A/N: Thank you again to all of those who reviewed! I honestly cannot thank you all enough for being so kind to this story - what would I do without you?
Disclaimer: Batman is not mine.
Joker's here! Enjoy!
A good shower was undoubtedly one of life's most underrated little pleasures, she figured contentedly.
Anna deftly spun the knob and shut off the steaming water, reaching for the towel on the rack just outside the stall. Stepping out of the claustrophobic glass box, she hummed along with the ancient radio perched precariously on the lip of the sink, saved from countless junk pick-ups for situations like these. Nothing was worse than the crushing silence of an empty flat after the roar of water ceased, the reminder of loneliness apparent to both her eyes and her ears.
At least the bar had always contained the low hum of a human voice every once in a while.
Of course, not all human voices deserved to be heard, she reflected, remembering the three months she spent at her over-worked sister's house in Jersey. Dear god, ninety days of nothing but serving as the unwilling nanny to all those screeching children had very clearly reminded her why she had chosen not to have any early in life. What was supposed to be time for her to get back on her feet after a nasty separation had nearly changed into time spent on her back with a never-ending migraine.
It was those three months that taught her the value of a radio in drowning out both silence and the taunting of children. Of course, the... argument she had had with her sister the day before she left precluded any further experience with the latter.
The overly cheery song, so different from the tone of her thoughts, ended after a few moments and another began without ado, the disc jockey announcing over the opening notes that she had arrived at the 'Home of the 70s' for the remainder of the night, as if she could not tell for herself. It was a home she very much wanted to trick-or-treat and leave, but it was one of the few stations that came in clearly on her level of the building. But beggars and choosers, and all that drivel.
She bet the tyrant upstairs received all the stations he wanted.
Staring sightlessly into the steamed-over mirror, she toweled off her medium length hair, the black strands as straight as ever between the soft folds. It was one of the few occasions she could stand to peer into a mirror, the time right after a scalding shower when she could not tell if the lines scoring her hazy visage were the painful tracks of scars or beads of steam dripping mournfully into the sink. Her vanity had faded long before, but it didn't mean she had to torture herself day in and day out with what could never be changed.
Eyes fixated on the blurry image in the glass, the lavender comb ran easily through her limp tresses, keeping time with the opening beats of the next song. Unconsciously humming along, she nearly dropped the comb in surprise when she realized what it was. She would have sworn it should be banned from the airwaves, but then again, Gotham was determinedly without censorship and, more importantly, taste.
Folding up the towel, she could only shake her head at how awful a sound concerning jokers and clowns sounded in these times. Didn't stop her from singing along, of course, as she straightened up the tiny bathroom, the last remnants of the alcohol buzz swirling in her head like so many tiny bubbles. Her voice had never been the best, but she doubted the dust mites and mold spores would have an opinion either way. Even if they did, they need not suffer long as she didn't know the rest of the words, leaving it playing as she made for the bedroom across the hall.
It wasn't much of an apartment, the smallest on the floor and still testing her budget every month. Her square footage was the size of a millionaire's garage, she figured, and even that probably had a better view than a Chinese laundry. One bedroom and bath, a kitchenette, living/dining room she assumed she'd never use, a few closets scattered here and there to fill whatever space was left over. She'd leased it for six months, the shortest length of time her landlord offered; no need to pay for a year when her body could be hanging from a statue in half that.
She was ever the practical woman nowadays.
The Spartan furnishings of the room cast shadows over her bare feet as she padded to her bureau, picking out a convenient pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. Finer clothes tucked tight away in boxes at the self-storage downtown, she was left with only a few pairs of jeans and more somber blouses than she knew what to do with. Her shoulders felt oddly light at the absence of her ubiquitous overcoat, the heavy fabric coming to form her last line of defense against the world. It created a clear boundary between all that was her and the horrifying outside, penning in her personal demons and preventing another soul from scrutinizing her own darkest grottos.
Perhaps, if she ever allowed herself to think long on it, she would have noticed a bit of that in him as well. Or perhaps, a bit of his own psyche in her?
But best not to think of such things – especially in the dark.
Shadows leered at her retreating form as she changed quickly and left the room for the bright safety of the hallway, her stomach vociferously reminding her of the time. Ten in the evening was not an hour most people associated with dinnertime, but in her house it always seemed to be the most convenient. Demanding jobs, long commutes, inconsistent schedules – she had moved from the house of her workaholic father into the apartment of her workaholic husband.
