Warning: attempted non-consexual sex in this chapter. If you don't want to read it, skip the middle section (between the second and third grey lines).


9

'Shit! I am so sorry!' Isabelle cried, running over to Sly. He grimaced as he popped his dislocated shoulder back into position.

'Déjà vu, hey Bells,' he said, grinning. Isabelle grinned back, remembering their first meeting.

Sessions with the Joker had been progressing surprisingly well, and she had moved onto knife fights with some of the crew. Today it had been her and Sly in the makeshift ring, and apparently what the Joker had been saying about using her opponents weight against them had been correct. She was also pleased to see that she finally fit into Peyton's bodysuit. She felt strong. She felt fast. She felt healthier than she had felt in a long time.

She felt guilty for feeling good.

It was difficult to admit to herself that she actually had a good thing going, despite the crime and danger and constant braless-ness. She had more friends here than she'd had in Gotham – her best friend had lived in Metropolis, and was now as dead as a doornail (although Isabelle still wasn't sure why a doornail was considered more dead than a regular nail). Here she at least had constant companionship and regular exercise – even if the exercise was slightly life threatening.

Sly and Isabelle made their way to the kitchen (now well stocked with edible food as per Isabelle's temper tantrum). Sly passed her a can of beer, and she cracked it open, sighing as she took a long swig.

'I never thanked you, you know,' said Sly, sitting down at the table.

'For what?'

'Getting rid of Slick,' he replied, and Isabelle frowned, confused.

'Who's Slick?' she asked, wiping the condensation off the side of her can with a finger.

'You know… That rape scenario the boss set up. I think it was just an easy way for the boss to get rid of him, you know? He was a real whiner.'

Isabelle sat frozen, trying to process what Sly was saying and not really succeeding.

'That man… That was a set up?' she asked, clenching her fist tight on the tabletop.

Sly looked confused, 'Well, yes. I thought you knew.'

'So… It wasn't real? Hang on, was she in on it too?'

'Hell yes it was real. Slick was a convicted rapist and murderer when the Joker brought him in. She was just a random woman he found on the street.'

Isabelle felt cold. She'd been played, and a woman had been raped, all because the Joker wanted to teach her a lesson!

Isabelle stood up, knocking her chair over in the process. Sly started at the loud clatter.

'That's it,' she hissed. 'That fucker.'

'Bells… What are you doing?' Sly asked in alarm.

'Time for a chat,' Isabelle said coldly.

She stormed out of the room and down the corridor. She passed the men the Joker had hired to be policemen as they muttered furtively, eyeing her as she flew by them.

Stopping at what she knew to be the Joker's office, she paused, wondering whether she should knock, or whether she was too angry to knock. Isabelle decided that she was too angry to knock, so she stormed in.

The room was sparse, furnished only by a mattress in a corner and a large desk directly in the middle, covered in papers and blueprints and tins of greasepaint. The Joker sat hunched over the desk, and he looked up slowly as Isabelle entered. She paused at the threshold, suddenly feeling nervous and regretting her reckless entrance almost as much as she regretted the surprise-party-dancing-on-tables fiasco.

'Bells,' the Joker said, drawing out the s, and Isabelle shivered at the hardness in his tone.

'I wanted to… talk to you,' Isabelle said, suddenly feeling foolish and out of her depth (both of which she was).

The Joker grinned at her, 'What a lovely surprise.'

Isabelle decided to throw caution to the winds, and stepped up to the desk.

'A woman was raped because of me! What makes you think you have the right? How dare you –'

She was cut off as the Joker leaned across the desk and grabbed her by the throat, his fingers digging into her skin as he pulled her half over the desk.

'How dare I?' he hissed quietly.

Isabelle let out a frightened squeak in response, fingers scrabbling at his hand.

'You have no say,' he said, pulling her almost nose-to-nose with him, 'in anything. This is my show, this is my city, and you are mine. Do you understand me?'

