In questionably important updating news, I am now over half done with Arc 3. I don't know what 2021 is doing to me so far, but I have written more in two months than I have in the last year. So there is that. That's means we'll be on monthly updates for a while, as I juggle this with finishing Code:Beginning, original stuff, and the potential Star Wars thing I've got percolating.
This is my priority, however, so I will give you that.
Chapter 6: Scars That Never Felt a Wound
June 28th 20xx
Medical Center, 12:08 PM
Day 8
At long last, it was done. Or at least, as finished a product as anyone could hope for in these conditions. Roman Sionis, better known as Black Mask, signalled for his boys to leave off—an intrepid few had started discussing sanding down the walls, betokening a family background in carpentry, maybe? Trade school? Mask didn't know and didn't care. Joker hadn't asked them to make the place pretty. Just usable. And they had to set up all the seats before dinner.
Joker had ordered him and his men to prepare the large, cavernous space in the lowest level of the Med Center, just below where Bane had once been held, for several days only, by an ambitious Doctor Young as part of his 'rehabilitation'. Batman had saved him (which Mask thought was pretty ironic, all things considering) but in the ensuing scuffle a portion of the wall had been destroyed revealing an old defunct boiler room, set at least twenty feet below the lowest level of the Med Center. It was this room that Joker wanted 'renovated.' And by that, he wanted it almost exactly as it was, albeit with the old 'doorway' patched up, and hundreds of seats arrayed around the upper level.
The Pit, or so it would become known, was in essence a modern day gladiatorial arena, and Black Mask knew full well what would happen there. Joker was bored, and so Joker was going to amuse himself in the way he knew best. Men were going to die, soon, and from the capture this morning—Prometheus—it was not going to be relegated to goons only.
The big names were going down as well, and for once in his life, Black Mask could see the writing on the wall as clearly as if it were written in fire.
So, as his men packed up, he called over one of his most trusted men, a large, lumbering man, whose vacant expression hid a sharp intelligence.
"Set up a meeting with your friend—Harvey's boy," he murmured, a metallic whisper from behind one of his masks that he'd retrieved from the Warden's office, where it had been kept like a trophy. "Tell him I'm ready to talk."
…
…
…
Six hours later, with a naked Prometheus standing over the equally naked body of his fallen foe, Killer Moth, Mask knew he was right. He cheered along with the crowd because he had to, but all the while he was assiduously marking them for their true leanings. At this point it was about evenly split: while a good number were cheering wildly, battle-drunk and enthused, many others were horrified into compliance, counting the days when they might be next.
Joker, in a parody of the Emperors of Rome, sat in the most ornate chair anyone could find—Warden Sharp's antique, hand carved oak chair. For the occasion he had found a scrap of red cloth and wore it over his shoulder like a lady's scarf, and the effect was, as always, ridiculous. A further accessory—Harley Quinn sat on his lap, giggling and kicking her legs with glee.
He didn't look too closely at her, not caring what camp she fell into. Whether she was inwardly horrified or wholeheartedly enjoying the proceedings, she was Joker's creature. There was no hope left for her. She'd go down with Joker's mad ship.
Prometheus looked up at the Joker, and then, in what must have been a struggle, sneered. Both combatants had been dosed with Scarecrow's latest concoction—a mixture of uppers, aggression-boosters, a lacing of fear toxin, and inhibition blockers. Joker had gleefully outlined his plan but not the recipe for such a formula, and Mask, for one, hoped it was bound to the island only. He liked drugs, and he certainly liked selling them, but this was a step beyond Ecstasy or Meth. Crane's creation was madness, and Mask wanted none of it on his side of Gotham.
For Prometheus to hesitate before the killing blow showed an incredible amount of willpower. Joker laughed delightedly before settling down and comically calling, with outstretched arms, for silence. Dramatically, he extended one long, thin arm. After a moment of deliberation, he jutted his thumb downwards in the modern symbol for death.
Prometheus, who had admitted to killing Victor Zsasz, the Ratcatcher, Humpty Dumpty, and six others in his quest to 'become' Batman, roared. Rather than landing the deathblow he fell to his knees, still screaming, holding his head in his hands. But Killer Moth was unconscious, and such mercy would not avail him. When it became clear that Prometheus would not slay his enemy, Joker goggled for a moment, before letting an evil smile creep over his face.
"Bring in the backup plan!" He commanded imperiously, snapping his fingers.
The door leading down to the main level of the pit was slowly shifted aside—it consisted of a huge slab of fallen metal scaffolding, too heavy to be shifted by two or three men, even with enhanced strength—and ten of Joker's goons marched in, each holding semi's. This made the first few rows of watchers lean back, nervous about sprays of bullets. Those in the back, however, cheered all the louder.
"Do you dare defy me?" Joker roared theatrically, as his men took up points around the circle.
Prometheus looked up at Joker. He opened his mouth to reply—another amazing moment of coherence while so heavily drugged—but before he could, the leader of the gun-toting clowns opened fire.
