A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed and/or put this story on their favourites/alerts list.
You'll probably notice that this chapter is slightly longer than average. I'll be in St. Petersburg for most of October and I don't think I'll be able to post another chapter before I leave. Also, by the time I get back, my birthday would have past. So, to get to the point, my birthday wish is that this story will be able to hit over 80 reviews by the time I get back. I know it's possible since each chapter averages a 100-160 hits each time I update. So, pretty please, make a fellow fangirl's wish come true?
DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.
Sic Transit Gloria Mundi
"Thus passes the glory of the world"
...
By Scribbles-Dementia
...
9
Monroe hissed, spitting out an impressive arsenal of curses she had gathered over the years. She could taste blood in her mouth; the result of having bit down on her bottom lip too hard. Gritting her teeth, her eyes hardened with determination as she told herself not to be such a big baby. Taking a swig of the cheap whiskey she had 'persuaded' one of the Joker's goons to acquire for her, Monroe bent down and pushed the sterilised needle through her flesh again. As she finished off the last stitch, Monroe reached for the small travel-sized scissors balanced on the sink nearby and cut off the excess surgical thread. With that done, she finally allowed herself to relax, sinking back into her chair. Her eyes flickered up to her reflection in the spotted full-length mirror before her.
She had to admit; she looked like crap. Despite her braid, there were still strands of her sweat-drenched hair plastered to the side of her head. Her eyes looked slightly feverish and the various nicks and bruises on her face made her look like a victim of domestic abuse. The skin around her freshly re-stitched gunshot wound glowed an angry red – Monroe was sure it hadn't hurt as much when Morgan used to patch her up. She reached for the bottle of whiskey.
"I have a proposition for you."
Monroe wasn't sure what sort of reaction she had expected from the Joker at her declaration but somehow she wasn't surprised when she suddenly found his eyes slowly raking down her body. He took his time but Monroe kept still. When his gaze finally returned to her face, she was ready for him with a cockily quirked brow and a challenge in her eyes. The Joker shrugged.
"Sorry. You're not my type."
Monroe blinked. And then she scowled.
"Not that type of proposition!"
The Joker looked surprised. Monroe felt the sudden urge to punch him right in his lipstick-smeared mouth.
"What did you have in mind then?"
Monroe opened her mouth, shut it again, and swallowed the angry retort she had on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes narrowed as she realised that the Joker had intentionally baited her. It was as if he wasn't really taking her seriously. Not that she blamed him. A shorter than average woman who looked like the loser in a fistfight didn't exactly inspire confidence – or fear. She let a smirk replace the scowl on her lips. Fine – if that was how he wanted it, she'd play his game.
"A message."
The Joker remained silent but Monroe noticed the spark of interest that flashed in his eyes. He tilted his head, the movement causing a curtain of oily green hair to fall over his face. Monroe decided to press her advantage.
"To a man who believes he owns Gotham. The same man who tried to kill you three nights ago."
She watched as the Joker slipped his hands into the pockets of his purple, pinstriped pants. He crossed one leg over the other, shifting to rest most of his weight on the lamppost. He was making himself comfortable.
"Uh – you mean that loon you called the Black Mask? Why, I do believe that he's dead."
"Well, contrary to what you believe, recent events appear to prove otherwise."
The Joker stood stock-still. Yet Monroe could feel the tangible energy rolling off of him in waves. The man was like a tightly wound coil, ready to spring at any moment. Behind him, the sun was rising over the top of the decrepit carousel.
"What's the message?"
Monroe's smirk widened into a Cheshire cat grin.
"Hell invokes Hell."
The Joker laughed. It wasn't the wild unbridled laughter she had heard during his fight with the Batman or the taunting giggles he had for Bader that night she broke Crane out of Arkham. It seemed a lot more reserved – almost normal – and made him appear far more dangerous than he usually did. Behind Monroe, the two men who had brought her to the park took an unconscious step back.
"Abyssus abyssum invocat." He placed heavy emphasis on the sibilance of the words, and the 't' became a rather violent plosive. For some reason, Monroe wasn't surprised that the Joker knew the Latin translation of the proverb. "I don't think it means what you think it does."
"I prefer its literal interpretation," said Monroe dryly.
She watched as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Rolling his shoulders, the Joker removed his hands from his pockets, withdrawing a familiar looking knife. He flicked it open with the same practised ease she had used when handling the blade. Her eyes followed his hands as he ran them through his hair.
