So, not as many reviews for the last chappy... I blame the lack of Joker, the excessive amount of a smug Italian, the agonizingly brief amount of the Man-Bat, and the horrendous action sequences. Sigh, I don't much like that chapter but it was necessary.
Anywho, to compensate for his absence in the last chapter, there is a TON of the Joker in this one. Alrighty, read, review, eat, drink, and be merry...
Disclaimer: Not yet, but when I take over the world, I WILL own TDK... Just you... wait...
Chpt. 7 Ignorance vs. the Fanciful
When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying "Damn, that was fun" ~ Groucho Marx
Would it be an understatement to say I'm REALLY FUCKING BORED?
...
Yes, I think it would.
The only company I have is Fleefe but he keeps yelling at the TV and some player named Crosby. In all honesty I think he's forgotten about me. I'll admit, I've done an excellent job of not attracting any attention to myself, what with the hoodie and all.
Also, my Cleithrophobia is really starting to get to me. And when that occurs, bad things generally start to happen...
You've. Been. Warned.
~/~
About two hours later the once quiet police head quarters is filled with noise. Officers running around; making calls, talking through walkie-talkie's, shouting. The words I can make out through all the noise are: Bat, Truck, Copter, Down and, I think, Bazooka.
~/~
I am terribly sorry for complaining about lack of company before, because now I have way too much. From what I gather, several of the Joker's goons have been arrested. And guess where they were put?
Yeah, F my life. And F my phobia
Well, at least they only put three clowns in my cage. All the others were put in the one behind me. Also, I officially love my over sized black hooded sweatshirt. It's so bulky that it hides most evidence of me being female at all. And if I tip my face down just so, you can't see my face at all due to the hood. So, the clowns aren't giving me any issues. But, I truly think that Fleefe has forgotten about me. See, I don't think he'd purposely leave me in here at the mercy of these thugs. I don't think he hates me that much.
I survey the clowns. In the garish lights of the room they look ridiculous rather than menacing. Although there's this one kinda pudgy clown that makes me uneasy. He keeps mumbling about lights and someone reaching into him. I make sure I sit on the bench real far away from him.
~/~
A few minutes later there is a very large commotion, and I notice all the officers are looking rather nervous but determined at the same time. Fleefe's barking orders, yelling at an anxious looking man to open the Cage, my Cage door and make sure all the prisoners (me + clowns) are secure.
All heads jerk to the left, and down the hallway comes an army of officer's and... The S.W.A.T?
Why do they...
Oh.
Oh
Well, shit.
Being dragged by two burly officer's is none other than Wanted Number One; the- fucking- Joker.
I expected him to be laughing.
Or pissed.
Hell, I never, ever, expected him to be caught.
But, he's none of the above.
Instead, Gotham's King of Clown's is allowing himself to be dragged in, a look of sheer boredom on his smeared face. He's not making a peep; the officer's are causing all the racket actually. Yelling at me and my cell mate's to back off.
Will do, sirrah.
In fact, I will back up into the farthest corner of this cell.
The Officers fling the Joker to the ground in front of the Cage. He lands unceremoniously on his knees and elbows, and I'm sure that was likely painful, but his poker face is fantastic.
"Search 'im," an older officer with grey hair and air of superiority to him commands. Two S.W.A.T are on him in seconds, tearing the purple jacket off the Joker, and he allows it, simply sneering at them.
"Get up," Superior Officer barks at the defeated clown. The Joker's eyes roll to him sardonically but with a lick of his lips and a small shrug he lifts himself to his feet; agilely but lethargically. The S.W.A.T get back to it, tossing the officer's his coat while they run gluttonous hands all over the Joker's waistcoat, hexagonal shirt and - awkward - trousers.
"Search his shoes," Superior Officer reminds them, baring his teeth at the Joker. The Joker raises his brow at this but that's it. He cracks his neck and bends down himself to take them off; saving the officer's the trouble. He extends his arms, offering the shoes up to them innocently, and they snatch them away. They thoroughly search them before ever-so-rudely hurling them back at the Joker. They bounce off his chest, and he squints one eye, but calmly reaches down to put them back on.
