The Way We Fall
Rock-a-bye baby,
in the treetop
When the wind blows,
the cradle will rock
When the bough breaks,
the cradle will fall
And down will come baby,
cradle and all…
Chapter VII
John Blake really doesn't have a problem with caves. Sure they're dank and cold and generally miserable places to spend any length of time, but really, he's fine with it.
Never mind that, given the extent of Bruce Wayne's wealth at the start of all of this, there were probably a handful of more pleasant – and less bat-infested – places for a lair.
But he's fine with it.
It's fitting, at least, and secluded, and definitely convenient since he now works in the mansion several stories above, and Bruce had kept it well-stocked with medical supplies and rations, and there's even a large bathroom with functioning plumbing towards the back. Fold-out cots are stacked on top of each other in one darkened corner, in case he or anyone privy to his secret needs a safe place to crash.
Not to mention the state-of-the-art computer hidden beneath the surface of the water in the pool at the entrance to the cave, which is pretty sweet, if he's being honest.
It would be sweeter if it would give him any clue as to how to find Maestro. He rubs his jaw absently, wincing when his fingers make contact with the lingering bruise from their fight, and leans back in his seat.
According to the police reports – or technically, the lack of police reports – she's seemingly taken a break from her mayhem; not a single trace of her or any of her cohorts has surfaced since the night he'd scuffled with her.
He'd paid particular attention to the lead Scout had given Gordon, about the woman with the baseball bat, searching through the files of the escaped inmates for any sort of hint as to her identity. And just like with everything else he's been looking for lately, he'd come up with exactly zilch. Whoever this woman was, she hadn't escaped from Arkham.
He runs gloved fingers through his hair and thinks about calling it a day. He could go back to the mansion and beg the director to let him come back to work for the fourth time this week – while no one knows the exact nature of his hospital visit, the rumors are that he'd had a bad allergic reaction to something unknown, and his boss had immediately ordered him to take a medical leave of absence. He supposes it should have been a mercy, because now he's got time to adjust to his new role as the Nightwing – a name he's still not sure he likes – but it's also a little irritating, because he's completely fine; the only lasting effect are the nightmares but he's patrolling at night now anyway and it's nothing he can't handle. Really.
He almost gives in, almost leans forward and switches off the computer and leaves, because he's been down here for hours and it's gotten him nowhere… but then a stray thought occurs to him, staying his hand from where it's outstretched towards his jacket.
The mystery woman hadn't escaped from Arkham.
But maybe she hadn't needed to.
He's reaching for the computer again, pulling up a different list this time, one that details the members of staff who'd gone missing, presumably abducted, the night of the breakout. There are twelve names here, a few security guards and a handful of nurses and orderlies… but only one psychiatrist, a Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Hope wells up inside of him as he pulls up her picture… and smiles. Jackpot.
The bottle-blonde staring back at him has pretty blue eyes and an open, innocent look about her, one that borders on naïveté. He skims through her files at once, looking for something, anything, to confirm his suspicions.
Seconds later, he finds it. She'd been assigned to the Joker, had actually requested it, and in a matter of months had received more than one infraction for how much time she was spending around him – the kind of time that leaped straight over the line of simple dedication to her work, into outright obsession. She seemed to constantly be petitioning the director, Dr. Leland, for more leniency regarding her patient, such as increased time in the yard and more creature comforts in his cell, like books and plants and even art supplies. Her notes from their sessions together were practically essays on how misunderstood the man was, how much he'd changed during his time there, once even going so far as to suggest that he might soon be eligible for monitored release.
It's nonsense of the dangerous kind, and apparently Leland had agreed, putting Quinzel on a few weeks of forced leave soon after that particular report was submitted.
John wonders just how strong Quinzel's belief in the Joker's rehabilitation had been. Maybe, he thinks, it was strong enough to make her take matters into her own hands.
He reaches for his jacket again, shrugging it on and making his way back to the entrance where he'd left his car. Maybe it's a coincidence, maybe she'd been a simple victim of the Joker's mind games and they'd find her body in some warehouse in a few weeks.
But maybe not.
As of right now, it's the only lead he's got, and he intends to follow it until he's either proven wrong, or finds Maestro.
He can only hope for the latter.