"You stabbed me," said the Joker accusingly, almost petulantly.
Monroe arched a brow.
"You used me as a human shield. I'd say we're pretty even." She jerked her head at the butterfly knife in his hand. "And I want my knife back."
The Joker made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like a cross between a snort and a cat hissing. Tossing the blade back and forth, from one hand to the other, he pushed himself off of the lamppost and approached her. He didn't exactly stalk towards her, though the pain he clearly still felt in his ribs slowed his progress. He hid it well however; the faint grimace in his face simply adding to his intimidating persona. He had no qualms about invading her personal space, stopping just barely a foot away from her so she had to crane her head back to look up at him. Monroe had to admit, the overall effect was extremely impressive.
"No." Monroe glared at him. He sucked on his top front teeth, and brought up the knife to tap the flat of the blade on the hollow at the base of her neck. "I think I'll keep it." As he licked his lips again, Monroe was strongly reminded of a cat having cornered its prey. "Think of it as a down payment."
She tilted her head quizzically.
"So you're in?"
"Am I in?" The Joker tapped the butterfly knife against her neck again. "Am I out?" She felt him apply pressure. "You make it sound like a game."
"Isn't it?" she countered.
That curious spark was back in the Joker's eyes. He removed the knife from her throat, his arm dropping to hang by his side.
"Who are the players then?"
"The Black Mask, Jonathan Crane, me," Monroe paused. "You." And then she played her ace. "The Batman."
The Joker stilled. Monroe held her breath. It was now or never. The Joker would either throw his cap in or slice her up and feed her to the fishes. She would rather the former, but there really was no telling with a man like him. Just when you thought you finally had him figured out, the man threw you a screwball. Monroe was ready to make an attempt to jump out of his way if he decided not to accept her rather warped offer of a team up.
After what felt like forever, a slow, grotesque grin spread across the Joker's face. And then he started laughing. It began softly, gradually growing in volume and intensity until he was practically gripping his sides. Monroe felt a smile forming, unbidden, on her own lips.
"It'll be a damn battle royal," the Joker crowed.
Monroe's eyes flashed in triumph.
"With Gotham going to the winner."
That was how Monroe found herself stitching up her wound in the food court's filthy bathroom. She had nagged the younger of her two original guides into getting her a clean needle, surgical thread, a lighter and the cheapest alcohol he could find. She had actually given him the money for it too since she didn't trust his shoplifting skills. Stripped down to her underwear, she then perched herself on one of the plastic chairs she'd dragged into the bathroom from the food court's dining area, propped her right leg against the tiled wall and began the Frankenstein-ian task of sewing herself back together.
Monroe took another swig of the horrible whiskey.
It was incredibly risky and ridiculously stupid aligning herself with the Joker. She frowned. But no one ever got anywhere by playing it safe. She never had and wasn't about to start now. Monroe raised the bottle and toasted her reflection.
"Sic infit."
So it begins.
It was an unusually hot day in Gotham. It was also a surprisingly slow news day. Sure, the Joker and the Scarecrow were still loose and about in the city. But they had been surprisingly quiet. Which in itself was probably more terrifying than when they were wreaking havoc. It had everyone on alert – and jumpy – not to mention cranky.
"Booker!"
Zeke Booker's head snapped up so fast he gave himself whiplash. Rubbing at his sore neck, he peered over the walls of his cubicle, trying to locate the person who had called for him. The entire floor was a buzz of activity, though Zeke knew that no one was actually doing any real work. How could they when there was no news worthy news to report?
"Booker!"
He finally spotted his editor standing at the entrance of the corridor that led to the lift lobby. The man looked harried and in no mood to be kept waiting. Zeke almost tripped over his chair as he hurried out of his cubicle.
"About time, Booker! What are you working on?"
"I was going to take another look at that factory fire on the docks – "
"Leave it! We've already run that story twice. No one wants to read about it if there isn't some sort of link to one of those crazies."
"I think – "
"The fire department said it was a leaking gas main. There's a woman downstairs from the university who wants to take a look at our archives."
"But what has that – "
"I need you to take her to the basement."
Zeke frowned.
"Don't we have someone working in Archives?"
His editor crossed his arms across his rather substantial chest, staring him down as if he were a mentally retarded child.
"We got rid of the staff in that department during the last layoffs. And if you don't go downstairs right now, you'll find yourself out of a job too."