Prometheus fell to the ground, dead. A moment later, there was another bark of gunfire and Killer Moth's body spasmed on the floor, blossoming crimson as blood poured freely. For a moment all was silent, as they wondered just what Joker would do next.
His answer was to applaud, a slow clap that everyone soon joined in.
Clapping himself, Black Mask caught Two-Face's eye from across the makeshift stadium, and nodded.
...
...
...
June 28th 20xx
The Greenhouse, 6:29 PM
Day 8
Poison Ivy released herself from her babies' psychic hold with a shudder. She had not been invited to the Joker Games, nor was it feasible for her to go—not with her aloof, uncaring persona—but she was curious as to what, exactly, would happen there. Through her babies she had received a weak transmission, testament to their patchy growth patterns through that part of the island. Toxic substances had been dumped and disposed of through the medical center pipeline, and the boiler room was bricked over fairly completely. Only a few of her hardiest, most dangerous babies could survive there, and they had given her an incomplete, yet evocative picture of what had happened during the newest of Joker's games.
Prometheus had fought Killer Moth in a death match, she could tell that much. She would know more when the watchers dispersed, and they would talk of it all over the island. But what she did know, from overhearing several of Joker's goons yesterday, was that Scarecrow had finished his 'Battle Meth,' which would induce all afflicted to fight to the death.
Ivy called upon her darlings to enthrone her, and when they grew around her, she delighted in the glide of their leaves over her skin, their clean, earthy smell, and their simple, unthinking devotion. They did not confuse her, not the way humans did. Harley was unfathomable, but so were others—Harvey and his childlike need for his coin, Batman and his rigid sense of discipline, Selina and her capriciousness, Jonathan and his obsession to understand the nature of fear.
No, her plants were much better. The world would be better off choked with them, a return to Edenic paradise with no disgusting, primal, confusing humans to destroy everything . . . yet even as she tried to convince herself, she heard the sound of Harley's laughter, remembered her fond annoyance at Selina's antics, and envisioned the look on Jonathan's face during one of their last sessions, when he'd looked so tired and human and touchable.
Even in her vision of a perfect world, she could not imagine being truly happy if they were not there.
...
March 12th, 20xx
The Green Mile, 2:11 AM
(4 months prior to takeover)
Two days after their last interview, Crane sent her his ideas on working through one of the larger issues she was facing. Whether it was in apology for having lost control she did not know. Nor did Joan, who passed it along to her, hazard a guess. She made the tweaks, thought she was really getting somewhere . . . but knew it was not quite right. Ivy was beginning to get disheartened. She knew making the formula would not be easy, but she was not looking forward to another meeting with Crane so soon. The ghost of some unfamiliar emotion rose up in her at the thought of meeting him again. If pressed, she would say it was embarrassment. At the time she had felt no compunction about mentioning Jonathan to his alter ego, but after having a week to think it through, she wished she had not.
She hadn't even used his title. What had she been thinking?
Still, he was the only one who would know how to move forward with the empathy formula. So she arranged for another session—through Joan, who she was getting less bored with, the more honestly they talked—and waited.
And waited.
And then, two days before the scheduled date, he escaped. As Scarecrow, he unleashed a toxin over Arkham that killed almost 30 people. Within 24 hours, he was brought back to Arkham by Batman; a gibbering, cringing wreck.
She remembered watching Batman escort him down to Extreme Incarceration where he would be kept for several weeks of observation. Crane was unconscious, strapped to a gurney, stripped of his scarecrow mask, wearing his straightjacket. Batman had given her an odd look at her interest—he always knew when something was important to her, the ridiculously observant man— and Ivy waited on tenterhooks for Batman to discover and reveal the project . . . but he said nothing. Perhaps Batman, the world's greatest detective, somehow didn't know.
In the end the secret was kept. Crane, over his two weeks in the E.I. did not breathe a word about her compound, nor her. At least, according to Joan, who was his psychologist as well as hers, and made sure she was on hand for all his outbursts. According to her, he spent more time raving as Scarecrow in E.I. rather than grumble as Crane.
Perhaps he really didn't 'tell' Scarecrow, Pamela mused, for if Scarecrow knew about the serum, wouldn't he tell someone? That sort of dichotomy was something Joan, or even Harley would appreciate but only confused her. She either knew something or she didn't. Perhaps she was but a simple plant-mammal hybrid, but that was her way.
Yet more than a month had passed since then, and Crane had been back in his regular routine and cell for weeks. This was the earliest Joan could get them an opportunity to meet and Ivy was beginning to feel some concern that she had dug herself deep into a chemical cul-de-sac. It was so close but there were still knots she couldn't work through.
Crane would know . . . as long as he didn't escape again!
…
…
This time, it all went off without a hitch. It was quite obviously Crane who slumped into the chair on the other side of her glass dome, and perhaps he felt some lingering embarrassment as well—although that was very likely untrue, nothing more than hopeful thinking—for he began not with a question about her, but about the serum.
"Do you have the printouts, Miss Isley?"
