Chapter XXI- No Place to Hide
It started with the headache—a knife of dull pain that twisted at the base of her neck. She struggled against it, tried to stay asleep, but it refused to let up. Her eyes flitted back and forth under her lids, grasping futilely at the fleeting snatches of sleep. There was a faint scratching sound nearby that threatened to fully wake her up, but it was the frantic whisper that finally did it.
"Hey! Wake up!" said the voice. Ava groggily complied, stirring for a moment before finally opening her eyes. Panic sped her heart as she took in the strange surroundings. She lied on a concrete floor riddled with suspicious stains. Pipes snaked this way and that across the ceiling, connecting to what looked like boilers in the room's far corners. The walls were tough grey brick, and fading sunlight shone through fractured panes of dingy warehouse glass, casting warped shadows across the room.
"Where the hell am I?" Ava croaked, hastily sitting up; another dart of pain raced down her spine, forcing a whimper from her mouth. Her eyes narrowed, searching for the source of the voice she'd heard. "And who are you?"
"Shut up!" it hissed back. From a black recess of the room, a woman crawled forth, stopping a few feet away from Ava. "Do you want them to hear you?"
Ava recognized her as one of Bruce's girls from the party—barely. Her tawdry blue dress had given her away, but besides that, she was completely different. As expected, her caked-on makeup had sloughed off, revealing blue eyes wide with fear and cheeks sunken with what appeared to be hunger. Greasy unwashed hair hung in her face and bruises spattered her spray-tanned limbs. Ava shrank back as the woman who'd once been Bruce's showpiece skulked towards her, a savage scowl on her face.
Just a week ago this girl had been as snotty and arrogant as they come. Now she looked like a caged animal, teeth bared and crawling on all fours. "What happened to you?" demanded Ava, confused and concerned. As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized how stupid they sounded. Reality came rushing back full force; the funeral, the chaos, the fear—he'd taken her. The wind left her lungs, leaving her breathless. "Is that going to happen to me?"
"If you don't keep your damn mouth shut! They'll hear you and come after you," she shot back, taking a seat on the right wall. Ava groaned in pain as she shifted to her feet and tried to stretch out. Try as she might, her heart refused to slow. Her breaths became rapid pants as thoughts flew through her head. He told you not to go to the funeral, mocked a voice as she stared up at the narrow windows, And look at what happened! She was locked God knows where in the presence of Gotham's most dangerous criminal.
"What's your name?" asked Ava, pacing the tiny room.
"Why should I tell you?" shot Bruce's girl, incredulously eyeing Ava.
"Because if we're both getting out of here, it'd help to know each other's names first, right?" reasoned Ava, with no hesitation. Out of here, she thought, heart speeding again as she the word never came to mind; never seeing University Row, or Pam or Hazel or Harvey again. A tear threatened her eyes, but she hastily swiped it away.
Bruce's girl chuckled and took a deep breath before speaking. "It's Evelyn," she said, a barely-there smirk on her face.
"See, was that so hard? I'm Ava." There was a split second of hope that flitted between the two of them, easing the panic they'd first felt. Ava sat down beside Evelyn and sighed, placing her head in her trembling hands. It was almost surreal, like a horrific dream she'd had yet to wake up from. She simply couldn't have been taken by the Joker. There was dinner to be made and articles to pen and Christmas parties to plan with Pam and—
Muffled voices, then the telltale thud of footsteps. Ava's breath caught, and Evelyn hastily scuttled to her dark corner.
"Pretend you're sleeping!" whisper-shouted Evelyn. Ava flopped back on the floor and shut her eyes.
The footsteps got nearer, then the metal door creaked open as a man stepped through. Not daring to look at him, Ava slowed her heart as best she could and prayed he would leave.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Ava could no longer tell if it was her heart or the man's steps that thundered in her ears, but it didn't matter—this was real; all of it. The thudding stopped and she heard the slight rustle of the man's clothing as he stooped over her. Fingers reached out and stroked her hair, and she had to consciously stop herself from gagging.
"Is she the new one?" he asked, directing his voice at Evelyn's corner. His voice was slow and methodic, like he'd tried out the words a million times before. "She's pretty."
Evelyn didn't answer, but Ava could hear her quiet cry. Oh God, just leave, thought Ava, eyes darting beneath her lids. His fingers were rough against her face, tracing small circles across her cheek.