Zeke didn't need telling twice. Grumbling under his breath, he got into a lift and punched the button for the ground floor. He had known from the onset that the Gotham Post was not the best newspaper agency in the city. But he had not signed up to be a babysitter for some wannabe journalist from a second-rate university. Actually, his editor never did say which university the woman was from. In fact, he hadn't even mentioned the woman's name. Zeke swore.
The offices of the Gotham Post shared a building with several other businesses. As a result, the entrance lobby was always crowded with people coming and going. Zeke ran a hand through his hair. Finding a woman, whose name he didn't even know, in this mess was going to take a while. He decided the best course of action was probably to approach the receptionist. After all, she spent most of her day in the entrance lobby. The woman would have had to talk to her to have gotten through to his editor in the first place.
"Hey, Linda. Do you know where this woman is that I'm supposed to take to Archives?"
The receptionist – a pretty redhead with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose – glanced up at him. She held up a finger to silence him as she finished her call. Zeke was more than happy to wait; he had a fantastic view down her silk blouse from where he was standing. She smiled pleasantly as she hung up the phone, either unaware of or ignoring the direction of his gaze.
"How can I help you?" she asked, with not the slightest hint of recognition in her face.
"Linda, it's me. Zeke Booker? I work up at the Post."
She blushed attractively, realising her faux pas.
"Oh, I'm sorry! Yeah, you're the sweetheart that always drops off a low-fat vanilla latte for me on the way up every morning."
It wasn't him, but Zeke wasn't about to correct her.
"Darling," he drawled. "How many guys have you got buying you coffee that you can't remember me?"
From the fiercer blush that turned even her neck a rosy pink, Zeke knew that there had to be several. He smiled and was about to lean closer to her when they were interrupted.
"Sorry, miss," came a sweet, quiet voice. "I was just wondering if they've sent someone down from the Gotham Post yet? I really do need to take a look at those archives."
Zeke resisted the urge to scowl and turned to face the woman. The first thing he noticed were the crutches. Great, he was stuck babysitting a cripple. She was petite and mousey, her green eyes hidden behind a dowdy pair of glasses. The cardigan and skirt combination she wore did nothing for her figure. She looked like the slightest breeze would blow her over. There was something familiar about her face, though he was sure they had never met before. He sighed.
"Are you the one from the university?"
She graced him with a bright, toothy smile.
"Are you from the Post?"
Zeke nodded. He turned to say goodbye to Linda, weaselling out a pity date from her, and walked back towards the lifts without waiting to see if the timid woman was following him. The sound of her crutches against the marble floor assured him that she was.
There was a security station they had to clear before the woman was allowed onto the elevators. She stood patiently as a guard passed a handheld metal detector over her front and back. Zeke finally found out her name as she signed the forms for a temporary visitor's pass: Jane Parker, a plain name for a plain jane. He made no attempts at conversation during the short ride down to the basement, and she seemed more than happy to maintain the silence.
The archives were as musty and unpleasant as he had always imagined them to be. Zeke had never really been down to the basement before and he hoped he never would have to again. Personally, he thought the former Archives staff were better off being laid off than having to spend their days cooped up in the miserable looking room.
"Are you looking for anything in particular?" he asked in a half-hearted attempt to be helpful.
"Yeah, actually," she said with another one of her overfriendly smiles. "Anything and everything you guys have on the Sionis family."
Zeke frowned in confusion.
"The Sionis'?"
"It's for a term paper," she explained. "My topic's about Gotham's old and affluent families."
"Why don't you write about the Waynes?"
She laughed.
"Because that's what everyone's going to expect."
Zeke shrugged.
"Suit yourself. There should be something down that aisle. I think."
It took them almost half an hour to figure out the sorting system and another five minutes for Zeke to find a stepladder as the issues they needed were on a shelve that was, annoyingly, just out of reach.
"There's a desk we passed back there that we can use," the woman suggested.
Zeke silently carried the five heavy stacks of newspapers to the table she pointed out. Dusting off his hands after the last stack, he finally took the time to look down at what he had helped lug down from the archive shelves. The topmost issue was dated the day after the Wayne Foundation Masquerade Ball. The headline was all about the theft that night, but in the bottom left-hand corner there was a series of photographs featuring some of the glamorous guests in attendance that night. And there, in the smallest of the three shots, was a familiar face standing next to the Sionis heir. Except, in the photograph, her eyes weren't obscured by a pair of glasses, her hair wasn't in a messy ponytail, and the dress she was wearing probably cost more than his pay check for the entire year. Looking down at the face in print, reminded him of yet another photograph that made the presses the very next day. He looked up to find the woman who called herself Jane Parker staring at him. He flashed her the most unassuming smile he could muster.
