Author's note: I can't believe I wrote all the angst in the middle of the night... Even I feel sorry for Huntley now!! That shouldn't happen! DX
Character Flaw
Huntley lie in the bright room, pulled his upper body off the floor, and wormed his way to the wall closest to the door he was shoved through. This barrier was different; his eyes could not feast on the Joker's form so the distance was sharply felt. After scooting across the spongy room, he propped his back against the wall to cease the fight of closing the gap.
A ferocious patheticness made his brain pulse loudly, pounding in his ears. If he had access to the movement of his arms, Huntley would clench the holding place of his insanity between shaking hands. Self-inflicting thoughts regurgitated themselves again and again; the dire want to rip the flesh of his own face just to feel the pain of his mistakes. First punishment, then redemption. This would earn his respect. Or so Huntley dearly believed.
The frustration still building to an infinite plane, his body compressed into the tightest and smallest position possible. Then, with his head bent solemnly, face smashed into any surface that could mask the embarrassment, he wept heavily.
Barbaric screams traveled beyond Huntley's door, awakening and sending prisoners into the very same raging insomnia of the new solitarily-confined-inmate.
The nonsensical sounds projecting to other inmates became more repetitive, as if they finally bore some meaning. The more and more the prisoners heard the circling phrase in a continuous loop, murmurs and whispers cursed, attempting to slide into demented dreams beneath dirty sheets. All except one--humming madly to the screams. Literal music to his ears!
These were all the tests the Joker set for his newly-inaugurated fan. Now was the time to present Huntley his prize.
The Joker thrummed loudly against the cell bars, signaling for Punch and others to swarm from the shadows. Harshly white-masked clowns unlocked the cell holding their leader only hiding behind a fading coat of paint. But the Joker did something unusual this time—he coaxed them into his cell. They circled cautiously then settled around to hear him.
No one questioned but rather waited in a hauntingly begging silence. Overhead florescent lights buzzed, flickering each millisecond.
"Sooo," the Joker's excitement was confirmed by a widening smile. "Hear that?"
Silence intensified, the masked-clowns mocking their leader's hand-to-ear listening joyfully.
"What? I can't hear nuthin' but that guy's blubbering," a follower admitted.
"You ignoramus," Punch replied.
"That's what I'm listening to... Let's get a closer look, shall we?"
After the Joker's command, he jumped out the cell and skipped down the hall, clowns in toe like ducks following their mother.
"What the hell's he sayin'," the same dumb follower dared to ask.
No one answered as the pack crept down to their destination.
Huntley heard a creak, saw the light, and continued to chant: "Those scars! That smile!"
Huntley threw himself to the Joker's feet. This was the first time someone unexpectedly grabbed him. Surprise! An overwhelming sense of success!
Instead of fighting Huntley's hold, he asked the question he would be reciting to all those lucky victims: "... You want to know how I got these scars?"
"I-it doesn't matter," Huntley laughed through his tears hysterically. "As long as it justifies your reason... To make Gotham's people wake up."
Punch came closer. "You might just get it, kid... But you'll find out da truth for yourself."
The Joker felt a stronger tug on his pant leg. He dropped a clownish mask to the ground and led his lackeys out the door. A frantic scramble for the new face was the last that could be heard.
Bruce stood in the doorway, eyes wide, dress shirt unbuttoned, and a black tie dangling undone from his neck. "... A letter, Alfred?"
Alfred shifted his feet uncomfortably, gulped, averted his eyes, and said, "From the D.A., Mawster Bruce."
Bruce Wayne somberly staggered out of the bedroom to his butler not offering the letter nor keeping it away. Alfred watched his master approach and carefully touch the letter. The butler dutifully loosened his grasp on it. Alfred's fixed gaze on Bruce revealed a slumping posture, bloodshot eyes, and a remorseful expression that completely drained Bruce's first morning burst of energy. But, of course, there was the fact that Harvey Dent was spiteful to the world and no doubt Bruce after Rachel Dawe's death. This rich and powerful man proved that anyone of his stature could be pulled down by the weight of a friend's death and another's hatred. Nonetheless, Alfred would never stray from Bruce and could never think less of him because of emotional drag.
You can get through this. It won't ever disappear but I pray I can cheer you up, Alfred Pennyworth had all this flood his mind every glimpse of his master. But this was the world of the lone person to know the identity of Batman intertwined with the loyalty of a servant; but most of all, family loyalty.
Bruce just stared at the envelope without an attempt to reveal its contents. "I... I know I need to, Alfre--"
The butler hastily snatched the unopened letter from him. "For godsakes, Mawster Bruce! It won't bite!" He tried a smile.
After Alfred had registered Bruce's head still tilted downward at an envelope once there and an unmoved expression, he began, "I'm sor--"
"No, Alfred," Bruce looked up from his hands with a small and smug grin. "You're right. Open it for me, will you? Call me crazy, but I don't have the willpower to do it."
A chuckle burst from the butler's mouth. "Ah, I'll give it a go."
Wrinkled thumbs tore at the seal and as Alfred began to pull out the letter's main contents, Bruce Wayne held his breath and grabbed a fistfull of his own hair. An informal letter unfolded and there was a questioning moment if the letter should be surrendered to Bruce. Bruce, again, gently probed the letter to feel the thin paper slip into his grip, just as his mind was slipping into fear.
Before Bruce read anything, he informed Alfred, "Th-the letter was post-marked the day before yesterday. So it was the day before..."
Alfred nodded solmenly to convey his understanding and to press Bruce to read it.
Dear Bruce Wayne,
I'm sending this without my office's address or without my professional status labelled so obviously bolded and fancied up. Why? Because I want to talk to you man-to-man. This needn't be anything formal that businessmen and women gossip about for weeks to wonder what issues we discussed. Let them think we debated on Gotham's next steps. But it isn't those kind of "issues" we desparately need to converse about.
It's about Rachel. This meeting should be A.S.A.P.; in at least a week. But after going over my schedule (I'm sorry I cannot abide by your schedule, as well), 3 days from now would work best. I'm also deeply sorry about the urgency and promptness in which I expect you to act.
Your friend,
H.D.
"Looks like Dent had planned a visit... Tomorrow... But he didn't know what would be coming so soon..." Bruce trailed off and handed Alfred the letter.
Alfred quickly scanned the words, "The language is also much like the D.A.'s." Alfred felt a shock of guilt run through his spine. Even though Bruce hadn't liked the reminder of what had changed, he still felt obligated to inform his butler about it.
They could only stare at each other.
"Should I heighten Wayne mansion's security? Just to be--"
"No," Bruce turned on his heel, back facing Alfred while walking down the hall. "If anyone will have to handle it that way, Batman is the only one who can."