"Gloves. Off." Superior Officer snaps. The Joker tugs them off with his teeth, tossing them to the waiting officers.
"Now hands over yah' head and back toward the cell door slowly," Superior Officer commands. The Joker purses his lips and raises his arms, backing up slowly, staring at Superior Officer with an air of slight smugness about him.
"Back off!" one of the officers hollers again.
Alright, alright
Hollering Officer opens the Cage door wide, and brutally kicks the Joker in, causing him to stumble back, but he doesn't fall. Instead, he dusts off his waistcoat, and gives Hollering Officer a 'really?' look before casually taking a seat on the middle of the bench.
This guy really is something.
He hasn't said a word and he's already gotten to the officer's, just by his lack of response to them. I bet they wanted him to lash out; give them an excuse to lash back, put the clown in his place. Also, that air of carelessness and arrogance is undoubtedly annoying and confusing.
And the most amazing part? His dignity has totally been kept. It's the cops that look like douche bags. But no, no, the fuckin' clown is the calm, dignified person here.
I pull my hood around my face more securely; I'm only a few feet away from the Joker, huddled in the corner to his left. I watch him warily, just waiting for him to do, well, something. Anything! I mean I cannot believe he's just given up, given in. Not to say I don't want him to; the man deserves to be locked up, the key thrown away, never to see the light of day (did I just rhyme?). But, from past experiences I just know that he likely has something up his sleeve. That's what I'm waiting for, that's what I'm mentally preparing for.
So, I keep an eye on him.
The Joker sits serenely on the Cage bench, that air of arrogance and dignity still surrounding him. Well, maybe not arrogance, but rather confidence, maybe even satisfaction. His knees are slightly spread, his upper body bent over a little. He takes a moment to roll up the sleeves of his periwinkle under shirt, flashing some aggressively muscular forearms. Now, normally forearms aren't the impressive or threatening part of a man's arm, the biceps are. But the Joker's forearms, for me, inspire visions of violence and pain. After rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, he lets his arms and hands dangle between his legs.
And he just sits.
Not still though. Every once and awhile he'll switch up positions; leaning back, crossing his ankles, sitting on his hands, crossing one leg over the other, spreading his legs out in front of him. He bounces his knee, licks his lips, clenches and unclenches his fists, cracks his knuckles and neck. He just doesn't stop.
Content that he's actually just sitting (for now) I let my eyes wander to what the officer's are doing. The room isn't as full anymore, except for a few officers pacing about the Cages, sneering and insulting the clowns. But one, a pretty female Asian cop, sticks on a pair of latex gloves, and picks up the Joker's royal purple suit jacket. She then carefully begins picking through the pockets, delicately laying out whatever she finds on the desk.
First she takes out, get this, a pocket watch, like one Sherlock Holmes or something would carry around. After that, the only things she finds are knives.
A lot of them.
All different kinds too, although nothing too big like a butcher knife.
There are a couple steak knives, butterfly knives, a scalpel or two, a box cutter, a Swiss Army knife, a bowie knife, a K-Bar, a potato peeler (um?) and several more.
And last but not least, she pulls out the clown's handy-dandy switchblade, turning it in her hand with morbid curiosity, before setting it down with the rest of them. A few moments later, another commotion grabs my attention and in comes-
Wait...
No fuckin way
Gordon?
Lieutenant James Gordon?
But I saw him die...
I look to the Joker to judge his reaction but he doesn't really react, except that the corner of one side of his mouth lifts in a half smirk, half sarcastic sneer.
Apparently, he isn't surprised.
But then again, does anything surprise this guy?
"Stand away!" Gordon yells, "All of you! I don't want anything for his mob lawyer to use, understand?"
The cops reluctantly but respectfully back away from the cells, staring transfixed at the thought-to-be dead man. Then, in walks the mayor, who to me looks like he wears mascara and guy-liner.
Which is just plain weird. I mean punk's and pirates work the look, but on a mayor it's just wrong.
Smiling, Garcia shakes Gordon's hand.