~DK~
Crane's first impression of the Gotham City Opera House is one of annoyance. It's largely directed at the clown nuisance for choosing such a flashy spot to hide out, but also at himself for not having thought to look here before.
The Joker has a bent for theatrics, and since the machinations of whatever scheme he's got cooking in that warped mind of his are currently revolving around his Songbird, this really should have been immediately obvious to him. As it happens, it took another three days of searching after the loss of Silva, as well as a string of long conversations with a series of new informants to finally lead him here. Having her key had helped; his people had finally managed to track down another one of the men who'd been at the bank with his Songbird, and all Crane had to do was flash the key in front of him, watch his face go pale, and listen as the man immediately began stammering about how he didn't know anything about the opera house, it had definitely, absolutely been abandoned since the occupation, and how had he gotten a key to that place, anyway?
It had been as good as handing him an engraved invitation, and now here he was, staring up at the building with no small amount of disdain.
She's gotta do some stuff first, and you gotta find her yourself, and then there's a last little surprise for you at the end. It's all part of the joke.
Judging by Quinzel's words, the moment he enters, he's going to officially become a part of whatever game the Joker thinks he's playing. The idea doesn't sit well with him.
He could just leave, he supposes, as he considers the boarded-up windows; after all, the fact that she's already being used as a means to try to control him is hardly an encouraging sign for the future, and he wonders – not for the first time, recently – if she's really worth all this.
Nineteen months ago, she wouldn't have been. She's always been his, sure, but not at his own expense. Before Arkham, he never would have been willing to put himself in this position just to get her back.
Now… Now he needs her, and he can't for the life of him figure out why.
He scowls up at the broken-down sign above the front door, once used to announce the shows playing inside, now only reading "CLOSED FOR REPAIRS" in faded black lettering.
Knowing better than to use the front door directly ahead of him, he sighs and skirts around to the alleyway where he knows a side door is likely to be. Rats skitter away from his feet, trash shifts as he moves briskly by, and up ahead there is a low groaning sound – likely another homeless junkie going through withdrawal. Stepping over a discarded bouquet of long-dead roses, he reaches the door and withdraws the key from his pocket.
The lock clicks open with ease, and with a rush of dust and stale air, he's inside.
A long, dark hallway stretches out on either side of him, littered with toolboxes and speakers and other unwanted equipment, and further down the corridor to his right he can hear muffled, indiscernible voices. He follows them, shoes creaking slightly against the old wooden floor, one hand clenched around the trigger for his toxin.
The hall opens up into the main lobby, with an information desk and a ticket booth along the far wall, right beside an elegant set of steps leading to the darkened upper floors. Painter's scaffolding lines the walls, and forgotten buckets and brushes and tarps are scattered haphazardly across the marble tile at his feet. Directly ahead of him is a set of open double doors, leading into what he can only guess is the main theatre. The house lights are on inside, spilling into the lobby and casting eerie shadows around him – the noises he'd heard are coming from within.
Closer to the source now, he can make out grunts and shouts of pain, as well as what sounds like fists meeting flesh. A familiar, feminine cry splits the air, and he moves for the doors, careful not to reveal his presence.
Judging by what he's seen of the abandoned opera house so far, this room seems to be in the best condition – there's more scaffolding along the sides and several rows of seats have been ripped up, but aside from a layer of dust covering everything, it seems to be mostly intact.
Most of the Joker's thugs – many of whom he recognizes from Arkham – are here, lingering in the back or sitting idly in the seats, playing cards and smoking and watching some kind of commotion happening on the stage at the head of the room. He peers closer to see, still hidden in shadow… and there she is.
His Songbird is on stage, her face bared and her blonde hair flying, grappling with what looks like Quinzel, who appears to be wearing an odd assortment of red, white, and black leather. The two women are clearly trying to rip each other apart, but none of the men around him seemed fazed by this.
Quinzel laughs as she dodges a powerful punch and swings her leg up with easy grace, mercilessly catching Wren on the side of the head and sending her to the floor with a thud. A few watching men cheer, while others groan, and Crane suspects money might be changing hands.
Wren doesn't get up, not even when a supervising man barks a command at her from the side of the stage, or when Quinzel slams a boot into her ribcage.