At the moment, only 16 pages of them. She held them up to the glass, and he speed read them with admirable quickness and focus. Barely five minutes of consideration left him with three observations as to several chemical interactions, amounts, and processes that she had been struggling with. Five minutes and he'd solved three larger problems.
Ivy tried not to feel a twinge of professional jealousy as she settled the papers away, having taken mental note of the areas he'd said to fix.
That done, and with a good twenty minutes of their session to go, he opened the floor with what she had to assume was another gambit to earn her forbearance, or even her trust.
"Let me apologize for Scarecrow's impetuosity, Miss Isley," he said, sounding crisp and clear, unlike his physical appearance. "He is not as interested in the finished product as we are."
"You admit to having a personal interest in the project?" She asked, remembering Joan's fears that he would take and twist their project into something even worse than his fear toxin.
He must have caught a glimmer of her apprehensions, for his lips quirked in a hint of a smile. "In an academic fashion only. Do not be alarmed, Miss Isley. I know what will happen to me if I betray you. Arkham holds none of us long, and I do not wish to be your enemy when we get out."
Ivy nodded, searching his face for some sign of duplicity. A moment later she castigated herself for doing so. What did it matter if he lied to her? She could end him easily, and she did not care about the body count of his victims were he to twist the serum for his own ends. She would be annoyed that Harley would be longer under the Joker's thumb, but Joan could try again elsewhere. After all their months of collaborating on the project, Ivy felt certain that Joan would not rest until she had helped Harley, one way or another.
"But if we may begin?" Crane asked, with an arch sense of good manners that reminded her of her father. If only he let his accent through more, Ivy thought. I think I might like to hear that, again.
"Of course," she said, taking a deep breath.
His eyes flickered over her as he noticed. "Today, I'd like to talk about your motivations," he began. "Why are you making this compound for Harley?"
Ivy scoffed. "Because she is my friend. I care for her, in my own way. And yes, that is possible for me, difficult that may be for you to imagine."
He nodded. "But why not make it for yourself?"
That made her pause. "I . . . don't understand."
He inclined his head as he explained, "Dr. Woodrue was nowhere near the chemist you are, and had not your motivation. If you turned your attention to yourself, you could potentially create something to re-humanize yourself—or, barring that, a way to ease your half-way existence. You speak of caring for Harley. What would you give to touch her freely, without worrying about poisoning her? Or your pheromones influencing her?"
Ivy blinked. She had not expected this—this was blatantly obvious, rather than subtle. To work on a project to render her touch normal, her pheromones inert? What was next, a way to cut her connection with her babies?
With how many enemies she had made, one might as well string her up and call her a piñata.
But there was no point in showing her hand. She had to play along, show him that his clumsy gambit had gone undetected. "Because I can control myself," she said. "I cannot control the Joker. Nor, when it comes down to it, can I control Harley." She held up a hand when he opened his mouth. "Yes, I can influence her with my pheromones, but I can't control her. Not without destroying her. If I did that I would be no different than the Joker," she spat, her tone turning ugly. "And that would be something I could never come back from."
Crane went very still, but Ivy had no hope of knowing why. "To you, that is his worst sin?" He asked. "Of all the chaos he has perpetrated, all the lives lost, and you care only for how he treats his girlfriend?"
Ivy saw red. She hadn't lost control in a long time. She jumped to her feet, her chair kicked back behind her. Stymied by the glass, she paced a few steps to either side, her hands curled into fists.
"Of course you wouldn't understand," she hissed. "Brilliant psychologist that you are, you're still only a man, and men exist to hurt and subjugate women. You can do whatever you want to us, as long as it makes you happy! Never mind the scars you leave behind, or the bruises, or the unwanted children, sexual and physical trauma—"
"Miss Isley—" He said, his voice tight.
"I'm not finished!" She yelled. "I'm not naive, Doctor. I know there are plenty of women whose deepest fear is of being powerless, of being raped. How you must revel in it, knowing you hold that power over them—"
"That is enough!" Crane jumped to his feet, his own chair skidding back behind him. Cash roused himself, but hesitated when it was clear that he would not attack the glass in his fury.
Crane leaned close to the glass, his light eyes wild with emotion. "You are laboring under a severe misapprehension," he said, and he was so upset his southern accent was heavy, pronounced. "The act of procreation is entirely disgusting to me. Worse yet is when human sexuality is used as a weapon. You find my obsession with fear unnatural? Using the human body and its biological demands as a means of causing pain and of exerting control is, as you say, the most dehumanizing behavioural marker I have ever experienced."
Ivy stared at him, shocked out of her ire. Experienced? Experienced?
He was not done, however. He was wound as tightly as a child's toy, and words poured from his mouth. "You think I see people's fear of sex as an exciting aspect of my experiments? Then maybe you would be interested to know that some people are in fact aroused by fear, and I stop the experiment every single time that happens because I cannot—I refuse to come face to face with such depravity.
"And this from you?" He snapped. "You, who use your own sexuality as the premier tool in your arsenal? The hypocrisy is stunning. The women of my family did that, Miss Isley, and I paid for it all my young life. I have been on the receiving side of that kind of abuse, and if one of us is to relate with Harley, I cannot see it being you."