"Back from the dead?"
"I couldn't risk my family's safety," Gordon explains a little sheepishly. The Mayor glances over at the Joker, who's now looking up at the ceiling like there's something real interesting up there.
"What do we got?" Garcia asks, still staring at the Joker.
"Nothing," Gordon begins, disgruntled, "No matches in prints, DNA, dental. Clothing is custom made, no labels-..."
Maybe he goes to Peaches Stitches
"... Nothing in his pockets but knives and lint. No name, no other aliases... Nothing,"
The Mayor claps him on the shoulder in a friendly manner.
"Go home, Gordon, the clown'll keep till morning," the Mayor advises, "Get some rest- you're gonna need it."
Gordon looks at him, puzzled as Garcia continues.
"Tomorrow, you take the big job," he beams at Gordon, "You don't have a say in the matter," then louder so all can hear, "Commissioner Gordon,"
The cops whoop and start cheering and clapping while Garcia shakes Gordon's hand again. Gordon looks flustered but proud. Even I have the urge to clap but I'd probably get batoned if I tried.
Someone else apparently has the same idea as me, because as the cops stop clapping, one person's loud claps sound out obnoxiously.
Everyone's eyes turn to my Cage to see the Joker, still sitting calmly, his arms outstretched, clapping loudly, a tiny, scornful smirk playing on his red mouth.
Cheeky little bastard
~/~
More of the Joker's men are swarmed into the MCU, to be processed I imagine. Hollering Officer, who upon further inspection of his badge is named Murphy, keeps telling Superior Officer ( he turns out to be named Stephens) how 'ugly these bastards are'. I know I'm not with them but, I'm still here so I take offence to that.
The creepy, pudgy muttering clown from earlier goes up to the bars to speak to Murphy.
"I don't feel good," he keens piteously.
"You're a cop killer. You're lucky to be feeling anything below the neck," Murphy spits out nastily.
"Please!" the pudgy thug exclaims piteously.
"Stand away from the bars!" another officer, named Grunder, barks at the clown.
I just happen to be looking at the Joker after their exchange, and I see him flash a cocky little smirk before quickly hiding it by looking to his left.
Right.
At.
Me.
Aw crap
He frowns a little, and I quickly look away, pulling on my hood. The Joker clears his throat, trying to gain my attention but nope, I won't turn.
He can't make me.
"Gah-reeeeeeeen Eyeeeeees-suh," the Joker sing-songs quietly, but no way, I won't turn.
But he's an insistent little bugger.
For the next five minutes all I hear is the clown singing my little nickname in an irritatingly whimsical voice.
"What?" I finally hiss, still not turning to look at him.
"C'mere," he orders quietly, waving a hand to highlight his words.
"No," I reply firmly.
"Why not?"
"They'll think I'm in cahoots with you,"
"Rumour," I flinch and turn finally when he uses my 'alias', "Come. Here-rah."
By the look on his face I don't think he's playing around.
I quirk my lips, scan the room to make sure we haven't gained too much attention, then cautiously shuffle toward the bench. I sit on the edge of it, as far away from the Joker as I can get. He allows this, and instead scoots toward me so our elbows almost touch.
"Fancy seein' you here," he greets me, and I imagine he has a big grin on his face. I still refuse to look at him.
"This doesn't really seem like you're, ah, scene," the Joker goes on, enunciating his words with a flutter of his hand. I just shrug noncommittally.
"Uh, Rumour... Look at-uh me," he says right in my ear, his green hair touching my cheek. I flinch in surprise that he's so close, and jerk my face up to look into his.
And, geez, he really needs to fix his war paint.
It is completely smeared. His black rimmed eyes are more grey now, one of them extending up to his forehead, mixing with the already dirty white paint there. There's a large patch of skin showing on his forehead where the paint has been completely worn off. His mouth is a faded pink now, his scars too. His hair, which is usually rather lank, is now tussled, giving him a bit of a wind-blown look. Also, I notice he almost looks younger without the bulky jacket. He looks... better, almost, without it.
He smiles wickedly down at me, and I grimace a little.
