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He was toxic. Not literally (only, yes he was) and somehow not metaphorically (beyond the obvious), either. He was toxic to you and only you. It was like the plague in his blood seeped through the bond that Fate saddled you with from the moment you were born.
Twice, you’d visited him in Arkham, loathing every pitying glance thrown your way. Soul aching every moment you spent in his presence.
The first, you’d been alerted that there was a match on police record to the mark branded in lime green across the back of your shoulder. Foolishly, you’d wanted to meet the man, even knowing what he’d done. You realized quickly that your bond was one of the bad ones, the kind that kids whispered about in middle school like they were the boogyman himself. A corrupt mark was what happened when one of the souls goes crazy, or it was a curse put on the pair by God.
The truth was that no one knew why corrupt pairings happened. Though they were rare, they weren't unheard of. It just . . . happened to some people. And you happened to be one of them.
The second, you were pissed off. Some wild hair crawled its way up your ass that day in the wake of Robin going missing at his bloodied hands, and you got it in your head to chew him out for it. Like that would do anything.
You hadn’t seen him since.
Then he died. For real.
And the Joker card on your shoulder finally just looked like a tacky tattoo.