Ivy's lips parted as his meaning hit her. Jonathan had been . . . he'd been . . .
He was like her? He'd been hurt like she had been?
His pale face grew paler when he realized what he'd just divulged. He sought for and attained control with no little effort. He settled himself back in his chair, reaching for a semblance of normalcy. "We won't speak of this again," he told her, tersely, accent gone. "And if you think I'll allow you power over me, I will sabotage your project."
Ivy found that her words came slowly to her lips. "No, I wouldn't. I could not—I promise you."
His answering laugh was completely without mirth. "Forgive me for not taking you at your word."
What was this feeling? Her heart was racing and she was almost afraid, even though there was nothing to fear! "Please," she ground out. "For Harley, I would do anything. Anything."
He didn't meet her eyes, and so she continued with, "You run the sessions, Jonathan. I won't lose my temper again."
She sat down in her own chair and watched him steadily, not knowing how to think of him now. How to feel at all. He was different, she knew that much, but her heart was beating too loudly and her mind was too full of static to understand what that meant in the long run.
His gaze flicked up to hers. She didn't know what her expression revealed, but he must have seen something in it, for the tension in his face relaxed, just a little.
After a long moment, he sighed. "And I won't deviate again," he said, and Ivy was back to not knowing if this had all been planned in order to connect with her, or if he truly had lost control over himself. "Our next meeting will be more . . . orderly."
Ivy nodded, but didn't let herself relax until Cash had escorted Crane back to his cell. No matter how many times she told herself he had lied to her just to gain her trust, the possibility of it being the truth remained. It took her a long time to stop trying to imagine just who had hurt Jonathan in that particular way, what had happened to him . . . and whether or not the perpetrator was still among the living.
She hoped she—whoever she was—was not.
She would vastly prefer her to be deceased.
...
...
...
June 29th 20xx
Medical Center, 6:18 AM
Day 9
Although Hush had told Harley Quinn only yesterday that he was astounded at Edward's recovery, he was more accurately chagrined. Penelope was an ambitious young hussy, but she was an intelligent one. Salacious as her notes on her formula had been—testing it on Bane was hardly an inspired idea, more trite than anything else—Edward had made great strides in his rehabilitation. By the late hours of day 8, he was able to take a few hobbling steps around the room, and was currently, during the early hours of day 9, squatting down to defecate.
That he had not yet removed his pants was almost immaterial, Hush thought as he observed. Mess aside— he'd send either Adrian Chen or Sarah Cassidy to clean, as he wanted to consult with Gretchen Whistler on the Joker's psych profile—this level of motor control was simply astounding. From a man who was lying bloody and broken only days before! And who still could not say his own name!
Penelope really was onto something with her TITAN formula, he thought, almost bemused. Who knew?
...
...
...
June 29th 20xx
Extreme Incarceration, 9:27 AM
Day 9
When Selina came to, the last rapist had not moved. Oh, so dead then, she thought dully, the world still a little too sharp and clear for her to be comfortable. Her head throbbed with the ghost of a headache, and she tried very hard to not think about Bruce's reaction. She tried very hard not to think about anything at all.
She was not a squeamish woman, but she did not want to touch the corpses. She hadn't had to do that since she was a kid, half-living on the streets. Poking dead bodies had never been her idea of fun, more a necessity, because what if the person who had robbed and killed them had missed something? She could pawn it and eat, and that had been the order of her life, for a time.
There was one thing she knew for certain. Jervis's short-lived career as her newest drug dealer was absolutely coming to a close. After she got out of this cell, she was never touching anything inhibitive again. Drugs, alcohol . . . not even a goddamned cigarette. Nothing. Nada. She was off the hard stuff, because she had just killed three men, and she still couldn't feel guilty for it.
And then, because she couldn't bear to think of it any longer, "Hey, Vic? Know what day it is?"
"God in Heaven!" He exclaimed, in what had to be the most German of all responses he'd given her yet. "Dare I hope that you've finally come back to your senses?"
"Hey, better me than them," she quipped. "But uh, seriously. Day? Date? Time? Anything?"
"Morning," Victor said after a moment. "We've not yet been fed. 9 days since Joker's takeover, at least by my measure. Selina, are you . . . all right?"
Bruce would never, ever believe that Victor Fries was expressing concern for her. This truly was a day of wonders. "Well, I'm never taking drugs again. Probably gonna lay off alcohol, as well."
"Physically, Selina," he retorted, his frustration evident.
Oh, right. Injuries and all that. Selina checked herself over, wincing at the long gash down her arm. Thankfully the bleeding had stopped, but there was no way to clean or sterilize the wound. In this environment, the question was not if infection would set in, but when.
"Healthy enough, Vic," she called back. "Got a scratch, but the bleeding has stopped."
"Is there anything on the bodies you can use?" He called back. "For injuries or escape?"
"Or even just to eat," she muttered, her stomach growling on cue. Swallowing thickly, she thought of her past self—young, foolhardy, slightly more innocent than she was today—and forced herself to check the bodies.
