A/N: Replies to reviews at the bottom.
Okay, I admit, most of this chapter is pretty much filler. Until the end anyway.
DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.
Sic Transit Gloria Mundi
"Thus passes the glory of the world"
...
By Scribbles-Dementia
...
5
Monroe stared at the man before her. Tall, dark and handsome; Bruce Wayne was everything the Gotham tabloids had made him out to be. Monroe was sure that if she were to look up the term "playboy" in the dictionary, she would find his picture; probably splashed across an entire page. Every single strand of his dark hair was in place. His suit looked even more expensively tailored than the Black Mask's – Monroe knew that, if she were to check, she wouldn't find a label inside either pants, jacket or shirt – and his shoes were polished to a high sheen. The mask he wore, a variation on the design of the trademark mask from The Phantom of the Opera, seemed to add to his allure. He even smelled good. Monroe could see why the papers and magazines often strived to get the man onto their front page or cover; just his picture alone must sell them thousands of copies, regardless of the story it ran with.
However, the air of narcissistic hedonism the billionaire seemed to exude marred his good looks. The man was attractive and he knew it. And it seemed he was more than willing to live off that attribute alone instead of trying to better himself by doing something useful with his life. The tiny spark of interest Monroe noted in his eyes was the furthest thing from platonic and she found herself relaxing, easily returning his flirtatious smile. Bruce Wayne was hardly a threat. In fact, the only danger the playboy posed was of charming her panties off her.
Monroe held out her hand to shake his and was hardly surprised when Wayne brought it up to his lips instead. She felt her lips quirking in amusement; it would seem that the man instinctively hit on any living thing that was young and female. The young thief could feel the Black Mask stiffen beside her and his grip around her waist tightened considerably. She knew better than to think it was possessiveness the Black Mask felt. No, the man hated Bruce Wayne and was trying hard to keep a tight rein on his anger.
Her smile widened. This could be fun – if they had the time. Out of the corner of her eyes, Monroe spotted several more security guards who had made their way up to the lobby, all of them looking quite flustered. Oddly, none of the guests seemed to have noticed them yet.
"Miss Parker. It's a pleasure to meet you." Wayne had lowered her hand but still held it in his. "Any friend of Roman's is a friend of mine."
Monroe highly doubted that. Somehow she couldn't see the heir to the Wayne fortune crawling about Gotham's criminal underbelly. She was pretty sure he had never stepped foot in the Narrows in his life and the thought of him with a hideout like the Black Mask's was enough to make her laugh. She had to work had to quell that urge.
"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Wayne," Monroe purred.
"Please, call me Bruce."
The Black Mask's fingers dug even deeper into her side. Monroe smiled up at him pleasantly.
"Your friend is quite the charmer, isn't he?" she asked innocently.
"Quite," he ground out.
Finally letting go of her hand, Wayne looked over his shoulder at a woman who was standing several feet away, before turning back with an apologetic smile.
"I would introduce my date but it seems she's found some movie director and I doubt I'd be able to pull her away. She's an actress," he explained at the look of polite inquiry on Monroe's face.
"Of course," said the Black Mask with just the slightest hint of a bite in his voice. Monroe briefly wondered how long it would take before he finally lost it and simply shot Wayne where he stood. She knew he had a compact .9mm handgun holstered to his right calf.
It was then that Monroe noticed one of the security guards making his way towards their little group. She could feel the tension, and irritation, radiating off the Black Mask despite his efforts to appear unaffected. She forced herself to remain calm; nothing was more suspicious than panic.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir," said the man, addressing Commissioner Gordon, "but…" The man hesitated, as if unsure if he should be delivering his news in front of the fundraiser's guests.
"Is there a problem? Has something happened?" asked Mrs. Garcia, a worried frown on her face.
"Well, ma'am," began the guard cautiously, breathing a sigh of relief when Commissioner Gordon cut him off.
"I'll handle it, Mrs. Garcia."
Eight sets of eyes following both men as they walked off into a more secluded area of the room, talking quietly but urgently. Monroe put on a look of wide-eyed bewilderment and moved even closer into the Black Mask's hold, hissing out of the corner of her mouth as she did so.
"Any bright ideas?"
"I wasn't the one who was careless," he hissed back. "By the way, you might want to retie your mask. It's slipping off your nose."
It was hard to miss the caustic bite in Monroe's thanks.
"Oh don't thank me," said the Black Mask. "I just don't need to have people recognising your face just yet."