After a moment, he spoke again. "Come on out, sweet cheeks. I ain't got all day."
"Go fuck yourself," rasped Evelyn, tugging at the corners of her grimy dress. The man didn't speak at first, only chuckled eerily before standing and stalking over to Evelyn. Ava could hear her shriek as he seized her by the hair and drew her from the corner.
"Listen to me, bitch. I'm the only thing stopping him from killing you. He says 'why don't we kill the wailing whore?' and you know what I did? Ask to kill that old bastard instead, said you were my piece of ass!" With his back turned to her, Ava opened one eye and saw Evelyn trapped against the wall by the man, his hand around her neck. Evelyn caught her eye and looked away in fright. "So play nice, baby, or I'll let him take you next."
Evelyn went limp, letting the man kiss her and roam his hands all over her body; his breathy moans were sickening as Ava saw the absolute disgust written all over Evelyn's face. When he'd had enough of that, he whispered "let's go" and led her out by the hand, too preoccupied to even think about Ava on the floor. Evelyn followed wordlessly and looked over her shoulder—the light in her eyes had gone out.
When they'd left, Ava turned over and cried, not bothering to quiet the loud gasps or wipe the tears that fell from her eyes.
-X-
"Patient 34827, Miss Pamela Lillian Isely," said Harley, speaking into the slim voice recorder. Oh brother, thought Pam, arms crossed as she slouched in the metal chair. Patient 34827—it had an odd ring to it, almost made her sound like a legitimate inmate. Then again, that was an extremely likely possibility if this psychological evaluation didn't go well. "Ms. Isley is convicted of the first degree murder of Jason Joseph Woodrue, but claims to suffer from auditory hallucinations, believing that plants speak to her; she also displays some hypersexual tendencies. This interview will determine whether 34827 is fit to stand trial in a court of law."
Pam rolled her eyes, and smiled at Harley's level voice. Believes? Oh sweetie, the things I can do with a bulb of nightshade…The recorder didn't pick up the contempt in Harley's blue eyes, or the vein that throbbed just beneath the skin of her pale neck; it didn't pick up the revulsion that marred her pretty face or the way she drummed her pen against the table, trying to steady her nerves.
"We'll start with some baseline questions," gritted Harley, "Are you twenty six years of age?"
"Yes," answered Pam, playing with a lock of her hair.
"Do you live in apartment 117 at 763 Yorman Avenue?"
"Yes."
"Are you aware that you've killed a man?"
"Yes," replied the redhead, heart speeding. "Though I'd hardly call him a man."
That got Harley's attention. Her attention snapped up from her clipboard to Pam's face, only to find a defiant green gaze. I'm not making this easy, thought Pam, jade-hued lips twitching into a smug smirk. She could see Harley wanted nothing more than to leap across the table, but she wasn't worried. Bound by the Hippocratic oath and a sense of priss that grated Pam's nerves, Harley wouldn't veer from her duties of a good little soldier.
"And why is that?" Her pen tapped out a quick rhythm on the clipboard, a little one-two-one-two that reminded Pam of an old commercial jingle.
She wanted the whole story top to bottom? She'd get it—the pure uncensored version a la Isley. "You don't know what he did you? Only that you found him dead on your floor with some redheaded bitch smiling over him? Start asking the right questions, dearie—these aren't doing you justice."
Fierce rage blazed in those eyes, then an unsettling calm as Harley reined herself in. "Fine. What should I ask?"
"Where he got the drug from," snorted Pam, leaning forward and bracing her arms on the table; Harley's breath hitched. Gotcha, you self-assuming bitch. As if the pretty blonde were some martyr here to rid the earth of man-murdering psychopaths. "After all, I'm sure you've found it wildly effective in your trials, haven't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," defended Harley, though the flash of worry that crossed her face suggested otherwise.
Of course not. "The novaphyl—don't play dumb with me, Harlot," teased Pam, relishing the anger that crossed the good doctor's face. "Let me guess, you and Saint Jason started dating about two months ago? Doctor Crane introduced you two, at the Pinckney Gala. And he was so charming and intelligent that he asked to move in and you said yes without a moment's doubt."
"Please refrain from calling me anything besides Dr. Quinzel. That is my name." Pam watched as Harley struggled to maintain her professional mask; the blonde psychiatrist fixed the lapel of her lab coat. "This conversation is strictly professional, Ms. Isley. We're not here to discuss my personal life. Now, tell me how you and Doctor Woodrue knew each other."
