The week spent cooped up in Bruce's penthouse was equal parts relaxing as it was stifling.

Relaxing in that she was able to maintain a semblance of privacy as word got out Batman had nabbed her from the Joker's clutches. She deliberately avoided watching the news or reading the paper. The media had a way of exploiting news under the guise of "investigative reporting". Which meant they wouldn't stop asking sensationalist questions or making misleading assumptions until the object of their pursuit either had some sort of emotional meltdown or their reputation was dragged through the mud. It nauseated her. They weren't looking for the truth, they were looking to make bank.

Bruce had been kind enough to pop by her apartment and grab her laptop, cell phone (she was overwhelmed with all the messages of relief for her safety), and a week's worth of clothes. Their friendship wasn't anything new to the media, so other than pestering him with a few questions, they took it easy on him.

In the week spent with Bruce she was able to find a replacement for Dr. Fitz; Dr. Hanna Lockhart - a psychotherapist specializing in manic depression in young adults, as well as organize a video call with Taj (her head software programmer) regarding switching over to a program that could house her app's booming user base.

Her app was called Oz Ascending, Oz shortened from Oizys, the Greek goddess of misery, depression, and grief. The ascension aspect to it alluded that no matter how deeply absent you felt from your existence, no matter how dark the thoughts or abysmal the self-worth, you may again find your way back to how the world looked when you'd been a fresh-faced child, eager and curious to experience this life to its full capacity.

Though it shouldn't have because it was Gotham, it still came as a surprise how immediately people had taken to her app, both young and old, male and female. Oz Ascending was free (and would remain so), affording the luxury of being listened to for those either embarrassed to seek mental health aid or unable to meet the expenses that came with seeking out help. And mental health services in Gotham were absurdly expensive.

Bruce had had the foresight to get her in contact with a reputable law firm that helped word the terms and conditions of the app. A lot of the users actively struggled with depression or suicidal thoughts. Being liable for someone's death would have been devastating, and doused all remaining hope for the haven the app could become. A bunch of clauses were added emphasizing that the mental health practitioners would listen and offer solutions but made no guarantee to cure. Similarly, a shortcut was installed in the app that allowed you to call the national suicide hotline number at the touch of a finger.

She had celebrated only recently the anniversary of launching the app. With a shoutout from magazine Gotham Health & Mind citing it as a "refreshing breath of air for those – often the downtrodden and destitute - lacking the means to attain professional help", Oz Ascending was doing better than she could have ever imagined.

It all really stemmed from her own difficulties in her darkest moments. Tight on cash and too unmotivated to leave her home even if help had been available, she often wished she'd had someone understanding in the room with her who sought to pull her from a headspace she was unwilling to herself. One of the core symptoms of depression was the overwhelming feeling of isolation. Feeling like you had no one to reach out to, no one who cared to talk you down from the ledge. She would never forget how crippling that isolation felt and how it had polluted her ability to reach out. She vowed in whatever capacity, to spare others that same sense of hopelessness. Her app was a byproduct of that vow.

Four days in to her captivit-ahem totally consensual stay with Bruce Wayne, she received a surprise visitor who nearly hugged all the air out of her lungs.

"Wes-can't breathe-," she'd gasped out through a laugh.

Wesley released her with a blush.

"I was so afraid for you," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "We all were. That was a brave thing you did for me. Just know…if you ever need anything at all…don't hesitate to ask."

He'd supplied her with his cell number and she returned the favor. She then asked if he wanted to stay for a bite to eat. Her company included either Bruce or Alfred, so Wesley was a welcome rotation.

They delved into some Vietnamese takeout and plopped down on the sofa to watch something. A documentary on animals native to Madagascar caught their attention. They relaxed and took to making an input every now and again whenever a fact caught their interest.

While on commercial, Wesley set down his takeout box and fiddled with his fingers. By a quick scan it was obvious he wanted to say something.

"Out with it, shrimp," she teased after viewing a minute of his fidgeting.

"I get not wanting to be hounded by the media," he stated, resting his clasped hands on a knee. "But…I'm just as curious as they are. Why did Joker keep you but let us go?"