The false smile Monroe wore faltered but she quickly recomposed herself before anyone noticed. If the Black Mask didn't want her recognised just yet, did that mean that he was planning on her face being recognisable in the future? It was not a comforting thought. Fortunately, Monroe did not plan on sticking around long enough for that to happen.
"I wonder what's going on?" Mrs. Garcia mused aloud.
Both her husband, Mr. Godewill and Wayne were quick to reassure her that the Commissioner had everything under control. Lydia Godewill vehemently expressed her trust in Commissioner Gordon. Mrs. Gordon, however, who had remained quiet the entire time, had a look of worry on her face. Monroe decided that now was as good a time as any to start making for the exit. But before she could do so, Commissioner Gordon rejoined their little group.
"What's the matter, Gordon?" demanded the Mayor.
Commissioner Gordon glanced first at his wife, then at Mrs. Garcia and finally at Monroe before deciding that it was probably better to keep the women in the loop instead of insisting that they not worry. From his experience, telling a female not to worry usually had the opposite effect.
"There's been a break-in," he said bluntly.
Mrs. Garcia gasped dramatically. Mrs. Godewill's hand flew to her throat. Monroe resisted the impulse to roll her eyes, though she did notice the impressive emerald hanging around Lydia Godewill's neck. Mrs. Gordon's frown deepened.
"What was taken?" asked Wayne and for the briefest instance, Monroe thought she saw a spark of sharp intelligence in his eyes. But it was gone the next moment, replaced by simple, if tasteless, curiosity.
"Something from the research labs," said the Commissioner, being deliberately vague. But then he went on. "A guard was attacked."
Monroe could literally feel the walls closing in. Damn the Black Mask! In all her twenty-four years, she'd only ever been caught once, and that had been by Aiden's father. She didn't count being abducted by the Black Mask's men since that was more kidnapping than catching her in the act. But now they were going to catch her with loot more dangerous than just money or a priceless jewel. She didn't even want to think of what would happen to her if they ran her prints and found nothing on any of the national or international databases. Monroe was so busy painting the grim picture of life spent in a Gotham prison that she almost missed what Commissioner Gordon said next.
" – able to describe his attacker. He said it was a large man dressed in one of their own uniforms."
This was it. She was going to – wait, what?
Monroe stared at the Commissioner dumbly.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to inform the rest of the guests. Security already has all the exits covered," he continued.
Monroe blinked stupidly. Beside her, the Black Mask relaxed slightly, dropping his arm from around her waist.
"Is that really necessary, Gordon?" questioned the Mayor. "Informing the guests, I mean. If your men have a description of the criminal I don't see why they can't conduct their search for him discreetly without disrupting the rest of the night. You know that people will just panic if they hear that a thief, and a violent one at that, is loose in the building."
The look the Commissioner gave the Mayor was one of long suffering and spoke volumes of what he thought of the other man's opinion. Mayor Garcia was either ignoring his look or could not read the undercurrents behind it. But Commissioner Gordon was not backing down that easily.
"We still need to question the rest of the guests, sir. Someone might have seen something."
"I agree with the Commissioner," said the Black Mask. Recalling his earlier order, Monroe played along, nodding enthusiastically.
"The thief might still be in the building, Mayor," said Monroe, trying very hard not to grin. "If someone did see something, the Commissioner might still be able to catch him."
The Black Mask smiled down at her. Or at least Monroe thought he was smiling. Wayne was, strangely enough, looking very thoughtful.
"Do you the think guard will be able to give us a more detailed description of his attacker other than that he was 'large'?" asked the billionaire.
"I would think so," said Commissioner Gordon.
"What are you thinking of, Bruce?" asked the Black Mask. His enquiry sounded friendly enough but Monroe knew better than to be fooled by that. She knew the cocky smile Wayne shot him was definitely pissing him off.
"Well, you know how it is, Roman. When word gets around that I'm looking for a man fitting his description, people usually fall over themselves with helpful information."
"Amazing what the name of Wayne can do," the Black Mask ground out.
"There was a time when the name of Sionis did the same," said Wayne coolly.
"Why don't the two of you just whip it out and measure it," drawled Monroe.
All heads snapped towards her. The Black Mask did not look amused. The Mayor looked irritated. Mrs. Garcia looked shocked. Mr. Godewill was trying to stifle a cough. His wife studied her shrewdly. The Gordons simply looked tired. But there was a spark of laughter in Wayne's eyes.
"I'll go find a measuring tape," Monroe offered.
That did it. Wayne laughed.