Well played, thought Pam quirking a brow. "You want to know about little old me? Fine. Jason and I were fucking," she explained, smirking as Harley's mouth twitched into a frown. "I was a student in his Biopharmaceuticals classes for almost a year before he asked me out on a date; the rest is pretty simple. About four months ago we broke up. Two months later, he asked me to work with him on a cross-species fusion experiment—a new drug that would allow plant DNA to integrate in the human body. Just as we'd finished, he introduced me to Dr. Crane, who suggested we move straight to testing. When I objected, they slipped a vial of the untested shit in my champagne that laid me up in the hospital for a week. Do you really need me to spell the rest out for you?"
Harley was quiet for a moment, confusion on her face. She'd stopped messing with her lapel, instead staring Pam square in the eye.
"Miss me already, Pammy?" Pam only crossed her arms and stared back, ignoring the mocking voice. Hell no, she thought, though the aching pit in her stomach told her otherwise; this man was dead because of her kiss and a poison plant. Dead.
"As a matter of fact, I do. You say you developed supernatural powers," said Harley, glancing at her clipboard.
"When I first got to the hospital. That wonder drug gave me dreams, turned my lips green," replied Pam, pointing to her mouth. "I have ivy on my arms! No one makes that up."
"That could be the result of cosmetics, body art, and hallucinogens," asserted Harley; she didn't sound convinced.
"It could also be a radioactive allergic reaction to your boyfriend's shit gave me; but what do I know?"
"Quite right, Ms. Isley," said Harley—there was a mild curiosity in her words veiled beneath the professional vexation she was required to show. Pam watched as Harley switched the voice recorder off and tucked into her pocket. She stood and opened the door, gesturing for Pam to leave the slate examination room. "What do you know? Be here tomorrow at 3:15 for another examination. I need another evaluation before I send the D.A. my final decision."
Pam stretched and pulled her sweater around her chest. Harley gave her a measuring glance, making a judgment about god knows what. Pam only shrugged and shook her hair out before starting off down the hallway.
"Seems to me you've already made one," said Pam, shooting the doctor one last glare before leaving Arkham's psychiatric offices.
-X-
"No, please don't do this!" screamed the blue whore; he almost laughed. "Don't do this, don't do this!" They all sounded like bad broken records, making the mistake of thinking he actually gave a shit. The old geezer said it, the rich trust fund baby, and now this bitch—beggars, all of them. Like this was some sort of charity; that one garnered a chuckle. Save the Dumbasses Foundation, he thought. With its president, the goddamn Batman. Dopey gripped the girl's arms behind her back, whispering whatever sweet nothings a grown man in clown paint could with a measure of self-respect.
"Oh, beautiful," said Joker, palming his knife and striding toward her. "I told you once, and good ol' Dope's warned you twice—stop screaming; faking it for his benefit isn't doing much except disturbing my beauty sleep. But since you insist, I'll give you something to scream about. A little…modification to that pouting face." She reflexively backed into Dopey, who forced her forward despite the shadow of jealousy that crossed his face. Got attached, did we? thought Joker, glancing between them. The girl clearly wanted nothing to do with him, but the henchman's eyes were glued to the faux cleavage that threatened to spill from her now-dirty dress.
"Hand her over," growled Joker, the unspoken threat clear in his voice.
Dopey looked down at the whore and something akin to objection shone in his eyes. "Boss," tried the imbecile. "D-do you really have to do this? Me and the guys have fun wit' her and—"
A glare shut him down. Joker's other men had assembled in front of the boiler room, craning their heads for a glimpse of the unfolding events. Fun? A two-bit gold-digger was no fun. But this little exercise in power? That's a damn carnival. A surge of glee spread through his body, bringing a snarling smile to his face. He had intended to sacrifice some poor Narrows bastard tonight, but this was too good to resist. An idea struck the clown prince.
"Get the other girl," he ordered, not bothering to look at Dopey—he would get his due later. For now, he'd ensure this was a performance none would readily forget. "The reporter. I want her to see this too."
He still couldn't believe it'd been that easy—literally bumping into her, badge and all. Ava Madden. She'd avoided him for so long it seemed he'd have to try harder than running a damn side street. But now that she was here, his collection was complete. Gotham loved its heroes, its infallible symbols. The White Knight, Benevolent Mayor, Judicious Judge and the Ambitious Reporter—they kept the city alive, giving the people hope that good could beat evil, whatever that was. He'd seen these same symbols morph countless times, normally into ingenuine versions of themselves.
