I: Something in the Air

Maybe it was that there were not as many screaming sirens flying down the streets. Or maybe it was the cold, still air that had engulfed the city. Maybe it was the fact there was no report of any muggings in the past few days. It could've been that she woke up on the wrong side of the bed or tied her shoelaces on the left foot instead of her right. Regardless of the events that had occurred to her throughout the day (or even the week for that matter) she could agree on something:

Something different was going to happen tonight.

Now, keep in mind, she wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, just a something. It rested in the pit of her stomach and sat there like some uninvited guest. She couldn't shake the feeling. She traced the events of her day in her mind, not one thing out of place or unusual that she could recall.

Smoke danced out of her red lips as she drummed her fingers on the fragile apartment deck, trying to figure out this strange sensation. Her eyes drifted towards the sky and reminded herself that the bright city lights created a barrier over the stars. She wrapped her jacket around her as the wind whipped around her building and she shuttered, though she never minded the cold.

Her cell phone began to play the familiar, obnoxious jingles. She quickly put out her cigarette, talking on the phone and smoking was rude.

"Hallo?" Her English was masked with a thick, Russian accent. Although the language didn't exactly sound awkward on her tongue, the words were thick and occasionally caught the back of her throat.

"Red? It's Sal." Maroni's voice was heavy and labored, like he had just won a marathon.

"Oh! Good evening, Sal. How may I help you?"

"I want him DEAD!"

Red stood still and rolled her eyes. "Proklyatiye! Are you trying to make me deaf? Calm yourself, Sal. Who is it that you want dead?"

"That clown. That son of a bitch. The Joker." Sal was huffing and puffing, anger dripped like venom from his words. Red could imagine him now, red faced with the vein that popped out of his head when he was enraged. "He barged into my meeting and disrespected ever single on of my colleagues! He's trouble. I can smell it. He's a fucking loon, I know he's going to start someth-"

"Sal, slow down, yeah? Do you mean the crazy clown man who has been robbing the banks on television?"

"Yeah, my friend's bank."

Red smiled slightly, "Sal, he seem like very dangerous man. I might have to charge you extra."

"Done, I don't give a damn. Do it tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, Red. You deaf of somethin'?" Sal's thick New York accent mocked her from afar. She took a slow breath.

"I want triple my regular price."

"Triple?!"

"You trying to make me deaf again?" Red was starting to get irritated with her client. "It is tonight and dangerous man. I have seen him on television, he looks creepy. Besides, I hate clowns. Where the hell is this guy anyway?"

She could hear the smile in Sal's voice. "I got one of my guys living with him as a goon. He's on St. Michael's Street, somewhere in the Narrows. He said something about a lit streetlight…I don't know. You're a smart girl, trust your instincts."

Red rolled her eyes, "Transfer half of money in my account by midnight and we have deal."

"It's a pleasure doing business with you, my dear. And Red?"

"Yes?"

"Don't get yourself killed." The phone clicked and the dial phone played back. Red laughed quietly and walked inside her apartment. It was a quaint little thing, with white walls full of paintings, rustic furniture, and flowers resting on every surface. The ceiling was high and cozy and the floors were made of dark, rich wood. Even though she lived in a shoddy neighborhood didn't mean she had to live without comfort. Her fingers brushed over her old piano, the dull ivory keys slowly bending with the pressure of her hand. Red checked the time; 11:15. She had time.

A sharpened seven inch pocket knife. A two feet piece of ½" cord. A pair of leather gloves. A fresh syringe and vial of her very own concoction of lethal injection (she always was good at chemistry). A retractable baton. And in case things got messy, a Beretta 92 with a silencer (a gift). Red strapped on her steel toed leather boots, put on her black leggings (easier to kick in), black shirt and black leather jacket. Her freckled skin and platinum blonde hair stood out from her ensemble. Her mess of curls was piled on the top of her head, having long hair was a disadvantage of someone in her profession, but she was a vain woman.

The clock read 11:38. She checked her bank account. Sal had been early.

Red's footprints echoed off the empty streets of the Narrows, which was extremely odd. Usually the Narrows were alive with crack addicts, low lifes, and skin heads. The pit of her stomach had tightened as she kept her eyes alert for any sights of danger. Red usually rode her motorcycle to jobs, but on this occasion, she decided to walk. It may sound crazy, but the job was only a few miles away, not to mention this was the Narrows, any mode of transportation left unattended was vandalized or stolen; maybe even both.

Red breathed in the cold, still air of the night. The feeling of the something was intensifying. Maybe this was it, maybe this was the job that would kill her. Of course, being the optimist that she was, Red quickly dismissed that fact. She was confident in her abilities as a hired hand. Red was well trained and well skilled in her profession, in fact she was known among mob bosses and scum bags like Maroni. Given that her record was good, job was clean, and she was a rather charming young lady gave her leverage over the others.

