Waiting For the Miracle

"Do you know where Harvey is? Do you know where he is? Huh? I'll settle for his loved ones instead!" Sin City meets the Dark Knight, put the power in the female's mind, and she will give you an ah-musing game.

A/N: Hey guys, this is another story I've been thinking of writing for a while. This isn't a romance story though, sorry guys if that's what you're looking for. Well, you can kind of call it, but it's a long story and you'll

Have

To

Read

To

Find out :3

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or anything from DC.

I do own my character.

Honestly, is there really anything better then the smell of fresh, high-quality coffee bubbling away in the kitchen at the scathingly early hours of the morning? Too bad I wasn't smelling it—all I smelled was my AM dragon breath and had an irritating alarm clock to boot. I desperately hit the snooze button and hid beneath my thick sheets, not wanting to leave the warm cocoon I had made for myself. Why was the bed so uncomfortable when you're trying to go to sleep, but so damn comfy when you're trying to get up?

I relished the five minutes before my alarm clock decided to go off again, which did so right on cue just as I was about to drift back into sleep. In those spacious five minutes, I sluggishly ran over what I had to do today in an effort to rouse myself better—today was going to be a busy day, and I had fashioned myself several drinks last night and the sunlight beyond my bed sheets were going to burn my eyes out, making my headache worse.

I had lunch with my older brother today—he was going to want to know how my moving in was going. It was going as good as it could be, I guessed. Boxes and misplaced furniture piled eerily about the room, making me feel homesick for Metropolis. But I was here now, in an attempt to try to change my path in life, although I wasn't sure how Gotham City was going to provide a responsible one for me to choose.

The alarm went off again and against my better judgment, I hit snooze again and rolled over, feeling crabby, mostly because I was having childish feelings of shyness towards a new home. Metropolis was dangerous, but Gotham was worse. I had landed an excellent job at my brother's work—he had been the one to get me into a nice little receptionist position after my previous job in Metropolis saw fit to commit mass lay-offs, and I was one of the causalities.

At least I didn't have to stay in the piece of shit part of Gotham.

The phone rang, but I didn't want to get up to answer it, and let it go to the answering machine. I heard my voice speak. "Hello, you. Please leave me a message and I will return your call. Thank you." Click, short beep. My brother's voice followed swiftly.

"Hey Barbie, it's Harvey. Just reminding you, we got lunch today, don't be late this time. Also, get ready for orientation tomorrow. See you at 12. Love you, bye." The message ended. I groaned softly and sat up with my eyes closed, just as my alarm went off again. I switched it off irritably, and dragged my feet across the soft, pale pink carpet of my new bedroom, walking into the hallway lined with more boxes and furniture not yet neatly arranged, smelling that invasive, strange-home scent of drywall and fresh paint that old apartments brought to new tenants. I walked into my new kitchen, and opened the box that held my coffee maker. I lugged it over to the dark marble counter, and set it down, plugging it in. Slowly, I assembled ingredients for a fresh pot of joe. It was going to be a long morning of planning and writing lists and plans of where everything was going to go, and then lunch with the new DA, and then the rest of my afternoon looked pretty damn dreary, unpacking and arranging things.

As that fresh coffee smell that I had craved began to fill the kitchen, I leaned back on the counter, running my fingers through my hair. It needed a wash. I looked around my new surroundings.

From the bachelor pad I had owned in Metropolis, just down the street from my aunt and uncle, which had a tiny cube of a bathroom and just two small windows in the entire place, I had come to the high-end of Gotham, which wasn't very high to begin with but you get where I'm coming from. Harvey pulled some strings for me, banning me from even thinking of moving into the shitty part of Gotham. I myself had no desire to rub shoulders with mobsters, homeless people and junkies, but you basically had to know someone in politics to get into a nice place, which thankfully I do.

My old, tiny kitchen didn't compare to this. Dark marble counter tops, a chrome sink and garberator, silver dishwasher and mahogany cupboards. All the appliances were new and the fridge came with an ice maker. Underneath one of the cupboards hanging over the counter was a rack for martini and wine glasses.

I looked over the pile of boxes in the doorway into the living room. The living room was definitely the best part of the place, even the fancy bathroom with the claw bathtub. It had large studio windows, giving me a floor to ceiling view of Gotham's downtown, which was already filled with activity, even this early in the morning. My dog, Shima, was sleeping in his huge brown dog-bed against the window, and he opened one dark eye to survey me. Confirming I was indeed his master, he closed his eyes again. It was a wonder how Harvey managed to allow me to keep the big German shepherd, let alone get me in here in the first place. When I saw how much the rent was going to be monthly I had almost swooned.

