Chapter Ten : Setting Yourself Up For Sarcasm

"You would be the corpse and I would be the killer,

If I would be the devil, you would be the sinner.

You would be the drugs and I would be the dealer,

Everything you say is like music to my ears."

Snow continued to fall in a soft, loose pattern, white against the navy sky. The light crystals drifted down, twirling and sinking and covering everything. Ava was sitting on the mansion's front porch, smoking, and letting the white flakes settle in her hair and on her clothes. She held the cigarette between her fingers, inhaling deeply, focusing on the feeling. The sun had set only moments ago, leaving the sky in a heavy blue, barely tinged with magenta at the horizon. It would be beautiful if I could see stars, she thought. Gotham's light pollution was awful. She held her cigarette very still; smoking from an odd angle, trying to see how much ash would balance on its end. The snow was perfect when it had just fallen. Untouched, unsullied. The pure white was beautiful. As the tiny tower of cigarette ash tumbled and fell to the snow, Ava sighed softly. She ground it out against the cement of the porch floor, standing up carefully, brushing the snow off of her pants.

Walking inside to the kitchen, she was throwing away what was left of her cigarette when her back pocket began to vibrate. She reached into the pocket and pulled out her phone, glancing down at the caller ID. Jonathan Crane was calling, it read. She raised an eyebrow slightly and pressed the answer button, holding the phone to her ear.

"Hey. What's going on?" She asked into the receiver. The last time he'd called her it hadn't been for casual conversation.

"Ava…don't panic, but there's something you have to know." He sounded uncomfortable, the tone of his voice making Ava stiffen slightly.

"What is it?" She asked warily. The sick feeling of concern returned to her stomach as she tightened her grip on the phone.

"Victor escaped Arkham an hour ago." He told her hesitantly. For a moment there was only silence over the phone as Ava stood frozen. She took in a deep breath, staring down at her hand, which had begun to tremble.

"What are we going to do?" She asked him, quiet edge seeping into her voice.

"I think we should leave. Go…somewhere. I'd be willing to say that he's going to come looking for you." He said. "He knows where to find you, and if you're not at your house, he'll look for you at mine." She took a moment in the silence to feel very scared, and then she repressed it.

"Should I meet you somewhere?" She asked.

"I can come get you." He said quietly.

"Okay. Should I…pack things?"

"Enough for a few days, I'd think. I'll be there in…fifteen minutes." He said. "Don't…tell anyone where you're going."

"I won't." She said softly. "I'll see you soon." She hung up, letting her hands hang at her side for a moment as she stood and breathed in and out. She closed her eyes, squeezed them shut, inhaled deeply. She was about to open them when a voice startled her.

"What was that?" Naomi asked softly. Ava turned, eyes widened slightly in surprise. A look of concern crossed her face. How could she explain this to her sister? She couldn't involve her, but how could she protect her?

"I have to go somewhere. I'm…I'm really not sure when I'll get back." She said, nervously picking at her nails. She crossed the room to Naomi, putting her hands on her little sister's shoulders. "You need to spend the night at a friend's house tonight. You need to just…trust me." A small look of anger flitted across Naomi's face.

"You want me to just leave? What the hell is going on, Ava?!" She asked. A pained look crossed Ava's face, conflicted as she looked at Naomi.

"I…you will really be safer if you don't know. You know I wouldn't lie to you, I wouldn't make this up…but you need to trust me. Please." She looked into Naomi's brown eyes, earnestly, begging her. Naomi's expression of anger was frozen for a few moments more, before it resigned.

"Okay. I'll go to Bella's house." She said softly. Ava wrapped her arms around Naomi in a crushing embrace for a moment.

"Please know I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't important. I hate scaring you. Please text me, okay? Keep in contact." She whispered. "Take my car." She told her sister, digging her keys out of the pocket and putting them in her sister's hand. She smiled at her, knowing Naomi liked her car better than her own. "I'll see you soon, I promise." Naomi's expression softened and she smiled at her sister.

"Love you, blondie." She said wryly.