Not that she didn't have more than her share of fun along the way, of course.
It was promising to be EasyMac again that night, a fact confirmed when her rather spare cabinets revealed nothing but rows of the familiar azure boxes. No matter her current state, she had been a fine cook in her time; she supposed she still was, even if instant macaroni had recently become her modus operandi. The last few years she had lacked the desire to make anything, the labor never being quite as enjoyable when it was for one.
Her hands moving with the dexterity of a cook accustomed to harder tasks, she selected a pot and let the somewhat suspicious faucet do its work, deftly putting it on to boil. Plucking the remote from the kitchen counter, she flipped on the television in the adjoining room, the ten o'clock news springing to life on the display and melding strangely with the melody in the hall.
"Good evening, Gotham. I'm Sarah Laurentson –"
Anna rolled her eyes and turned away, opening the fridge for some soda. That woman's high-pitched voice grated along her ear drums like an anchor along the sea floor.
"– and this is Frederick Appleby. We interrupt tonight's scheduled news segments, 'Remembering Rachel Dawes' and 'BatWatch,' with word that Channel Five has just received this latest message. Young children and viewers who disturb easily are advised to look away."
A few moments of silence held sway in her flat as the television switched over, with only the slight rustling of Anna fumbling through her cheese drawer for company.
As the video slowly began to play behind her, the telltale sounds of an amateur rattling a camera flooded her small living space, the whimpering of a gagged woman clothed in the dark gray of a train worker edging through the harsh metallic clicks. A soft hushing noise could be heard, followed by a ringing slap.
"You jus-t couldn't kee-p away… could ya?"
Dropping her soda and parmesan, Anna spun towards the source of that sing-song voice, her blood chilling at the burst of insane hilarity spewing from his smeared crimson lips. His grinning visage filled the entire length of the screen, eyes dancing as if they sought to pierce her through the borders of distance and time. They pinned her against the cool surface of the refrigerator, his trademark cackling racing through her body like electricity.
He is talking about the Bat, he is talking about the Bat, not you, definitely not you. He doesn't know that you're here. She repeated it as a mantra inside her head, the rational section of her brain panicking as she realized exactly how much trouble could be heading her way. And yet, a perverse thread of excitement began to course through her veins at the thought that maybe it was her.
That he was thinking about her.
She had no time to think of where that had come from before the camera pivoted towards the bound woman once more, recoiling futilely from the monster on the other end of the lens. Her hair, matted to her skull by sweat and tears, was pin straight, the hue the exact same shade as Rachel Dawes'.
The exact same shade as Anna's.
"But now, ha, that you're heeere," she could hear the soft pop as he smacked his lips, could imagine the pucker of the scars, "let's uh, let's have a little fun, shall we?"
Without warning he zoomed in on the captive's face, the rush giving Anna vertigo as the screen jostled back and forth. The lens greedily swallowed the image of her thrashing, a muffled scream buffeting its speakers as her gaze locked on whatever was coming towards her.
"See her?" He growled, voice just audible above the screaming, clicking, and God knew what else. "If you don't… fin-d me in twelve hours…" A sloshing noise as he fervently licked his lips, "I'm going to do to her what I've been uh, just waiting to do to you."
The camera pulled back abruptly, revealing the gleaming tip of a switchblade as it traced a path down her neck, coming to rest at the skin just above the rise of her breasts. Her chest swelled with each panicked breath, hyperventilating as she tried not to choke on the tattered gag.
"Are you going to… abandon her and the next ones, too?" A sudden shrill cackle before his voice swooped downwards to the bottom of its range. "I think it's time to show them your, uh, your true colors." The last word came out in a snarl; the r's overextended and arching in the way that used to make her shiver so many years ago, floating down the length of the bar.
Anna could do nothing but stare as the blade lightly kissed his victim's flesh, leaving a scarlet droplet in its wake. The camera paused to savor its agonizingly slow descent for a few moments, before springing awkwardly to his face once more.
Tongue sliding out to glide eagerly across his lips, it specially relished the uneven surface of the scars. "Don't ha... don't wait up for me, darling."
His laugh echoed inside her head long after the screen went dark.
A/N: And there it is, Ladies and Gentlemen...
Please review!