At the far edge of Gotham, in an abandoned warehouse, Joker stood at the center of it all and beside him Harley Quinn.
In front of them stood eight men.
Seven wore mismatched patterns with loud colors, faces painted like clowns.
The eighth wore a black formal suit.
Perfectly tailored.
Clean lines.
A white metallic mask with no eye holes, smooth and featureless, giving nothing back to the room.
He stood straight, composed, as if he had walked into the wrong place and decided to stay anyway.
The Joker stared at him.
So did everyone else.
Then the Joker spoke, voice light, almost amused.
“Who brought this guy here?” He gestured loosely.
“Did no one tell him about the dress code?” No one answered.
The Joker’s smile sharpened.
The man in the suit spoke, his tone was calm and polite.
“A Good Samaritan led me to you, Mr.
Joker.
I have heard many… positive things about you.
I decided to come and offer my services.” A pause.
“I do not wish to be a goon,” he continued.
“I would prefer to serve as your butler.” The Joker blinked once, then chuckled, a low, building sound as he tilted his head further.
“You have guts,” he said.
“I’ll give you that.
I don’t think anyone’s ever walked up to me and tried to… what was it?” He gestured vaguely.
“Apply for real employment?
Are you trying to have fun at my expense?” The man replied.
“I assure you, I am completely serious.
I guarantee the quality of my work.
I am… one hell of a butler.” The Joker laughed.
Then, without warning, he raised a gun and pointed it directly at the man’s face.
“What stops me from shooting you?” he asked casually.
The man did not flinch.
“You lose the opportunity to see me in action,” he replied.
“The novelty alone should be worth consideration.
If you agree to be my master, I will gladly demonstrate my capabilities.” He paused briefly.
“Let us establish a simple contract.
One week.
A trial period.” Harley had a clearly entertained expression.
“Mistah J,” she said, grin widening, “it sounds fun.
We never had a butler before.” The Joker hummed, tapping the gun lightly against his own cheek as he considered.
Then he shrugged.
“Fine.
Let’s do it.” His eyes gleamed.
“But if I don’t like your work, I’ll kill you.” The moment the words were uttered, purple light flared.
It wrapped around the Joker’s hand in a brief, vivid pulse before sinking into his skin, leaving behind a faint mark.
“Well that’s new,” the Joker muttered, staring at his hand.
The man in the suit spoke smoothly.
“Splendid.
You are now my master.” The Joker looked up.
“What was that?” He raised his marked hand.
“And what is this?” “A proof of our contract,” the man replied.
“For the next week.” A slight pause.
“A fair warning, I neglected to mention this earlier.
If you harm me during the contract, you will die a very horrible death.” Silence pressed in.
“The same rule applies to me, naturally.” The Joker raised an eyebrow.
Then, without hesitation, he pointed the gun again and fired.
The shot rang out and hit the man right in the face causing his head to snap backward due to the impact before returning to gaze forward.
The man said.
“Master Joker, did I do something wrong?” The Joker said with a grin “Neat mask, and more importantly I didn’t die”.
“You need to harm me,” the man replied calmly.
“The intent must carry through.” A beat passed.
Then the Joker’s grin stretched wider than before, laughter bursting out of him.
“You’re funny,” he said.
“I like you.” He lowered the gun, still chuckling.
“What’s your name?” The man inclined his head again.
“I am Alfred.” (A/N: It is the chosen fake name) “Well, Alfred,” the Joker said, spreading his arms, “since you’re a butler… let’s start simple.” He pointed vaguely toward nothing.
“Make me a sandwich.
You’ve got three minutes.” Alfred bowed just enough to acknowledge the order.
“Your wish is my command, Master Joker.” Then his body dissolved into smoke, vanishing in front of everyone’s eyes.
——— Not far away, inside a random empty kitchen, the smoke reformed.
“An easygoing and friendly client?” he muttered, tone sharpening with irritation.
“I was tricked into walking into the Joker on my own feet and the clown shot me!!” He exhaled slowly.
“You will pay for this, Jimmy” He was already moving, scanning the kitchen for usable materials.
Alfred needed a master to live.
That was non-negotiable.
And he understood what would happen if people of the world realized how his power operated and his need for a master.
He would become really a slave like that god wanted.
He won’t allow that to happen.
He would become an overpowered being one way or another then break free of this curse.
But to reach his goal, he needed an acceptable reason to explain his behavior as he moved around finding masters.
Hence, a butler.
A role built on service and expected obedience.
With short-term contracts and a mix of truths and lies, he could rotate masters while maintaining a degree of autonomy.
The only catch, his masters can’t be good people, so he had to turn his eyes to criminals.
And more importantly, by working for criminals who fight other criminals or heroes, he can justify granting himself power under the pretense of him fulfilling duties within reason.
It was the best path he could go with for now.