"You're right, Miss Parker. Roman and I were behaving like three-year-olds. I apologise."
It was Mrs. Garcia who replied.
"Oh, don't worry about it, Bruce. Boys will be boys and all that."
Monroe seemed to be the only one who noticed the Black Mask clenching his fists. Threading her arm through his, she pointedly did not look at him while she smiled sweetly at Commissioner Gordon.
"I hope you catch him, Commissioner," she said.
The older man looked at her, as if not quite sure what to make of the young woman standing in front of him. Eventually, he seemed to decide that she must have been sincere for he returned her smile.
"Thank you, Miss Parker. And I'm sorry if I've ruined your night."
Monroe waved his apology aside.
"Don't be silly, Commissioner. It wasn't as if you could have seen this robbery coming. Besides, I've thoroughly enjoyed myself tonight. And I'm sure Roman will be writing a huge check for this year's medical research budget. Won't you, Roman?"
The Black Mask made some non-committal noise that everyone seemed to take meant 'yes'.
"The Foundation would greatly appreciate it, Mr. Sionis," said Mrs. Godewill.
Thus diverted, Monroe watched as the Commissioner and Wayne talked quietly amongst themselves whilst everyone else discussed the numerous medical advances that could be made with the donations received that night. As Mrs. Godewill introduced the topic of a possible cure for HIV, Monroe decided that it was definitely high time she and the Black Mask made their escape.
"That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Godewill!" she exclaimed. Turning to the Black Mask, she beamed up at him. "Let's go write out that cheque right now!"
The way Mrs. Garcia looked at the both of them, Monroe almost wanted to check if there was a halo floating over her head. It took a little longer to finally extricate themselves from the group, during which time Monroe found herself agreeing to meet Mrs. Garcia and Mrs. Gordon for lunch some time next week and accepting a dinner invitation to a party that the Godewills were throwing. They were almost free when Wayne noticed them.
"Leaving so soon, Roman?"
"Jane and I were just about to go make our donation."
Wayne grinned at them.
"Off to do your part, eh? Well, it's been a pleasure catching up with you, Roman. We have to do it again some time."
They shook hands, though it looked more like they were trying to crush each other's fingers. And then before anyone else could stop them, Monroe and the Black Mask disappeared into the crowd, just as another security guard came rushing up to the Commissioner.
"Don't stop," hissed the Black Mask, as they made for the exit, walking briskly but not fast enough to start drawing suspicion.
"Wasn't planning on it," said Monroe.
Whipping out his cell phone, the Black Mask pressed the speed dial button and gave a few curt orders. It came as no surprise to Monroe that Mariano was waiting for them when they finally made it out the door.
"Drive!" the Black Mask barked.
Monroe turned in her seat to look out the back window as they pulled away but no one had come after them. A wide grin spread across her face. The look she shot the Black Mask was one of pure mischief.
"Well, that was fun."
"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," said the Black Mask dryly.
Settling back into her seat, Monroe wished she had her mp3 with her. It had become a habit to end every heist with some good rock music. She distractedly tapped out a beat on the leather interior of the limousine.
"Stop that," snapped the Black Mask.
"Geez, touchy," muttered Monroe, though she did as she was told. She knew her bravado was an after-effect of the adrenaline that had been fuelling her, but at the moment she didn't care that she was talking back. Unlike how the Arkham job had ended, this felt really, really good. She started humming.
The Black Mask observed her silently. And then he started chuckling. Monroe abruptly stopped humming. It was still unnerving to hear any sort of laughter emerge from behind an expressionless block of dark wood. When his chuckles started dying down, the Black Mask held out his hand.
"The venom?"
Monroe was glad that the Black Mask deliberately sought out eye contact. She was sure that he viewed his unwavering gaze as a sort of intimidation technique. And while she would readily admit that meeting his stare was uncomfortable, she knew that it meant that he was not watching her hands. Making sure that the skirt of her dress properly covered her thighs, she smoothly slipped one of the test tubes out of her garter and handed it over to him.
"What are you going to do with it?"
The Black Mask rolled the glass vial in his hand.
"Patience, my girl. Patience."
Monroe glared at him.
"I'm not your girl."
The Black Mask simply laughed.
Two days later found Monroe with still no clue what the Black Mask wanted the Blue-ringed Octopus venom for. She had, however, become quite a sensation amongst the Gotham press. The headline of the Gotham Times was testament to that:
GHOST, MAN…OR WOMAN?
