddle beneath them.
Neither his expression nor his movements betrayed a trace of nervousness. The entire process could be described as "practice makes perfect."
This made the Joker pause. Start to wonder.
Did the guy in front of him have some side job? Or was comedian his side job?
Thinking of this, the Joker licked his lips. Something like anticipation flickered across his grim face.
"Okay, okay, sir. What is your name?"
"Jude."
"OOOooo" The Joker's eyes swept over him again. Assessing. "Let's get started, Mr. Jude."
He placed his hand on the revolver at his waist in a gesture that looked casual but was absolutely ready to draw and fire.
"I'm ready to laugh."
Jude had been using the opportunity to carefully observe the surrounding environment. Cataloging. Analyzing. Building a tactical picture.
Key observation one: No one else was visible on the stage, behind the stage, or in the audience seats. Which meant the Joker had no accomplices. He was doing this alone.
Key observation two: There were already many corpses piled up in the audience area. Dozens, maybe. Which meant this death show had been going on for quite some time. Hours, possibly. The Joker had been systematically executing performers all day.
Key observation three: The Joker had controlled dozens of comedians by himself without any physical restraints. No handcuffs. No ropes. No one even had their hands tied. But no one had tried to resist. No one had attacked him. No one had run.
Key observation four: The doors leading to the outside of the theater didn't appear to be sealed. Just closed. Normal doors. Which meant escape was theoretically possible.
Everything suggested that the Joker's means of control wasn't just the gun in his hand.
Poison gas? Jude thought. Bomb?
If anyone tries to escape or fight back, the Joker immediately activates his backup method and kills everyone.
That would explain the compliance. The terror. The absolute certainty that resistance meant death.
"Mr. Jude?"
The Joker's voice cut through his analysis. Impatient now.
"Is your performance over? Is this your joke? Silence?"
"No, I haven't started yet." Jude shook his head. "Sorry. I was just thinking about which joke to tell."
"So." The Joker's fingers tapped against his revolver grip. "Have you figured it out?"
"Oh, that's right. I have one." Jude smiled slightly. "It's short but funny."
He stepped more fully into the spotlight. Let the harsh stage lights illuminate him completely.
"One day," he began, "the Joker asked Batman a question."
The Joker's expression shifted. Interest flickered across his grim face.
"The Joker asked: 'Who is your biggest enemy?'"
Jude paused for dramatic effect. Timing was everything in comedy.
"And Batman says: 'Super—'"
BANG.
The gunshot rang out immediately.
Note: For those who are asking which Gotham is this, I believe this is Comic version Batman Vol. 3 #27 (2017), The War of Jokes and Riddles (Issues #25–32).