The Yorker Inn was a two-story motel covered in a hideous coat of yellow siding that aged and cheapened the building beyond its ten-year residency. Each room's door faced outward with a rickety iron rail preventing anyone in the second story from tumbling over. For no apparent reason, the rooms were all odd numbers. If Celine wasn't in such a rush, she'd have inquired about it at the front desk. Did the builder have omalonuperophobia? Were odd numbers simpler to remember?

She had stuffed the cannister John had given her beneath the underside of her breasts, tucking it snugly against her phone. Thank goodness she had the binding to hold them both, otherwise one good shake of her body and she'd be spilling out goodies like a battered piñata.

Before making her way up the stairs to room 23, she rehearsed the voice she'd be speaking with, the background she'd given her alias Lonnie, and the body posture of a thoroughly worn down, desperate man eager to make a quick buck. John's recommendations aided her greatly. It wasn't just her brain she needed to shut off, but her dignity too. It was becoming apparent what sort of people Joker liked to have under his thumb. She planned on being the model employee.

When she finally worked up the confidence to knock on the door (a Do Not Disturb sign hung on the handle), she did so with her head cocked up slightly, making her face viewable through the peephole. Footsteps thudded to the other side but made no move to open the door. Her skin tingled at the sensation of being examined.

A couple seconds later and the door cracked open. A tall, bald-headed man with tattoos scattered along his neck, peered out at her with an unwelcome frown.

"You got the wrong room," he grumbled, readying to close the door on her.

Her foot lunged out, momentarily halting the action.

"Uh…I'm looking for work. Heard you might be hiring."

She scratched at her arm before surveying her surroundings with a squint. As if she too were worried about being seen by the wrong person.

"Might be," came the man's slow answer, re-scanning her. "Might not. Depends."

Her brows rose slowly.

"What on?" She lowered her voice. "I'm pretty god damn desperate, man. Not here to waste your time."

Quicker than she could react to, the man grabbed her shoulder and tugged her toward him by her sweatshirt.

"Depends on if ya pass the interview."

He shuffled backwards and opened the door. With a grunt he tossed her inside, closing and locking the door after her. She wasn't able to catch her balance and ended up landing awkwardly on her knees, hiding her wince when her kneecaps struck the carpeted floor.

Not willing to appear weak, she was back on her feet in a matter of seconds, eyeing her environment as discretely as possible.

The room had one unused bed, a desk holding an assortment of papers (someone with their back to her was standing over it, continuing their work despite her appearance), and two musty-looking floral wing chairs, one of which was occupied, the other covered in duct tape to keep the chair's stuffing from spilling out. The wallpaper was a nauseating pinstripe mix of brown, orange, and red. The bulb above them cast the room into an amber glow. Behind her, the curtain to the only window was closed tightly.

Her gaze was drawn back to the man occupying one of the chairs, one leg casually strung over the other. He was busy reading a newspaper, most of which covered his upper torso and face, remaining anonymous to her until the bald man behind her cleared his throat.

"We got someone interviewing for a position."

Languidly, the man lowered the newspaper to rest on his lap. She was briefly able to make out the front headline before it was hidden from view.

CHAOS GRIPS CITY COUNCIL AS-

When her gaze returned to the sitting figure, she nearly backed away.

In her thirty-one years of living she could recount maybe a handful of people who immediately made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on edge. Usually, it was the eyes that gave it away. As cliché as the saying was, eyes really were the window to the soul.

One glance at this man and she doubted he had one. Which was equal parts disturbing as it was intriguing. Even Joker had something going on behind the eyes. A flame that was committed to burning, even if it meant consuming everything and everyone in his path.

What lurked behind this man's eyes was a deep absentness of spirit. Whatever ability he had to feel love or compassion for his fellow man had long ago been extinguished. Her intuition hastened out a warning: don't catch his attention, keep eye contact at a minimum.

She obeyed without hesitance.

For a solid minute the man studied her wordlessly. By this point she concluded this to be Gil. What threw her for a curveball was how young he was; not even thirty by her estimation. She'd have figured Joker wanted someone more…refined as his right-hand man. Not someone who looked like they modeled for Calvin Klein on the side.