"I think there's another stack back there. I'll just go check."
The smile she returned was sweet and very grateful.
"Sure. Thank you so much again for this."
Zeke watched as she awkwardly lowered herself into a chair and pulled the first stack of newspapers towards her. Nodding, he backed up a few steps, shoved his hands into his back pockets, shot her another smile, and turned down an aisle where he knew he would find past issues of the Post that featured articles on a completely different celebrity – The Ghost. He didn't have to look too hard to find the issue he wanted. Splashed across the front page was a blurry still from a security camera. Yet, in spite of the poor quality of the shot, there was something recognisable about the petite woman dressed in the oversized uniform of a security guard.
Zeke felt his breath hitch in his throat. This was his big break. Unveiling the true identity of The Ghost, he could already see them awarding him a Pulitzer. Oh, Linda would definitely remember his name them. He reached for his cell phone, punched in the number for the police and –
The loud crack reverberated through the basement followed by a dull thud as Zeke Booker collapsed, unconscious, knocking his head on the edge of a shelve as he fell. Monroe stood over the journalist, one of her crutches clutched in both of her hands. She had seen the light of recognition in his eyes the moment he looked up from that news article and knew she was in trouble. She bent down to check his pulse.
"Oh, good. You're not dead," she muttered.
Picking up his cell phone, Monroe cleared the numbers he had already punched in and pocketed it. Hobbling back to the table, she got to work gathering as much information as she could on Roman Sionis.
The Sionis family had at one time been as ridiculously wealthy as the Waynes, holding a coveted position in Gotham's high society. Monroe found numerous articles on the parties they threw and fundraisers they attended; schools and libraries they apparently helped build; and even more reports on the incredible success of their company, Janus Cosmetics. There was an article on Roman Sionis' engagement to a woman named Circe, which Monroe found curiously brief until she realised that the woman had been a secretary at Janus Cosmetics. Daddy Sionis couldn't have been too happy about that. Not too long after their engagement was announced, a freak fire burnt the Sionis family mansion to the ground, killing both Mr. and Mrs. Sionis. Their obituaries took up two full pages; the report on their funeral took up four. Things went downhill after that. A new product was introduced to the Janus Cosmetics line that ended up disfiguring a large number of women. Monroe was surprised the lawsuits didn't bankrupt the family. Somehow, Roman had enough money to rebuild the luxurious Sionis mansion. There was another short article on the break up of Roman and Circe, more reports on the progress of the lawsuits against Janus Cosmetics, and then, suddenly, nothing. Roman Sionis, heir to his family's vast fortune, simply vanished off the face of the earth. There were one or two small articles with reports of alleged sightings but nothing substantial. Roman Sionis managed to keep well out of the spotlight for several years – until the recent Wayne Foundation Ball.
Monroe stretched and cracked her back. She listened for any sounds of the journalist regaining consciousness, heard nothing, and returned to her notes. Gotham sure loved its gossip, especially when it involved the rise and fall of its own celebrities. And the Gotham Post seemed to have no qualms about reporting outrageous rumours without checking for facts. Monroe wasn't sure she couldn't believe half the things she had read. However, thanks to the Post's lack of ethics, she did come across two useful pieces of information: the address of the Sionis family mansion up in the Palisades, and the name of a bank where they supposedly had a safety deposit box.
The Joker sat, backwards, astride one of the horses on the rundown carousel, picking his teeth with the butterfly knife The Ghost had stabbed him with. Unlike the men who flocked to him, drawn by the allure of the chaos and infamy they believed they would achieve through association, the woman was not scared of him. As he had stared down at her, with her own blade held to her throat, earlier that morning, he had seen something in her eyes. But not the slightest hint of fear. And it pissed him off.
She had played him too. Not that he realised it until hours later, when she left to run some sort of errand. She knew that he wouldn't say no to her once the Batman got drawn into their game. The woman was smart, knowing just the right strings to pull. Damn it, he wanted to slit her thin, little throat!
The Joker watched as she hobbled through the gates of the amusement park, looking just like a librarian. And not even the sexy kind. He wondered where she had stolen her crutches. She paused by the teacup ride, re-orientated herself, and headed towards where the public telephones were located. He flipped the butterfly knife close and followed her. He found her by the only working payphone, prying open the front of the coin vault with a screwdriver. It popped open with a sharp crack, a waterfall of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies cascading out of the device.