Luckily Joker had wanted a sandwich under three minutes, so he granted himself the ability to teleport for three hundred meters only, and can go and return to the same location once a day.
That was a reasonable start, at least the fact that god still hasn’t punished him was proof of that.
In future, he will be able to adjust it overtime into a proper super power.
He picked up a knife, testing its edge.
“Being a good chef is also a must” he muttered.
——— Seven days later, Alfred found himself questioning every decision that had led him to this exact moment in time.
Of all the possible outcomes he had considered when he chose the ‘butler strategy,’ this was not one of them.
The homicidal clown, the so-called Clown Prince of Crime, had not robbed a bank, had not blown up a building, had not even seen Batman.
Instead, he had relocated to an abandoned studio and turned it into something resembling a fully functional kitchen set, complete with a dining area, cookingware, and an alarming amount of storage dedicated solely to food.
Now, Alfred stood behind a counter, sleeves neatly adjusted, preparing yet another dish.
He was, quite literally, working as a chef for an entire week.
For the Joker, Harley Quinn and a group of criminal goons who, over the past week, had somehow transformed into insatiable, gluttonous creatures that seemed to exist purely to consume food and desserts at an alarming rate.
It was as if crime had taken a temporary backseat to culinary obsession.
On the sofa, the Joker lounged with a visibly bloated stomach, one hand resting lazily over it as he stared ahead with half-lidded eyes.
“Alfred,” he called out, voice slow and indulgent, “where is my Black Sesame Paste?” “Coming right up, Master Joker,” Alfred replied smoothly, already plating the dish.
He placed it with serious care, though internally he found himself reevaluating everything he thought he knew.
Who would have guessed that the Joker had a taste for Chinese cuisine and specifically desserts?
Certainly not him.
Yet here he was, catering to it.
Harley had her own preferences.
The goons had theirs.
And as a ‘perfect butler,’ Alfred had made sure to indulge all of them.
It had been… Unpleasant.
And he had already made up his mind.
The moment this contract ended, he was leaving these glutton clowns.
As he moved to serve another dish, his attention shifted, just a fraction, catching something at the edge of his vision.
Behind the bright artificial setup of the kitchen and dining area, beyond the lights, a shadow moved.
Alfred’s posture did not change, but he was alarmed.
He stepped closer to the Joker and bowed, lowering his voice.
“Master Joker,” he said quietly, “I just noticed movement in the back.
I might be mistaken, but I believe we have visitors.
Would you like me to check and deal with them while you enjoy your dessert?” The Joker turned his head slowly, interest immediately replacing laziness.
“Oh?” he said, eyes narrowing.
“Are you good at fighting?” “If I couldn’t do this much for my master, what kind of butler would I be?” Alfred replied.
The Joker blinked once, then snorted softly.
“Butlers these days…” He waved a hand lazily.
“If you’re so confident, go..
oh take this with you” The Joker handed Alfred his gun and added “If it is not batsy, feel free to make a mess.” The Joker chuckled and continued eating.
Alfred straightened with the gun in his hand.
Turned around and began walking toward the darkness beyond the set.
As he stepped away, he put the gun in his pocket.
Internally, he was almost hopeful [Please be Batman] If it was him, the situation would justify more.
Greater threat, greater necessity.
It means he can grant himself more power and abilities to deal with the threat to his master.
He stepped past the artificial lighting and into the dim, quiet space behind it.
The temperature seemed to drop, the atmosphere shifting as the noise of the others faded behind him.
He moved carefully, eyes scanning, steps silent.
Then, a shadow moved further ahead.
He adjusted his direction, following it deeper into the corridor.
[A bait,] he thought immediately.
[He’s trying to draw me away from Joker.
You are doing great Batman] It made sense.
Separate the unknown element and interrogate.
That sounded just like Batman.
He continued forward, excitement filling him.
When he reached the corner, two shadows lunged at him simultaneously from opposite angles.
In that instant, his power activated.
His body adjusted and knowledge flooded in.
Instinct took over, refined and honed to a level beyond ordinary human capability.
Just like Batman.
The darkness no longer mattered.
He moved.
In a single motion, he shifted his stance, intercepting both attackers mid-strike.
His hands redirected their momentum, flipping both of them into the air with controlled force.
Before they could recover, he stepped forward, one precise punch into the first attacker’s center mass, followed by a swift, clean kick that sent the second crashing aside.
They hit the ground hard.
Then something flew toward him.
A red dot blinked.
Recognition was instant.
Explosive batarang.
He didn’t hesitate.
His hand shot out, catching it mid-air.
The force of the spin died in his grip as he turned smoothly and threw it back toward the source.
The explosion followed almost immediately.
A sharp burst of light and sound filled the corridor, followed by pained groans.
Alfred exhaled once, then moved forward.
As the smoke settled, the two figures became clearer.
Then frowned.
“Not Batman.
The sidekicks” He stepped closer and reached down, lifting both bodies and heading back to the Joker.