Isabelle nodded with difficulty, and he released her, gasping, against the desk. Isabelle's hand went to her throat, and she breathed in, savouring the air.

'I'm sorry,' she rasped, bracing herself against the desk.

'What's one measly little rape next to the death of a rapist? He's off the streets. Tell me, Bells, have I not done Gotham a service?'

His twisted logic was making Isabelle's head hurt. She didn't understand how he could say such cruel things but still make sense. It was true; Slick was no longer prowling the streets for innocent woman to molest. It just pained her to the core that a woman had been treated so appallingly just so the Joker could teach her a lesson.

'I'm helping Gotham,' the Joker said, 'and you will help me.'

Isabelle just shook her head, not trusting herself to speak lest she insert her foot into her mouth again.

'What did I say about death, Bells?'

'Every death has a purpose.'

'Every death has a purpose. The people of Gotham; they're sheep. They flock from one pointless thing to the next, and the only time they have any impact on anyone else is when they die. Think of Loeb. Nobody in this city cared who he was or what he did, but as soon as he died they all came milling to his little parade singing praises. His death had more impact than his entire life.'

Isabelle listened in mute silence, trying to find a flaw in his logic but finding none. She supposed it was true: what he had said about Simon and his charity, Loeb, Slick. All of their deaths had had more impact than their lives. Subconsciously, she reached up and stroked the scar that marred her cheek. If this was his way of thinking, it was almost an honour that the Joker hadn't killed her. He must believe that her life was important, that she was important – that she had purpose.

'What is your purpose?' she asked, looking over the plans and blueprints that were scattered across the table.

The Joker looked up at her, his tongue flicking out to lick his scars, 'If they're sheep, then I'm their shepherd.'

'And what am I?'

'Mine.'


Isabelle sat on the edge of her mattress, gnawing a fingernail. She looked down at the cracked concrete beneath her booted feet, her mind lost in thought. Her mind wasn't the only thing that was lost; she had also lost her sense of security. The security that no matter what transpired, she still had the moral high ground over the Joker. Now that was gone. She was prepared to shoot that man – she was prepared to be a murderer. And being prepared to be a murderer is almost as bad as actually being one, in her books.

Isabelle was scared of how much she enjoyed holding that gun. Its weight in her hand was so solid, comforting almost. It felt powerful, and she felt powerful with it. She wanted to feel that power again, and she wasn't sure how far she would go in order to get it.

Isabelle sighed and leant back on the mattress, closing her eyes and resolving to get a grip on her life some time in the near future.

Isabelle woke with a start, hearing her door creak open slowly. The blackness in the room was absolute – there was no window or lamp to dispel the shadows. She sat up on the mattress straining her ears to hear even a tiny sound. She heard the scuff of a shoe and her heartbeat quickened, rapping out a quick staccato in her chest.

'Hello?' she quavered, hating how high her voice was.

Suddenly torchlight flashed into her eyes and she cried out, putting a hand over her face as she rapidly teared up from the brightness. Slowly her eyes adjusted, and she looked up, still blinking, into the faces of the four policemen on the Joker's payroll. She supposed they weren't policemen anymore, and were now a permanent part of the Joker's crew.

'What is this?' Isabelle demanded harshly.

The man who appeared to be their leader squatted down in front of her, running his eyes up and down her body lazily.

'I am Marko,' he introduced himself, an Italian lilt to his rough words, 'and this is Benny, Pete, and Carlos.'

He gestured to each of them in turn. Isabelle glanced at them, took in the strength in their bodies, the hardness in their eyes, and their weapons slung around their hips.

Isabelle's fingers curled into fists, 'What are you doing here?'

'My boys are new to this establishment. We are used to Metropolis and our ring there – we are here on a loan, I suppose you would say.'