Following the uproar on the night of the Wayne Foundation Masquerade Ball, you would think Gotham's finest would be more willing to part with information regarding the theft from the Thomas Wayne Foundation's Research and Development Laboratories. However, the Gotham Police Department have been keeping mum, refusing to confirm or deny rumours of what exactly was stolen and who their suspects are. And the rumour mill has been rife. From claims that the theft was masterminded by the Scarecrow, who had recently escaped from Arkham, to the Batman, currently Public Enemy Number One, no one seems to know for sure what the events of Friday night means for the citizens of Gotham. But a reliable source from within the Wayne Foundation is adamant that this was the work of The Ghost.
Not much is known about this mysterious criminal, who never seems to leave behind any evidence – no DNA, not fingerprints – nothing that points back to his real identity. Until now…
There followed, three blurry photographs, obviously stills taken off a security feed. Though none of them showed her face, they did show an obviously tiny female frame dwarfed by oversized clothes. The journalist who had written the article was positively ecstatic at this new development behind "the mystery of The Ghost". There were similar reports in the Gotham Morning Post and the Gotham Sunday Press.
Monroe snorted as she turned the page, reaching across the table for her Styrofoam cup of tea. They may have pictures of her but she wasn't worried. There were no visible identifying markers other than the colour of her hair, and it wasn't like dark hair was uncommon. Green hair however…
Monroe gulped down her scalding drink.
She might not have known what the Black Mask planned to do with the venom she had stolen but she had at least found out the reason behind Bader's attack on the Joker the night they broke Crane out of Arkham.
It had been a complete accident. Last night she had gone up to the private office the Black Mask kept towards the back of the building, wanting to ask him to return her copy of 'A Clockwork Orange'. She hadn't meant to eavesdrop. But the door had been left ever so slightly ajar and the name of the Joker had caught her attention. Crane and the Black Mask were in the midst of a heated argument. From what Monroe could gather, Crane was, calmly, accusing the Black Mask of eliminating the competition.
"You're afraid of him," the doctor had said, his voice sounding highly amused.
"I'M NOT AFRAID OF ANYTHING!" the Black Mask had roared.
Monroe couldn't make out what Crane had said next but whatever it was had caused the Black Mask to react rather violently.
"ARE YOU INSANE!" the man had thundered. But his raised voice hadn't fazed Crane.
"I believe the Joker can be of some use to us."
"THAT FREAK IS – "
But Monroe never did find out what the Black Mask thought of the Joker. Teddy had found her then, warned her that she shouldn't be there, and had herded her back to her room.
Lowering her cup, Monroe peered over its rim at the man seated opposite her. Teddy had commandeered the Sunday crossword puzzle from the Gotham Morning Post and was busy writing out the answers in pen, a frown of concentration furrowing his brow while a cigarette hung from his lips. She didn't know what to make of the man. On the one hand, he had played a major part in her branding. Yet, on the other, he seemed to genuinely look out for her. Teddy took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaled slowly, and scribbled out another word.
"Those things will kill you one day," said Monroe.
Teddy looked up from his crossword.
"So you keep telling me."
He inhaled deeply once again and then, deliberately keeping his eyes on the paper, he stubbed out his cigarette on the table. Monroe hid her smile behind her Styrofoam cup. Deciding that this required some sort of gesture on her part, Monroe offered a confirmation of the information Teddy had guessed at two days before.
"You were right, you know." Teddy looked up again, questioningly. "About me being a foster kid."
Teddy stared at her, as if trying to read what her intentions were. And then he shrugged.
"Nothing to be ashamed about."
"Never said I was."
"Of course." He returned his attention to his crossword, wrote out another word, and spoke again. "So you aged out?"
Monroe considered his question for a moment before deciding that there really was no harm in telling him the truth.
"No. Took to the streets before that."
Teddy nodded. Monroe cocked her head.
"What about you?"
"What about me?" he grunted.
"Why are you working for the Black Mask?"
"Why not?" Teddy countered. "The pay's good."
"Yeah. But the health benefits suck."
Teddy laughed. Or at least Monroe thought he did. It might have been a cough instead. She smiled.
"You know, this is the longest conversation we've ever had."
Teddy grunted. Monroe's smile widened. A comfortable silence descended over the two as he went back to his crossword and she returned to her paper.
That evening, her hair still dripping from her shower, Monroe removed the porcelain lid from the tank of the toilet to check on the transceiver she had hidden there. She had been sending off the same short message, twice a day, since she had first completed the transceiver but had yet to hear back from Aiden. Honestly, Monroe wasn't expecting to receive a reply that evening either. But as she unwrapped the transceiver, she could see the blue LED she had used on the exposed circuit board flashing erratically. Monroe's breath caught in her throat.