"Didn't know you were that short on cash."
The Ghost looked up and rolled her eyes.
"I need to make a phone call."
She ignored his presence as she fed a handful of coins into the phone and dialled an absurdly long set of numbers. The Joker leaned against the side of the payphone, tugging at the phone's cord. The Ghost lifted her hand, as if to slap his away, decided against it and let her hand fall back to her side. He smirked. Hah! Score one for him!
The Ghost opened her mouth – no doubt to rip him a new one – when the person on the other end of the line finally picked up. She didn't bother with a greeting.
"Roman Sionis. Gotham General Bank & Trust."
There were a few minutes of silence. And then she hung up. The Joker cut her a sardonic glance.
"We're hitting a bank?"
It was her turn to smirk.
"No need to sound so unimpressed. Trust me a little here."
The Joker snorted. The Ghost arched a brow and reached up to pat him twice on the cheek. He stilled at the sudden contact. She did not wait around for him to gather his wits and retaliate.
Monroe sat on top of one of the many tables in the food court, elbows propped on her knees and her head resting in her hands. She had not slept in over twenty-four hours and the lack of sleep was making her irritable. It did not help that the Joker's men, who were scattered about the room, did not whisper as softly as they thought they did.
"She's crazy."
"We're going to get caught."
"Does she have a death wish?"
Monroe pinched the bridge of her nose. The Joker was sitting in the middle of it all, cleaning his nails with her butterfly knife, seemingly oblivious of his men's worries. Monroe snapped.
"If no one has anything else to do except whine like little girls, can someone go get dinner or something!"
All heads shot towards her. Some looked scared, some looked sheepish, and some looked seriously ticked off. It was hard to read what the Joker was feeling. But apparently he was hungry too.
"I'm feeling a pepperoni pizza right about now," he said, leaning back so that his chair balanced on its hind legs. "Who's taking orders?"
Without waiting for volunteers, the Joker had the whiners on dinner duty, leaving the men that Monroe felt were at least slightly competent. She straightened.
"It's not about the money," she explained. "It's about the message. If I were just after easy cash, yeah, I'd plan a night heist. But the Black Mask needs to know he's not safe anymore. That's why this has to be done in broad daylight."
Monroe aimed this last comment at the Joker and waited to see his reaction. She had a feeling that he'd be more than okay with a daytime bank job. After all, he had done it once before with Gotham First National. And the Joker was all about the message.
One of the younger thugs spoke up.
"Gotham Trust is on one of the busiest streets in the city. Not only that, but the cops are only two blocks away. There's no way we can pull this off."
Monroe tilted her head thoughtfully.
"And why do you say that?"
"Because there is no escape route."
Monroe nodded.
"True. There isn't one." More whispers broke out. "Not on ground level at least."
The men fell silent. The Joker stared her down, a slow grin spreading across his scarred face. He twirled her butterfly knife in his hand.
"What did you have in mind?"
Monroe smiled smugly.
"Gotham Trust may be situated in the part of the city with the most traffic, but it's also surrounded by buildings with lots of open rooftops."
A different goon voiced his opinion of her latest plan.
"So we go to the roof. And then what? We'll be sitting ducks up there. Unless you have a helicopter that we know nothing about."
"No," Monroe admitted. "But I'll have rappelling gear."
Morning dawned bright and early. In what passed for an upper middle-class suburb of Gotham, the bank manager of Gotham General Bank & Trust sat down to breakfast with his family. He smiled as his wife flitted about the kitchen, whipping up a batch of her famous blueberry pancakes; the same pancakes that were responsible for the respectable bulge he carried over his belt. He ruffled his son's hair as the boy dropped sleepily into one of the dining room chairs. His daughter kissed him lightly on the cheek as she handed him that morning's paper. There was a small article referring to the one the Gotham Post had printed in their evening edition the night before; declaring that the woman they claimed to have been The Ghost, Jane Parker, had no known files in any database, and therefore could not exist. She was nothing more than a figment of the imagination of journalists at the Post. He skimmed over the article, before turning to the sports pages instead. Later, he kissed his family goodbye, got into the BMW he spent years saving up for, and drove to work.
