I wake in the police department, head bandaged and ringing like a fire alarm

I wake in the police department, head bandaged and ringing like a fire alarm. Blue-suited people rush by me, around me, and I feel so much like a ghost that I wouldn't be surprised if one of them walked right through me. I could wave them over, but I feel that the bash in my head would protest violently. I sigh, and instantly regret it–– the sudden intake of breath causes my head to whirl and my vision distorts like a warped, static-filled video. Recalling what brought me to this pathetic state, I begin seriously considering whether my common sense has finally down tools. I was never a particularly brave person, and prattling away to a well-armed troupe of psychotic (shudder) clowns to buy time for a savior who was more than likely hallucinatory bespoke of a determinedly self-destructive pathology.

Then I notice.

Water. Right there. One damnable foot away from my toes.

This is what is known as the good cop bad cop routine, right? As in, I think, pushing myself up and trying not to black out again, the good cop suggests the water and the demonic fucker cop puts it by my feet. With one desperate movement, I swipe at the glass––– and it falls to the ground, emitting a morose tinkle. Succumbing to weariness and pain, I begin to follow it in a slow motion nosedive.

"Oh––! Miss Vince, are you okay?" Someone has caught me in an embrace, and his anxious voice breathes warm air onto my back. Suddenly, I feel like I can relax, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Whoever it is has a large mustache that moves like a duster over my neck, and I giggle inwardly. It's like I'm back home, wrapped in my father's protective arms–– heat radiating from flesh and bone to surround me, keep me safe. Lying back down, I smile genuinely at the man who rescued me from the cold floor, and happily recognize Lieutenant Gordon, the kind-faced cop from the news reports.

"Thank you Lieutenant. I'm sorry to have caused you any more trouble." Blushing at the spillage spreading on the linoleum, I wish that I could have just a little more poise. At least I wouldn't feel like such a little child all the time.

"Trouble? Miss Vince, you are anything but trouble! You," he says, beaming like an uncle talking to a precocious niece, "are a hero!" My jaw drops. There is a long silence.

"Wait, what?" I start laughing. "I'm a hero because I spouted nonsense at a gang of," I give a slight shudder, "clowns and then threw a few plates of hors d'oeuvres like a deranged toddler? While," I continue, slowly becoming infuriated, "everyone else stood around like voyeuristic statues and waited to see me get shot? And now people are putting water by my toes, which is cruel and unusual when they can see that I'm in pain, and that my mouth is clearly up here." Poor Gordon looks so bewildered. I guess everyone is a little surprised when I become angry. I suppose I don't seem like the type. Seeing the look on his face, I feel my temper recede instantly. "I'm sorry, I'm a little confused and angry right now. I appreciate the hero thing, really, but I don't feel like one."

He hesitates, then, places a hand on my shoulder, large, calloused, comforting. "The point is that you did something, and, even if it was an accident, it very probably saved those people. And you weren't alone–– just as you were knocked out, Batman came to the rescue." So that was the gravelly voice that I heard answering the Joker's rusty growl. All the more power to the man-bat, I thought, if he was going to be around to save my scrawny ass from villains like that creep. "He's the one who brought you to the hospital, and he would have stayed with you, if––" Gordon breaks off, looking a little abashed.

I nod firmly. "I understand. Do you… know him?"

"As well as one could in my position." Again, that soft apologetic smile. I feel like I've received enough smiles in the last two days to fill a lifetime.

I return the kindness, again thinking about my father and his modesty, his knack for finding small details about people–– the little things that made them endearing, decent. I'm filled with affection for the policeman in front of me, with his weary expression and mournful eyes, his droopy mustache. I notice that he sits hunched, curled inward as if every day fighting has settled on his shoulders, the scum and ash of Gotham piling upon him, the overwhelming pressure compacting it into one great weight. He's being crushed under its sins, I realize, and with sudden compassion reach forward to press the hands he holds clenched in front of him. We sit in silence for a minute.

"If you see Batman again, Lieutenant, tell him how thankful I am. Please. I doubt I'll be seeing him again." I laugh, hoping against likelihood. "I'll probably be fired from my job tomorrow for being a danger to myself and my coworkers. Besides, everyone there thinks I'm borderline deranged anyway." Gordon suddenly frowns, shaking his head.

"You'll probably be thanking him yourself–– for two reasons. One, your paper is thrilled by your up-close and personal picture of the Joker and your daring encounter is the sort of thing that they would love to serialize. You'll probably be asked to seek out the Batman, and besides, your–– accidental heroics are good press. You'll be more of a celebrity than a journalist. And two. Two––" He pauses. I wait, uneasiness growing on me like the ivy climbing the walls of my decrepit home. Gordon looks me in the eye. "Two, we're worried for you. Whether you want to be, you are now officially on the Joker's radar. I afraid he's a little amused by you." I roll my eyes.

"Isn't everyone?" I say, sarcasm slithering off my tongue. Two seconds later, though, I feel guilty, blushing deeply as I look into Gordon's reproachful eyes. "I'm sorry. It's just hard to believe that anyone would have any interest in me beyond a sort of detached 'Oh yeah.' I'm just some girl, you know?" Gordon shakes his head.

"Not anymore. Now you're a journalist at the Gotham Times who mingled with the best and brightest in the city–––" I snort. Mingling, ha. "––and showed her true colors to the most deranged, dangerous criminal on the streets. You are to be protected at all times. We'll make sure of it. We don't want someone as brave as you to disappear, when there are so few willing to be courageous." He stands, beaming again and offering his hand to shake. "I'm very glad to have found you, Harriet Vince."