It was a simple four-word message in Morse code: Message received. Get out.
It was a quiet Sunday evening at the Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane – or as quiet as it would ever get in a place like Arkham. It had been over an hour since the change over to the night shift and most of the doctors had gone home for the day. But in a darkened office on the sixth floor, Doctor Harleen Frances Quinzel was going through the case file of one of her patients.
The file was thick, filled with her notes from their one-on-one sessions, yet there was very little known information on the man who called himself the Joker. His real name was still a mystery and she could only guess that he must be somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties. His personal history seemed to change with each telling, yet Doctor Quinzel was convinced he believed that each story he told was the truth. He was one of her more interesting patients and, if she were honest with herself, she looked forward to and enjoyed their sessions. Which was why she always scheduled her meetings with him at the end of the day. It gave her something to think about on her commute home.
The Joker had been in Arkham for a week and during that time Doctor Quinzel felt that they had made good progress. Three nights ago she had convinced him to call her Harleen instead of Doc; well, he had called her Harley but it was a step forward. And last night she had actually been able to talk to him without an orderly or guard present in the room and he hadn't attacked her. Yes, she considered that quite a breakthrough. In fact, Doctor Quinzel was fast coming to the conclusion that the Joker just might be one of her biggest success cases. He was far more interesting than her former colleague-turned-patient anyway.
Checking that her digital recorder was properly charged, Doctor Quinzel switched off her desk lamp and headed towards the maximum-security ward for that night's session with the Joker. As she neared his cell, she could felt the familiar combination of nervousness and nausea. It was not a sensation she had much experience with before knowing the Joker and she filed it away in her mind for closer examination and analysis later.
Both the orderly and guard standing by the Joker's wardroom were built like a brick outhouse and both wore similar expressions of disapproval when she instructed them to wait outside the cell again.
"She's gonna get herself killed," the guard muttered as Doctor Quinzel walked past. She ignored him, relieving the orderly of the foldable metal chair he held in his hands.
The Joker was sitting on the thin mattress that had been pushed up into one corner of the room, leaning against the wall and humming to himself. The cot that usually came with the mattress had been removed from his cell, as had any other bit of furniture that was not welded down. It seemed like an unnecessary precaution though as the man was already encased in a straightjacket and muzzled. The orderly warily removed the muzzle and hurried from the room.
"Good evening, Harley," drawled the Joker as Doctor Quinzel set up her chair in the middle of the room. She smiled.
"Good evening."
A hint of steel crept into the Joker's eyes though his voice remained light and friendly.
"Now, now, Doc. I'm calling you by your first name, just like you wanted. It's only polite to return the favour and call me by my name."
"Well, if you really want to get into that, my name's Harleen. Not Harley," Doctor Quinzel retorted in that calm voice all psychiatrists seemed to possess. "And I would refer to you by name if only you'd tell me what it is."
"Oh, but you know my name, Harley."
Doctor Quinzel refused to be baited, moving on instead to another topic.
"Orderly Marks says you haven't eaten any of your meals today."
The Joker turned away, looking into the blank wall beside him.
"No one likes a tattle-tale."
"Why aren't you eating?"
Doctor Quinzel watched the young man before her fidget in his restraints. He really was a beautiful specimen of the male species. She even felt his scars gave him character. Despite his habitual slouch, he was obviously tall. His blonde hair and dark eyes would make any woman swoon. She didn't understand why he would want to hide behind his trademark garish makeup. She was sure it was a defence mechanism of some sort.
Suddenly, the Joker turned back around to face her, grinning widely.
"Hey, Harley. Want to see a magic trick?"
She smiled again.
"No, thank you."
The Joker's grin fell from his face.
"You're no fun at all."
"Well, I apologise."
"Don't." The Joker's tongue flicked over his bottom lip, his face suddenly serious. "Never apologise for anything, Harley."
Doctor Quinzel couldn't quite describe the feeling she got in the pit of her stomach as he said that. It also took her a moment to realise she was holding her breath. The rush of heat between her legs, however, was very familiar. Yet, in spite of her inner turmoil, outwardly she remained the figure of calm and control.
"Is that a rule you live by?" she asked. But the Joker had returned his attention to the wall and was no longer listening. She tried a different tactic. "Tell me about yourself. Before you became the Joker."
He twisted his face into the semblance of a pout. Doctor Quinzel had to admit it was adorable.