She cocked her head, not really having given the question a serious examination. Because he's crazy, she wanted to say.

She didn't. The answer was tempting, but not the entire truth.

"I was a challenge, I think," she expressed, training her gaze out the window. "And he made it a point to mention how silly I was for having the morals I did. He wanted to see if he could corrupt them. Corrupt me."

Wesley gulped. Though no longer a captive, it was clear Joker had left an impression on him.

"I'd have died before letting him do so," she added. "Fear and influence are his greatest assets. Once that became clear, it was easy not to play the game. Well…easier. Nothing is really ever easy regarding him."

He didn't say anything else as the documentary resumed.

Before he left, they promised to meet up again later in the month at Edenia, a café and sandwich shop plopped right in the middle of a sprawling garden housing flowers and plants from around the world.

It was around day five when she began to feel truly stifled. In her free time, she had a tendency to wander and explore the city. Be it art expos, vintage stores, niche bars, eccentric museums, animals shelters, ethnic restaurants – you name it, she'd probably stepped foot inside some form of it. She was always cultivating her love of knowledge, gathering whatever information there was to be acquired in her brief stint on this planet. Just as well, such adventures had introduced her to a myriad of people, each one as interesting as the next. In particular, she'd been meaning to catch up with a close friend - Agatha - that ran a metaphysics and spirituality shop, as well as an improv group deemed The Cheekbone Factory who hosted improv nights four times a week at a theatre near her home.

To be stuck inside in an admittedly nice penthouse had her feeling a tad like a caged animal. You could only chat with Bruce or watch TV or scour the internet or read for so long. Pair this with having experienced something similar in her time with Joker and she was undergoing just a bit of cabin fever.

The end of the week couldn't have come fast enough, and with great timing. The media's attention was drawn to one of two events. Firstly, a scandal that rocked Gotham's City Council. An insider had been leaking the private spendings of public funds by three councilmen. Between frequenting high-end call girls, throwing coke and orgy parties, and renting out private jets, the story wrote itself. Both the media and public was weak in the knees when it came to a good sex scandal, this time being no different.

Personally, Celine was disgusted. Not at the lecherous spendings. People were free to do whatever they pleased behind closed doors. No, what rubbed her wrong was that it was people who were supposed to serve the public and aid in diminishing Gotham's crime rate and growing homeless population, that were debauching themselves so shamelessly. It was times like these where she got why Joker loathed the system in place. Seemingly no one was capable of holding them accountable. The people were too divided, too distracted, too apathetic. The media would scold and chastise those responsible, but that was the extent of their justice. A new scandal would come along, and all discretions and wrongdoings would be treated like a case of amnesia.

Speaking of the madman, the second story to distract Gotham's attention involved the Clown Prince of Crime himself. Apparently, he'd ransacked an arm's and ammunition's facility overnight and subsequently blasted the building off its foundation. While there weren't any fatal casualties, the idea of Joker now having possession of such an assortment of weaponry didn't sit well with anyone other than those who sought what he offered.

Celine had bit at her thumbnail while watching the coverage. Bruce joined her on the sofa a few seconds later, suddenly seeming to have lost all appetite for his bowl of cereal.

"Maybe you should lay low for awhile," she suggested. "I bet he's just itching to use what he's acquired on you. Give him time to sell some of it to the highest bidder."

"He doesn't care about accumulating wealth," came his exhausted answer. "Which means he needs the money for something else. I let him get the money he needs, he's one step closer to whatever he has in mind."

"Catch 22," she agreed. "Whatever you choose to do, please, be careful."

"Only because you asked so nicely."

Before Celine was to depart back home, Bruce took her on an expedition to the weapons room Lucius had constructed for him. It held every gadget at his disposal.

"Choose whatever you want," he said, eying her with a light smirk. "Something that would ideally put him down for good."

She didn't care for the intensity this was voiced with.

"How do you expect me to kill him when you've refused to on countless occasions? We're cut from the same cloth, Bruce."

He had the audacity to redden a little.