Gil was equipped with a full head of combed back chestnut brown hair and a soft, round face with sharp, high cheekbones. The clash of harsh and soft gave him the sort of face one looked twice at just to admire. He was clean-shaven and clad in black leather pants and a long sleeve maroon shirt with a column of buttons near the chest (none of which were undone). His footwear looked to be the most expensive out of his ensemble; a pair of leather boots made from - by the looks of it - alligator skin.

Though the lower part of him could be described as lanky, from the wide expanse of his shoulders she suspected it was his upper body that the bulk of his strength hid. It was unfortunate his eyes unnerved her so much because they were the lightest shade of hazel she'd ever seen, and the temptation was very much present to lose herself in them.

"I take it you know who you're interviewing for."

His voice was low and soothing, lulling her into a disorienting sense of security. She knew she wasn't safe, but the man's voice made her body involuntarily relax.

She let it. Posture was everything. She didn't dare let on how uneasy he made her.

"Yeah," she answered with a shrug. "Couldn't be worse than Maroni. Guy never shut up about how expensive his suits were."

Gil's brows rose ever so slightly.

"Name?"

"Lonnie."

Gil gestured at her carelessly.

The bald man started to frisk her, mercifully gliding over her chest area, but taking his sweet time around her crotch. His dedication to this region made her wish she'd had the hindsight to stick a carrot or potato in there to give Lonnie the illusion of…girth.

Just when she thought she was in the clear, he reached her shoes and pulled out the blade lodged inside.

"You blame me?" was all she said, feigning indifference. "This city's a fucking madhouse."

Averting her gaze proved trickier than she'd anticipated. She longed to study Gil's expression for validation. That he was receptive to the name and persona she embodied.

"It is," he commented, resting his chin on his knuckles. "That's a nice blade you have there. 154 CM Steel from the looks of it. Very expensive, not a beginner's blade. How'd you come across it?"

Her heart stuttered a little. Did he recognize it from Joker's collection?

"Same way anybody comes by things. Found it."

She hung her head at this, staring at the floor, hoping the hint was obvious. She'd not attained the blade by legal means.

Gil gestured for the bald man to give him the knife. He examined it closely, twirling the handle before pressing the tip of the blade to his index finger. Blood immediately blossomed to the surface.

"Wastes no time. I appreciate that."

He made no move to give it back to her. She tried not to think about how defenseless she truly was. How easily they could overpower her and really make her scream.

"Why Joker?" Gil asked, casually twirling the knife with one hand. "You have your pick of less risky employers. Employers that require less than he does."

"Guy's scary. People'll know not to mess with me," she remarked. "Pays decent too from what I hear."

"Mmm…money is an attractive part of it, isn't it?"

She deemed this a rhetorical question, so didn't bother answering.

"Joker has a never-ending list of enemies wanting to get the jump on him for the right price. Clearly, money is a big draw. What's to keep you from turning him over the moment the highest bidder writes you a better check?"

Stumped at how to answer, she risked making eye contact with Gil.

"If I wanted to work for the highest bidder, I'd be meeting with them, not you. Like I said…Joker's a real psycho. Puts everyone in Gotham on edge. No one has that sorta power. Why wouldn't I get in on that?"

Gil didn't answer for a long moment, eyeing her neutrally. It made her envious he was able to conduct himself in such a composed manner. She longed to mimic it but didn't want him to think she considered herself on level footing with him.

"Why indeed," he finally said. "I like you, Lonnie. You mind your business and know who's in charge. That being said…there are two traits I ensure anyone I hire carries. Endurance and loyalty."

Her arms were abruptly restrained behind her by the bald man.

Gil slowly moved to his feet, discarding his newspaper on the floor. He approached her until there was an arm's distance between them.

Celine tried not to broadcast the panic she was internally experiencing. Her gut urged her to get the hell out of the room while she still could, but she was too committed now to turn back. She would just have to deal with whatever was in store for her.

There were a few tense seconds where no one moved. The man behind her was stiff as marble, Gil was busy analyzing her expression, and the man previously hunched over the desk had turned to observe the proceedings.

