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Chapter 17: The Perfect Human
The smell hit first.
Rot. Medicine. Rust. The kind of smell that clung to old walls, the kind of smell hospitals never fully washed away. The place was abandoned, windows shattered, halls echoing only with the whispers of wind.
But this hospital wasn't empty. Not anymore.
Mechanical whirs filled the air. Small robots — spidery, insect-like, each no larger than a toolbox — crawled along the tiles. They patched up broken walls, repaired wires, and carried medical supplies like ants carrying food. Some hovered like drones, needles glinting under pale light.
On a bed in the middle of it all lay the Joker.
Bandages wrapped his torso, his ribs were splinted, and his skin carried bruises the color of rotten fruit. He looked half-dead, but his lips still twitched at the corners. Even broken, even bloody, the smile was there.
His chest rose and fell shallowly, his breath a wheeze, his mind hovering between madness and oblivion.
Then, footsteps.
Not the clatter of robots. No, heavier. Deliberate. Human.
A shadow moved into the room, tall, broad-shouldered, carrying authority like a cloak. The robots froze, their metallic whirs falling silent, as if acknowledging a master.
The figure stepped into the dim light.
Bald. Clean-shaven. A jawline cut like steel. Eyes sharp, green like venom, studying everything with surgical precision. A suit, perfectly pressed, gleaming under the broken fluorescents. Every step radiated power, but not the kind of power that came from muscles or weapons. It was the power of wealth, intelligence, and ruthless ambition.
Lex Luthor.
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For those who didn't know him, Lex was no ordinary man. Born into privilege but never satisfied with it, he clawed his way into becoming one of the wealthiest, most powerful figures on the planet. Businessman. Scientist. Politician. A man who believed, with every fiber of his being, that humanity could only survive if it rose above its so-called heroes. Above Superman.
Luthor was obsessed. His hatred for the alien wasn't just personal—it was ideological. To him, Superman was proof of humanity's weakness, a god walking among men. And Lex Luthor? He refused to bow to gods.
He built weapons. Corporations. Governments in his pocket. All to remind the world: men could stand against gods.
And now… he had found the Joker.
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The Joker stirred. His eyelids fluttered, his throat rasped, and then came the sound that refused to die — laughter. Weak, cracked, but laughter all the same.
"Heheheh… Ohhh, this is rich. Look at you… shiny suit, bald head, strong jaw. A politician? No… no, no, I know that face. I've seen it plastered on too many headlines. Lex Luthor."
He coughed violently, blood spattering the sheets. Then he grinned wider, as if choking on his own blood was part of the joke.
"You drag me out of death's arms, Lexy-boy, and what? Expect me to kiss your ring? Or maybe you're my fairy godmother in disguise. Come to wave a wand and grant me three wishes?"
Luthor didn't flinch. He folded his hands behind his back, standing tall over the bed.
"Spare me the theatrics. I know what you are, and I know what you're capable of. I didn't bring you here out of kindness. I brought you here because I need you."
The Joker's grin twisted, his eyes narrowing. He tilted his head, mockingly.
"Need me? Oh, Lex… that's dangerous talk. People who need me usually end up… well… missing a few limbs."
He snapped his teeth, mimicking a bite. A robot nearby flinched, as if it understood the threat.
Luthor didn't even blink. "You can threaten all you like. I've faced worse than your smile. But hear me out. What I'm offering you, Clown, is not a leash. It's a stage."
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Luthor leaned forward, voice low but steady, every word coated with conviction.
"Superman is not a savior. He is a crutch. Humanity has become dependent on him, worshiping him as though he were divine. That dependence weakens us. And I refuse to let humanity rot under the shadow of an alien."
The Joker's smile dimmed, just a flicker, as he watched Luthor's eyes burn with something that wasn't greed or lust for power. It was obsession.
Luthor continued.
"I have spent years researching genetics, enhancement, augmentation. The idea of a perfect human — a mortal who can stand toe-to-toe with gods. At first, I used soldiers, criminals, volunteers. They all failed. The strain was too much. Their bodies collapsed under the power. Too weak. Too ordinary."
He straightened, fixing his tie as though discussing nothing more important than a business merger.
"But then… then I saw you. I saw footage of you against Bane."
The Joker chuckled, though his ribs protested. "Ahhh, yes… big boy with the tubes. Hit like a truck. I hit back, though. And he didn't like that."
"You did more than hit back," Luthor said coldly. "You survived. You endured punishment no man should have. And you laughed through it."
He let that hang in the air, sharp as a blade.
"You are not ordinary, Joker. Your body, your mind, your… madness. You might just be the anomaly I've been waiting for. If anyone can handle the burden of becoming the perfect human, it's you."
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The Joker went silent.
For once, the room didn't echo with laughter. His eyes darted, suspicious, calculating. He replayed the words in his head.
Perfect human. Experiments. Superman.
He remembered his past life — flashes, fragments. There was no project like this. Not in his memories. Not in his timeline. Could it be the butterfly effect? Had his existence here, his choices, already started bending reality in new directions?
He snorted.
"Heheheheh… You're serious. You actually believe I'm your golden ticket. You want to make me your little science fair project. Inject me with juice, pump me full of god-knows-what, and hope I don't explode."
He leaned forward, bloody grin widening.
"Lexy, I've got news for you. I will explode. And when I do, I'll take your whole shiny building down with me."
He jabbed a finger toward Luthor's chest, mocking. "Boom. Confetti everywhere. Big finale."
Luthor simply waved his hand, dismissive. "Threaten all you want. I've built empires. I've torn them down. Your madness doesn't scare me."
For a moment, their eyes locked — two predators, two different kinds of insanity.
Then Luthor smiled. A small, thin smile.
"But it intrigues me."
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The Joker leaned back against his pillows, wheezing, still smirking.
"Say I play along with your little mad science experiment. Say I let you poke and prod me until I glow in the dark. What's in it for me, hmm? Fame? Fortune? A shiny medal?"
Luthor shook his head. "What you want is chaos. What you want is a world where everyone knows your name. I can give you that stage. And more."
The Joker tapped his chin, humming. "Mmm. Tempting. Very tempting. But here's the thing, Lexy-boy… I don't trust men in suits. Especially bald ones. No offense."
He leaned forward again, eyes glinting with wicked mischief.
"If I do this, I want something first. Something fun. I want you to stage my death."
Luthor raised a brow. "Your death?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" Joker clapped his hands, giggling. "Stage it. Fake it. Sell it to the world like a carnival trick. Make Batman think I'm dead. I want to see his face when he hears it. I want to know what he does when he thinks the clown is gone for good."
His grin turned sharper, darker.
"Because that's the real joke, Lexy. That's the punchline. Watching the Bat squirm."
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Luthor studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded once.
"Consider it done."
The Joker laughed, weak but growing louder, echoing through the abandoned hospital, filling every broken hall with madness.
The robots resumed their quiet movements, the shadows of the ruined building stretching long and deep.
And in the center of it, two men sat.
One obsessed with gods.
One obsessed with chaos.
The perfect partnership. Or the perfect disaster.
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