"I didn't mean…I would never ask you to end someone's life. It's just that…if I can't get to you…and he's decided you're expendable…it comes from a place of how much you mean to me," he amended. "If he killed you I don't know that I'd be able to stand by my own convictions."

"You did after Rachel," she said softly.

He took a long time to answer.

"I'm beginning to see…Joker can't be contained. Not by me, not by law enforcement, not by Arkham. He's like an infection too deep to cut out. And no matter what antibiotics you take, he'll find a way to keep spreading. It's a reoccurring thought I've been having of late. Nothing short of death has worked so far."

"Hm," she released, wandering around.

His admission astonished her, and then again didn't. Joker appeared to be a force incapable of being contained. His countless breakouts and resurgences attested to this. She agreed from an objective perspective. Nothing short of death could impede him.

But to hear this come from Bruce…no, Batman's mouth. She didn't know how to feel about it. She did want to give him a hug however. There was no doubting his concern for her.

So, she gave in, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders and resting her cheek against his chest. His arms circled her a few seconds later.

"Let me be your tether," she mumbled against him. "So long as I don't give in you don't either. To him, our lives are a game. Believe it or not, we have the advantage. We have a reason for fighting. And that's more powerful a force than anything he could throw at us."

He sighed into her hair before placing a kiss on her forehead.

"You're right." He leaned back. "It's…difficult. He's taken so much from me. It's tempting not to take something from him."

She shook her head.

"He has nothing to take," she said. "What we think we're taking from him, we're actually handing over. I'm afraid people like you and I…our paths were never meant to be easy. Life has decided to test us to the very extremes. But we were meant to persist, otherwise we wouldn't have made it this far, sanity intact. Well, mostly anyway. I still wonder about you and your nocturnal bat brain."

"Me too," he murmured, offering her a sly grin. "Thank you, Celine. You always help me regain perspective. I don't know if I'd still be Batman without you."

They detached and Celine continued her perusal.

It was when her eyes landed on a blocky black gun with red trimming that she stopped and tilted her head.

"Good choice," Bruce commented a moment later beside her. "One of the lightest weighing taser guns you'll ever hold. Fifty thousand volts, enough to knock any one on their ass, maybe out depending on the person's body current. Five hundred firings per battery cartridge. Thirty feet maximum with a switch near the safety that allows the wires to retract from skin and back into the barrel."

She picked it up and studied it, fingers sliding around the trigger. It weighed no more than a football. Her fingers gripped the weapon as she brought it up into a shooting position, left eye sliding shut. She aimed at nothing in particular, thumb flicking off the safety.

"Just point and shoot?" she mumbled, recalling the hunting classes her mother had enrolled her in when she was thirteen.

"And hope you don't miss."

She imagined the empty space to be the Joker, who in her mind was cackling so hard he had his eyes closed.

She pulled the trigger and the wires sailed forward, striking their target. Her thumb knocked the switch Bruce spoke of, to the right. In two seconds, the wires had retracted back into the barrel, ready for a second round.

"This'll do," she decided, bringing the taser down.

"I'll get you a holster before you go."

"I appreciate it Bruce."

Miles away in a condemned apartment building in the edge of the Narrows, Joker was flipping open a laptop.

His boys had done well. After their brief struggle with security personnel, he now had enough weaponry to start a civil war. Which was a tempting thought. Gotham could use a little population control. May the sharpest shooter win.

And of course, the facility's explosion had been simply beautiful to witness. He'd taken to wiring these bombs personally, not trusting anyone that wasn't him to not fuck it up. Morris had his value but attaining these weapons had been crucial for what he had in store. Everything needed to go without a hitch.

Now that he had some downtime, he opted on doing a little bit of research. He hadn't forgotten about his little firecracker. Doc had been reading a variety of papers earlier in the week and the media was desperate to interview Celine about her time with him. She apparently wasn't at home, taking to hiding out he guessed until things died down. He figured she wouldn't be the type to kiss and tell.