Her efforts were not without their dubious rewards. One had a granola bar in his pocket, from Whistler's not-so-secret stash. Selina ate it quickly, closed her eyes against the sugar rush, and tucked the wrapper back in his pants pocket. He also had an orange jumpsuit jacket, which, although not the cleanest garment she'd ever donned, was warm enough to tempt her. It took her a good amount of time and struggle to get it off of him—his limbs had stiffened—but when she did, she put it on. Another had a flask of whisky, which Selina wedged in the waistband of her pants—while she wasn't going to drink it, it was the closest thing to an antiseptic she was going to get. Other than that there was little that was useful. The knives she had already collected, obviously, but unless she was going to take their shoelaces as well—and she was not that far gone, never that far gone to consider what she could do with them—they were pretty much bare.
Not even a condom, Selina thought with a shudder. Fuck. Fucking fuck, I hate them.
After the bodies were thoroughly searched, she leaned back on her heels and remembered Victor. "Knives and whisky only, Vic," she called out. "I can use the whiskey to clean the wound, but—"
The familiar sound of the lockdown doors opening cut her off. Someone was coming, and Selina paled. "Shit shit shit," she muttered, casting her eyes about the cell in a desperate hope that a hiding place would reveal itself to her. She needed to hide at least one knife, because otherwise how was she going to gut Wesker the next time he came to feed her?
She was trying to shove one into the corner of her mattress when the ladder leading to Victor's cell was activated. Selina glanced out her window to see Wesker throw a couple of sandwiches and a water bottle to Victor. On the main platform behind him stood the Joker, and several of his goons.
There was no way to hide the weapons—the mattress was too thick to saw through without leaving an obvious sign, so Selina improvised. She held both knives behind her back and waited, tense, on the balls of her feet in the center of her cell, until her own ladder activated. She knew they'd come to gloat. Joker always did.
The ladder activated with a squeal of metal, and Selina's heart rate increased. They were coming. She'd have to do this all again, fight and kill again, but she'd do it for the hope of freedom. Hell, she'd do it just for the hope of living through one more day!
"Ohhhhh Sellliiiiinaaaaa," the Joker sing-songed as he pranced up the ladder. "I've come to check on you—" He cut off when he caught sight of her, standing tall in her cell, surrounded by the two bodies.
"Well, well," he tutted. "I must say, I'm impressed. And in hindsight, not too surprised, either. You really do earn your moniker. How many lives are you down now? 4? 5? 6? No matter. I'm sure I'll get lucky eventually!"
Selina said nothing, waiting, and willing him to enter the cell alone.
The Joker snapped his fingers and two of his goons surged around him, opening the door and removing the first body without further command. The third held a gun on her as his two fellows removed the second body.
"How did it feel?" The Joker asked her, voice dropping down into something that could be described, with an inward shudder, as intimate. "To kill again, I mean. By my count it's been some time. Was it as big a rush as you remembered? There's just something so . . . personal about killing someone at close range." He brought a hand to his heart. "I do prefer wide, overarching anarchy, of course, but I don't begrudge you your moments of pleasure."
She needed one of the goons to step in front of her to block the spray of bullets. Just for a moment, then she could take the goon hostage, or even just kick him towards the man with the gun. Then she could rush the Joker, or even simply throw the knife—
"Boss, they woulda been armed," one of the men noticed.
The Joker sneered as he looked at her through the cell's aperture. The goon still inside the cell with her did a little hop skip out, and suddenly, all Selina's options boiled down to this—all she had left was herself . . . and the Joker's obsession with Batman.
Time to gamble. Selina withdrew one of the knives, and in a smooth motion, placed it at her own throat.
The Joker burst out into laughter. "Taking care of the problem yourself, Selina? How good of you! Sure, go ahead! Slice your own pretty throat! That saves me the bullets!"
"Selina, no!" Victor cried out. "Don't do it!"
"Why not, Vic?" She called out, but not too loudly. "What am I waiting for? Wesker already said what he was gonna do to me. I'm not waiting around for that."
Wesker squeaked, and Scarface yelled, "She's lying, boss! Dames always lie!"
Joker narrowed his eyes at her. "What's your game, Cats? What exactly do you think you'll get out of this?"
"Power," she answered. "'Right now, I hold all the power. Just for a moment. And then, yeah, it'll be gone, but you won't have it either. That's enough for me."
Selina never claimed to have any inside knowledge of the Joker. Personally, she found him incomprehensible, and his current lack of expression unsettled her. But she knew one thing: that he was obsessed with Bruce. And as long as she was important to him, there was a chance her gamble might play out.
She swallowed thickly, feeling the cool iron against her throat, and tried not to think about how bleeding out on the floor of her cell wouldn't hurt if she used enough strength with the slice.
"No, no, no," the Joker finally said, loudly enough for all to hear. "I don't think I can allow that. You're not dying until Bats gets here. It would mess up my plan. So, here's the deal. You kick those knives over to me—both of them, yessss, I wasn't born yesterday—and I won't drop Victor's cell down into the abyss. If you don't . . . well, I've heard it's a long way down. He's about to find out."
