No one would ever have suspected the birth of a monster to be in such a quaint and quiet little home.

It even had cultivated the innate warmth and cordiality that was needed to nurture a child that would grow to be a lawyer, perhaps even harbor the aspirations to be a doctor or psychologist. Its painted white shutters and the perfectly starched drapes that billowed softly in the mid-summer breeze had been hard to maintain in the crime-ridden metropolis which hummed with activity nearby. And even the tranquil suburbs, far and away from the focused bustle of the city, suffered the elevating immoral activity.

The Napiers managed just fine.

In their newly established home, they even encouraged small hopes for a baby to complete their ambitions for a family. They read countless articles on the proper environment needed to raise a healthy and stable child, purchasing a plethora of books on parenthood and how to manage the commonly acquired stress that would come with a newborn.

Upon the commencement of attempts for a child, they began chatting about plans over dinner for building a nursery in the old craft room they'd kept especially for the purpose of housing their highly anticipated addition to the family. In fact, they'd talk so enthusiastically over the possibilities for that simple, gray-washed room that their food would grow cold. But they'd seem so engrossed in their preparation that they hardly noticed.

And as the months passed, the obsession only grew.

But it did not manifest itself so overwhelmingly in Robert Napier. He was much too involved in his career for indulging in the after work trivialities that he would converse about only in the comforts of his own home.

Instead, the fixation on the prospect of soon becoming a parent exhibited its deep roots in his wife.

In fact, it was nearly all-consuming for Alice to the point that she could hardly concentrate on work. She would sit in her office, waiting for her day to end so that she could resume where she had left off in her parenting guide. The hours would just not move fast enough for her, and occasionally little symptoms of frustration would emerge in a sigh or a bite of her unsuspecting lips.

She sometimes even look through the book she'd purchased in order to pick a name for the little angel she had come to imagine, always going to the same name. Jack was her favorite; she'd folded the page which held that sacred name so many times that the corners had begun to grow wilted and soon withered altogether from the excess use.

It had been a trait she had been born with and, upon learning that her biological parents had never been identified, she could only assume she had inherited it from one of them. Her own parents, the ones that had loved and cherished her despite the fact that she was not technically of their creation, had not shown indications of ability for such immense fascination. They were such mellow people that nothing seemed to ruffle their feathers.

If only poor Alice Napier knew, upon receiving the news that she had finally succeeded in her heart's desire, that the baby that would soon come was hardly the angel she'd hoped for.

Author's Notes: Yes, so I found the idea of writing an origin for the Joker to be quite fascinating. Every monster is made, right? I mean, he wasn't born wielding knives on people and painting his face with frightening clown makeup. And I'm currently researching psychopathy in children, so I'll try and make this as realistic as possible. Thanks for reading! I hope you'll enjoy the story.