Crane waits for her ruse to end, waits for the inevitable moment that she'll spring up and come back swinging, laying the woman out with a dark grin on her face as he's seen her do so many times before… but it doesn't happen. Instead, another moment passes, and she finally manages to struggle back to her feet with a great show of effort. Quinzel says something to her, and judging by the way Wren's face contorts with rage it isn't pleasant, and the two are at it once more.
This continues for several long minutes, and to his own private surprise, his Songbird never gains the upper hand.
Finally, the man watching in the wings barks something else, and the fighting comes to a halt. Wren immediately drops to one knee, gasping or retching, he can't quite tell. Her entire body trembles, and he decides he's seen enough.
"I'd call for an encore, but I'm not sure you'd both survive," he calls, moving almost lazily forward into the light, and Wren's head snaps up immediately. A myriad of emotions flash across her face, so quickly he can't hope to discern them all, but the expression he does catch is one of abject terror.
Quinzel's face, on the other hand, lights up like a Christmas tree. "Dr. Crane, ya made it!" she greets, hopping off the stage to meet him in the middle of the aisle. The watching thugs, who had snapped to alertness the moment they'd heard his voice, form what's probably supposed to be a menacing half-circle around them. The attempt to intimidate him is almost adorable.
"As ever, your powers of observation are unparalleled, Dr. Quinzel." Her face, he notes with a small twinge of something that might be pride, is badly bruised and dripping blood – even though she'd been the victor, his Songbird hadn't made it easy on her.
The woman pouts. "I told ya to call me Harley." Her Brooklyn accent is, if possible, even thicker than it had been the night he'd first spoken with her, as though prolonged exposure to the Joker has drawn out her core personality little by little. Even her hair has changed, splashed with haphazard streaks of red and black.
"You know why I'm here," he says softly, looking over her shoulder to the subject in question, who has risen from her kneeling position on the stage. Her expression darkens, and he smirks, glad to see she hasn't lost all of her fire.
Quinzel smiles as she turns to follow his gaze. "Ah, demented love. It's the best kind, and I should know. But you'll have to talk to Mistah J first. He's the one that's gotta sign the release forms, you know how these things are done."
"Just leave, Jonathan," Wren calls from the front of the room, sounding more weary than irritated, and that's his second clue that something is wrong here. "Just go."
He cocks his head, a snide reply about gratefulness already forming on his tongue –
And then a high, shrill cry splits the air, echoing down from one of the upper floors, and beside him Quinzel smirks.
It's the unmistakable wail of an infant.
In an instant Wren regains whatever energy she'd been missing and bounds off the stage, all but sprinting out a side door and disappearing from view. The cry continues, and he's frozen with something that feels very much like shock. He'd suspected, of course, but he hadn't known…
"Well? Don't ya wanna go see what all the fuss is about?" Quinzel says, examining her nails and smirking like a particularly satisfied cat, and when he glares at her she just nods towards the door.
After a moment, he follows, making his way up the aisle and past the stage, pausing at the door briefly when he hears the cries taper off. He considers the merits of leaving once more, of just walking away and letting her sort this out on her own.
In the end, it's only the because he knows that she wants him to leave that keeps him here, that causes him to cross the hallway and climb the stairwell before him.
Tormenting her is one of the great pleasures of his life, after all.
The stairwell twists up and to the left, leading to yet another darkened hallway, which appears to be set back behind the stage in the main theatre. The corridor is lined with a series of old dressing rooms and a few offices, and the very last room on the right is guarded by another thug in a plastic chair, bigger and burlier than all the others he's seen so far. The door he's stationed in front of is open, and Crane can hear Wren murmuring inside.
Already knowing what he's going to find, he approaches quietly, not even sparing a glance at the guard, who seems, inexplicably, to be quite absorbed in a worn copy of War and Peace.
Wren has her back to him, swaying slightly and humming in front of a cracked, filthy window through which a sickly yellow light streams in, illuminating flecks of dust that dance in the air above a careworn crib and changing table. Beyond that, there's not much else to the room, save for a few planks of wood stacked in the corner, left over from the half-finished renovation.
He shuts the door behind him with a click, ignoring the protest of the guard outside, and her humming stops abruptly. "So it's true," he says softly, "you've got a brat of your own."