A few of the tellers were already waiting for him to open the bank. He greeted them jovially, exchanged pleasantries and the latest updates on their families, and let them into the building. None of them noticed the ice cream truck parked across the road.
"Really," sighed Monroe from where she sat in the front, wedged between the Joker and the driver of the truck. "Couldn't we have picked a more inconspicuous getaway vehicle?"
"What?" asked the Joker, seemingly affronted. "You don't like my wheels?"
Monroe decided not to dignify that with an answer. The driver, who was the younger of the two men who had brought her to the amusement park the day before, and who turned out to be one of the better drivers in the Joker's motley crew, kept wisely silent. They had two other men with them; men they knew would not be squeamish about climbing down the side of a twenty-story building if they had to.
"You sure this is gonna work?" asked the driver, whose name Monroe couldn't remember.
She grinned.
"No. That's half the fun."
The Joker peered out the window, watching the front of the bank. He made an indiscernible noise at the back of his throat in response to Monroe's answer. There was a strange light in his eyes.
"Let's get this show on the road."
They drove once more around the block, and then pulled up behind the building. Each of them carried a large duffel bag. No one wore a mask. They didn't even bother with the two security cameras covering the building's back entrance. Ten seconds and Monroe's trick with the metal sunglasses frame took care of the door. No sense alerting any one to their presence just yet. They made a quick stop in the basement, unloaded the contents of two of the duffel bags, and finally made their way to the bank's floor; the Joker leading the way.
"Good morning, everyone!" he called out.
The reaction that simple statement caused was priceless. Screams suddenly broke out, cut short by a burst of gunfire, courtesy of their two accomplices who were armed with assault rifles. That caught the attention of the security guards, but as the shifts had yet to change, they were not exactly on their 'A' game after an entire night of patrolling. Monroe almost felt sorry for them.
"Now, now," tutted the Joker. "No need for you to lose your heads. We're just here to make a teensy-weensy little withdrawal."
Monroe chuckled. The man sure loved his theatrics. But it worked. Everyone in the bank looked too scared to try anything stupid. Which was good. Monroe wanted to keep the body count down to a minimum it possible.
"I'm looking for the bank manager," said the Joker. "Hmm? Anyone?"
He brought his painted face close to one of the women's. She looked as if she were about to faint.
"Are you the manager?" The woman trembled. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Uh – no. I think," he rounded on the man they had seen open the doors to the bank, "you're the one I'm looking for."
The man was trying to be brave. Despite being a good foot shorter than the Joker, he met his gaze straight on.
"Let them go and I'll do whatever you want," said the man.
The Joker seemed to consider his demand.
"I'll let them go after you do what I want."
A sudden movement caught Monroe's eye. She grimaced; one of the women was trying to creep round to the other side of one of the teller counters, no doubt to reach for the silent alarm. Even with her limp, Monroe managed to sneak up behind her before she reached the alarm. Monroe slipped one of her newly acquired screwdrivers out of her jacket sleeve.
"Don't try to be a hero," she warned, whispering right into the woman's ear. Monroe pressed the screwdriver's handle into the small of her back. The woman froze. "There's no need for anyone to die today."
"Looks like our Ghost has found us a volunteer!" announced the Joker.
Both women turned to see that they had attracted the attention of everyone else in the bank. The Joker fumbled in the pockets of his purple coat, muttering to himself under his breath as he did so. Monroe pressed her screwdriver harder into the woman's back when she tried to move.
"Aha!" cried the Joker, brandishing his prize with all the enthusiasm of a panner coming across gold.
He politely asked the woman to hold out her right hand. Monroe applied more pressure on her screwdriver. The woman complied. The Joker placed the device in her hand. It looked like nothing more than a camera film canister, except there was a button at its top which the Joker now positioned the woman's thumb over. And then he made her press down.
"That there's a dead man's switch," he explained. He flung his arm out, gesturing to the rest of the bank. "We've wired a little present to the foundation supports in your basement. Just…don't let go. And we'll all be fine."
The Joker walked back to where he had left the bank manager and grabbed the man by his tie, pulling him along like a dog on a leash.
""Let's go do some business."
Monroe made to follow them, slipping her screwdriver back up her sleeve.
"You didn't have a gun."
She turned around. The woman was staring at her in surprise, and more than a little bit of hate.
"I never said I did." Monroe nodded at the switch in her hands. "But I doubt the Joker plays the same bluffs as I do. Drop that and this place goes boom."