"Love you too, shorty." Ava grinned. She watched as her sister went outside and got in her car, made sure to watch as she pulled out of the driveway. She breathed a sigh of relief and checked the clock on the microwave. She had five minutes. Half-running to the stairs, she climbed them two at a time into her room where she grabbed clothes out of her dresser and shoved them into a black messenger bag. Several shirts, jeans, sweaters, bras, panties, socks. She threw in her makeup bag and after a moment of hesitation, the switchblade from the box under her bed. She threw in a pack of Camels and her Zippo before closing the bag. Peering out the window, she saw a silver car roll up the driveway, and hoped desperately that it was him. For some reason, she was under the impression that Victor Zsasz probably traveled on foot. She climbed back down the stairs, bag over her shoulder and out the front door.

Ava was lying on a very large, soft mattress. Unbeknownst to her, Jonathan apparently owned multiple properties. This one was at the very outskirts of Gotham, a complex made within the last month. There were two other tenants in the whole building—Jonathan's apartment was on the very top floor. Jonathan's reasoning was that when Victor realized that the two of them weren't at their homes, he would assume they'd left the city completely. The reasoning seemed fair enough. They'd been here for two days, and it had become apparent to her that Jonathan had a very particular sense of style. It was nice, everything in order. It was similar to his apartment near Arkham, with wide windows and white furniture. Bookshelves everywhere, soft sheets on the bed.

Ava was reading, legs folded under her, back to the headboard. The room's curtain was drawn—you couldn't be too safe, really. She was reading Stephen King's The Shining, enjoying it immensely. Jonathan had gone out to get more money and alcohol, necessities for fugitives of a kind. He'd left about thirty minutes ago, and she'd been content to stay and read. As she dragged her forefinger down the side of the page, she was startled by a knock on the door. Jonathan had a key. Obviously. It wasn't like she'd ordered a pizza. The knocking persisted, escalating in ferocity. Fear shot through her veins in a temporary rush. Her mind buzzed as she set down the book and crawled to the edge of the bed. Leaning down, she pulled her messenger bag from its place under the bed, digging inside until she found the handle of her knife. A gun would be better, she thought to herself. The door began to make cracking sounds, the wood splintering under what sounded more like kicking than knocking. She rose, climbing off the bed and leaving the bedroom, moving silently with the knife clenched in her right palm as she flicked it open.

Her scene was oddly reminiscent of a slasher film, the kind she always watched, freely giving the lead character advice like, "turn on the lights" or "stop fucking screaming." She readjusted her grip on the knife, listening to the door giving way. A splinter became obvious on her side of the door with another kick about halfway up. Eyeing her situation, she moved silently to stand behind the door, to where if it opened, she'd be behind the intruder. She waited, flinching slightly at each kick. Resonating, shaking the drywall, the door gave way to a white shoe. She watched, petrified, pressed to the wall in silence. The shoe pulled out of the hole, and after a moment, a hand reached through, up to the lock. She steadied her hand, waiting, as a man's hand unlocked the door from the inside. The door creaked open, and a chill drove down her spine as she heard Victor's voice.

"Who's home?" He asked in a disgusting, playful tone. Her socks silent on the hardwood floor, she moved forward and plunged her blade into his shoulder. She felt every second of the cold metal sinking into the muscle, and his agonized scream ripped into her eardrums. She jerked the knife out of him, stumbling backwards, tensed and trying to look intimidating. He spun to face her, enraged and unstable.