Selina froze. She had forgotten about Victor. There was potent silence from his cage, even though he'd had to have heard every word.
"Goddamn it, Joker," she gritted out. "What do you want?"
"What do I ever want?" He replied in turn, an enigmatic look on his face. "To have some fun."
After a long, tense moment, Selina broke. She dropped the knife to the floor and kicked it over to the Joker. A moment later, she did the same with the blade in her left hand.
"Much better," the Joker crooned, stooping to pick up the weapons. "And don't think for a moment I'm going to forget that she was given access to these knives, Weskie," he called over his shoulder. "Sloppy on your part. Very sloppy."
Even Scarface was quiet at that.
"Well, I'll just be going, then," the Joker said. Before he reached the door he hesitated. "Oh, but before I forget, a bit of world news for you. We've got a new president! Lex Luthor . . . I've read all about his interesting work in Metropolis-That-Was. Should be an exciting term—his first act was to call for all supers to be put to death! Three executions already. Very bold move for public television."
He glanced back at her, smiling broadly at the sight of her shock. "Whaddya think, Cats? Was Bats one of them? Is that why he didn't come for you?"
"Batman isn't dead," she said through numb lips. Her mind was working frantically. Three supers dead? Luthor president? No, no, none of this could be true. He had to be lying. He had to be.
But why else would the island have been left alone this long? Even if Batman was . . . busy, Commissioner Gordon should have been here by now!
"Then maybe he just doesn't love you very much. Has better women—I mean things to do."
Joker always knew exactly where to twist the knife. Bruce's brooding masculinity had left a trail of broken hearts in his wake, and while he always came back to her, there was a part of her that worried he'd find someone better. Younger. Newer. Less nebulously aligned.
Not that she'd ever let the Joker see her insecurity. "Or maybe he has more faith in my abilities than you do," she rejoined.
"Oh, I don't know about thaaaaaaat. I know him better than you, Seliiiiina. I define him."
Selina tipped up her chin. "Yeah, well. He doesn't define me."
The Joker narrowed his eyes at her. In a move that demonstrated his unearthly quickness, he lunged across the cell and smacked her across the face before she could move. She was so surprised she didn't even attack as he darted back. She simply watched him with slitted eyes, and tucked her chin down, ready for the next attack.
For a moment it looked like he would do more, and his goons shifted forward. But then he held up a hand and sighed dramatically. "Clearly I'm going to have to work harder with you, toots. I thought breaking you would be easier, and I suppose it's to your credit that it's not. And I'm going to have to start thinking about what to do with you if Bats doesn't show . . . oh, I know! I'll give you to Croc!"
It took all of Selina's control not to cry out. She shivered, but thought that was warranted.
Joker made a show of stroking his chin and looking concerned. "Oh, but you're not quite tender enough for him yet. Give it a couple days without food—water once a day tho, I'm not heartless—and I bet you'll be ready."
Selina wanted to wail, to cry, but she did neither. She had not a prayer against Killer Croc, but as long as she got out of the cell, there was hope. As long as they didn't drug her too badly, she might even be able to escape!
The Joker nodded, decided. "Boys!" He called out as he slammed the cell door shut behind him. "Let's go! I've got a skype call in twenty minutes. Have to thank the old man for my cushy new position," he ended in a mutter, which Selina doubted anyone other than herself could hear.
At the moment she didn't much care. She was too busy trying not to fall apart.
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June 29th 20xx
Tunnels, 11:18 AM
Day 9
In the end, it took two days and three aborted attempts to reach the Warden's Office. Their path led directly to a trap door into his office, and thus they had to be exceedingly careful. Turned back by the sounds of people moving within, and resolving to form a backup plan in case they were followed—thus revealing the existence of the tunnel system beneath the island—they bided their time.
On the fourth try, however, they had a clear shot at his office. There was no one within when they opened the trap door that opened at the back of the small closet behind his desk. Once they pulled themselves through the detritus in the closet, Javier and Brian went point, leaving Cash and Taylor to guard her. They rushed in, fanning out to take their defensive positions while Joan searched frantically through Sharp's things.
"Hurry it up, woman," Aaron muttered, flicking his hook against his thigh. Brian and Javier lifted up their semi's and faced the doorway. They were the main protection for this mission, as Aaron's hold on a semi-automatic was questionable with his hook. He was tasked to protect her, no matter what. Brian and Javier were the main line of defense, and from their grim expression took their mission seriously.
Unlike her time in her own office, Joan could feel the tension eating at her, like a clock ticking down. The twenty minutes she took to rummage through his things felt like an eternity. She took no care to be neat, orderly, or discreet. They didn't care if anyone knew they'd been there, as they'd planned to block off the tunnels as soon as they left. This was the only tunnel that led to the main morass of them, and they'd already rigged a 'cave in' just before this arm connected to the whole. As soon as the last of them got past the barricade—made of loose stones, heavy crates, and by weakening the tunnel integrity closer to the warden's office—they would trigger the minor detonation, the catalyst caused by an explosive agent Aaron had procured from God knew where, and then it wouldn't matter if their trail was found.