Monroe left the Joker's men to guard their hostages and headed towards the vault. She found the Joker and the bank manager standing in front of the 20-tonne vault door, which was still tightly shut.
"It's on a time lock," the man was trying to explain. "Even if I wanted to, I can't get inside the vault until ten."
Monroe ran her eyes over the vault door.
"He's telling the truth."
The Joker clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in annoyance.
"Well, I guess you're no use to me."
Monroe's eyes widened as the meaning on his words sunk in. She hurried to the Joker's side as he withdrew a handgun and slapped wildly at his arm. It threw his aim off and the bullet struck the bank manager in his knee, instead of through his heart. The anger that rolled of the Joker in waves sent chills up Monroe's spine. She could tell that he was considering turning the weapon on her. Best to diffuse the situation quickly.
"We still need him," she said, keeping her voice calm and measured. "I can get us through that vault door but the safety deposit boxes in there work on a Swiss system. We need three keys that have to be turned at the same time. And he has those keys."
Monroe could practically see the vein throbbing at the Joker's temple.
"I suggest…that you get to work, Ghost," the Joker ground out, his voice barely held in check.
Monroe didn't need to be told twice. She immediately turned her attention to the safe's door, noted that it was a Mosler engineered vault, and felt a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. Mosler vaults were world famous for their unparalleled ability to withstand the devastating impact of an atomic bomb. During World War II, when the United States destroyed Hiroshima, tens of thousands of people lost their lives. Yet not one but two Mosler bank vaults survived the disaster with nary a scratch on them. Whatever the Black Mask had in his safety deposit box must have been very, very important to him.
Too bad he didn't know about the Mosler's lesser-known reputation: the vault had a hack. To be fair, it was a secret jealously guarded by the underworld's master thieves. Fortunately for them, Monroe had at one time spent a whole year training under one of those masters.
She reached for the first of the two tumblers and pressed it in thrice. She pressed the second tumbler six times, pressed the first twice more, gave the steel plate right next to the tumbler a solid kick, and spun the handle wheel counter clockwise. There came the heavy groan of the bolts drawing back.
"And we're in," muttered Monroe, eye gleaming with barely suppressed excitement.
The call she had made to Aiden had given her the Black Mask's safety deposit box number. Monroe made a mental note to get him the most amazing present ever when this was all over. She still didn't know how he managed to break into the systems of some of the world's most secure online databases and never get caught, but she was glad she had him on her side. He had reassured her that he and his family were safe, though Monroe knew she'd feel better once she was sure that the Black Mask was no longer a threat.
"That one."
The Joker pulled the bank manager to his feet and grinned menacingly at him.
"Show time!"
The bank manager didn't even try to put up a fight or offer any excuses. The Joker propped him up against the deposit boxes near the one they wanted. The man loosened his tie, looking a bit pale and sweating buckets. Standing must have been excruciating but he did not complain. Unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt, he drew out a thin chain; on the end of which hung three shining keys. He inserted them into their respective locks. Monroe and the Joker reached for a key each.
"On the count of three," said Monroe, looking both men in the eye to make sure they understood. "One. Two. Three!"
The door swung open silently. The Joker pushed them aside and lugged the box onto one of the many metal trucks that the vault contained. He stood it on its end and studied the lock on it, sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth. He turned back to the bank manager.
"You don't happen to have a master key, do you?" he asked, as if he hadn't just shot the other man two minutes ago.
The man very obligingly pushed up his left sleeve and removed the brass key that dangled on the thick bracelet he wore. The Joker held out his hand for it.
"Thank you."
The Joker jammed the key in its lock, twisted it, rubbed his hands together gleefully and flipped open the lid of the safety deposit box. Inside, they found a stack of letters addressed to Roman Sionis in a delicate, feminine hand; a thick stack of crisp hundred dollar bills; a black velvet bag that held a handful of uncut diamonds; and a bulky looking manila envelope. Monroe reached for the envelope, ignoring everything else. The Joker watched as she slid it down the collar of her top, so that the envelope rested between the camisole she wore under her long sleeved shirt and her bare skin.
"We're done here."
The Joker cast a quick glance down at the more valuable contents of the box, before staring at her with a disconcerting, but undecipherable, expression. And then he nodded. They left the bank manager, bleeding profusely, inside the vault.