"You bitch!" he snarled, lunging for her. His palms enclosed around her throat, slamming her to the wall. Tightly, he dug his thumbs against her trachea, forcing painful, empty gasps from her. The knife was still held loosely in her right hand. Beginning to feel dizzy, she found the strength to force it between his ribs, up to the handle, only to yank it back out. His hands released her as he emitted another growl, his right fist flying into her cheek. For a moment, she saw stars. Glaring back at him, she hoped that the double vision wouldn't interfere as she blindly kicked at his face. The heel of her foot hit his nose, sending him backwards on the heels of his hands. She scrambled to her feet, still having trouble breathing as he took her fallen knife, swinging wildly, landing shallow cuts on her legs. She stumbled into the kitchen, ripping the heavy toaster out of the wall. She threw it, slamming it down atop Victor Zsasz's head. He sank to the floor, unsteadily, head rolling back against his shoulders, hitting the wood. Bruises began to blossom in dark, ugly shades of blue at his temples and Ava grimaced, gripping the counter for stability. She began to pull open kitchen drawers until she found what she was looking for; duct tape. She went back and knelt beside unconscious Victor, using some of her remaining strength to roll him over and duct tape his wrists together. She used an impressive amount of tape, looping in and out and around until she was positive he was secure, before doing the same with his ankles. Finally, she pulled a final piece of tape, biting it off and placing it firmly over his mouth. She didn't want to hear his rudeness, and she didn't need him to scream anymore. She felt exhausted, her cheek was throbbing and her ankles stung, riddled with a pattern of sharp cuts. She walked stiffly to the bathroom, hunting until she found rubbing alcohol and cotton balls. My luck, she thought to herself as she came back and sank down against the wall beside Victor. Shakily, she poured alcohol on a cotton ball and pressed it to the cuts on her ankles. She went through each one, putting the bloody cotton on her lap as she ritually disinfected the next. The sting made her grit her teeth slightly, but she finished after a moment.

Jonathan walked down the hallway, plastic bag in hand to find that the door to his apartment had a gaping, splintered hole in it. He arched a brow and pushed it open, worry swimming in his stomach despite his effort to stay calm. His jaw fell open slightly at the sight before him. Victor Zsasz, duct taped, bloody and unconscious on the wooden floor. Ava, cleaning her cuts, with a horribly bruised cheek, leaned up against the wall. She glanced up at him.

"Sorry about the blood on the floor. Also, I broke your toaster. Sorry." She said. "Also the door. That wasn't my fault but I kinda let it happen. I'll pay you back for, uh…damages." She said, capping the alcohol carefully and scooping up her bloody cotton balls. She grasped the wall, standing carefully to throw them away.

"Are you…what happened?" He asked, shutting the door behind him, and putting the bag down in the kitchen.

"Well. Kind of a weird story." She said, slight smile. He paused thoughtfully before reaching into the bag on the counter and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. He tilted it suggestively, watching a grin break on her face. She leaned against the counter as he grabbed two shotglasses, placing them on the island and filling them up.

"Alright," she began, taking one of the glasses and swallowing the shot, "I was reading, and he started…knocking, I guess. He didn't stop, and after a minute, he was kicking. Trying to break down the door. I got that knife"—she gestured to the bloody weapon on the floor—"out of my bag, and sorta hid behind the door. He broke a hole in it and unlocked it, let himself in, and I stabbed him in the shoulder." She rubbed at her temples, trying to remember details. "He tried to choke me," Jonathan noticed faint bruising at her throat, "and I stabbed him in the ribs. I don't think I got any major organs. I got up to smash his head in with your toaster—sorry about that, again—and he tried to stab my ankles. I, ah, got him. With the toaster. Yeah. I taped him up because I figure he'll come back around sooner or later and we don't want him to be capable of doing…things." She muttered. Jonathan watched her intently, assessing the bruise on her cheek. Deep purple and red and blue blossomed across her cheekbone. His gaze shifted to the sick man on his floor. The thought of him attacking her made he and Scarecrow both very agitated.

We'd better be planning to kill him.

I want to.

He touched her bruise, making her bite her cheek slightly in discomfort.

"I wish I'd been here." He told her regretfully, dark tone to his voice.

"You're here now. We're not done with him." She said, smirking as she threw a glance towards Victor.

"No, we're not." His eyes were colder than usual, sort of distant. He ran his hand down her side to rest on her hip as he pulled her closer, smiling maliciously. He watched her, small sense of pride burning in his heart at her triumphant smirk, the gleam of malice in her bright eyes. She was beginning to be like him, he thought. Beginning to see her darkness as a tool rather than a burden. It was so boring to comply with other peoples' morals. It had always been so tedious to follow the rules. Something big was coming, he felt, and she could very well be an important part of it. It would take gentle convincing. The first step would be letting her kill Victor. She'd killed before—that seemed obvious—but never truly of her own volition. She couldn't even remember it; she was a murderer on autopilot.