However, the pay I'll be receiving at the Gotham District Attorney & Law Office as their receptionist would keep me securely in this nice place with food in the fridge, wine on the racks and clothes on my back. And jewellery, and lipstick, and scarves. Harvey always prodded at me over it, irritated that I needed to buy new clothes every time money came into my hand—what can I say? I loved shopping, I loved clothes and shoes, I loved class and the higher things in life. It looked like I was one step closer to achieving that high-class dream, too.

I poured myself coffee, added coffee mate, and then walked back into my bedroom, through it, into the bathroom. I had managed to get the bathroom set up last night, as the bathroom was secretly one of my favorite places ever. I loved the smooth, clean porcelain, brilliant red marble, the little shelf on the tub so I could place candles, bath oils, an ashtray and figurines.

I started the shower, and slipped out of my sleeping shirt and socks. I stood in front of the mirror as the water got warm and the bathroom filled with steam, and I prodded the dark circles underneath my eyes, the blackheads plaguing my nose, my dry lips. My eyebrows were sticking up everywhere, I needed to tame them. Harvey always bitched and complained when we were teenagers that it took me forever to leave the house but he didn't understand that I looked like the crypt keeper in the morning and there was no way in hell I was leaving the house looking like how I do.

I brushed my teeth, hopped in the shower, hopped out, and wrapped myself up in a housecoat. It was nine AM now. I wondered over to the tremendously large stack of boxes neatly labeled clothes, shoes, accessories, make-up, hair… the list went on. I carried each heavy box to my rumpled bed, and opened them. Getting ready for the day was a very important ritual for me. Call it conceited, high-maintenance, narcissistic, arrogant. I refused to step out that door without looking perfect. This was why sometimes it took me three hours to get ready.

It took me forever to select appropriate garments. We were planning on dining at Jean & Walter's, an upper- class restaurante bistro with crystal glasses and spotless cutlery, and reservations. I selected a violet top, a white belt, and dark pants. It took me twenty minutes to select the stilettos I was going to wear—in the wise words of Audrey Hepburn; a lady should never step outside without her favorite pair of stilettos.

I did my hair, my make-up. Then, I poured Shima a bowl of food, which he gobbled, spraying bits of munch all over the dusty floor. Then, I sat on a box, balanced my clipboard over my knees, and wrote a list of things to do today. My morning passed like that, I smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, Shima sniffing his new surroundings, until I glanced up at 11 30 and I was to meet Harvey at Jean & Walter's in fifteen minutes. I got on my heels, kissed Shima goodbye, and walked out into the hallway.

The hallway of the apartment was grand, with dark carpets and walls, dim lighting, making the atmosphere tres romantic. I locked the door, and walked down the hallway, swinging my purse over my shoulder. The cool metal of my earrings graced the skin below my ear. I stepped into the elevator, made my way down. On the way down, I looked at my reflection on the mirrored walls. I was vain, I would admit that. At least I could admit it. But I usually don't. In a way it was a curse, it seemed sometimes like half my day was based upon improving my appearance, which probably worked fine to begin with. I had a strict routine, from early morning runs with Shima to fasting frenzies that would sometimes leave me weak and feeling faint although I just couldn't seem to get slim enough.

The contoured mirror made my thighs look slightly big and I sighed, smoothing my pants. The door tinged open and I walked into the lobby, and out through the front doors into the late-morning Gotham. The traffic was slow and looked torturous. I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head—not much sunlight after the breakfast hour around here, I guessed. The sky was overcast and looked moody, like it was about to throw a tantrum and let loose a vicious thunderstorm. The towering buildings were stark contrast—dark glass, steel, grey concrete, and although the graffiti was a little more diminished in this area of town, there was still enough. Men and women in business suits walked past me, heading out on their lunch breaks. Lots of people talking on their cell phones, smoking, lot's of people in a hurry and looking stressed or just downright depressed. Thunder rumbled over my head. Maybe I should join in too.

I walked to the curb, where my black car was parked. I hopped in, shutting the door, the outside world's soundtrack of car horns, screeching tires, millions of voices, the hum of humanity, was cut short. I turned on my car, turned down the music that started blasting from it, and drove away from my spot without putting on my seatbelt—bad habit, and one that would not end well for me, I would find out soon.

