Hello, all! Well, the Joker and ghost-girl finally have a snarkfest! -- loves it -- Mwuahaha. Anyways, sorry for the long delay, but hopefully this chapter will make up for it! I'm pretty sure there's only about five or less chapters left before it's finished, then I'll be going onto a sequel. -- ... cricket, cricket... -- -- sweatdrops --
As always, please kick back and enjoy!! Oh, as a sidenote: to the anonymous reviewer, I promise that, eventually, the whole 'time not being linear' will make sense, with ghost-girl giving her typical explanation. If you like this story, leave a review to lemme know!!
-- bouncily,
RW
It is official: the Joker is my personal pain-in-the-ass.
He leaned forward, a thoughtful smile on his face. His dark eyes were like pools of black inkiness, green fire glinting in them as though from a far-off distance.
Damn. Where the hell did that come from? Maybe it was that pizza.
"So... you were dead. I felt you in my head—how did you like that, by the way?—and yet here you are, in the flesh... and what lovely flesh it is," he leered.
I stuck my tongue out at him. Childish, yet effective.
He chuckled, and I rolled my eyes. What a clown.
"You, sir," I stated in a heavy Southern accent, "are a horse's ass."
"I've been called worse," he nodded agreeably, "but you're still not answering me."
"And I'm not going to," I sniped back.
He regarded me for a moment, eyes fathomless, and I saw Mary sitting as far away from him in the cell as possible. I didn't pity her; I'd told her to drop the case. He saw me staring, and turned. His lips quirked into an amused puzzlement.
"Who's there? Another guardian angel?" he smirked.
I managed to keep from starting, just barely kept skeptically impassive, but he must've noticed me paling. His perverse smile grew even wider, both his mouth and his scars seeming to swallow his face except for those burning eyes of his.
Little bastard.
"Ohh. Now I get it. You're, ah, really his guardian angel, aren't you? Except, not so divine, girlie," he muttered, "I can smell the sin on you. No angel would murder my minions so ruthlessly."
"I don't handle threats with kid gloves," I shrugged, "I do what has to be done."
He started to clap slowly, eyes lighting up with approval.
Screw the psychopath's opinion of me. I bite back.
"What a remorseless little thing you are," he whispered conspiratorially, coming to lean against the bars. "Why, you're a girl after my own heart."
"Not that you have one," I muttered back. "I didn't say that I was without remorse," I said softly.
"Oh, not another woman who cares," he sighed, throwing up his hands, "but can you tell me why we're having this conversation in the middle of a police precinct full of Gotham's finest who would just love to tear me to pieces?" he demanded silkily.
Yeah, come to think of it, the officers weren't even giving us a second glance.
Mary.
"I'm shielding you, but I can't last forever," she snapped.
"Fine, fine," I mumbled, "I getcha. Mind if I shoot him? Just once more?"
"YES."
"Spoilsport," I accused, but put my gun back anyways. "Okay, Joker, where's Wertz taken my Harvey?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," he cackled wildly.
"Wouldn't you like to stay alive?" I smiled, bringing out a can of silly string.
"You're going to silly string me to death?" he laughed uproariously.
I smiled sweetly.
"Sweetie, didn't anybody ever tell you how flammable silly string is?"
His laughter ebbed off.
"You'd do it?"
I brought out my lighter.
"You would."
"Like hell I would, laughing the whole time," I muttered darkly.
He giggled delightedly.
"Girlie, you really are, ah, a kindred spirit," he breathed huskily, dark eyes regarding me with curious intensity.
That particular statement really didn't make me feel too cheerful with myself.
"One difference," I said tightly, restraining my rage.
"Oh?" he raised his eyebrow, taunting me.
"You do all of this," I waved my arms randomly, "to destroy. I do what I do to protect."
He gave out a bark of jaded laughter.
"Girlie, it all depends on what you're trying to protect," he mocked. "When you find the answer to that, you'll be surprised at just how alike we are. Drop all of your rules, it's the only sane way to live."
"For a man who's sanity I think's pretty much nonexistent, that's a laugh—the bad punch line to an even worse joke," I muttered. "I'll let you in on a little secret, though, Joker," I leaned forward conspiratorially. Humoring me, he leaned forward patronizingly, all eager.