"So, what you in for?" he inquires, resting his face in his hand, leaning toward me.
Leaning back, I answer sullenly, "Grand theft auto, among other things,"
" Oh ho ho, you little troublemaker," he whoops quietly, poking my nose. I scrunch my nose, and swat his hand away; but not before noticing how long his bare fingers are, or that his hands are covered in red, white and black paint.
"Probably nothing compared to what you've been up to," I sneer, forgetting that I'm supposed to be afraid of this man. I guess the fact that I'm in a place filled with law enforcement is making me cocky. The Joker raises a brow, but shrugs carelessly, rolling his tongue along the inside of his cheek. I roll my eyes and look away, pinching the bridge of my nose as a headache begins to form.
What am I going to do?
The cops will eventually force me to give them my finger prints or DNA or whatever they do, and they can't find out who I am. It'll ruin everything.
I'm so fuc-
My thoughts are interrupted when I feel obscenely hot fingers fluttering on my face. I turn back to my cell mate, a complete 'what the fuck?' look on my face.
"What are you-"
"Fighting and car-ah theft? My, my, you have been busy lit-tle bee, haven'cha?" his pointer finger traces my left cheekbone. I wince; that's where I was punched. There must be one helluva bruise, 'cos the mo-fo did not go easy on me.
"I didn't start it," I retort, shaking my head to get his offensive little (loooooong) appendages off me.
"Mhm," he nods, giving me a snarky little smile.
Stupid clown
"So, why'd ya stah-eal a car?" he asks, as though we're discussing something innocent like sports or the weather, rather than crime.
"Because," I mumble snidely, still pissed at the clown's earlier, well for lack of a better word, bitchiness.
"Beh-cuuuuz why-ah?" the Joker drawls, prodding me in the side. I don't really feel it because of the bulkiness of my sweatshirt, but it still annoys me.
"I have a headache, clown," I hiss venomously, staring him dead in the eye, "And you're not helping it,"
I move to get up and scurry back to my corner, when the Joker lashes out and grabs my hand in a bone-crushing grip, yanking me back down beside him. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to ensure I don't make a sound. His hand still crushing mine, the Joker leans into me, his mouth pressed to my ear.
"Do I need to re-min-dah who you're dealin' with here?" he growls menacingly against my ear, his hot breath sending slithering shivers down my back. His long nails begin to dig into my knuckles and I whimper in a mixture of terror and pain.
"Do you think-kuh you're safe here cos' of all the, ah, all the cops?" his malicious words vibrate uncomfortably against my skin, "Because then you are very, very wrong, Rumour dear," he takes my chin in his other hand and whips my face to his. His nails dig further into my skin; I can feel blood dripping down my hand.
"See," he continues in a hushed tone, but it couldn't have been more terrifying even if he was yelling, "I have people here. I have people eve-ery-where-rah. There isn't a single spot-uh in all of Gotham I don't own,"
I wince, seeing as his digging into me is extremely painful, but I counter, "That's very grand and all but that has absolutely nothing to do with me. You have nothing to do with me,"
Harsh, yes, but that's just the throbbing pain in my hand talking
He comes toward me, his mouth inches from mine, and his nose actually pressed to mine. I try to pull my hand out of his, but he retaliates by adjusting his hold on it, ripping into the flesh of my palm now with his nails. I yelp softly in pain but continue to glare at the Joker. I'm taken aback, though, by the strange fire-like lights burning in his tunnel black eyes.
"No, see, you're terribly mis-tak-en there, Green Eyes," he hisses, his mouth brushing against mine as he speaks. His tongue flicks out to trace his scars, touching my mouth in the process.
...
"At this point-tuh we have a lot to do with, ah, one an-oth-er," he stops digging his nails into me but doesn't release me.
"Why-uh do we keep runnin' into each other, hm?" he asks, and I think he's being a little condescending.
"Coincidence," I bite out through tightly grit teeth, trying my best not to make my lips touch his too much. He chuckles darkly and shakes his head.
"Only the ignorant buh-lieve in coincidences," he tells me, stroking the right side of my jaw with his thumb.