They found the Joker's henchmen right where they had left them. Monroe felt an unexpected sense of relief that no one else had been shot in their absence. The woman was still holding the dead man's switch, though her hand was starting to shake. Wordlessly, the Joker headed towards the fire escape. The others followed close behind. The Joker took the stairs two at a time and Monroe found herself grudgingly admiring his stores of energy. She wondered if he had downed several cans of Red Bull before the heist. Less than three minutes later, the four of them burst onto the empty roof of the bank.
"Now what?" asked one of the goons.
Gotham General Bank & Trust was a freestanding building. One side faced a completely glass fronted skyscraper, one side faced a series of high-end shopping boutiques, one side faced a parking complex, and one side opened out onto a public park. There was at least a fifteen-foot gap between the building they were on and the next. Monroe grabbed one of the remaining duffel bags off of the nearest hired thug. It was then that he noticed that the Ghost and his Boss had not returned with any visible loot.
"Where's the cash?"
"There isn't any," muttered Monroe as she rummaged around in the bag. Zipping it back up, she reached for the other one.
"Then what was the point of all this!"
Without warning, the Joker pointed his gun at his own man and shot him right between the eyes. Monroe's head shot up, looked between the Joker and the quickly cooling corpse, and went back to the task at hand.
"Feel better?" she asked distractedly.
"Much," said the Joker dryly.
The remaining thug cast his eyes about the roof, pretending that his Boss had not just shot his colleague. Finding the zip line gun, Monroe walked towards the edge of the building that faced the car park, took aim and fired. Their man went first with one of the duffel bags across his back. He did not even mention the obvious fact that they were using him as a guinea pig to test the line's strength. The Joker zipped across next. Monroe slung her duffel bag onto her back, an arm slipped into each handle so that she wore it like a backpack. She had to bite her lip to keep from whooping in pure joy. There really were few things more thrilling than flying across a large gap with a deadly drop below her and no safety harness on. She did not even bother cutting the line once she reached the other side. She had made sure that the police wouldn't have been able to trace any of their equipment back to them. Several rock-climbing enthusiasts living in upscale Gotham, however, would soon find themselves receiving a visit from the city's finest. The Joker and his thug were already halfway across the car park. Monroe ran to catch up.
Monroe had bandaged up her wound earlier that morning, wrapping it tightly. That combined with the adrenaline pumping in her system made whatever pain she might have felt pretty much non-existent. She grinned deliriously. It had been a while since she had had this much fun.
As they traversed roof after roof, making their way to the pre-arranged rendezvous point, the grin on Monroe's face grew wider and wider. But it was not longer just the rush of the job that was spurring her on. She could feel the envelope resting against her chest. With it, she and the Joker were going to take down one of Gotham's emerging crime lords.
With it, she was going to bring the Black Mask to his knees.
Btch: Yes, Monroe's her own special type of crazy. That's why we love her. Haha!
Love-ly. Love-lyLovely45: I agree that this story's definitely worth the effort. I find that bits of Monroe and the Joker's personalities are starting to creep their way into other things I write too. I think they're slowly taking over my brain. I will miss Teddy but MONROE WILL HAVE HER REVENGE! REVEEEEEENGE! I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Latenightreader: It's all right. I know that sometimes it's hard to review every single chapter. But thank you for leaving a review so frequently. I swear; you're a bloody legend. Yeah, it is getting a bit intense. Honestly, I just feel kind of bad for the citizens of Gotham.
Random info:
Abyssus abyssum invocat colloquially translated means "Two wrongs do not make a right". But I agree with Monroe. The literal translation sounds a whole lot more awe-inspiring.
You'll notice a bit of Latin in this chapter. Here are some other quotes I liked that didn't fit with the story:
Flectere si nequeo superos, Achaeronta movebo – If I cannot move heaven I will raise hell (Virgil, Aeneid Book 7)
Qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum – Let him who wishes for peace prepare for war. (Vegetius). Similarly, Si vis pacem, para bellum – If you wish to have peace you should be prepared for war.
Illegitimis nil carborundum– Don't let the bastards grind you down (apparently a mock-Latin phrase that originated during WWII)
And finally, my favourite…
Quid quid latine dictum sit, altum videtur– Anything said in Latin sounds profound
By the way, that thing about the Mosler vaults being atomic bomb proof is true. However, Monroe's hack is not. I strongly do NOT suggest trying it if you ever come across a Mosler safe.
Remember to leave a review. You know I love hearing back from you guys! Though if you're going to leave a flame…at least make it constructive so I know what to correct.
Feed my habit!
Much love,
Scribbles