I cruised through the city. It was the same size as Metropolis, with just as much culture—although the culture here was dark and sort of sinister. Like hope was just a flickering light being doused with syrup. I feigned for a cigarette, but if Harvey smelled tobacco on me he would shit a brick. He hated me smoking. So I had told him I quit and that would be exactly how it remained, in my eyes. Massive buildings surrounded me, casting shadows in the concrete jungle. I searched for the street that the restaurant was on—my Blackberry was being useless at home, as I had forgotten it. However, the name of the street stuck in my mind, Wayne Avenue, and I turned down what I hoped was the right street and almost immediately Jean & Walter was in sight.

I parked, triumphant that I was five minutes early, which was hard for me to pull off sometimes. Sometimes, things just come up. Like that sale on Clementine and lavender dress sandals in the retail store's window right next door to Jean & Walter's. No. Don't do it. Harvey would kill me if he found out I had bought yet another pair of shoes. I had to make whatever money I had left over from my previous job last.

However.

I was starting my new job tomorrow. And I'm sure one little pair of lavender sandals wouldn't hurt. I mean, I could just stuff it into my car before I go inside and he will be none the wiser. And I could pay for lunch too, just to show him that I am capable of achieving good money management!

So, it was settled. I had to buy them. It was essential, for both me and my brother. For him to put faith in me that I can handle my life alone, and for me because those shoes are so damn hot. I mean, opal and amethyst gems? Aquamarine sole? I still had five minutes.

I locked up my car and bolted over to the store.

Three minutes later I skipped out, happily holding my fresh white box containing my leopard-print high heels. Yes, I realize I ended up walking out with something completely different, but the sandals hadn't seemed as nice in my hands, and those leopard prints were definitely catching my eye lately.

I tossed the shoes into my trunk carefully, and walked up the stones steps of the restaurant, and entered. The atmosphere was warm, inviting. It smelled like spaghetti, feta cheese and wood-fires. The place was packed, which didn't surprise me, waiters and waitresses bustling back and forth, all the women in here well dressed and so pretty, all the men in suits and ties and handsome. I approached the hostess, who was standing on a small cherry-wood podium behind a circular desk, a large book open underneath her manicured fingers.

"Hi, do you have reservations?" She asked politely.

"Yes, under Dent."

"Harvey Dent? The District Attorney?" Her thin eyebrows quipped up in interest.

"Yes, please."

"Cecile will lead you there." The girl snapped her fingers and a young blonde girl came forward and hurriedly rushed me throughout the throng of eating people. Cecile didn't look like she wanted to be here, that's for sure. I myself was pretty happy to see Harvey. Even though he was the over-bearing older brother who always wanted more for me, I loved him a lot. He was being seated when I saw him, by another waitress. He saw me and I waved. He smiled back, and I heard him ask for two cups of coffee as we approached.

After I got settled in, I gushed. My moving to Gotham had inspired mixed emotions within me, but my fear, anxiety and apprehension always melted in the presence of Big Bro. I was so proud of him becoming DA, although from the reputation Gotham had, it looked like he had his work cut out for him. But, I had faith in him. I still have a I Believe In Harvey Dent pin stuck onto one of my purse's straps in my boxes somewhere. I knew this city was so corrupt, so dirty, and I honestly wasn't sure if Harvey could do it. He was an excellent lawyer before an attorney, and all of a sudden, his promotion shot him to the very top. I could compare him to Supe, if I wanted, but I unfortunately was not naive enough to think that one man vs one city would end with good conclusions.

I told him about my plan for the day and where I would put furniture. He promised he would come over after work and help me move the heavier things, but I had a sneaking suspicion he would forget. He was a busy guy, and not to mention was seeing someone. I had to meet Rachel Dawes on Friday at dinner. I was enthusiastic, the way Harvey always talked about her in emails or on the phone made me think that she was The One for him.

We talked for about an hour and a half, and then Harvey went back to work. He was within walking distance of the Law Office—in fact, it was right across the street. We said our good-byes, and as he disappeared into the traffic, I looked up at the huge building. It kind of reminded me of the book 1984, simply for its huge, dark animosity, a 34 story high fortress of black, glossy windows and wire framing. It blocked whatever sunlight could worm its way out of the overcast sky. I pulled my jacket around me tighter as I slowly walked back to my car, lighting a cigarette when I was sure Harvey couldn't see me.