"I don't have any rules," I whispered, smirking, as his nonexistent eyebrows shot towards his oily matted mess of a head. "Not any that you would understand, anyways."
He sighed, shaking his head.
"Y'know, girlie? I think we're the same. On the inside, you shine in chaos like me. It's where you do your best work," he insinuated.
I sighed, and shook my head, imitating him perversely.
"Joker, you're a man without vision," oh, I was signing my death warrant for this, "either everybody's a poor pissant mortal, or exactly like you with a few varying shades of black. Maybe people are just people—good, bad, or ugly."
"Cheap shot," he shrugged, but I saw the rage beginning to build in his eyes.
Well, I wanted him to hate me. Let him get all his rancor out on me. I've got all my aces out, but I've got a few jacks left floating around. Besides, it's not like I've never died before. He's not that creative.
"Here's the thing: you can't figure me out. Seriously. Don't try. Even I surprise myself sometimes," I smirked, "and certainly you don't have the insight required to do so. Stay away from Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes," I warned, my voice dropping into a sort of poodle-growl. Cute in that 'oh you don't really mean that' sort of way, then when the poodle bites you in the ass you realize that, yes, it did mean it.
"I'm beginning to be offended," he hissed, "and I really fucking hate orders."
"Me?" I blinked innocently. "Why, I'm just giving you a threat."
He gave a slow, sinister smile at that.
"You'll find that I'm the master at threats, and carrying them out."
"Good. Then you'll recognize that I'm the master of completing mine. Touch Harvey Dent again, or Rachel Dawes for that matter, and I'll rip your goddamn fucking face off."
"Try it," he challenged me, "right here, right now."
"Can't hold it," Mary's voice was tight and high with exertion.
Thanks, Mary. I owe you one.
"Remind me of that when you're about to shoot him next," she muttered.
Highly unlikely.
"Then at least no more major organs," she gritted out.
Can't make any promises, but I'll do what I can.
"Yeah, I'll bet."
"No," I stated slowly, "behind bars, you're nothing more than a nuisance with mind games. I'm sure you've got some grand scheme in store, but—here's the thing—
"You. Are. Nothing."
"Then why are you so afraid of me?" he asked quietly.
I stared him dead in the eyes.
"I'm not."
He stared back, searching for something. Whatever it was, he didn't seem to find it. He dropped his gaze to his hands, where they were playing with a rubber band.
"Perhaps, girlie. Listen, dollface, you got a name?"
By the time he looked up from the rubber band he had in his hands, I was gone. Batman's not the only one who can pull off that trick. I tripped down the stairs though, and I'm sure that Brucey never did that. Stupid billionaire.
Trying to have a confrontation with a madman and scurry about in his head without him noticing is like trying to run a triathlon when you've been shot in both kneecaps. And with a club foot.
In short, it's almost impossible and requires an enormous herculean effort.
Probably an ambulance or two too. TU-TU! Heehee. What a funny word. (-s? Did it count as one or two?)
... what was I talking about?
I hauled ass to the Jeep, recklessly speeding across the city back to, surprise surprise, another warehouse. Okay, I get the fact that they're rickety and oh-so-convenient and all, but seriously—did he never try to hold somebody for ransom in, I dunno, a public elevator? Nobody ever looks at anybody else in an elevator. It would be a refreshing change, I'll tell you that.
I slammed the huge doors open, forcing my way through the maze of oil drums. Oh, gee, explosives. What originality. My eyes hardly even needed adjusting to the dark; maybe some of the benefits of being dead had carried over into this body. Hell, I'd take any and all advantages I could get.
"Rachel?" Harvey called out automatically, voice agonized and hopeful. Typical.
"No Rachels, just a pissed-off me," I called out irritably.
"If you're working for the Joker, I can provide immunity—" he started.
I let out a loud obnoxious laugh.
"Me? Working for the Joker? Honey, I've been doing all I can to stop him!" I sniggered.
He tried to look past his shoulder, but I know it was too dark for him to see me. I sawed through the ropes dutifully, dragging him out of the warehouse. I must've made good time, or else the cosmic sense of justice was finally beginning to wake up, because I was halfway down the block before it exploded.