Still, the public worshipped them, praised them for bringing them the truth. He going to put an end to that bullshit—starting tonight. A minute later, the angered cries of another woman melded with the sobbing blue whore's. Bozo emerged from the boiler room, tugging an unwilling Ava by the arm. He watched as she slapped and clawed at the goon's arm, even digging her heels into the slate floor in an attempt to break free. She had guts—that counted for something.
"Let me go you fucktard," she shouted in between blows, tears forming when Bozo didn't budge. "Let me—" She froze when she saw Joker poised over the other girl. He shot her a quick grin, and took his knife out.
"Nice of you to join us, Dollface." He seized the screaming whore's face between his gloved fingers and rested the knife on her cheek; horror was frozen on the reporter's face, and a swell of pride puffed his chest. Welcome to the jungle, sweetheart. "Do me a favor, will ya? Make this your next front pager."
-X-
Gray. That was the only thing that registered as Ava watched helplessly. There was the vague chatter of Bozo and the other men behind her, but it was muted, miles off from the warehouse-turned-lair; the smell of cigarette smoke made her gag, but it made no difference. His shirt's gray. His shoulders rippled beneath the patterned dress shirt, coiling as he held Evelyn's face in his hands. A monster dressed in a gray dress shirt—the whole thing felt like some sort of horrible fever dream. She blinked once, then twice—he was still there, looking her in the eye, daring her to move.
"Make this your next front pager."
Red. And a scream. Was it hers? She didn't know. Bozo's grip tightened as she was pushed forward until she stood right behind Joker, afforded a clear view of the unfolding events. He was quick, jamming his knife into one side of Evelyn's cheek and slicing half a jagged smile into it. Ava's knees buckled as crimson spurts of blood welled up around his knife; she could hear the sickening rip of flesh and Evelyn's shriek as she thrashed and tried to push the monster away. He held her face fast, laughing as he started on the other side.
It was twice as bad, blood running from her cheeks and staining her dress and the floor. She'd lost the ability to scream, instead making pained gurgles as she struggled to keep her eyes open.
"Oh my God," whispered Ava, trying to wrench out of Bozo's hold. "Stop it! You're going to kill her!" She couldn't believe she'd spoke. The voice didn't sound like hers—panicked, weak, unsure. She usually had a handle on things. But this was a whole other story. He was carving her face a like a damn Jack O' Lantern, and everyone was laughing at it like it was a goddamned game. Joker looked over his shoulder, and Ava shied away, scolding herself for opening her mouth. Shit, shit!
"Me? I'm only giving her a fake smile to go with her fake tits," he corrected, shrugging. She shivered as his fake smile dropped to a scowl; he sighed and he cocked his head to the side, studying her with murderous eyes. "But if you insist…"
The other men howled with "oh's" and "get 'ems!", but Ava couldn't hear them very well. Her attention was riveted to Evelyn, as tears running down face to her newly-opened cheeks. "NO!"
He ignored her, taking the knife from Evelyn's cheek and deftly severing her throat; Ava lost it. She vomited, retch-screaming as she watched Evelyn's limp body fall to the floor and pooled scarlet under Ava's feet. She tried again to free herself, get the hell out of there and back to University Row—Bozo only laughed, pressing himself against her. Joker cracked his knuckles and shook out his lank hair before turning to her, glove and knife still painted red. Ava shrank back, as the clown advanced on her, stopping a breath's distance apart. His kohl-painted eyes narrowed, jagged smile stretched to its limit, he glared at her. Ava quivered, praying she wasn't next.
"Any more brilliant ideas, Dollface?"
A/N: And we're back to our regular chapters. No more 3-parters for a while. Anyway, things are pretty crazy for Ava and Pam! Watching a woman die, pissing off Harley Quinn—these girls are always in some sort of trouble. Hell, Ava now has to deal with Joker! Wonder how that'll turn out...
Don't worry, I didn't forget about dear Harvey. His shenanigans will be in the next chapter, but I wanted to get Joker in because we haven't heard from him in a while. Hope you guys are doing well! It's been a busy couple weeks for me, and I'm trying to keep up as best I can.
Thanks for reading (and reviewing)!
~L.L.