In the blink of an eye Gil retracted his fist and punched her in the face. For the second time in less than a month, her nose cracked a near ninety degrees. She had a second to gather her bearings before he struck her just as hard from the opposite direction, her head cracking to the side like a ragdoll.

This continued for the next two minutes. She'd attempt to straighten up and compose herself, only for another fist to launch at her face, knocking the oxygen out of her lungs. Blood wouldn't stop oozing from a newly split lip. She had to cough it out or risk choking on it.

By the time Gil had thrown his last punch she was a bruised-up, barely conscious mess; body supported primarily by the man behind her. Blood obscured her vision and caked most of her face. Her cheek and jawbone throbbed fiercely; a nasty migraine on its way.

Thankfully, the pain didn't hang around for long. Numbness spread through her face not long after, allowing her to blink through the crimson and push herself up to her full height.

Her lips trembled, but she dared not say a word. Her heavy panting was the only sound audible in the room.

"Lonnie," Gil spoke, clasping her shoulder and leaning down to her, "do you want your knife back?

She was sorely tempted to say no. He could keep the fucking thing for all she cared.

But she ended up nodding shakily. Oddly enough, she didn't wish to part with Joker's gift. She doubted he'd be happy to see it in the hands of someone it wasn't meant for, and it wouldn't do well to be weaponless around his men.

"Okay." He slipped two fingers under her chin, tilting her head up to face his. "It kills me to have to give it back, but finders keepers, right? Though…I wouldn't mind a souvenir. A reminder of how efficient that blade is. You don't mind Lonnie, do you?"

Before she could shake her head, the bald man dragged her across the room to the desk. He threw her down by the wrists, her cheek slapping against the wood, igniting a fierce pounding in her temples. A mixture of sweat and blood glued a few pieces of paper to her face.

There was a lung-crushing scream lodged in the back of her throat. Whatever was about to happen would not be something she enjoyed. But like the beating she'd endured earlier; it was necessary. Giving in now would make everything she'd experienced for nothing. That's what she needed to focus on.

Gil wrestled her right hand out of the bald man's grasp and slammed it down on the desk, so her palm was facing down and her fingers were splayed outward.

His breath tickled the side of her neck.

"I can tell you'll be a good addition, Lonnie. Even if you'll soon be lacking a little…something. Remember...what makes unique also makes us invaluable."

She mustered just enough energy to peek at him through her damp hair, bottom lip quivering uncontrollably.

With a grin that was the embodiment of malice, Gil clamped one hand around her wrist. His opposite hand brought down the knife and settled the blade an inch above the knuckle to her pinky.

One minute she had five fingers, the next, he pushed down with all his might and a sharp snap later, she had four.

It didn't sink in right away that she was short a digit. What felt like 50,000 Volts of electricity shot up her arm. Tears leaked from her eyes and a less than masculine sob burst out of her throat. Her remaining fingers twitched wildly beneath his grasp.

Gil merely retracted the blade and picked up her severed finger, eyeing it thoughtfully with a tilt of the head. He whistled lowly.

"You have the daintiest fingers I've ever seen on a man," he noted. "Could have made a pretty penny or two giving hand jobs, but even that's beneath a pansy like you, isn't it?"

She lacked the ability to answer, eyes frozen on the space where her pinky used to be. Blood gushed from the wound; her heavy sobs amplifying as the cool air struck the raw, empty space. Her entire hand burned so badly she nearly preferred having it chopped off. Surges of nausea and dizziness were the only sensations keeping her mind off it.

As Gil continued speaking above her, she tuned him out.

He sliced off my fucking finger. He slicked off my fuck-.

She willed away this train of thought and bit her lip to stifle another cry. As intense as the pain was, it wasn't the worst she'd experienced. Close but not the worst.

It was a frequent topic of discussion between her and John on whether emotional pain trumped physical. Even now as she lay hunched over watching herself bleed out, she couldn't help but think her mother's death, Cathy's suicide – the loss of her finger paled in comparison to either event. When the mind was consumed by loss of a corporeal, breathing human being; few forms of agony could substitute their place. The shock of seeing her pinky gone heightened the pain, but the loss had been quick and her attachment to her finger wasn't nearly as potent as her attachment to those she loved and lost. It was her mind prioritizing pain, she figured. If she lingered on this current injury, she'd never be able to see beyond it.