They were hoping it would not come to that, of course, but they were taking no chances.
Joan wiped away a thin sheen of sweat—it was hot in the office, as compared to the cool dark of the tunnels—and frantically flipped another manilla folder full of printed sheets. What she saw there made her suck in a breath. "Got it!" She whispered, her eyes flicking over the lines.
"Where is it?" Taylor whispered, even as Brian and Javier relaxed.
"Old section of the Med Center, in the air ducts of Harley's old office slash cell," she murmured, tearing the pertinent papers out of the folder. "I can't believe Crane didn't find it." She shoved the paper at him. "Take it, and get back to the bunker!"
Taylor had been selected as the runner for this mission not only because he was one of the fastest guards, but because he had an unexpected natural affinity for the tunnels—outline a path for him once, and he could run it in almost full darkness. He grabbed the papers, stuffed them in his pocket, and then opened the trapdoor that led back to the tunnels.
No sooner had he dropped down when the front door flew open. Everyone froze as in walked Warden Sharp. Joan was so shocked she actually thought, Oh, I am so fired, before clarity returned.
"Clayface," Aaron hissed, yanking Joan behind him.
Brian and Javier paled. Their guns were largely useless against him, and even if they weren't, there was a gang of at least fifteen men standing just behind him in the hallway.
With a pomposity that matched the real Sharp, Clayface bowed to Joan. "Leave Leland alive, boys. Joker wants her specifically. As for the rest . . ." His voice turned dark. "Kill them."
Brian and Javier opened fire, trying to kill the men standing behind Clayface, but he absorbed many of the bullets. Shedding his Sharp simulacra, he reverted to his humanoid clay form, with wide, grinning mouth and gleaming yellow eyes. Aaron shoved Joan down towards the still-open door of the escape hatch, and she nearly slid down it. Fear made any sense of pain obsolete. The world was nothing but the bark of gunfire, Aaron's hands shoving her down, and the giddy hope for salvation in the dark maw of the trapdoor.
Joan fell through the hatch with a graceless thump, too afraid to call out as she fell. She barely had time to roll aside before Aaron came hurtling down after her. He pulled the trapdoor shut after him, and it was full dark.
"Run," he breathed, and before she could do so on her own he began pulling her after him.
She stumbled after him, blind and terrified and utterly reliant on him. "Brian. Javier!"
"Keep going, Joan!"
For several moments more they plunged forward in darkness, only able to find their way by sticking out their free arms in front of them, hoping they didn't run right into a wall. Then, light filtered in behind them.
Clayface and his men had found the trapdoor.
They were being chased, but they could dimly see. "Barricade!" Aaron ordered, running faster.
Joan understood. They had to get to the barricade otherwise all was lost.
She could hear the men behind them now, calling out to them, telling her what they were going to do to her. Apparently Clayface's men did not care for what the Joker wanted. They had their own agenda.
Aaron pushed her along faster and she could hardly breathe, she was so afraid. She stumbled along in partial darkness, so focused on her goal that she had not realized how far she'd come. She almost shrieked when she banged her hand on a crate, but thankfully Aaron was more aware. He shoved her forward past the barricade, and took a few precious moments to fumble for the trip switch.
She turned back just in time for him to trigger it. There was a moment of stillness when the first of Clayface's men came into view. Then, there was a loud crack as the tunnel collapsed inwards. There was just enough light to see the expressions of two men as the walls began falling, throwing up their arms up to stave off the inevitable. Then, there was only the cacophony of sound and movement of the cave-in, and Aaron's hoisting her up.
"Go, Joan!" He yelled, and with his help, she did. She made it at least ten steps, which was more than she could have done on her own, but then the ground beneath her feet gave way, and she fell into darkness.
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Had Joan any desperate, fragmented thoughts upon falling, they would have been of her inevitable demise. Thus she was slightly surprised that, upon opening her eyes, she was not in fact dead. Nor was she terribly wounded. Bruised, yes, and she had a headache to beat the band, but upon a careful moment of stretching, found that all her limbs were well intact.
She had no idea where she was, however. Eventually, by feeling her way in the dark she determined she was under some kind of overhang, as there was rock only a few feet above her head. How long this platform stretched she had no idea, but she assumed she had fallen into some cavern, hole, or pitfall, because otherwise why would the floor have collapsed?
Only when she realized she was not in imminent danger of falling to her death did she think Aaron.
She sucked in a horrified breath, only to begin choking immediately. The dust had settled, but was still thick in the air. Her effort to calm herself was so encompassing that she did not hear the minute shift of gravel against stone, betokening something or someone moving, until their hand fell on her back.
"Wahhh!" She screeched, albeit quietly. She tried to throw herself backwards, but the hand tightened on her shoulder.
"Joan! Jesus, Joan, it's me! Calm down!"