I was about to step into my car when a stray newspaper got swept into my thigh with the increasing wind. Annoyed, I snatched at it, hoping the damp end of it was just puddle water and not dog piss. I glanced at it out of curiosity as it was the front page of the Gotham Times and Harvey's picture was on it. Harvey was in a side column success story tribute to his new position, but the main headline was nowhere near as celebratory.

Crime Wave? Two More Victims

It read, and underneath it was a fuzzy security camera picture blown up a few sizes, where I could distinctly make out the newest threat to Gotham City, the Jester. Or the Joker. We had not heard of him in Metropolis, yet. The man looked like a royal mess, with greasy hair, and his face painted terribly to resemble a clown mask, although he must have let Tim Burton or a small child design his super villain persona. He was standing in a bank vault and looking up at the camera menacingly. He had robbed another bank, left two innocent people dead and one crippled in his path. I frowned, and crumpled up the paper and tossed it back into the gutter.

I made it home. Shima barked when I walked in the door, and I smiled at him despite the fact that I was dreading having to start unpacking everything. I slipped off my heels and stretched my toes, peeling off my black dress socks, picking fluff from between my toes. Cracking them, I batted Shima playfully, refilled his water bowl, and took my new heels to my room. I pushed aside discarded clothes from this morning and laid them on my bed, loving them already. That five inch stiletto could put a hole in someone's head. I opened my purse to retrieve the receipt and frowned when I realized how much loose money was in my purse. I had neglected to set up a bank account while I was out, so I would have to get that taken care of today.

So, until about three thirty, when I deemed a reasonable time, I stopped unpacking and arranging things the best to my abilities, and had the bedroom, the bathroom and half the kitchen done. Satisfied, I shook my hair from its ponytail, applied some lippy, threw on my jacket and new leopard print heels, and after a moment of consideration decided to take Shima for a walk.

"C'mere, boy!" I called, tossing my car keys back into my purse and reaching for the dogs leash instead, he bounded towards me, nails clicking on the wooden hallway floor. I smiled, clipped the leash to his collar, and walked back into the hallway with him. I had been hoping the elevator would be empty, but there was an old lady in there that looked absolutely disgusted that I had a dog with me. I couldn't be happier to have Shima out in the fresh air, and we walked up the street, the big shepherd sniffing his surroundings.

Shima had been a gift from Harvey, for her 23rd birthday three years ago. I adored Shima, having raised him from a tiny puppy to this sleek, healthy guard dog. I definitely felt a lot safer with him living with me—I don't know about you, but if I was a mugger or crook or whatever I wouldn't exactly choose the person who had a huge-ass, 195 pound attack dog that just naturally looked cranky. But maybe that's just me.

I came to the first bank I ran across—a lush, white marble antique, a credit union that had prospered rapidly with a mysterious revenue. It was close to my place, though. I was happy that the late afternoon sunlight was finally deciding to prosper in its brief break from overcast clouds. Traffic increased and I saw a few bright yellow school buses lumber along, school was out. I tied Shima to the designated dog post on the curb, and walked into the bank.

There was a small line-up so I felt I wouldn't get too bored, standing here for a bit. I looked around the well-lit interior, listened to the non-silence of the quiet workplace. It was actually rather serene and I folded my arms loosely and leaned back on one foot, preparing myself for at least half an hour or signing things, producing ID, all that good stuff, for a new bank account. It was a shame they didn't carry the bank I used in Metropolis in Gotham, so I had to pull everything out of my bank account and had it all in my purse, which needed to be deposited. No way was I going to be carrying around that much cash. I always preferred debit cards, so much more versatile. My mind busied itself from boredom, drawing me in so far that when the unexpected spray of gunshots cracked the air, I screamed threw myself to the ground as soon as I could. Silent chaos erupted as three men in dark clothes and ugly clown masks ran up the length of the bank towards them.

"Nobody move! Nobody! I'll shoot ya if you do!" One of the men yelled, his voice muffled behind the mask, holding a jet black semi-automatic saw-off that screamed cold, hard death for whoever was unfortunate enough to look down the barrel of it. I thrusted myself up against the counter, and then slipped behind the janitor's cleaning trolley. My heart hammered violently. Fear gripped me. Someone screamed. Within thirty seconds I realized that I could be very much dead in the coming thirty seconds, and I hid behind the smelly janitor cart, praying.