Gil went on rambling above her and she mentally gave herself a bit of a bitch slap to focus back on reality. This slap knocked loose a quote she'd read once by a Japanese philosopher whose name was forever lost to history books.

"Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional."

Feel it. Feel it until there is nothing left to be felt. Don't extend the pain beyond its use. Feel it and move on.

A shaky breath rattled out of her lungs. The ache in her hand had receded to the same dull throbbing in her face. She could deal with this. She just needed to shift her concentration on something not so serious.

Seconds later and she was laughing uncontrollably, body quaking beneath the hold both men had on her. She sounded deranged to her own ears, which only made her laugh harder.

Gil grabbed her by the hair and yanked backwards, invading her space with a displeased frown.

"Something amusing, Lonnie? Be a gentleman and share with the class."

Her laughter gradually died down. She dared not tell him what prompted the fit.

I'll never be able to accurately do a Dr. Evil impression ever again.

Her lips wobbled, but she swallowed down any stray giggles. Slowly, she met his eyes.

"Does this mean I got the job?"

She must have asked this with more amusement than she'd meant to. Gil's fingers tightened around her locks until her scalp burned.

"Yeah Lonnie, you got the job."

He slammed her face-first into the desk, nearly knocking her out.

"Laugh like that again and I'll come back for the rest of the hand."

The men released her at the same time. Her knees gave out and she slumped to the floor with a groan.

The next few minutes passed by in a blur. She was faintly aware of the bald man applying pressure from four or five layers of gauze to her wound before bandaging up her hand tight enough to deprive her of a bit more oxygen. At some point Gil attempted to give her back her knife, but her vision wove in and out too rapidly to accept it.

"Lonnie," his voice floated above her, "either take your god damn knife or I'll shove it inside your ass and fuck you with it."

She blindly extended her left hand for it, feeling a weight press into her palm a moment later.

The bald man had to assist her out of the room and down the stairs. She couldn't tell if they'd passed anyone, only that she was loaded into the back seat of a van a few seconds later. The bald man hopped into the driver's seat and tore out of the parking lot.

At some point he was relaying information to her, but it was a constant struggle to make sense of what he was saying. She thought he'd said someone would clean her up once they reached where Joker and his men were. She thought he spent a good minute cursing at her not to pass out as it'd leave a very bad first impression on her employer. She also thought there was a butterfly fluttering about in the van, though that one she chalked up to a hallucination.

Eventually, the bald man quieted down and focused on driving. This silence allowed her to work on her breathing, similar to the moments before she dove into a meditative state. Mind over matter, she encouraged herself. The hard part was hopefully over and done with. She needed to return her attention back to why she'd gone through all the trouble to begin with.

As the driver veered sharply to the left, she warily lifted her head a little from the floor. He couldn't see her body fully from the angle and appeared much too enraptured with his surroundings to give her further thought.

With her unmutilated hand, she reached beneath her shirt and pulled out her cell phone. Her breathing was silent as she turned it back on, peeking up every couple of seconds to ensure she had the privacy needed.

She wasn't naturally left-handed, so composing a text was a nerve-wracking experience. She feared the man would twist his head around at any moment and catch her red handed. Or would it be red handed if the phone was in her right?

Headin to Js locaton now

It wasn't her finest spelling, but John would hopefully gather that she didn't have the luxury to text him comfortably.

Sometime after she'd tucked her phone back beneath her binding, she ended up passing out. It was only when someone slapped her across the face did she come to again.

"Wake the fuck up," the bald man gruffed, bent over her cramped form. "You keep this shit up and boss will do worse to ya."

She groggily pushed up, wincing as she did so. Everything hurt; even blinking. She focused on Sally's handle gripped in her hand, and then on the evening sky behind the bald man. The wind brought with it the promise of more rain.

The bald man backed up so she could slide her body out of the van. Her first attempt at standing was unsuccessful. Her knees gave out and she nearly hurled out this morning's breakfast from the sudden animation her body underwent.