The voice was as familiar to her as it was welcome. Overwhelming relief filled her one moment, and frightened anger the next. "Jesus Christ!" She said, tears choking her voice. "Aaron! I thought you were—I didn't know where—What—How—You—!"
Strong arms gathered her close, pulling her sideways until she was in his lap. "I have never seen you speechless before, Joan," he said to her, his voice tight. "I have to say, this is not the moment I had envisioned."
She could take no more. Nine days of holding strong, her first firefight, and the loss of Brian and Javier she could stand, if just, but not the man she loved holding her in his arms. From the sound of his voice, on the brink of tears. So she did it for him, bursting into tears and shaking in his hold, at first in shock and fear, and then in grief and mourning. For a long time she surrendered herself to the strength of her emotions. The only thing keeping her from breaking down entirely was Aaron's hold, the steady rise and fall of his chest against her cheek, and his grumbled, awkward reassurances that all would eventually be all right.
It took her a long time to come to herself. Even after she stopped weeping, she drifted along in an unthinking haze until she realized that Aaron had graduated from patting her back with his hand, to slowly stroking the back of her neck. His large hand cupped it entirely, and the surprising pleasure of it made her shiver.
"You cold?" He asked, shifting.
She shook her head, feeling the give of his security jacket against her cheek. "I'm fine," she murmured, even though she was patently not. "Keep going."
She was too far gone to care about propriety. She needed comfort, and she needed it from him. Afterwards, she would regret it. For now . . .
After a moment of hesitation, he did so. His wide, calloused fingertips traced paths along her neck, slipping through the short strands of her chemically straightened hair, curving over her ears. Joan shivered again and realized she was gripping his shirt in both hands. That was awkward, and her hands were beginning to cramp. She released her hold and slowly, haltingly—for she could not forget that he was married, even now—allowed her hands to reach around him, and meet at his back.
We are now holding each other, Joan thought, clinically awkward in the face of such unexpected closeness. She had never allowed herself to dream of him much, and would never have imagined such dire circumstances that led to it. He gripped her more tightly, hoisting her up so her cheek came close to his for just a moment, before she slipped back down.
"Joan," he said quietly, and the gravity of it worried her.
Before he could continue, she interrupted him with, "I'm sorry about Brian and Javier. I know nothing I can say will make it better, but Aaron, I'm so sorry."
That stopped him in his tracks. His breath hitched and he lowered his head so that it fell to her shoulder. Joan pulled herself up to better support him, and went so far as to think of stroking the back of his neck when he picked his head up again.
They were only inches apart. Even in the darkness, Joan could just make out the jut of his nose, the curve of his mouth. The expression in his dark eyes was impossible for her to see, let alone read, but the meaning in his posture, his closeness, his unwillingness to move away was clear.
He is going to kiss me, she thought, with an attending flush of feeling that could be termed girlish. Oh Lord save me, he is going to put his mouth on mine and I am not going to stop him.
"Joan," he said again, his voice a murmur in the dark.
She licked her lips. She was going to say something—yes, or Aaron, or, just kiss me you big galoot, but before she could, there was the sound of rock scraping over stone, a beam of light that reflected over the rockface to the east of them, and a quiet, but familiar voice calling out,
"Can anyone hear me? Is anyone there?"
It was Eddie Burlow, and never had he been worse timed.
"We're here, Eddie," Aaron said, his voice gravelly and, dare she hope it, disappointed?
A moment later, the light from his flashlight beamed down over them, and Eddie's kindly face popped out from over the rockface above them.
"Oh thank goodness! We didn't know what happened—we heard the tunnel collapse and found Taylor, but when no one else came back . . . Are either of you injured?"
"We're fine, Eddie," Joan said, slowly removing herself from Aaron's hold. "But Brian and Javier . . ."
She took Eddie's hand as he reached down to help pull her from their ledge. After a moment of exertion she cleared the lip, and was back in the tunnel proper.
"We figured," Eddie said quietly, before turning back to Aaron. "We hoped, but . . ." He grunted as he helped Aaron up off the ledge.
"I'm just glad the two of you are all right," he finished. "But we need to get back to the bunker. They'll know about the tunnels, now, and will undoubtedly look for other ways in."
"Lead the way, Eddie," Aaron said, still subdued. Joan followed after the younger guard, but couldn't help but look back once at Aaron before the light from the flashlight was directed back onto the path. Her eyes widened when they met his, for he was no longer looking at her like she was something important to protect, or his wife's best friend. He was looking at her the way a man did when he wanted a woman.
Joan shivered and walked on.
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I think I caught all of them, but I accidentally wrote "Killer Mother" instead of Killer Moth at least twice. V. exciting moment of editing, there.
I'm taking some liberties with Crane's upbringing, in introducing some element of sexual abuse in his history. I feel as if I have seen/read this somewhere before, but I doubt it is DC canon (unless it is, then never mind all this).
OH AND YOU THOUGHT LELAND'S FORMULA WAS TITAN, DIDN'T YOU. BWAHA WHAT A RED HERRING. I feel so clever, go me. :P