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Now, of course, I'm much more optimistic. Upbeat. I'm not only in a great deal of pain, but I'm under the horrible, watchful eyes of both a madman and a vigilante. It's the stuff dreams are made of. Nightmarish dreams of deranged grinning stalkers with gravelly voices and bat ears. Did I mention that stalkers are another one of my choice phobias? I'm beginning to realize that I'm scared of a lot of things, which is not good for a girl in my situation. And what about my situation has thrown my fears in such sharp relief? Is my mind trying to instill a sense of self-preservation in me by constantly heightening my anxiety? Why is there gum on my elbow? What are those shoes doing hanging by their laces from the telephone wire? Why, of all the journalists in the city, in that room, in that general area, did he have to spot me? I'm not brave. I'm just an idiot who managed to delay the inevitable by shooting her mouth off to someone who I'm sure doesn't forget wiseass wimps in ballroom gowns.

This is absurd.

I trudge home, feeling the concrete through my thin soles. I figure that I could walk home blindfolded and be able to know which street I was on. I know every crack and fissure in the sidewalk by now, every nasty smell, every catcall and hobo's drunken voice, having marched myself back and forth through Gotham for four years in the same smelly shoes. I grin to myself, remembering that my landlady wants them thrown out because of the smell. More than once, she has come to collect the rent and told me that it smells "like ass" in my room. But I'm not chucking 'em–– they're lucky, I'm sure of it: I've never been mugged wearing them, and even though they're falling apart, I hardly ever act like a klutz in them.

Well, I admit, that's a bit of an exaggeration as I slip on a large puddle of god-knows-what and falling prone into Mr. Rizzo's outdoor tomato display. My head explodes with pain all over again and I can barely shift without tasting bile in my mouth. The market erupts into general turmoil and a bevy of screaming women turn me over, screeching wildly that I've been shot in the back–– "It was a sniper, a sniper!" –– only to begin wailing and moaning about the "blood" soaking through my shirt. Tomato juice, naturally. Produce and I seem to be engaged in bloody (ha ha) war, and, to my horror, my brute strength is no match against its impeccable timing.

"Is she okay, what's going on? Miss? Miss!" Oh great. It's Bruce Wayne, lured from his limousine by the cries of terror. I close my eyes in utter mortification as he comes near, imagining his expression as he finds me, the klutzy blabbermouth, yet again covered in fruit juice and turning as red as my clothing. Panicking, I play it off as well as I can. Turning on my side, I begin to snore loudly. I can barely hear it over the chaos around me, but I swear he chuckles. "It's okay, madam, it's just a drunk who passed out in your shop." I snore even more obnoxiously, cuddling a large cabbage like a stuffed animal. I can hear the badly suppressed laughter in his voice now. "I'll take her off your hands, shall I? Seems a shame to leave something this pretty…sleeping around." I turn bright red again, a shade that becomes deeper and darker as I feel his strong arms scoop me up from the wreckage that was an outdoor market. "Don't worry about the shop, I'll pay whatever you need to fix this place up. And madam, if you don't mind terribly, could you keep this incident as much of a secret as possible? I'll make it worth your while." I hear the women's whispering and murmuring fade away as the billionaire playboy hoists me over his shoulder and carries me in a fireman's lift to his limo.

This is surreal.

I find myself deposited beside the kind old Englishman from the night before, and before I can offer a word of remorse or apology, find a large dark concoction thrust into my hand. "Complements of Mr. Jeeves," he says, grinning widely. "Good for people after a long night of partying." I take a draft and suddenly feel as if I'm suffering a fit of epilepsy. After shaking myself out a bit, I realize that I feel ten times more refreshed and relaxed. I smile my thanks, still blushing furiously, and the gentleman smiles, holding out his hand.

"I," he says, "am Alfred, Mr. Wayne's butler and sole heir. This Charlie, our driver, Mr. Wayne, our resident playboy wonder, and you––"

"–– Are Harriet Vince, Gotham City's new enigma." Mr. Wayne has finished his sentence just as he snaps his seat belt into place. He twists around from the front seat to smile at me. "Most enigmatic is her apparent determination to stain every piece of clothing she owns crimson. Is this some strange psychological quirk we're witnessing, Miss Vince?" He pretends to shove a microphone in my face, and I roll my eyes, suppressing my giggles.

"Oh yes," I say solemnly, "I'm just coming to realize my own pathologies–– in fact, I'm beginning to call these, um, incidents Freudian slips." Alfred chuckles and Wayne and I grin at each other. "But I'm afraid I'm running out of dye. I mean, there aren't many species of fruit that can make you look like you've been seeped in blood."

"And not many outdoor marts that can supply them!" Starting horribly, I gibber my many stuttered apologies, only to find a large hand covering my mouth. I feel like I'm having an attack of apoplexy–– I know I look like it. "Not another word." Wayne's deep voice is gentle, sweet even. "After what you did last night, there is no way I'll ever be able to repay you." Again with the plaudits for a job blown far out of proportion. I sigh, removing Wayne's hand from my mouth. I shake my head, nettled that no one sees the pure cowardice that was the fountainhead of my heroism. Alfred smiles at my annoyance, and to my relief, briefly shakes his head at Wayne. He knows that this is not the time. Wayne sighs as well, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You are too modest. But enough of this–– are you hungry? I feel like I owe you something for that truly terrible night out." He flashes that winning smile again, and beyond the fog that seems to have encroached upon my vision, I see that we've stopped in front of my apartment.

Alfred opens my door and as I step out, mouth still hanging open, Wayne rolls down his window and smiles at me. "We'll be back in fifteen minutes. You don't have to dress up or anything, but if you really want to, I hear that hoop skirts are very much in fashion nowadays." And, still smiling at my dumbfounded face, he rolls up the window and pulls away.

This is––

A card.

A card is tucked inside my coat pocket, next to my keys.

It's a joker.