Mortal terror has a lot of effect on people. It makes you cold, makes you hot, makes you sweat and shake. It makes your mind think of a billion and one possibilities of things you could've done differently to avoid the situation. It also has a billion and one ideas of what's going to happen to you. You feel your eyes bulge, sweat pour down your face, your hands get cold and clammy, your throat is closing like you're having a serious allergic reaction to something.

And then of course, the emotion itself.

It only worsened as there was the sound of a pump-action blowing a hole through glass. Yelling erupted. "Don't you know who you're stealin' from?" A man yelled, and another gunshot followed. "One of your friends is dead!" Three more gunshots. Silence. I dared not to look around, in risk that it would sign my death certificate. And then, the sound of an automatic, and the sound of someone hitting the hard floor. I couldn't help it, I twisted and looked, careful to only peek out, so as not to reveal my hiding spot.

Three. Long. Minutes. Whoever survived were dragging money bags from the vault into the middle of the lobby. The people still trapped within were either holding grenades with the keys pulled out, the only thing stopping them from exploding were their thumbs holding the switch down. Someone was dead—in fact, make that two. Everyone else was quiet as a graveyard, and so was I, not daring to move. If they caught me hiding, I might end up getting split in half.

And then, a tremendous crumbling noise came from the front of the bank, making me jump. I looked over, and could see what I believed to be the bank manager laying on his side, his head bobbing up and down as he tried to gain enough air to speak. And a school bus had backed its way into the bank's front entrance. I stared as the last remaining clown looked over another clown-mask wearing guy who had been crushed by debris from the bus' sudden arrival. The back door of the bus opened and out popped yet another guy in a clown mask, and I watched with some sick sort of fascination as they threw duffel bags stuffed with cash into the back of the bus, and then one of the clowns shot the other. I gasped as the guy fell to the ground and the other one hadn't even spared him a backwards glance.

He finished loading the money. I feared that he would see me as if he looked hard enough he could possibly see me, as I was right in direct vision. And then, bank manager started to talk. "Look at you." He coughed. "Criminals in this town. They used to believe in things. Honor. Respect. What do you believe in, huh? What do you believe in?" He was choked short as the remaining clown approached him and stuffed some sort of fuselage into his mouth.

"I believe," I could barely hear his voice from where I was, but it was nasal, high-pitched… it sounded loose. He took his mask off and my heart seized in my chest as I realized the Joker was only fifteen feet away from me. I clapped a hand over my mouth in case he might hear me breathe. "Whatever doesn't kill you, simply makes you… stranger." The scars on his face were even more horrifying in real life. His eyes were black sparks, so much black face paint covering them. He grinned, and then ran back over to the bus and threw it, shutting the door behind him. He was a tall, agile looking man with a certain grace about him. He was gross. He pulled the bus out of the bank, a large chunk of stone crashing to the floor after its leaving. I watched as the fuselage in the bank manager's mouth popped off, and smoky purple gas began to fill the area. The manager spat it out but it was too late—he started laughing. And not ha-ha-ha that was kinda funny, no, a crazy, maniacal laugh that brought tears to your ears and heard your vocal cords. He was also turning purple from lack of air.

I was one of the lucky ones that didn't have live grenades in their hands, and we pelted out of the bank, a few more people succumbing to the laugh-gas. I had pulled my decorative scarf over my face—so they do end up being useful, hey?—and ran straight into a cop's arms. He had a SWAT mask over his face and a pump-action in one of his hands, and instead he whipped me around and ran me back to the curb, out of harm's way, and also where Shima was barking like a nutcase. I ran to him and he calmed down, and I was relieved he was okay, feeling bad that I hadn't even tossed him a moment's worry while I was in there. My legs shook. The street was blocked off and swarming with fire engines, police cars, a SWAT van, a helicopter in the air, ambulances, paramedics, black ghost cars. It was a circus. A paramedic approached me and I was smoking a cigarette, holding onto Shima's collar. He asked if I was okay. I denied the blanket he offered. I let him check my vitals to ensure I wouldn't go into shock, and after he was reassured, he told me I could go home.

I was only asked a few questions by an investigating officer. I knew nothing. Maybe the information I had would be relevant, but I wanted to go home. At that moment, the fact that I had witnessed the Joker's cruelty had been enough for me and I didn't want to end up a courtroom testifying.

"Let's just do our banking in Metropolis, hey boy?" I said to Shima, walking back up the street with him, afraid. When she got off the block, she started to cry, and when she started to cry, she called her brother.