What tickled his humor most about the media's speculation was the head-scratching theories they'd constructed without a single input from her. A personal favorite lying on Doc's desk, from an infamously sensationalist paper titled Gotham Inquirer read on the front page in big, black letters: Is App Founder Joker's Secret Lover? Below was a photo of him in action, looking rather dashing if he said so himself, and beside his was a photo of Celine sitting at a desk, at work on something, smiling crookedly. He'd been so tickled he'd torn the page out and pocketed it, taking it out anytime he was in need of a good laugh.

He was just itching for a reunion. But first, he needed to do some homework.

Cracking his knuckles, he logged onto the search engine. Before hacking into more personal information, he figured he'd do a general search.

Typing in her name, he hit enter, leg bouncing in anticipation of what he'd find. The nine victims he'd chosen technically hadn't been picked out by him. He'd told Gil, who had proved his unending loyalty time and time again, to choose the nicest, kindest citizens Gotham had to offer. And he hadn't disappointed.

The first page's content cleared up a lot of information in a short amount of time.

His rabbit was well-known enough to have her own Wikipedia page, albeit brief. He made it a note to check later if he had his own. He'd love to hear what sort of notoriety he'd stirred up.

He learned she was born and grew up in a small oceanside town in Maine – Calgary Cliff. A mother was cited, but a father was not. Her presence in Gotham was by in large due to winning a full ride scholarship to the Gotham Institute of Technology. She failed to meet the academic standards required to hold on to the scholarship, and as a result, it was rescinded. She dropped out shortly after the end of her sophomore year, taking residence in the city following the death of her mother.

The page instantly skipped down to her accolades.

At age twenty-five she published four essays to The Gotham Journal of Philosophy as a guest view. He followed the links to each individual paper, biting his lip. This didn't come as a surprise in the slightest. When she'd mentioned Lester Heilig, he suspected her to be well-versed in a myriad of philosophy's sub-genres.

Personally, Max Stirner was a favorite of his. He'd been a major proponent in anarcho-individualism. To him, concepts like law, morality, religion were artificial and not to be adhered to. The individual is its own creature and its own creator. Similarly, things like state, property, and the very notion of society were specters of the mind. Only through personal, brute will were these artifices enforced. Thus, power belonged to no inherent group or family name. Had Joker been born and raised as he had in a city like say London, his focus would have been on deconstructing the Royal Family piece by piece. After all, who had any right to deem one blood lineage more important than another?

He'd also never had the chance to discuss with anyone his favorite sub-genre of philosophy: nihilism. It fit him like his gloves did, warm and snug. He owed no allegiance, no commitment to any person or state. Fate did not play a role in the cumulation of your character. God was dead. The individual existed in a meaningless society, meaningless state, meaningless universe. The closest form of meaning one could attain was to destroy the institutions bent on keeping you in line. Only then could you be free. Or at least that was his takeaway.

Celine Harlow's philosophies on life, after reading all four essays, was as opposite to his as you could get. And he'd have snorted at some of her influences if she didn't write in such a convincing, humbling manner.

Her first two essays marinated in the realm of stoicism and how its adoption by modern leaders could benefit the community. Meditations by Marcus Aurelius was sourced frequently.

She also admitted to struggling to find a balance between emotional intellectualism and objective. A fine line existed between the two and through a tricky combination of skepticism and intuition, one could find themselves harmoniously stabilized between the two.

Her third essay was a love letter to Taoist philosophy and her application of it during riskier moments in her life. Though his nose crinkled as he read it, his eyes were glued to every word. This piece better explained how it was she was still alive in Gotham. She believed in an organic sort of order in the universe, to trust your gut when the moment came, that separation from one another is all in the mind, and the only way to Be is to surrender.

As a result, the six times someone had attempted to mug her, she asked if they needed a place to crash instead. All the reactions had been unanimous: bafflement. Three had taken her up on the offer, two had returned her cash to her after their stay. She re-emphasized the importance of being aware of the duality of man. Yin and yang. Good and evil existed in each person. It was a matter of perspective on which you chose to see in someone. A well-balanced individual focused on neither specifically. They took both into consideration in any given time.

He leaned back after finishing this read, scratching at his chin.

"Huh," he said to himself.