"And only the fanciful believe in things like fate, if that's what you're getting at," I quip, quietly but heatedly.
"Maybe," he whispers, coming in closer to press his mouth to the bruise on my cheek, "But we, ah, we-..."
He's cut off as Murphy hits the bars and shouts, "Alright, clown we're takin' ya to be questioned. Everyone else back the hell off. That means you, emo,"
I'm guessing I'm the emo.
The Joker scowls a moment, but releases me. I clutch my now freed, not to mention bleeding, hand to my chest. While Murphy unlocks the Cage, the Joker whispers to me, "A word of advice-suh. Get as far away from him," he points to the pudgy guy in our cell, "And as close to me as possible, as soon as possible,"
"What?" I say, completely confused.
"Just repaying my debt," he smirks, then stands as Murphy opens the door to escort him to the interrogation room, wherever that is.
Huh, I had actually completely forgotten that he owes me, whatever that means. I think the exact moment I forgot was when a psychopath's lips became thoroughly, and rather forcibly, associated with mine.
I watch as the Joker is escorted away, a strangely at ease expression on his painted face. He gives me a sideways glance before he disappears from my view. And I decide.
Time to plan Escape #3
~/~
Really, the best I got for my next grand escape is basically (exactly) the same as my first, and I'm still really frigging surprised that even worked the first time.
But, you know, best not dwell on the past.
I wait til' a certain man with hair the colour of a mochachino comes back into the room, carrying a box of pizza. I walk up to the bars, keeping my distance from the pudgy thug.
"Bright lights," Pudgy Thug hoots at me and I curl my nose and furrow my brow at him. I clear my throat loudly then call over to him, "Um, Fleefe?"
He looks up, puzzled when his eyes land on me. Then, I pull off my hood, letting my knotted hair tumble out
"Can I use the restroom? I'm kinda, um, bleeding a little," I hold up my hand sheepishly, which is indeed bleeding quite profusely. Fleefe's eyes widen comically, and I hold back a smirk.
Huh, so he did forget about me.
How rude.
The pretty Asian cop makes a funny little noise of distress and rushes over to me, muttering in what I suspect is her native tongue. She fumbles with the lock then hurries to me, bustling me out of the Cage.
"Fleefe, you ass!" she yells, inspecting my hand. There are tiny crescent marks on my knuckles and palm where the clown fuckin' dug into my skin with his claws.
"You just left her in there! How could you just leave her in there? Look what happened to her!" she freaks out, glaring at the still dumbfounded Fleefe.
"I-I didn't-"
"Shut it, Fleefe," she snaps, then turns her attention to me, "Come on, sweetie. I'll take you to see officer Mankes. He dropped out of vet school before joining the force. He'll take care of you,"
Awesome. I'm going to go see an animal doctor. What does that make me?
A short while later the woman, who tells me her name is officer Ren, leads me into a tiny office. Sitting at the strangely empty and neat desk is a man in his mid-forties with thinning sandy blond hair and crinkled grey eyes. He looks up at Ren, then me, then my bleeding hand. He's up and my hand's in his a millisecond later.
"Dear lordy, what happened?" he asks me, visibly disturbed.
"Fleefe forgot about her and left her at the mercy of the clowns. They likely attacked her," Ren explains for me. I decide I will remain silent.
"What's you're name, sweetie?" Mankes asks me kindly. He reminds me a little of my uncle, the one who calls me Bunny.
I miss him, a lot.
I don't answer Mankes.
"Poor girl is traumatized," Ren exclaims dejectedly, like I'm someone real close to her rather than someone she just met.
"Come over here. I'll clean those up and bandage them real good," Mankes takes my shoulder and leads me gently to the chair behind his desk.
"Well, you're in capable hands. I'm going to go kick Fleefe's worthless ass now," Ren smiles sweetly.
I like her
Mankes mutters a goodbye and begins rummaging through his desk. He pulls out medical alcohol (well that's convenient... and weird) and gauze. First he wipes the blood away and stunts the bleeding. Then he pours the alcohol onto a handkerchief (does it have initials on it... weird) then takes my battered hand with the utmost gentleness.