He watches her entire form stiffen, and then relax, as though she's finally accepted that there's no way for her to keep the secret any longer. She turns to face him, and for a moment he can do nothing but stare at her, heedless of anything else.
She looks, if possible, even worse than the first time he'd seen her in the alley three nights ago. Her face is bruised and bloody, and the dark circles above her prominent cheekbones give her an almost haunted look – and judging by the way her clothes dangle from her frame, she's lost a significant amount of weight. Still, she musters the energy to smirk at him, the triumphant little grin she gives whenever she knows something he doesn't, and his gaze finally trails down to the squirming bundle held securely in her arms.
The child is tiny, probably not more than a month old, with a single tuft of fine dark hair on its head and glassy blue eyes scrunched up in frustration, and for a moment, words fail him.
"Congratulations, Jonathan," Wren says, breaking the silence between them, "it's a girl."
~DK~
If this hadn't been such a grave situation, I would have laughed at the expression of sheer disgust and something like alarm that flashes across his face, quicker than a lightning strike, at my announcement. "Relax," I say instead with a slight grin, turning away from him once more to continue rocking her, "that was a joke. She's too young to be yours and anyway, we skipped a very significant step in that process."
"I know that," he practically snaps, and somehow seems even tenser than he had when he first walked in. "Whose is it?"
"Mine," I reply, "Her name is Grace, and she's mine."
He's quiet for a moment, and I know what he's going to ask even before he does. "And the father?"
I flinch, because the question is more complicated than he knows. It's not a conversation I want to deal with right now, especially not with a fussing baby in my arms. She hasn't been sleeping well, likely because of the change in location and my restricted access to her, which only makes her crankier during the day. I'm only allowed up here to feed her, change her, or keep her from crying, and I had to fight for that last one.
I position her against my shoulder and bounce her in an attempt to curtail further wailing, and change the subject. "I told you not to come here, Jonathan."
"Yes, I'm beginning to rethink the decision." His words sting, even though they shouldn't, and anger strikes like a match in my chest.
"Yeah, well don't say I didn't warn you, because it's too late now. You're here, he's not gonna just let that go. You're as much a prisoner now as I am." Grace gives another little whimper in my arms, the kind that builds up just before another major crying fit, so I begin to pace the length of the room, humming again under my breath.
He's not having that, though, and strides across the room in two steps, grabbing my shoulders and all but slamming me against the wall. "I suggest you answer the question, Wren." He's not touching my kid in any way – I suspect he might be too disgusted by her to try – but, despite my confusing feelings for him, I haven't forgotten how very, very dangerous he is. Before he can say another word, I reach out with the hand that isn't holding Grace to my shoulder and shove him as hard as I can.
He stumbles back a few steps, and I jerk away from him, placing Grace gently but swiftly in her crib and planting myself in front of it in one fluid movement. "Let's get something straight, Crane," I hiss, "You stay far, far away from my kid. You don't come near her, you don't ask about her – from this moment on, I don't even want you in this room. I might be yours, but she isn't. And then next time you do anything that I even suspect could endanger her –"
"You'll what?" he asks coolly, having regained his balance, and I recognize the danger in that tone, the warning that I have crossed some kind of line, "hurt me? Kill me? Tear my throat out with your teeth? Take a few minutes, I'm sure you'll think of one you haven't used before."
"That last one sounded pretty nice, actually," I snap, "get this through your skull: I don't owe you any kind of explanation about her. She's mine, and that's all that matters." For a moment, we just watch each other, breathing hard and glaring, and it's bringing back a rush of déjà vu – most of it unpleasant, but not… not all of it. I start to feel myself deflate, start to feel the ever-present anger leak away; he's not the one I want to direct it at, anyway. "Look," I try again, hugging my waist, "I already have to protect her from Bobo the clown and his army of psychos outside that door. I'd rather not have to worry about you, too."
He's quiet for another moment, then smirks darkly. "I'll get it out of you eventually, you know."
It's the same thing he told me when I wouldn't give him my name, and he'd ended up being right. I have no doubt that will be the case here, but for now, I'm keeping Grace – and everything about her – to myself.
It's not quite a concession on his part, but it's as close as he'll ever get to one, and all I can do is accept it. I turn back to where Grace has begun to fuss with intent – likely due to how abruptly I'd put her down – and check her diaper. It's clean, so she must be hungry.