You need to get your shit together or you won't live long enough to do what you came here to. Mind over matter. Focus on the goal.

She pushed herself up, teetering as she did so. The bald man didn't say anything. Once she had regained her footing, he took off without a word. She followed after him, peeking around at the scrap yard they'd parked at, and then up at the looming, condemned structure they were approaching.

From John's heads up, she gauged it was The Braxton hotel they were nearing the back entrance of. It was an eight-story brownstone building that from a quick perusal looked to be dead silent. None of the windows held any light, most having been shattered out or invaded by cobwebs. A 'Closed Until Further Notice' and 'Trespassing Prohibited' sign hung crookedly on the glass doors to the back entrance.

The cool air helped her regain consciousness. Her steps were taken quicker and with more purpose. Her newest co-worker did little to ensure she kept up, other than a few annoyed glances back at her.

He paused at a metal door that read 'Approved Personnel Only' in blocky black letters. She stopped behind him just as he knocked three times with a balled-up fist.

They didn't have to wait long for the door to part.

"New recruit," the bald man muttered, gesturing at her with his head. "Gil had his fun, like he normally does. Ed needs to patch him up before he can start."

They entered the building, her hot on his heels for fear of losing him. The man who had let them in led the way with the assistance of a flashlight. After a couple minutes of dimly lit meandering, he ushered them through a door and into a stairwell. She had to use the railing for support as they made their way to the third floor.

Once on the third, they navigated a few more hallways before stopping outside a door marked 3S. She couldn't tell who knocked; more concerned with letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.

When the door creaked open, Celine's eyes widened, and she backed up a step. She recognized the man standing on the other end and was briefly overcome with worry that he'd recognize her. It was the same man Joker had had clean her up and tend to her wounds the first time they'd become acquainted with one another.

As the bald man relayed Gil's treatment of her, she slowly relaxed, realizing she had nothing to worry about. The doctor scanned her up and down but failed to find her familiar. She didn't know if it was courtesy of the gender swap or the bloodied and bruised state she was in.

The two men who had led her to the room moved aside to let her through. The door was closed behind her a second later. She hadn't realized right away that the doctor was guiding her by the elbow to a dust-coated mattress. He pushed down on her shoulder to sit, and she did so without a fuss.

He spent a minute scurrying about the tight room for the ingredients he needed. A flickering bulb above was the only light source. Similarly, the only window in the room was boarded up.

When the doctor pulled up a chair to the bed, she turned to him.

"Did a number on you, eh?" he said, motioning for her hand.

She nodded lightly, giving him the limb. He unwrapped the bandages on her hand as delicately as possible, something she wanted to thank him for but didn't; fearful it'd be too uncharacteristic of someone under Joker's employment.

When he abruptly doused her wound with hydrogen peroxide, her body jerked away from him, attempting to yank her arm out of his grasp. Tears leaked from the corner of her eyelids.

He held fast until she calmed down, teeth sinking into her bottom lip to prevent a scream.

"Best I can do until we move back to headquarters," he mumbled, patting with a clean cloth at the gaping hole where her pinky used to be. "I'd suck it up if I were you. Boss doesn't like squealers. Not unless he's the one making them squeal that is."

She frowned at the suggestion, but knew he was right.

It's just that…it was so…hard. Never had her physical body experienced such unanimous agony. Never had she wanted to pass out so badly and succumb to a year-long coma. Throughout her life she'd been sliced, punched, hit, scratched, bitten; certainly, no stranger to pain.

But this…this was testing her limits so far beyond what she'd ever felt. Yes, mind over matter, but fuck it all if it didn't make her feel like crawling out of her own skin so she no longer carried the burden of being inside it.

At some point during her zoning out, the doctor had re-bandaged her hand nice and snug. To ensure the wound wouldn't resume bleeding, he taped over the bandages a few times until the ache had dulled back down to a distant throb. She could move all her fingers except her ring finger, which was committed to holding its position in a stiff half-curl.

"For your sake," the doctor – Ed - mentioned, thumb skimming down her crooked nasal bone, "I'll sneak you some painkillers. Last thing you need is to pass out on the job. Might not wake back up."

