Dr. Valencia and Ambrose returned to their apartment just a block away from the cemetery. A week passed since the funeral. Nothing had changed. The world kept going around and the other people of Gotham kept up their merry, miserable lives as another murder was added to the city's increasingly growing homicide archives. Life went on. Naturally, Marigold and Ambrose were the exception.

Ambrose moved into her apartment. It resembled a townhouse but was far from the elegant ones in the inner part of the city. This one had gray paint rubbing off the front and the roof bent into a lower curve. It was three levels, not including the basement which the doctor used as a lab. It was off limits to the other occupants of the second and third levels. The neighbors were present solely to break up the rent. Their involvement in her life was purely a check in her mailbox the first of every month. Besides, the charges only paid enough for water and heating. It was a small building, sometimes considered ratty, but the money required to fix it up would be too much for her to contribute.

The doctor and Ambrose sat in the basement alone. It was dark with very little lighting options save for the lone lamp beside her work desk and the tall one in the corner that she rarely manipulated. Above her desk was a large computer screen displaying the model of the invention she had spent her time on for the past two years. Upon her desk was a large keyboard on which she typed absently on.

Ambrose sat in the corner on the ratty sofa. He was glad for the darkness. It provided him his mask. He didn't face his future sister-in-law. Instead he sat doing nothing but stare at his hands instead of the book being held.

Dr. Valencia stared at the monitor blankly. The perfect machine was complete and ready for her to send it off to be manufactured. The scientists at WayneTech had been anxious to receive her prototype. She was not. After the incident, the last thing she wanted was her invention to be in WayneEnterprises. Grant or no grant, her mind was occupied with other thoughts of a much different nature.

Dr. Valencia massaged the space between her upper lip and her nose. Her stare migrated from the spinning image on the monitor to the empty space in front of Ambrose. She parted her lips slightly, sliding her finger nail between her front teeth and nibbled it. Science could not entrance her interest at the present time. Having never felt this way before, she didn't know how to act. One minute, she would feel like crying, the next, throw something, a pen or whatever she could get her hands on, against the whitewash wall.

Her glance shifted to Ambrose who continued to read his book. After six weeks, he had given up on the skin grafts. Yes, they took to his form but it did not disguise the hideous scarring beneath them. His face was now a myriad of pink, magenta and red spots with burns slicing through his once young skin. He could not bear to be in public any longer, choosing an isolated life beneath society than to face the press about his loss.

Marigold knew Ambrose not to be a selfish man. He treated Sonya with respect when they were together, and she never heard a cross word come from him. However, at first she considered him a pushover, but as time went by she believed him worthy of her sister's affections and approved. Whether he was a narcissist, she was unsure. He was blessed with good looks – the wavy brown hair and lightly tanned skin. He blushed whenever someone commented on his physique. He did not show the symptoms of a narcissist, but it did not leave him emotionally immune to the effects of his disfigurement.

She could not weep for him. Only for her sister's loss. She would not weep for a man's lost beauty. That would be foolish and idiotic.

Ambrose must have noticed her sudden staring because he stared straight back at her with an expression that she read as a bit of annoyance.

"Endoying the view?" he asked. His tongue was also partially burned leaving him unable to pronounce syllables like "r, th, and j." His lips had been sewn into place so that they were too stiff to form proper language. Marigold sometimes had a problem understanding him, which was difficult to hold back given her outspoken nature.

"No," she said plainly. Her eyes did not turn away. She was no longer looking at him but the space above his head. Her head bobbed slightly in thought as her finger slid slightly across her bottom lip. Ambrose was not convinced.

"Don't look at me," he whispered harshly. Tears were behind the words as the droplets slid down the spoiled cheek.

Dr. Valencia turned away partially out of courtesy as well as for disgust of his emotions. Yes, he had been scarred. Yes, there was great pain behind that physically and emotionally. He lost someone dear to him, but so did she, and now she faced the awful truth and did not cry useless tears that would never bring her sister back.

"Ambrose, I have taken you into my home. Don't accuse me of things of which have no consequence to your fate."

"Don't stare at me, anymore. I can feel youw gaze every time you do it. Are you happy it was me intead of you? That Batman saved you intead of us?"

She flipped right back in his direction. "Stop it, Ambrose. You know full well I don't. Now stop before I regret my decision once and for all. I'm sick of you feeling sorry for yourself. Sick of it I lost someone too. You understand that? I knew Sonya perhaps better than you. She was my big sister. How dare you think that I don't care? I'm not heartless."

Ambrose closed the book and gripped it in his knobby hands. The long scars reflected in the desk's lamplight. He suddenly became fascinated with them.

"I'm sowy, Marigold," he whispered softly.

Her expression softened as well. She could not stay mad at him for long. The grief was taking a toll on the both of them. They needed to do something, anything. Only, she didn't feel like doing anything and only wanted to stay indoors and work on her project. Suddenly, an idea sprang to mind. A way to rid of the grief and equalize everything. It came out as a whimsical idea, like one that anyone with grief would think of, but this was different. Something inside her mind clicked. Her face bluched in anger and excitement as the thought began to spread through her genius. The idea developed into a much more complex formula rather than a simple thought bubble. Suddenly, nothing in the world appeared more logical.

"Ambrose," she spoke curiously, her tone seized his attention. "There is an idea. An malevolent idea."

He leaned forward slightly. "Wha' kind of idea?"

She smiled evilly. "A very bad idea that will rid us of all our problems. I can guarantee it."

"Wha' is it?"

"You won't like it."

"Wha'?" He leaned toward the desk. Marigold swung her knees under her chin and began to swerve slightly in her chair excitedly. She began to speak like a child excitedly for its first Christmas.

"It's awful and illegal. Society will never forgive us for such a crime. Unless…"

"Unless what?"

"Unless it's done to the right person. Society may leap for joy when we've done it. I don't care about their opinions but maybe the GPD won't even care enough to charge."

"A cwime? What awe you saying, Mawigold?"

Her grin slanted into a half smile that suggested everything sour in her soul coming to surface at that very moment.

"Ambrose…brother, I'm going to kill the Joker."