She wrote with such persuasion it was difficult to counterargue her. And she wrote with such…such…

He didn't want to say intelligence. She didn't deserve that much credit. But it was obvious she took the time to truly examine herself and how she fit in in the grand scheme of things. That level of self-awareness…sorta…turned him on. He hadn't realized until then that he was half hard.

His tongue shot out to lap at his scars. One hand picked up the box of twinkies he had "purchased" and grabbed one. His eyes returned to the screen, readying himself to finish up the last essay. The twinkie was thrown into his mouth and consumed in one greedy bite.

She began the essay by documenting a magic mushroom trip she had been on in which a reoccurring thought consumed her: Existence is Absurd. She would laugh each time she thought this, convinced of its truthfulness the longer it played on loop, comforted by its rationale…or rather lack of. This allowed her to nosedive into absurdism in modern society and how sometimes the need to understand why good and bad happened was better left unanswered so as to save yourself the headache. She gave an example with the suicide of Gunther Powell.

Joker recalled the event as if it was yesterday. He should have wagered a bet with someone. It was clear to him from the get go how it was going to end.

Gunther Powell had been a weather forecaster for Gotham's highest rated evening news program. It had somehow been leaked that he partook in crossdressing and had been spotted leaving drag shows with groups of men. Though Gotham was a little more progressive than it used to be, when word of Powell's extracurricular activities leaked, the media had a field day. They were utterly perplexed that such a famous figure could lead such a compromising lifestyle, taking to inviting armchair psychologists and "professional" analysts to speculate on his behavior. Powell continued his position as a forecaster, though Joker suspected it was so the studio couldn't get sued for discrimination if they let him go.

For two months straight it had been the most covered story. Everyone seemed to have an opinion on it. When news hit that Powell had hung himself in his bedroom closet, no one took responsibility; instead, lamenting and mourning the death and deeming it an unavoidable tragedy. Those who once judged him, shed crocodile tears and wondered how and why it had happened.

In the essay, Celine called out the media's role in snowballing the events leading to his demise. They had crucified a man's private life on national television and then had the audacity to ask how this tragedy came to be. She went on to say how touched by his death she'd been. Mourning it caused her to take a step back and inspect the cumulation of everything leading to it. The lack of self-awareness, the public's obsession with others personal lives, the vigorous mania in which the media reported…she admitted to having laughed. And in laughing, his death had become just a little easier to process.

Joker blinked and leaned back.

This one was probably his favorite out of all four. It wasn't until reading it that he realized absurdism was an influence in his world view as well. How could it be they were so vastly different, and yet, the rare things they agreed about they might as well have been the same person?

His eyes dropped down to the rest of her accolades, but he was hesitant on learning more. He felt like he now knew her. Which was the point in doing research. But his knowledge of her almost felt…intimate. What was more intimate than a person's inner private thoughts? And he enjoyed what she had to say at that. It's not an experience he'd ever had before.

He snatched another twinkie and tossed it in the air, reclining his head back. The twinkie was airborne for mere seconds before dropping to its death in the clutches of Joker's jaws.

What the hell? he thought lazily through his munching. I'm committed to knowing her. Good to know this exists in that pretty little head of hers. Less chance of being taken off guard.

Satisfied with this logic, he resumed reading.

Her next work to get published was a short story to a magazine consisting of stories by local authors. Intrigued, he followed the link to it, switching the bouncing of his leg from right to left.

The story was titled Dante. It took only five minutes to finish reading it, but by the end, Joker was grinning from ear to ear. The story followed an eight-year-old boy named Denny whose dog Dante was snatched by "reapers". From how she described these reapers, he deemed them to be demons. Denny follows the reapers down a hole in the ground and ends up navigating his way through hell, though he refers to it as "the bad place". Denny encounters a handful of creatures and each time he does his love for Dante is tested. He passes each to the point that his body ends up glowing gold. And this light is enough to fend off the reapers and get his dog back.

The story was ludicrous and that she chose to tell it through the perspective of an eight-year old was telling. Grown adults lacked that fearlessness, that commitment to what they loved even when things got dicey. Children, generally at least, weren't tarnished by the same cynicism, the same selfish self-preservation. That love in the end could save the day had him rolling his eyes, but what else did he expect from her? He'd been entertained nevertheless.

