The Trial of Slaanesh
There was no border between Tzeentch's madness and Slaanesh's realm.
One moment Joker stood on broken glass and warped illusions. The next, his feet sank into silken grass, and the air kissed his skin like a lover's breath.
The sky had no stars—just a curtain of velvet swirling in slow, rhythmic pulses. Music floated in the distance. Not quite sound, not quite sensation. It made his nerves twitch in rhythm, and for the first time in… ever… the Joker shivered.
Not from fear.
But from the overwhelming pleasure of it all.
"Well, this feels like the inside of a dirty thought."
A winding path stretched before him—woven from satin and hair, bones carved into ivory torches burning with pink flame.
Every tree moaned when the wind touched it.
The flowers blinked with lips instead of petals. The birds sang in moans. The rocks sighed underfoot.
The sign ahead shimmered:
"TRIAL TWO: SAVOR THE SELF."
Joker rubbed his chin.
"Sounds like one hell of a date night."
He walked.
The path led to a theater carved from flesh and obsidian. Curtains of living silk parted, and a massive stage rolled forward under a soft spotlight.
There, reclining atop a throne of narcotic perfumes and living limbs, was a daemonette of impossible beauty and horror.
Four arms. Two faces—one weeping, one grinning. Skin that shifted between genders with every blink. Eyes like open wounds.
A voice—no, voices—whispered in unison.
"Welcome, broken jester. The Dark Prince watches."
"You seek the approval of She Who Thirsts. But do you even understand yourself?"
Joker gave a flamboyant bow, extending his arms wide.
"Honey, I've spent my whole life not understanding myself. That's what makes it fun!"
The daemonette clapped slowly.
"Then let us see how far you'll go... to find pleasure in your own damnation."
The Garden Opens
The theater warped. The stage became a garden of overwhelming beauty.
Joker found himself at its center, naked—not of clothing, but of identity.
His face—his mask—was gone.
No painted grin. No laughter lines.
Just a man.
Vulnerable.
"Oh," he muttered, staring at a reflection in a pool of honey. "That won't do."
A dozen figures approached. Each wore the faces of people he had broken.
Harley. Jason. Gordon. Batman.
Each asked him a question.
"Why did you hurt me?"
"Do you even care?"
"Was it just for a laugh?"
He answered every question with a shrug and a smile.
"Because I could."
"Because it hurt."
"Because the world's a joke—and I'm the punchline."
The garden wept. The air rippled.
Pleasure and pain bled together.
--
When he look around
A table appeared, groaning with food sculpted from sins.
Roast ambition. Stewed guilt. Candied regret.
At the head of the table: Joker, clad in royal robes, wearing a crown made of bat ears.
He beckoned to himself.
"Eat. Feast on what you are. Gorge until the mask becomes the man."
Joker laughed, sat, and ate.
With every bite, memories surfaced. Killing Robin. Paralyzing Barbara. Breaking Harley's heart.
But instead of guilt—he felt satisfaction.
Not in the cruelty.
But in the freedom it had granted him.
"I was never chained by rules. I was born free."
He licked blood from his lips.
"I just want the world to join me."
The garden twisted.
Now a mirror hall, where Joker saw not himself—but versions of his victims wearing his face.
Harley, laughing while stabbing a child.
Batman, giggling while setting Gotham aflame.
Even Superman—mouth stitched into a grin, holding Lois's corpse like a teddy bear.
"This is who you make people become," whispered Slaanesh's voice.
"Do you revel in it—or run from it?"
Joker sighed, hands in pockets.
"You know… for a god of pleasure, you ask a lot of serious questions."
He spun, arms wide.
"But here's my answer: I love what I do. I love who I am. I'm the only honest man in a world of masks."
The hall erupted in applause.
The daemonette appeared again, now vast, looming, infinite and intimate.
A finger traced along Joker's jaw—electric ecstasy pulsing in its wake.
"You are a creature of passion. Of art. Of chaos not by numbers, but by flavor."
"Would you bear our mark? Would you revel in every pain made perfect?"
Joker hesitated.
And then, surprisingly—shook his head.
"You're good, sugar. Real good. But you want too much from me."
"You want to own me. And I don't belong to anyone."
The daemon's smile widened—ecstatic.
"Even in denial, you embrace excess. You deny pleasure, and thus... savor it all the more."
"Very well. The Prince will not bless you… but you may carry our kiss."
A mark, glowing with gold and violet, etched itself across his spine—a sigil of temptation, of freedom without chains.
Joker gasped, arching in pain—or was it rapture?
And then the garden shattered.
He stood once again in a void, between trials. Two gods had tested him.
One had blessed him.
One had branded him.
He stood taller now. Laugh louder. The Warp bent when he grinned.
"Two down," he said.
Ahead, he saw flames and skulls. He smelled iron and violence.
The domain of Khorne.
He cracked his knuckles.
"Time to meet the angry one."