"Come on," I mutter to Jonathan, and gently pick her up again, "I gotta feed her."
Placing a kiss on her wispy dark curls, I move towards the door and open it, glaring at the thug in charge of keeping me from my kid. "At ease, Fido," I sneer when he gets to his feet, "I'm just taking her to get a bottle."
"She ain't supposed to leave the room."
Yeah, that's been made clear, sparky. I raise an eyebrow at him. "You feel like listening to her cry for ten straight minutes until I get back?" Grace might be sequestered to this one room, but her crying fits are legendary among the Joker's thugs when she gets going – she's got a brilliant set of pipes on her.
He seems torn, but Jonathan's presence at my back seems to make up his mind for him. "Ten minutes," he warns.
I'm already moving down the hall towards the room I've been assigned, where there's a kitchenette and even a full bathroom. I think it used to be some kind of green room back when the building was still open, a place where the actors and directors and stagehands could come to freshen up between shows. Once we're inside, I kick a few stray clothes out of my path and make my way towards the kitchenette.
I can feel Jonathan taking in the scene, much the way he had the first time he'd been inside my old apartment, cataloguing everything and no doubt trying to determine my state of mind. There's not much in here – a ratty, threadbare mattress, a bag of old clothes, and a long mirror that I keep covered with a tarp from downstairs. The shelves of the kitchenette are stocked with formula and a few of my own snacks, and hidden in the back is my cut of the money from the bank.
They'd given it to me as a joke, and my stomach turned to use it, but I'd needed clothes, and formula and diapers are criminally expensive, so I hadn't had any other options. I grab a bowl from one of the cupboards and fill it with water, before placing it in the microwave and setting the timer.
This done, I turn back to Jonathan, who is watching me with an unreadable expression on his face. I fully expect him to ask more about Grace, despite my warnings, but to my surprise, he doesn't.
"Why were you sparring with Quinzel?"
I frown. "Her name's Quinzel? How would you even know that?"
"We worked together."
"Of course you did," I mutter with a roll of my eyes. I'm not really sure what to do with that information now that I have it, other than maybe make some comment questioning the mental stability of all psychiatrists everywhere. "Well everyone's been calling her Quinn, Harley Quinn. Stupid name, but the Joker did come up with it, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised."
He gives a sigh and tries again. "And why were you sparring with her?"
"Oh, right. You've heard of the Nightwing?"
He scoffs by way of answer, and I grin at him despite myself. On that particular subject, it seems we're in agreement. I sober almost immediately, however, and I'm almost grateful when the timer beeps for me to remove the water. I set it on the counter to let it cool a little and run my free hand through my hair.
"Joker wants me to kill him. Quinn claims she's teaching me how. Mostly I think it's an excuse to smack me around."
"Can you?" Jonathan asks tonelessly, as though inquiring about the weather.
"What?"
"Kill him."
I'm quiet for a moment. "I don't have a choice."
"That doesn't sound the Songbird I know," he says casually, and I frown again, pouring the cooled water into a clean bottle – enough for about six ounces – and scoop the formula in.
"You know I've never been a killer, Jonathan. I mean… I mean I have… I have killed people, but it's never premeditated. I never entered a confrontation with the intent to kill. It just… happened. But this… it's different." Sure, I'd meant to kill those two Goons, but only after they'd killed Stitches, only in the heat of the moment.
While the Nightwing is an immensely irritating waste of space, he's never done anything to warrant death, and even if he had, I'm not the person to give it to him. I'd become the Maestro to be a protector, a vigilante. Not a hitman.
"I've never known you as the type to do anything just because you were told to. Quite the opposite, actually," Jonathan drawls.
I run another hand through my hair and refuse to turn around. "When I first woke up in this place, after they stopped sedating me, I knew I was gonna have to play along with the Joker's plans for however long it would take to get Grace out of here. It seemed simple enough – I'm pretty good at doing what's necessary." Swallow, inhale, repeat.