"A trade," he finally said, placing heavy emphasis on the 'd' in the word.
"Trade?"
"I'll tell you 'bout little ole me…if you let me loose from this…" he tested the restraints of his straightjacket again. "…thing."
Doctor Quinzel leaned back in her chair, studying him carefully. As if reading her mind, the Joker grinned. It was not exactly a reassuring sight.
"I – uh – promise I won't hurt you, Harley." His tongue flicked out again. "And I am a man of my word."
That was all it took. Doctor Quinzel relaxed into her chair, the corner of her lips quirking upwards.
"Deal."
The Joker laughed; a cackle that sounded almost childlike. And then he sobered up.
"Jeannie was pregnant. I was trying to get a job as a stand-up comedian but I wasn't very good. The house stank of cat litter and old people. I started out as a lab technician, you know? But I quit because I thought I had talent." He spat out the last word. "I should have been home. Should have gotten her out of that crap heap. But I wasn't…I didn't." He was facing the wall again. "She died." He gave a bitter bark of laughter. "A power short. She was trying to test a baby bottle heater. A baby bottle heater!" He turned to face Doctor Quinzel, his eyes gleaming. "Ain't that just hilarious?"
Doctor Quinzel remained silent but couldn't deny that, for some reason, whomever this Jeannie woman was, she was glad she was dead. When the Joker showed no signs of continuing, she got up off her chair and went to kneel beside him.
"A deal's a deal."
The Joker rolled his shoulders as Doctor Quinzel helped him out of the straightjacket. Once he was free, she took a step back, holding the jacket in her arms and watching him carefully. Bracing his hands on the wall, the Joker pushed himself up and off the ground. He took a few steps, stopped, and looked towards the door of his cell, grinning when no one came rushing in. He stretched his arms over his head, groaning in appreciation at the freedom his muscles now had. Doctor Quinzel unconsciously licked her lips. The Joker's grin widened.
"Thanks, Harley." He started walking towards her, eyes dancing in amusement when she began backing away. When her back finally hit the wall, he brought his arms up, trapping her between them. She still held the straightjacket in her hands. "I really appreciate that."
Doctor Quinzel swallowed hard.
"You're welcome."
"You know, Harley…" She could feel his breath dancing across her cheeks. "It's only fair that I – uh – return the favour." He tugged lightly at the front of her blouse.
She frowned, forcing a look of confusion on her face despite the rush of excitement she felt.
"What do you mean?"
The Joker leaned in closer.
"Take a look around you, Harley. You're a prisoner."
She inhaled sharply.
"I think you're a little confused. I'm not the one who's a prisoner here."
The Joker sighed. Doctor Quinzel forced herself not to reach for him when he pushed himself off the wall and turned his back on her. He walked back to the centre of the room, tilting his head back to stare into the single fluorescent lamp mounted onto the ceiling.
"Ah, Harley." He closed his eyes, as if basking in the heat of the artificial lighting. "You just don't get it." He sounded almost disappointed. Head still tilted back, he cracked open his eyes to peer at her. "But let me show you."
Before Doctor Quinzel could stop him, the Joker had grabbed her foldable metal chair and swung it up, smashing the fluorescent lamp above him. The next few minutes were utter chaos as the cell door burst open and both the guard and the orderly rushed in.
When she was asked later about what had happened, Doctor Quinzel couldn't quite remember. She knew that she had stood still against the wall, not moving to stop the Joker or help her colleagues. In fact, the only thing she could recall was thinking how beautiful the Joker had looked as he was bathed in a shower of sparks, looking every inch like the Avenging Angel himself.
Tibli: You bookmarked! I love that! It's what I do to when I'm really into a story and I'm not signed on. Aww, everyone loves a good cliffie. Haha!
GalaticCannibalism: Trust me; enjoy highschool while you still can! And yeah, Monroe is a bit crazy, especially when she's high on the adrenaline that comes from pulling off a job. Haha! I'm glad you like the chapter.
TheSlytherinNation: If Monroe EVER shows signs of developing Stockholm's Syndrome you have my full permission to slap me crazy! She still does things that confuses me sometimes (even though she's my character) but one thing I know for sure is that Monroe's not the type of woman to be beaten into submission.
And the Joker finally makes his great escape! Gosh, I definitely need to watch The Dark Knight again; writing that Joker scene was harder than I thought it'd be. I blame Harley. I've never really liked her anyway.
Random info:
The story the Joker tells Harley comes from 'The Killing Joke'.
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Much love,
Scribbles