"Some souls scream in fear. Others beg for mercy.
But a few—just a few—die laughing."
---
Beyond the Veil of Sanity
In the howling reaches of the Warp, where thoughts bleed and emotions manifest as monsters, the Realm of Chaos stirred.
There was no sun here. No time. No silence.
Only will.
Only madness.
And at the center of it all, the Four Thrones trembled with amusement.
It had been eons since anything new entertained the Chaos Gods.
They were ancient. Eternal. Endlessly fed by mortal vice.
Their wars were eternal. Their victories hollow. Even their feuds had become predictable.
But something had changed.
A ripple. A scream.
A joke.
---
It came from another realm—one beyond the Materium, beyond the stars and gods of Man. A place of caped tyrants and broken cities, where heroes fell and hope died screaming.
There, a man had died.
Not quietly.
Not pleading.
He died laughing, his ribcage crushed by a god of justice turned tyrant. His final breath was a joke whispered to a world that no longer had a sense of humor.
And when that soul tore free, corrupted and raw, it didn't go to any heaven or hell.
It twisted sideways, as if the Warp itself reached out to pull it in like a child grabbing a shiny toy.
The soul of the one called Joker.
---
The four gods gather somewhere in warp
They watched him.
Khorne, Lord of Skulls, saw only madness where discipline should be. He snarled.
"Weak. A clown. He spills blood for jest, not honor."
Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways, tilted with interest.
"Unpredictable. Volatile. A walking paradox."
Nurgle, Grandfather of Decay, chuckled, mucus thick in his joy.
"Ohhh, how he clings to joy in death. Delightful rot."
Slaanesh, Prince of Pleasure, licked their lips.
"So much chaos... born from one tiny mind. Delicious."
And in unison, their voices became decree:
"Let him be tested."
But not by the gods themselves. No, they were too vast, too distant.
Instead, they would send their avatars—their greatest daemons—each a lens through which their will would be focused.
One by one, he would be judged.
By Tzeentch's Lord of Change, in a shifting maze of lies.
By Slaanesh's Keeper of Secrets, in a theater of flesh and ecstasy.
By Khorne's Bloodthirster, in an arena of pure, merciless violence.
By Nurgle's Great Unclean One, in a garden of rot and decay.
Each daemon would push him, break him, tempt him.
And if he endured?
If he thrived?
He would not merely serve.
He would become the voice of the gods. The laughing herald of the apocalypse.
A harlequin of the End Times.
---
Somewhere in a crater made of bone and ruin, Joker opened his eyes.
The last thing he remembered was Superman's fist through his ribs.
Now, he breathed air that smelled of screams and paint thinner. The ground beneath him pulsed like muscle.
He sat up and started laughing.
"Oh, this... this is new!"
From above, a flaming scroll drifted down like a snowflake.
Its ink wept. Its parchment writhed.
It read:
"Let the Games Begin."
He clapped.
"A multiversal death circus! With me as the headliner! Oh, how positively theatrical."
And in the far reaches of the Warp, the Chaos Gods smiled.
For the first time in aeons...
They were entertained.