He jumped at the noise, Rachel on his lips, but before I could hear any more romantic nonsense, I tossed him my cellphone.
"She's at Wayne's penthouse, safe and snug—or at least she should be, I'll kill her myself if she's left—and that's where I'm taking you, minus a few quick detours," I replied to his unasked questions.
He stared at me, a complete stranger to him, who had mysteriously saved his life. Dundundun.
"Who are you?" he finally asked. "I'd like to know my saviour's name."
What he didn't say was: who are you, why did you save me, what do you want, and are you working for the Joker, start talking or else I shoot you.
"My name's not important," I waved the question away. "And, uh, let's just say that saving you is a full-time job. Trust me, the Joker and I are really very much not on friendly terms right now. Pretty much the man probably wants to skin me alive—literally, if possible. He's really not that patient, I don't think."
"Do you work for the mob?" Harvey asked warily.
I sighed.
"Look, just think of me as the mystery toy in the cereal box, okay? I'm a random factor."
"I'm sorry, I should be thanking you, shouldn't I? You saved my life. And Rachel's..."
My eye twitches. Rachel, Rachel—what a woman you are. I admire you, but I'm sick to death of hearing about you!
He remained quiet, and I was welcome to it. It felt so strange, knowing that he could see and hear me, that he was aware of my existence. I'd watched over him for all these years from the shadows, so to speak, and now that I was with him... it was a little surreal.
I pulled over in front of a dingy club, and he regarded me curiously.
"Why are we stopping here?" he asked lightly, but I saw his suspicion.
I get the fact that he's a DA, and just been kidnapped by the Joker. However, I'm his fucking guardian angel. A little trust would be nice.
"I gotta see an old contact of mine," I mumbled purposefully.
He got the hint and shut up. He called Rachel as soon as I closed the car door shut, waiting until he locked it, then entered the club. The loud, strobe-lights-make-you-want-to-puke kind of club that had that funky odor of sweat, sex, various drugs and alcohol, and unwashed bodies all rolled into one lovely nauseating package was a little overwhelming.
I followed a junkie into the bathroom, where she was desperately counting change. I sighed, realizing that she obviously owed the wrong people more money than she had.
"I'll pay you a thousand bucks for your clothes," I offered flatly.
She stared at me incredulously.
"Seriously?!" she squeaked, voice going high at the last syllable.
"Yes. Very," I waved the bill.
She stripped, and I tossed her my clothes. It felt so odd to change clothes the old-fashioned way. Usually, I just projected whatever took my fancy. This way took more effort, but it was kinda fun, in a human sort of way. Ten minutes later, I was wearing knee-high black combat boots, a plaid-pink miniskirt, and a shirt artfully shredded that was black with pink stars. Meh. I could live with it. Emerging from the relative peace and safety of the bathrooms, I headed straight for the bar.
"OKITA!" I bellowed.
Something in my voice made him scurry over, ever-present smile on his lips. He beamed at me, liking my outfit.
"Hello, old friend! Well, what do you need today?" he asked cheerfully.
"Hit on the Joker?" I asked.
His face fell, and he looked disappointed.
"Nope, sorry. Nobody's that stupid—or suicidal—to go after him. Just like the old days..." he sighed dramatically, but there was a real wince there.
"This isn't some berserk nutcase, Okita. ... I need a favour."
I swear, the short man had little fox ears pop up at the word.
"You? Usually you're the one calling them in. What's up?" he asked, concerned.
I shrugged.
"Client's Harvey Dent. Got the Joker after him. I want to know that someone's going to keep an eye on him if something should happen," I said meaningfully.
He nodded, slowly, thoughtful.
"I'll have word sent out; by dawn, your Harvey will be the most well-protected man in the city," he promised faithfully.
I thanked him, and quickly headed out.
To an empty car.
With a ransom note taped on to the windshield.
'Catch me if you can. The highest must fall the hardest.'
Well, shit. Turn my back ten, fifteen minutes tops, and Harvey's kidnapped and drug off to Wayne Tower.
... I hate being human. I really fucking do.