Her next piece of writing to get published was also her last. And she'd apparently co-written it with…was he reading that right?

Dr. Jonathan Crane & Celine Harlow.

He was tempted to ignore the piece, still irritated with Crow for his involvement in Celine's rescue. That they wrote something together bothered him more than he cared to admit to. Only for her benefit did he follow the link to a website for a magazine he'd never heard of – Parapsychology Today.

Their article had apparently been taken down. He couldn't find any trace of it no matter how thoroughly he searched.

Probably covering themselves after Crane got thrown in the loony bin.

He shrugged, scrolling down to her final accolade, which was also the reason Gil deemed her worthy of being taken. She was the founder and co-creator of the app Oz Ascending. He scanned the app's history, freezing upon learning Bruce Wayne was her investor.

What did that pampered airhead know about mental illness?

Cracking his neck, Joker returned to the first page once Celine's Wikipedia page ended. The next few websites he clicked on were from entertainment magazines. There were countless photos of Bruce and Celine captured by paparazzi, walking together around Gotham City, getting a bite to eat in places Joker was surprised the billionaire would ever step foot into. Their bodies were close in each photo, but they never held hands or kissed. In one article, Bruce even clarified that they were only good friends.

It incensed Joker that Celine would associate with someone as self-absorbed as Wayne. She was far too good for the likes of that idiot. Far, far too good. Which made him wonder if they weren't trying to cover up a relationship than ran deeper than "only good friends".

He couldn't help but grit his teeth, snatching a small dagger out his coat pocket. His fingers twirled it around, envisioning Wayne's face across the wall from his position. His lips peeled back and with a swift flick of the wrist, he released the blade, striking Wayne right between the eyes.

She deserved better company. Crow, Wayne…they couldn't begin to comprehend her. Not as well as he could. He would make sure she eventually knew this too.

Rolling back his shoulders Joker's eyes went back to the screen.

Surprise surprise, Celine was generous. Four charities were the recipient of $5,000 from her, as evident by photos of her presenting the check to them. He noted in photos of her caught by the public, she never fully smiled. It always seemed like it wavered.

The charities she'd aided included one that helped abused dogs and cats recover and find good homes, one that funded Alzheimer's treatment, one that helped with funeral costs to those affected by a family member's suicide, and one that sought to pay the hospital bills of homeless and disabled persons.

Such a good, good girl. Had he read all of this prior to meeting her, he'd never have thought her capable of what he'd witnessed in their time together. It made her deliciously complex.

The rest of what he could find about her was primarily regarding either her app (reviews of it, its conception, recommendations of it) or Bruce Wayne (were they dating or weren't they, the resources he gave her to make her app possible, were they dating or weren't they). By the end of these entertainment and gossip articles he was half-ready to hunt these "journalists" down and smash their fingers to a pulp so they could never produce such mindless drivel again.

Before he turned to hacking to uncover more personal information, he stumbled upon a video of her from two years back, posted publicly on Facebook by he assumed to be a friend- Catherine Bronson. The post read: Celine ate a Carolina Reaper pepper for the first time and I think found God?

He rubbed his hands together before hitting play, grin in place.

"So," a pixie-cut raven-haired woman stated into the camera from what looked to be a backyard, "we know the Carolina Reaper has recently beat out the Ghost Pepper as the hottest pepper in the world. Don't know the Scoville on it, only that when Dax tried it he nearly went comatose."

The camera panned to Celine, who wore a crooked grin, holding the pepper in between her index finger and thumb.

"Comforting," came her answer.

"Hey you chose to try it."

Celine shrugged.

"I have a high tolerance for hot."

"Your funeral," whoever held the camera, said.

She smiled, threw them a thumbs up, and tossed the pepper into her mouth. For a few seconds she chewed with the same smile, wiping her fingers on her jeans.

And then her eyes widened so fast they nearly evacuated her sockets.

"Oh."

Her smile vanished.

"OH."