"When they told me I'd have to rob a bank, I didn't think it would be that bad; I've done more difficult things. But then they told me I had to use a gun, had to fire it." I swallow again, trying to collect my thoughts, trying to forget how the people I'd shot had cried out, or the way a little girl in the back had cowered behind her mother and looked at me with such fear… "I refused, point blank. Told them I could get the money without it. As long Joker's thugs had guns, I wouldn't need one. I realized too late that wasn't the point." Swallow, inhale, repeat.
"Joker just laughed and agreed, and I was surprised, but I thought that was the end of it."
"I'm guessing it wasn't." Jonathan says, and I can feel my hands start to shake with rage and fear and a dozen other things, and I cradle Grace closer as I twist on the cap to her bottle.
"When I went to get Grace that night, to feed her, she was holding an open switchblade." I turn back towards him and extend her tiny right hand, gently coaxing it open to show him the bandage there. "I took it from her right before she tried to put it in her mouth. And that's when I learned that I would have to do exactly what I was told if I wanted her to survive. She's going to have that scar for the rest of her life – she's lucky she didn't lose a finger. She's only five weeks old, I can't… I can't put her in that kind of danger again. So when I say that I don't have a choice in killing Nightwing, I mean it."
He's quiet in the wake of my confession, and for a moment the only sound in the room is the liquid sloshing against the bottle as I shake it, test the temperature on my wrist, and put it to Grace's lips.
"I'll do whatever it takes to protect her, Jonathan. Even if it means I have to burn the city that I helped save."
He doesn't reply and that's fine, because I know he doesn't understand – in many ways I don't think he can. He'd only come for me out of some sense of possession, after all, not affection, not out of any desire to protect, because he simply doesn't have the capacity for it. I think I would have resented him if he had, to be honest.
What would it say about my life, after all, if I had to be rescued by the villain of my own story?
Grace gurgles in my arms and raises tiny hands to swipe at the bottle, desperate like it's been days, not hours, since I last fed her. Kid has an appetite unlike anything I've ever seen, but it's hardly a bad thing; it's a sign she's healthy. That makes one of us.
Familiar footsteps echo down the corridor, breaking the long, uncomfortable silence that has stretched between us, and I whirl around, backing up several steps as Pete emerges in the doorframe.
His eyes settle on Jonathan first. "Boss'll see you now."
Jonathan only nods, expression inscrutable, and Pete turns his dark gaze to me. "She's not supposed to leave her room."
"I had to feed her," I snap back easily, because we've had this argument before.
"Then you make the bottle and bring it to her. This happens again and she'll start missing meals. That clear?" he replies in the same steely manner he always has, and I want to hurt him, my blood practically bubbles with the urge. Instead, I tighten my grip on Grace and look back at Jonathan.
"Have fun on your playdate. And don't say I didn't warn you."
With that, I move past Pete – careful not to let any part of him touch me – and walk back down the hall to Grace's room, where I can keep her from the prying, poisonous eyes of a world that's doing everything it can to take her from me.
I don't dare look back.
~DK~
The man – whom Crane presumes is the head of Joker's thugs, and really the only one among them whose sanity appears to be fully intact – is silent as he leads them back downstairs and past the curtain behind the stage. He's clearly the quietly dangerous type, tall and imposing and watchful.
Crane gets the immediate sense that he's met this man before, but can't quite manage to recall where.
Quinzel is already here, laying idly on a table stacked with maps and weapons, her bat within easy reach should she require it. "I told ya," she said without looking up at him, examining her nails, "docile as a puppy."
"And I told you she was to be in one piece," he replies coolly, and she giggles.
"She's got all her limbs, doesn't she?"
He glares at her. "And what purpose are you trying to accomplish by starving her? She looks like she hasn't eaten in days."
Quinzel blinks at him curiously, then smirks. "Nobody's keeping her from eating anything, Handsome. She's doing that to herself. Not sleeping much either, but that could just be because of her brat."
The idea doesn't surprise him as much as it should; for someone who's driven by such a ferocious desire to survive, she has an astonishing lack of concern for her own health. Doubtless the PTSD and depression are at the core of it – she'd been remarkably thin before, but now she's losing weight she didn't have to begin with, and it's virtually impossible to imagine her pregnant.
Based on what he's seen of her, he'd be surprised if she weighed even a hundred pounds.