But she was a murderer. It was there, Jonathan knew. He simply had to bring it out. She was his to shape, he decided. His to create and guide, and she would be everything he needed her to be. He tightened his grip around her waist, pressing her close to him, moving his hand to her back. It went beyond his need for control, beyond their physical attraction. She was confused, angry, and ultimately frightened—she was what he had been before Scarecrow. She was the same kind of scarred, the same kind of closed-off and broken and violent that he was.

She was much like him, and beyond his desire to just have her, he felt he truly cared for her. She felt like something he'd been missing for a longer time than he'd care to admit. Something like an equal, a partner who wasn't just Scarecrow.

She interrupted his mental stream by leaning into him, twining her fingers through his dark hair and kissing him fiercely, gently biting his lip. He got off on fear, and she on pain—what a pair indeed. He reached behind her, under her shirt to rake his fingernails against her skin, to leave angry risen red marks against her flesh. She smiled against his lips, a whisper of a moan escaping her as the tingling burn spread through her nerves. Her head was just beginning to buzz when she heard a heavy thump. She froze, very reluctantly pulling away from him to meet his eyes. He raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering to the living room. She inhaled deeply, running her hand fleetingly down his chest before turning to walk to the room where Victor was. She walked over to him with slight hesitation, frowning down at his bound body. He seemed to have only just woken, and met her eyes with such rage and disgust that she almost took a step back. Instead, she knelt beside him with an acidic smile on her face, tearing the duct tape away from his mouth with a loud rip.

"Good evening, you stupid son of a bitch." She grinned. Jonathan walked into the room behind her, gazing down at Victor without sympathy. The man who had called himself a serial killer, a liberator? Pathetic. Jonathan wondered if Ava would need convincing to kill the man.

It can't be that difficult. I mean, she already kills people, right?

Not consciously. It's different, I imagine. She doesn't know she's doing it.

But the psycho murderous part of her is somewhere in there.

That's the point. We're going to find it.

I have a feeling she won't take much pushing.

Jonathan turned back to the scene, watching patiently. His mind's gears clicked and rolled mechanically as he sorted out hypotheses. Her breaking point seemed to be her mental stability, which made it perfect, really, for her to kill Victor Zsasz—it was his fault that she was damaged. Ava sat on the hardwood floor beside Victor, legs crossed, chatting idly. Her voice was high and mocking, relaxed, her words were full of vague threats. Her playful intimidation was something like the calm before the storm—and the storm would be bloody. At least, he hoped. He wanted very deeply to see Victor in pain, in terror, thrashing on the floor, and he wanted her to do it. He wanted to be the creator that made Ava into a masterpiece. Deep in his own thoughts, he was only half aware of the scene before him, and only tuned in when Ava stood, mouth set in a hard line as she glared down at Victor.

"You get an A plus for trying, Victor," she spat his name venomously, "but you're an idiot. You thought you were a savior? You're cheap. You're messy, you're a freak. You're not intelligent, Victor—you aren't special. You're a mentally defective criminal like everyone else, not a goddamned higher power." She growled, fists balled tightly, nails digging into her palms to leave harsh marks in her skin. His ringing laugher nauseated her, mocking and snarling in her ears.

"Sweetheart, you're the defective one. What's this I hear about living in foster care and getting arrested?" He rasped viciously, grinning from ear to ear as her expression of rage became one of bewilderment. She looked to Jonathan, shocked and angry, eyes wide. He raised his eyebrows, minimally shaking his head in response.

"You think I didn't take a look at our doctor's files before I came to find you? And you called me stupid." He broke into another fit of laughter, only to further anger her. Her composure was long gone, but her restraint remained, Jonathan noted. Every snide comment of Victor's directed at her sanity was chipping it a little bit further, shooting cracks through its foundation. Jonathan strolled coolly from the room, into the kitchen, listening observantly through the wall while they threw insults at each other. Eyeing the knife set, Jonathan carefully drew one out, a sleek, steel blade, thin as paper and sharper than a razor blade. He held it casually behind him as he reentered the main room to find Ava crouched beside Victor, who she had pushed up to the wall, her hand gripping his shoulder and her knuckles white.