She raised both arms in the air and clasped her hands together. One knee jerked up in the air. She went through a series of hand combat movements including a one-two punch followed by an uppercut, then a series of blocks before aiming a swift kick through the air. She was, quite literally, battling her way through it.

Catherine couldn't stop laughing nor could the cameraman.

Celine clasped her hands behind her head, working on her breathing. The camera moved closer and zoomed into her face. Her eyes were glossy, tears pouring out of her. The camera zoomed back out.

"I-I feel," she struggled to get out, elbows shaking. "My soul…it's not in this dimension anymore. Fuck!"

"Where is it, Celine?" Catherine baited.

"It's-it's that movie. With…with…Jason Isaacs. A-and…and Laurence Fishburn. And…" She inhaled wildly, shutting her eyes. "Sam Neil."

"Event Horizon?" the cameraman guessed.

"Yes!" Her eyes popped open with a new set of tears. "My soul traveled…traveled to the dimension Event Horizon did. Ah Jesus! I can't believe people take this consensually!"

She keeled over abruptly and dropped onto her knees, fingers gripping the blades of grass. The camera descended with her. Celine turned over so she now sat on the ground with her legs drawn up to her, palms rubbing over top her knees.

She sniffled. Her cheeks glowed from the tears.

"I…I feel like a broken faucet."

"Did you want some water?" Catherine asked.

"Heat's already…seeped in," she gasped, blinking so fast you could barely see her eyes. "Won't do any good. Just uh…hahaha…gotta ride it out."

Her bottom lip trembled. Sweat peppered her hairline.

"I ah-fuck-."

She abruptly stretched her legs out and spread them a little, hands coming to rest on her tummy.

"If I uh…focus the pain…on a certain part of my body…" She guzzled in air. "It's ah…it's manageable."

Her eyes closed again.

"Where are you focusing it?" Catherine questioned.

"My uh…my groin. Cos…cos then it ah…it sorta feels like…Satan is…eating you out. Which…isn't so bad."

The camera shook from how hard the person holding it was laughing.

"I'm a dumbass," she confessed.

"You didn't need a pepper to prove that."

She threw the camera a dirty look but resembled more a weepy child than anything.

"Okay…okay," she stammered. "I just…I just have to…pain effects certain ah…certain senses…more than others. This pepper…my sense of taste."

Exhaling, her eyes shot somewhere off screen. She shakily worked on standing.

"I just…I need to…balance out the pain. If I…if I experience-fuck!-if I divert pain…to another sense…I can…this can become…manageable. I can focus…on that…instead."

Catherine threw the camera a perplexed look.

As soon as Celine had regained her footing, she stumbled off screen. Both Catherine and the camera followed her.

She shot inside the backdoor of a house, steering her way to the kitchen.

Immediately, she reached up into the cupboards and pulled out two tall glasses.

"What're you-?" Catherine started to say.

Celine set the other glass down, and with neckbreaking speed, smashed the glass from her hand into her skull.

Catherine gasped, hands flying to her mouth.

"Holy shit!" the cameraman exclaimed.

Celine shook her head as shards of the glass trickled onto the counter.

"Almost," she mumbled frantically.

She grabbed the second glass and struck her temple with it, glass shattering on impact. Again, she shook her head, swaying slightly.

For a long moment she didn't move, fingers gripping the counter.

Finally, she turned to the camera and released a worn smile.

"Much better."

The tears continued to flow, but she seemed a little more composed than previously.

Sniffling, she wiped at her nose.

"It's um…it's a very." She gestured with her hand, searching for a word. "Spiritual experience."

The video ended shortly after.

Joker was cackling his guts out, tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes. He leaned back in the chair, clutching his gut, whooping and hollering like Death had told him the funniest joke. His weight ended up propelling the chair backwards, and him with it.

He only laughed harder as the chair deposited him on the ground.

Sorry if that was a bit of a snooze fest, but I'm a slut for philosophy and I feel like Joker definitely comes from a place where he considers his own and who influences his. Celine too, as it turns out.

Thank ya for the support, y'all! I can't wait to write what I'm building.