There's sudden movement within the shadows at the back of the room, and Crane turns to see the Joker step into the light, adjusting the lapel of his violet suit jacket. He looks as unhinged as ever, his green-blond hair hanging in disheveled clumps around his painted face. "Always a pleasure to see ya, Johnny. Glad ya could make it to hear my little business proposal." He gives a twisted little smirk, flashing yellowed teeth, and comes to stand over Quinzel's head, winding a possessive hand in her hair.
Crane is hardly in the mood for false and showy niceties. "What do you want?"
Joker actually looks offended. "What, no greeting for your old pal? That hurts, Johnny, right here." He dramatically touches his chest where his heart would be, practically pouting, and Quinzel keens sympathetically and pats the hand still gripping her hair.
Despite his annoyance with the situation, the continued use of that familiar nickname stirs something in him, something that has lain dormant for far too long, but he shakes his head to clear it. If the Joker won't get to his point, then he will.
"Give me the girl."
Behind him, Crane hears his escort shift, ready for a confrontation, at the danger in his words. To no one's real surprise, the Joker simply laughs. "I'm so glad ya could make it. This is gonna be a real blast."
The demented man walks casually around the edge of the table, and, with a great show of ceremony, shoves Quinzel off of it. She hits the ground with a thunk and an offended little cry, but the Joker pays no attention, merely beckons him closer. "Lemme show ya what I've been working on."
The minute he lays eyes on the papers and the formula scrawled across them, Crane's suspicions are confirmed.
"I tried ta get ya on board back when we were both in Arkham, but ya really didn't seem interested. I respect that, so I realized that I'd have to get your attention a different way. What better method than taking the Scarecrow's precious Songbird?"
He doesn't know how the Joker knows that name, but possessive anger flares in Crane's chest upon hearing it. That's his name for her, along with the one that she'd whispered to him as their deal was finalized in the back office of the courthouse, the one that had given him utter control over her. He buries the memories, pleasant for him as they are, quickly – this conversation is going to require all of his focus. "I told you then and I'm telling you now, I do my work alone." He's paid the price for straying from that principle more than once – with Falcone and Ra's al Ghul and Bane. He's not eager to be at someone else's beck and call again, and despite the chaotic layout of Joker's mind, in some things he is extraordinarily predictable: anyone who gets into bed with the "Clown Prince of Crime" would be working for him, not with him.
Crane's had his share of that, thanks, and had told him so quite clearly during the one and only conversation they'd had on the subject in Arkham's cafeteria – he hadn't even stayed to listen to the full details. The Joker hadn't officially been permitted to eat with the other inmates or even to interact with them, but he'd done just that and more on several occasions. With a leash that long and a mind like his, it's no wonder he was able to organize the largest breakout in Arkham's history – and twist a few alliances in the process.
"Ah but Johnny, you've never done work like this. Hear me out." The man takes a seat at the table and leans back casually, folding his hands. Quinzel, who has recovered from her fall, takes up her position at his right hand, idly playing with a red streak in her hair.
"You're a simple man, Doc. Ya like order. But Bane… now there's a man that knew how to get results. He ruled over chaos, and people were free to do whatever they wanted, and it was glorious." The look on his face is something close to rapture, but it's difficult to tell what part of this is sincere and what isn't.
"He had the right idea, he just went about it all wrong. Everyone was just so scared. See, fear is no fun. Fear allows for two, equally boring responses, the whole 'fight or flight' thing. Boring."
Crane very distinctly does not agree, but he doesn't really think he's supposed to. Things like this only make sense to a mind as warped as the Joker's – and while he knows his own mind is far from intact and he's fairly comfortable with that, he's not quite managed to fall into this particular level of insanity.
"So I got to thinking. How you make sure everyone, everyone gets the joke? How can you just make twelve million chumps comfortable with chaos? The answer is, of course, you can't. Unless..." He gives another cruel, deliberate smile that promises the end of all order and balance. "Unless you have an ace in the hole."
Crane waits for further elaboration and is somewhat unsurprised when none is provided. "I assume that's supposed to be me, but I don't see how. If fear is as boring as you claim, then what do you need me for?"
Joker is quiet for a moment, then cocks his head with an unusual air of gravity. "Did ya ever see Monsters Inc.?"
These extreme conversation shifts are going to irritate him, he can already tell. "Let's assume that I haven't."