Victor could feel her losing it just as Jonathan could, and he was a minefield of insane glee.

"You're just like me." He grinned, choking as she drove her fist into his stomach. "You always will be. In some ways—" he coughed as she hit him again "you are me." He grinned at her and she froze, eyes boring into his. She took a deep breath and began to tear away the duct tape that held his feet together, shaky and violent in her movements. Jonathan, standing behind her, started in shock. Slowly, carefully, he knelt beside her and slipped the knife, handle first, into her palm. She turned to look at him, eyes wide and surprised, hesitation behind them as she began to think she wasn't ready to kill Victor, despite how much she told herself she'd like to. Jonathan's eyes were fixed on hers, silently reassuring as he closed her hand around the knife, standing up behind her to observe. Slowly, she turned back to Victor, steadying her shaking hand around the knife—it was so strange how her apathy seemed to come and go. Victor Zsasz deserves death, she told herself. He did, that was fair to say. He'd killed civilians, people who were loosely to be considered innocent. He'd dared to have a child, Ava thought, familiar anger simmering in her brain. She saw red, dizzy as she looked at her father. Quickly, she finished ripping off the tape—feet and hands—and stood up. In the same moment as she rose, Victor lurched to his feet and started cackling at her, diving with outstretched arms to grab at her throat. Startled, she swung loosely with the blade in her hand and neatly grazed along his jaw as she stumbled backwards. The cut was shallow, straight, and long, and it bled immediately. A grin split his face as he pressed a finger up to the light wound, forcing more blood from the slit.

"This one can be yours." He snarled. "And I'll have to make another one for your doctor." He grinned. He dove again, hand successfully clasping around her windpipe for the second time that night. Jonathan took a step forward, prepared to intervene as Victor's hand tightened and Ava choked painfully under the grip. Her eyes darkened as she stared into Victor's, and with sudden roughness, she shoved the blade into the flesh of Victor's abdomen. A scarlet blossom of blood stained the fabric of the Arkham uniform he still wore. She stabbed him in the way that someone gets a piercing—anticipation and then a single jump, fueled by will. Tension dwelled in her stomach for moments before she plunged the blade into him if only to get it over with. She drew it out and in again, goring him vigorously. His blood began to cover her hand as he slumped, limp, held up only by her trembling hands and the steel lodged in his stomach. She pulled it out, shoving him off of the blade and crawling backwards with only the thought of getting away from him, from his body, from his sick presence. She breathed heavily, releasing the knife and sliding it away from her. In the silence, she realized he was dead. She realized there were tears on her cheeks, and she'd already tried to wipe one away before she realized she'd smudged his blood under her eye. It felt filthy. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and tried not to panic. Her heart pounded in her chest, throbbing, aching, and thumping so hard it hurt. She tried to swallow, her throat dry to contrast her eyes as they stung with tears. Unsteady, she stood. She looked the part—deranged, that is. Afraid. She was disheveled, her hair messy and her shirt hanging off one shoulder. Her throat was bruised to match her cheek, and Victor's crimson blood was smeared under her eye, on her hands. She stared at his body, slumped against the wall, and something like pride sparked somewhere inside her. She'd rid the world of something horrible. Perhaps it wasn't so bad, she thought. But you did kill someone. Maybe he was right. Maybe you're as insane as he is—trying to justify murder. Maybe you're sick.

Jonathan's hand touched her lower back. The gesture was so familiar. She'd thought earlier about him being an anchor for her—and it was even more true now. His hand against her back made her breathe more slowly. She wanted to lean into him, but stopped for fear of getting Victor's blood all over—such a silly thing to consider as she felt so close to the edge. She simply turned to look into his eyes, communicating through the static silence. I did it.

A/N: "Setting Yourself Up For Sarcasm" by Get Scared. Posting now to make up for the wait you had to endure for the last chapter. As usual, please review! X MikaMurha