"This is going to sting a whole hell of a lot," Mankes warns me. I nod briefly and bite my other hands thumb. He presses the damp handkerchief to my bloody knuckles.
HOLY MOTHERFUCKING SHIT ON A STICK HELD BY MARY MOTHER OF PEARL
I don't make a peep...
"Almost done," Mankes murmurs reassuringly, then presses the handkerchief to my palm.
SON OF WHORE IN BABYLON WHO'S FUCKING JEEZUS CHRAST
Not a single peep...
"There we are. Now they won't get infected," Mankes informs me gently as he wraps my hand in gauze. I nod and smile graciously, upset with myself with what I'm about to do.
"Alright, let's take you back to Fleefe so he can decide what to do with yo-" He is interrupted by me clobbering him on the head with a paper hole puncher.
Really hard too.
He's out instantly, crumpled on the ground, reminding me of a dead hawk I once saw on the ground. I kneel down and press two fingers against Mankes' pulse on his neck; it beats strongly against my fingers.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, wincing at the trickle of blood flowing down his forehead. I stand and walk to the door, peering out. There's no one around, so I slink back the way we had come; to the Cage. I stop at the end of the hall and peek around the corner into the room. I'm surprised by what I see.
Ren, Grunder and some paramedics are kneeling on the ground, hovering over an unconscious Pudgy Thug. Seeing as their attention is elsewhere at the moment, I survey the room, then find what I'm looking for.
There on the desk, several feet away is my satchel. I hop on spot for a moment, gathering all my gall and craftiness before getting on all fours and crawling quickly across the floor to the desk. I hide behind it a moment, then pop up quickly and snatch the satchel in my arms. I sling it over one shoulder. I tug one of the drawer's, the one that has my gun, but it won't budge so I give up. I have another back at the apartment anyways. I was about to crawl back the way I came, when I hear yet another commotion, coming from behind the door at the opposite end of the room. I think I recognize one of those voices; it's not exactly a voice that is difficult to indentify.
So, I make a rash decision, all based upon the word of a psychotic clown.
'Get as close to me as possible'
And without further ado, I dart across the room, not caring too much that the cops might see me. I reach the door and wrench it open. The sight that meets me is even more surprising than the one earlier. The Joker is at the other side if the room, with Stephens in a headlock, a shard of glass to his throat, and a phone pressed to his ear. Murphy is here too, pointing a gun hesitantly at the clown, along with a couple of other officers I don't recognize.
Then the world seems to erupt.
The force of the explosion sends me sprawling to the ground, hitting my head in the process. I feel a flash of heat against my back as the world continues to shake. I hold my already injured head, and curl into the fetal position for protection. Papers and shards of wood and metal fly everywhere, cutting into my clothes. Books and other miscellaneous items fall and bang to the ground. Paper's fly everywhere, and the rumbles rock my body. Finally, the explosion seems to subside. My vision is blurred along the edges as I look up. My eyes are instantly on the only figure still standing.
I can't take my eyes off him.
The Joker slowly lifts his bowed head as dust and paper's flutter about in the wreckage. His posture is a little tense, like he was preparing himself for the explosion, but besides that he seems almost serene.
Calm amongst the chaos.
Completely at home with the destruction.
And it's mesmerizing.
Even as my vision begins to become murky, and the pounding in my head increases agonizingly, my eyes are still locked onto the Joker. His dark, bottomless eyes meet mine for a brief second, then the world rushes at me, and all that's left is darkness and silence.
CAH-LIFF HANGER! I'm sure you all know where this is heading. From here on out, it will be pretty much non-stop TDK sequences, TDK character interaction and action (but not like the failed attempts in the last chapter). I'm excited for the next chapter... More of the clown, and a certain coin-loving DA...
P.S When she says 'Chrast' its on purpose. Rumour is a just a weirdo.
Review! You'll get the next chapter sooner and you'll make my day. Win-win.
Btw, this is the revised version. I dislike mistakes, so tell me if you see some, mmmkay?
linnie kinda spinnie