Joker tsked. "Pity. It's a kid's movie, great stuff. Gripping. The monsters try getting their power from fear, only to realize at the end that they can get more power from laughter."
"I'm still waiting for a point, clown." Joker's thug shifts again in warning, but the man himself remains unfazed.
"You," he says, wagging a finger at him, "can make people scream on a whim. I just wanna make people laugh. I just want them to get the joke."
Crane takes a moment to let that statement sink in. "You want me to develop a formula that synthesizes laughter instead of fear." Against his will, equations begin running through his mind, ideas and theories circling endlessly, and that long-dormant feeling has returned, a familiar weight like an old friend pressing against the back of his skull.
The proposal is more dangerous than it sounds, to invoke elation or excitement on a whim – forcing something like that, particularly in life-threatening or serious situations, can have a greater psychological impact than forcing fear. To make someone feel a negative emotion against his or her will is one thing, but a positive one… That's the greater violation, and the need to experiment, to know, wells up in him so strongly he can hardly contain it.
"Corrupting the Maestro, the champion of little crumb-crunchers everywhere, was only step one. Making the people laugh, well, that's step two." The Joker grins wickedly, then continues. "Of course, I'm still not done with her yet, you understand. She'll stay here, so we can… keep an eye on her. Think of it like your average office romance, just add a screaming kid and the destruction of all moral order as we know it. What more could a guy want?"
The idea of Wren being sequestered here while he works is likely a good one – this way he has direct access to her and she can't try to stop them. The last time they'd worked together, she'd had the upper hand, and he'd had no choice but to give it to her, to follow her plans if he wanted a chance at surviving. This way, she's under his control the entire time, and she'll likely be so distracted by her brat that she'll hardly have time to interfere with his work.
"I'll need test subjects, a secluded workspace, the best lab equipment available," he fires back, but the Joker still doesn't seem fazed, merely waves a hand as though he's batting a particularly annoying fly out of the air.
"It's covered, it's all covered. Do we have a deal?"
Crane stares at the papers before him, thinks of the power he'd held in the courts during Bane's occupation, and thinks of Wren, and how furious she'd be if she knew what he was considering.
The smile that touches his lips is not quite his, and neither are the words that leave his mouth. "We do."
The Joker grins and shakes his hand, and that something that's been stirring in his mind finally raises its head, bares its teeth, stretches as it awakes from months of slumber.
Looks like we're back in business, Johnny-boy.
A/N: This chapter sooooo did not want to get written you guys, you have no idea. I don't even know if it's that good because I've been planning that scene where Crane discovers the baby for months and it went a lot smoother in my head, but IDK. What do you guys think? Do you like Grace? Do you like Harley? Is the Joker in character? I NEED ANSWERS, PEOPLE.
Also, you're all so funny. When I put that cradle in Wren's penthouse in chapter two, I was just trying to get you to wonder where the baby came from, but no, ya'll weren't even sure there was a baby! So I just laughed and rolled with it. You guys are so cool. Hope you enjoyed, please tell me what you think!
ALSO: Guess who posted a new chapter of that excellent Crane fic we all know and love, "The Crooked Kind"? If you guessed the lovely and spectacular Hallow Bird, you're right! It's starting to get good over there, ya'll, you don't want to miss out!
Special, special thanks to ladymoonscar and Gimmeallthefics for looking over portions of this chapter in advance and letting me bounce ideas off of them! You guys were total life savers!
I only own Maestro and the OCs. Anything beyond that is the property of DC Comics. The recommended song for this chapter is "Rock-a-bye Baby", that surprisingly creepy lullaby that no one should ever actually sing to their child, probably.
Special thanks also to: P0tions, Ybs, Liluri, thebison, AngelxPhoenix, Karli, anayu123, thedarkerknight, nic, The Valshae, TheDayDreamingWriter, Miss Singing in the Rain, Zora and Phoenix, keeleymcgregor213, LostInTheMusic, The Puppeteer Patient 120402, ObsidianPhantom, and ladymoonscar for reviewing! Thanks also to anyone who fav'd or alerted! You guys are actually the coolest, and you have such good taste in stories, too! ;)
Thanks again, and don't forget to tell me what you think!
Sincerely,
Starcrier.