As he spoke, Marko's finger trailed along the rounded edge of the mattress, tracing out the swirling patterns in the fabric. He brushed a line up her thigh and Isabelle tensed. She wished she had something to cover herself, clad as she was in a tank top and tracksuit pants. Even a sheet would have been better than being out in the open under the hungry eyes of these Italians.

Marko continued.

'We are used to certain bonuses; bonuses we have not yet found here. My boys and I have found ourselves… wanting.'

Isabelle grew cold and goose bumps prickled on her bare arms. She drew them around her chest defensively.

'You can't,' she breathed. 'The Joker!'

'The clown does not bother us,' Marko responded, blowing off her only chance of escaping. 'You however… you are prettier than many, and we have decided that this is our bonus.'

He captured her chin in his calloused hand. Isabelle glared at him through narrowed eyes and pulled his hand away. He caught her wrist and pulled her closer to him.

She spat in his face.

Marko backhanded her across the cheek and tears of pain filled Isabelle's eyes, blurring her vision. She shrieked as Benny caught her wrists and dragged her off of the mattress and onto the cold cement floor.

'Get the fuck off of me!' she yelled, and prepared to scream bloody murder. She was cut off as a gag was pulled across her mouth and tied behind her head. Marko pulled off his belt silently and handed it to Benny, who tightened it around her wrists. Isabelle thrashed and kicked out, her teeth biting furiously into the gag, but Pete and Carlos caught one leg each and pinned her to the floor. Benny held her wrists, and Isabelle found herself immobile and helpless.

Marko leant over her, putting one hand on her breast. Isabelle shuddered as he squeezed appreciatively.

He whispered in her ear.

'I am going to have you. And then so will my boys. You are the Joker's whore, and you will be treated like it.'

Isabelle stared up at him, and whimpered. She knew that he was deadly serious.

Marko turned to the men holding her down.

'Take off her clothes.'

Isabelle screamed through the gag, kicking and thrashing. Marko grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head off the floor, pulling so tightly that any move she made sent hot tendrils of pain rippling into her scalp. Carlos gripped her ankles tightly as Pete took hold of the waistband of her tracksuit. Isabelle felt a fresh wave of tears trickle down her cheek as he slowly peeled off the pants, revealing her plain black underwear. Marko observed her long legs and released her hair, letting her head thump into the concrete. She saw his eyes follow her legs up to her torso and settle on her breasts.

Isabelle squeezed her eyes shut as he lightly touched her nipple through the fabric of her tank top. In a swift movement, he tore the fabric navel to neck and across one of the arms, picking it up and throwing it aside. Isabelle gave an involuntary shiver as the cold air hit her exposed breasts. Her thrashing renewed, almost throwing off the men who held her legs. Isabelle cried out as Marko hit her harshly on the breast, sending spikes of pain across her chest.

'Lie still,' he hissed in her ear. 'Or things will be worse for you.'

Isabelle glared up at him, and Marko clucked his tongue as if she'd amused him, before turning to survey her almost naked body with unbridled desire, pausing on the many scars that littered her skin. Isabelle saw with disgust that the front of his trousers had grown tight. He fingered the hem of her underwear, and Isabelle froze. She thought she was going to be sick as he drew them slowly down her tense legs, and Isabelle pressed her thighs together in a useless attempt to impede his progress. Her underwear joined her pants on the floor, baring her completely to the four Italians. Isabelle whimpered again and pulled weakly on the man that held her bound arms.

Every death has a fucking purpose, she thought furiously to herself as her nails dug into her palms. Isabelle eyed the guns that were hung on their belts. If she could just get to one… She pulled at the tight leather encasing her wrists experimentally and Benny tightened his hold on her arms.

A rasp of fabric distracted Isabelle and she turned to see Marko pulling down his trousers, his gun belt swinging before hitting the cement with a clunk. Isabelle looked at the weapon now sitting next to her hip, the smidgeon of a plan forming in her mind. In actuality, it was a rubbish plan, as while she knew what the end goal was (four dead Italians), she hadn't actually worked out the middle and most important bit (actually getting the gun). She figured improvisation was key.

