[Doomsday Male Reader x Overwatch/DC AU]
An undisclosed black site, not registered on any official document or record, left barren and destroyed. Pools of blood and piles of bodies decorating the entire facility, and not a culprit in sight. Sirens w...
[A Few Weeks Earlier, The Joke Factory, Gotham City...]
"-- S-So he decides to go get some punch. Then, he arrives and lo and behold, there's no punch line... --" A fat bald man stood upon an open, dark stage shrouded in darkness. It was a comedy club, or at least it used to be one, any joy that had once been there was completely gone, replaced by the smell of blood and death. Sweat was building atop his head, and he shook nervously, making his long set-up fall flat completely, though it wasn't really all that funny a joke to begin with either way. The spotlight burned against him, a bright circle imprinting him against the red curtain behind him. He clasped his hands together trying to ward off his nerves, but it did him no good...
"Enough." A cold, hoarse voice told him. A lanky, pale figure stood just before the stage, staring at him with an icy look that could kill. He dug a hand into his brightly-coloured coat, a pointed object protruding from out the fabric. "W-Wait, wait! I-I got more jokes to tell! I-I got this great five-minute set on Scotland! I-I'm sure you'll find it hilarious, trust me!" He waved his hands out before him, pleading with the man before him. He wasn't going to wait. "I-I just got back from a trip to Scotland, right?" It was too late, and a heavy revolver was levelled at his head.
There was no hesitation. A single BANG echoed around the room, and spilled blood out across the old stage, where so many comics had spread laughter and joy. There was none of that now...
The fat comic crashed back, lying still on the ground, slowly bleeding from his temple.
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"Next." The pale figure turned around, smoke trailing up from out the revolver's barrel. "Please." He pursed his lips together tight, as if he were just barely holding in a hidden rage that was just waiting to explode. There was a light footfall from the stage and another challenger stepped up to the plate. "Y-Yeah, hey! I-I'm next!" He gave his name but the single-person audience didn't care, digging the revolver's nose back into his coat. "Yes, yes. Don't forget to clear the stage..."
The new contestant hesitantly pulled the dead fat comic up by the arms and dragged him towards the edge, barely just stopping himself from gagging, bile rising at the back of his throat. Below the stage was a massive pile of corpses, some men and others women, but each dead with a single shot to the head. He then returned to the centre of the stage, the light shining down upon him, ready for his performance.
"All right."
"Go ahead."
"I'm ready to laugh."
===================
[Gotham City Mayor's Office]
"He'll be with you in a moment, Detective Gordon, he's just speaking with a few important guests." The receptionist said behind a pair of tired eyes, most uninterested with the comings and goings around her. There was enough to busy herself with her computer, mostly just solitaire, but nobody else needed to know that. A tired sigh escaped the young cop standing opposite her. "Alright, thanks." And he turned away, leaning against a wall, thinking to himself. Jim Gordon, detective working under the Gotham City Police Department. Gordan was at a crossroads, not a young man, but not an old man either. He still had a full head of hair, that was one thing he could be thankful for, he supposed. He wore a large pair of glasses that caught against the light, making it hard to see what his eyes were telling at times. However, everyone knew him for his large moustache, a permanent fixture on the detective's face...