He was back at the bed with a bottled water and four pills. She didn't bother asking any questions. If the pills made the pain tolerable, more power to them.

"You've had your nose broken before. Recently from what it felt like."

She swallowed back the pills and stared resolutely at her feet.

"Cousin and I got into it over a girl," she mumbled carefully. "I won; she chose him."

He didn't say anything else as he worked on repositioning her nose. As he did so, she could feel his eyes on her. She wondered if it didn't spark a bit of déjà vu in him.

"Know what I'll be doing tonight?" she asked in hopes of deviating him from forming any suspicions.

"You been keeping up with the news?"

Just as she made to answer, he moved her nasal bone up and to the left. Blood spewed out of her nostrils seconds later. The doctor briefly abandoned his spot at the bed and returned with a bowl of water and a clean white cloth. He sat the bowl in between her legs and offered her the cloth.

"You look like hell," was his only explanation.

She accepted the cloth and soaked it in cold water.

"Joker's got some kids held hostage or something?"

She brought the cloth up to her face and as gently as possible, began to wipe the dried blood, snot, and grime off her.

"Or something," he agreed, leaning back in his chair. "Usually, he wouldn't assign new guys something so important so soon, but he's been short on help recently."

Because he kills them. Or they kill themselves, she wanted to add.

"You'll be watching those kids until that last councilman is killed."

Her hands froze just as she was wiping her nose clean.

"They got another one?" she asked with as much nonchalance as possible.

"Mhm…him and his youngest kid. Mayor declared martial law about an hour ago. Police can't house all the people they keep picking up. Boss is in real good spirits about it."

I bet he is.

She resumed cleaning her face, trying hard not to frown. Her heart went out to Millburn's child. He never asked to be a part of this. Or to have a father who endangered his son's welfare with his own behavior. Disgust and contempt for Joker's actions, however indirectly, made her stomach churn and sizzle. It was as if she were viewing him for the first time since he'd lasso'd her into the chaos that was his life. He wasn't redeemable, and even though she'd just a few nights ago listened to it beating against her ear, she doubted he had a heart. And if he did, a charred, blackened coal fueled it.

Anger overwhelmed her so suddenly she had to stop her washing to get ahold of herself.

Stupid. STUPID. STUPID STUPID STUPID. If I would've just called Bruce and handed Joker over, none of this would have happened. Millburn's son would still be alive. I wouldn't be sitting here trying to justify why I was so hospitable to an unrepentant psychopath. Why I let him into my be-.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Celine forced her hand to work on autopilot, scrubbing the rest of her face clean until only forming bruises remained. In retrospect, this anger was good. It was helpful. It made her see beyond the pain.

She and Jac-Joker were not on the same side. No matter how easily they seemed to get along, the reality was he would always have an agenda that benefited himself first and foremost. And that agenda would always go against her moral and ethical values. She needed to get that into her head before she went and did something that couldn't be so easily undone.

There is no room for guilt right now. The best way to fix this is to act.

She ignored the gaze trained on her and handed the doctor back the sullied cloth.

"I'm ready."

He collected the murky bowl of water and stood.

"Give me a second to call someone up."

As he disappeared back into the shadows, she looked down at Sally clutched in her left hand. Her fingers were wrapped so tightly around the handle they were white.

If I get a chance to use it…if I'm close enough to him…I could catch him off guard and-.

She didn't know why finishing this thought caused so much compression in her chest. Like an accordion was pressing into her organs, causing them to elbow against one another. Even her eyes had a difficult time not watering up.

Why? He'd kill me in a heartbeat if it suited his plans. I need to cut loose whatever attachments I have to him, however harmless. Otherwise, I'm sealing my own fate.

By the time a knock sounded on room 3S, Celine was in a much more agreeable headspace. The painkillers were beginning to kick in, she was nearly at peace with the loss of her favorite pinky, and those kids would be leaving with her even if she had to carry them individually over her shoulder while John's serum launched every one of Joker's men into a rabid delirium.

I don't know what I would do if I could never do an accurate Dr. Evil impression ever again :O !
A pinky lost is an ally earned? A worse sadist than Joker exists? Question marks?