After many twists and turns of the streets, Red found herself at St. Michael's Street. She was happy she still had a map of this city. The street was dead, no sign of life indicated it was going to show itself. Red observed the run down buildings and cracked pavements. The smell of piss and anguish filled her nostrils; this was not a pleasant smell. As she observed the street, she noticed only one streetlamp brightly lit the area.

Red made her way to the apartment complex. She could heard absolutely no noise from the other buildings, in fact, this one seemed like the only one that wasn't rotting from the inside out. She noticed from a distance that a small light came from the side of the apartment. Red made her way to the sidewalk in a ghost like manner and tip toed into the small ally next to the apartment. There, a small window lay on the bottom of the building, slightly ajar.

She approached the window and squatted down next to it. If she were to get stuck, quite frankly, she would be totally fucked. She looked through the foggy glass and noticed no figures. She breathed on the window and tried to wipe away the gunk, but realized that the window was in need of a desperate cleaning. Her long fingers wrapped around the edge of the window and she slowly pulled up

The room was dully lit and she couldn't exactly make out the room, but what she smelled was the stale smell of blood. Fear bubbled from her stomach up her spine, but she quickly pushed the feeling down and continued on. She went in feet first, slowly sliding herself in, ignoring the brick scraping down her back. Her feet touched a table, and as she put more and more pressure upon it, it seemed to support her weight. Once she was all the way in, her eyes widened at what she had gotten herself into.

A single wooden chair with restraints was bolted to the floor, she could tell that the red on it was not paint. Blood splattered the ceiling, walls and floors, the whole room was stained. She looked on the table and noticed all sorts of torture contraptions. Knives, screwdrivers, hammers, drills, saws, scalpels, whips, crowbars, batons, ropes. She slowly climbed off the rocky table as a realization took a hold of her: I could wind up here.

But being the optimist she was, Red pushed the thought out of her mind and quietly walked over to the door. After listening to the unknown home outside her, she slowly turned the knob and opened the door. The dim hallway greeted her as silence filled her ears. In a cat like manner, Red walked into the apartment complex, slowly scanning her surrounding. She didn't here much life in the doors: no snoring or lights or voices.

But at the last door on the right, she heard the faintest sound of snoring. And as she reached out and grasped the handle and began to turn it, her heart began to race at the thought of her victim waking up. But as she pushed it open, she saw the crack of light from the streetlamp illuminate a mess of green hair. She could hear the steady, easy breathing of his body. With feline agility, she slipped in the room. Red pulled out her syringe and death sentence, sticking the needle in and pulling, allowing the clear substance to trail up the syringe.

Slowly, she approached her victim, studying him. The face paint was smeared all over his pillows and she rolled her eyes. Men, she thought. His green curls went greasy and unwashed. His scars mangled his sharply featured face. It wasn't that she feared him, rather he creeped her out. Red had never been one for clowns, she wasn't afraid of them, they were just weird. You could never know who lied under that façade. Like Gacy.

She released the air bubbles from her syringe and stared upon him. Sleep tight, unusual man. She began to lower the needle, staring at her victim. She wasn't convinced he'd go this easy. In sleep, he actually looked like a man, not the monster he was seen as by the rest of the city. He almost looked peaceful, which was unusual considering he was known as a chaotic barbarian. Red broke her train of thought, she needed to get the job done.

A force slapped the syringe out of her hand, before Red could even breathe, before she could even process what was to happen, a deliberate hook to her right cheek was given. She could hear the slap of her skin meet his fist and the pain shoot in her mouth before she fell back. As soon as she hit the floor, Red popped up, only to see him flying towards her. Quickly, she gave him a hard kick to the chest and he came tumbling back.

They both rose to stand, their eyes locked in an intimate tango. They circled, not knowing who would move next. Red had her hand on her retractable baton, waiting for him to make a move. The Joker, at the moment weaponless, stood basked in the moonlight with nothing but his fists. His eyes were cold and steely and seemed to burn into her sole. His face was twisted into a scowl but quickly dissolved into a smirk.

"Funny, I would've thought they'd send you later." His voice was somewhat high, yet had a striking masculine quality to it.

Red smirked back, "Guess not."

"Russian?" The Joker inquired.

Red smiled, "Da."

They began to circle one another, like rival wolves about to fight. The Joker eyed her like a hawk, waiting to see her next move. He'd had assassins try and do him off before. Red stopped suddenly and cracked her neck.

"You ready?" He asked if they were playing a game of chess.

"Of course."

And then they were upon each other.