Marko lowered himself over her, and she felt Benny loosen his grip on her wrists in his excitement. She reacted. Wrenching her hands out of Benny's grip, she vaulted her head forward and her forehead hit Marko in the temple. His elbows lost their strength, and he folded onto her. Isabelle reached for the gun that still sat beside her hip, and her fingers closed around the cool metal. Flicking off the safety, Isabelle rolled out from underneath Marko, Pete and Carlos too surprised to maintain their grip on her legs. Wrists still bound and the gag still in place, Isabelle got to her feet with difficulty, putting the wall behind her and the men in her sight. She raised the gun to Marko who was stirring feebly on the floor.

Isabelle felt the sense of power she had been craving. It coursed through her body, adrenaline and arousal, and she felt her nipples stiffen in response. She stepped closer to Marko and shot him in the head. His body jerked, and then lay still, a pretty pool of blood forming a halo beneath his greasy hair. Isabelle smiled savagely through the coarse gag. Benny, Pete and Carlos seemed to be in shock, and Isabelle shot all three before they could reach for their own weapons. They looked to Isabelle like marionettes with their strings cut, the way they crumpled to the floor.

From the door she heard slow clapping.


It was not the first gunshot that woke the Joker from his light nap, nor was it the raised voices. It had been the scuffing of shoes in the corridor outside his door that had wakened him. The Joker prided himself on being alert and ready to react even in sleep.

Unfolding himself from the hard wooden desk chair upon which he had dozed, he went to the door and opened it slowly. He saw, even in the darkness, four men turn the corner.

Ah. The Italians.

He knew he would have trouble with them when he hired them. But he also relished the discord that they brought. It kept his men on their toes, having new faces, having his favour on someone else. They worked smarter, faster, better when they thought that a misstep would shorten their lifespan. They were right, of course. Hiring new men showed them just how easily they could be replaced.

He followed behind the men, curious about what they were doing. They stopped outside Isabelle's door.

They're after their bonus. Curiouser and curiouser.

The Joker stood well back as the men entered the room, and the only sound he made was the snick snick of his knife as he flicked it across the leather of his glove. His keen ears heard raised voices and, once, his name. The Joker thought it funny that Bells had used his name as a bargaining chip. It seemed that she had accepted her place here. He moved closer to the door, stopping in the darkness of the threshold. Bells was stretched out between three of the Italians, leather encasing her wrists and a gag across her mouth. The leader - Marko, he remembered - was touching her breast, and the Joker saw Isabelle recoil in disgust. Marko whispered something into Bells' ear, and her eyes widened. The Joker wondered what had been said.

The snick snick of the knife on leather got a little faster.

Marko instructed his men to relieve Bells of her clothing, and she began to thrash around, causing the Joker to chuckle softly. Soon she was naked, and the scars littering her body caused a slight twinge in the Joker, which he ignored. Sex for him was not necessary, but he found it a useful manipulator. Peyton had been easy to manipulate. He wondered if that was the angle he should take with Bells.

Marko was taking off his trousers, and the Joker watched with interest, seeing Bells fixate on the gun left beside her.

He saw the man holding her arms make a mistake, and Bells took the opportunity to slam her head into Marko's, and grab the gun.

He saw her nipples stiffen and her pupils dilate when she raised the gun, and he cocked his head to the side in interest.

The Joker could appreciate a woman, even if he had no interest in her. But seeing Bells bound and gagged, naked and aroused, a gun in her hand and intensity in her eyes, he decided that she would break easier if she thought that he was romantically interested in her, and it wouldn't be a sacrifice for him. It would be fun to bring this one down, to show Gotham and Gordon and Batman how close to insanity they all actually were.

He didn't even flinch when the bang bang bang bang of the gunshots ripped through the room.

The Joker clapped.