Panicking now.
I have hit the panic button as hard as I can and the adrenaline is pounding through my scrawny self and the bells of every desecrated church tower are ring ring ringing in my shattered atheist mind.
Lord, why hath I forsaken thee?
I stare at the card in my tiny, trembling hand, and notice that it has variations of "ha" scrawled on it in a sickeningly familiar shade of red. Gordon was right about me no longer being "just some girl." Now I'm "just some girl being pursued by a homicidal transvestite clown." I whip around to search the shadows behind me, around me, and realize–– I can't stay here. It'll be bad for my health.
I run through the door to the elevator, hit the button, and then realize that that's probably a terrible idea if anybody's waiting in my hall to see if I've come back. And I decide against the main staircase because the sound of my shoes and belabored breathing up seven flights of stairs will also probably be a giveaway. Shit, and if the creep's as clever as they say, then he'll probably have people stationed on the fire-escape stairs as well. And even if that's not true, I'm sure he knows how I react to stress and will end up catching me right here, hyperventilating in the hallway. I'm being fucking trapped by my own imagination! The elevator arrives, and in a stroke of brilliance, I jump inside, press my number, and dodge out before the doors close. I stand there, pleased for a minute, before I realize that I still don't know how to get to my room.
Then I remember the drainpipe in the alleyway. Taking off my shoes, I silently sprint back outside and around the corner. I catch my breath, staring up the wall.
It's a pretty long climb, and the pipe is rusty and treacherous. But I remind myself that compared to the treachery of mankind, that thing is as solid as a rock, and, putting my shoes back on, begin to scramble up my lifeline. It creaks ominously, and I realize that smashing one's head open in an alley during a pipe climbing accident is not really a dignified way to go. Keeping this mortifying image in mind, I scurry faster up the smooth metal, scrabbling to catch onto the wall when I feel myself sliding. I feel my hands being cut open and scraped by the rough stone and brick and hope desperately that this doesn't make my climb even more slippery. Oh Jesus Christ, why is it so much harder to be a coward than a hero?
Seventh floor. Don't look down.
I'm in the room three windows to the left. I clench my teeth together and squeeze my eyes together and extend my leg out as far as it can go, until I feel it make contact with the ledge directly beneath the window. Breathing deeply, I watch my bleeding hand slide along the wall until it is positioned directly over my foot. Taking a firm hold on the brick, I shift my weight and pull my other half onto the ledge and its parallel, and realize that I am not yet dead. I'm almost there now, but I can hear the sounds of the world far below me, and I fear that I don't have much more strength left to cling to the wall face. Now is not the time to be a klutz.
Six minutes of fear and vertigo later, and I'm staring into my room with wide eyes. There is no one there. There are no obvious disturbances to its arrangement or any mysterious additions to its appearance. It looks just as I left it. Maybe I overreacted. Maybe the playing card is a sick joke by Mr. Wayne at my expense–– he's not really known for anything except frivolity. Maybe–– oh fuck. I have dinner plans to keep.
I smash open my window with my fist, knowing that the apartment complex's alarm system has been broken and left unfixed for an irresponsible amount of time–– another convincing reason to evacuate the premises. My mind is made sharp and clear by the danger, the adrenaline, the booming of my drum-like heart, and I realize that the relief that should accompany being home has permanently left this dwelling place. I'm afraid to know why.
I run through my abode, grabbing my suitcase and throwing everything I consider necessary into it. Clothing, minimal. Typewriter, camera, notebook, hairbrush, extra shoes–– I run into the bathroom and begin collecting my cosmetics when a glance at the mirror makes me scream in sheer terror.
Words are written across the surface. Words in dripping, smearing red.
Why so serious?
Furious and scared shitless, I hurl my soap dispenser at the glass and smash it as hard as I can. Seven years bad luck would be nothing compared to what I'm facing right now. And with that outburst, I'm suddenly calm. I've experienced my catharsis. I wander back into the bedroom and sit down, feeling nullified and voided by my intense fear. Of course the Joker won't strike yet, not with the police and Batman watching my every move. I'm being frightened into doing something stupid–– like running from my apartment with a nominal amount of money and clothing into the streets of Gotham. I sigh, realizing that I was close to making the biggest mistake of my life.
On the other hand…
He knows where I live. He knows how to get in to my bedroom. Laughing (as if) it off is not an option, because the bastard clearly has me trapped between a rock and a hard place. I can't stay here tonight–– and I wasn't going to be here. Bruce Wayne, billionaire almighty, had invited me to dinner. Who knew where I lived. Who knew my name. And who had just obliquely rescued me from an abduction plot I should have realized was coming.
Coinkidink? I think not.
It seems that a third party is looking out for me.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
"Wow, Mr. Wayne, you shouldn't have." I am back in my four-inch heels, wobbling on the arm of the richest and most poised man in Gotham in the city's richest restaurant. I'm from Jersey for God's sake, we don't get lobster on the menu in the Midwest. I'm so excited, I can barely keep myself from throwing off my shoes and dancing on the tables. Not to mention that I haven't eaten anything, except maybe an accidental mouthful of tomato. My stomach's rumbling negates my attempts at humility, and I glance at Wayne in blushing embarrassment. He grins at my expression.
"Please," he says, smiling as he recognizes the cliché, "call me Bruce." I snigger, and grin back at him.
"And you, sirrah, may call me Harriet. Or Harry. My parents weren't discriminating." Bruce bursts out laughing, and, still chortling, brings me to a small table. I haven't told him about the break-in at my apartment yet, but I realize I must when I ask if I can take up residence in his dumbwaiter. Besides, I have the feeling that he already knows what I'm going to ask, which is unsurprising, considering that I brought my suitcase with me.
"Bruce!" I my smile widens as I see Gordon approach, closely followed by Harvey Dent, the heralded new DA. Both of them look overjoyed to see us, but their expressions are tinged with anxiety. "Miss Vince, I cannot express how happy I am to see that you are safe. I am afraid, however," Gordon continues gravely, "that I cannot say the same for your apartment. It has been utterly destroyed, Miss Vince, vandalized and disrupted. We were afraid for a while that you might already have been abducted, but a homeless fellow told us that he had seen a woman of your description climb into a limo and head in this direction. It is a happy thing that you managed to get to her before he did, Bruce, because I tell you now, not one object in that room was left unmolested."
"He wasn't happy at all," Dent continues, drawing up a chair besides me. "He killed the people who were supposed to be watching for you. Apparently, they only heard your footsteps in the lobby once, and when they saw the elevator go upstairs, they believed you were trapped in your room, I don't know, frozen with fear." I glance around at the three of them, and see that their faces are thoughtful, confused even. Dent speaks again. "How did you manage to get around them?"
"I found the card in my pocket too early, I think–– it was placed next to the keys for my room. They wouldn't know that because I lose them so much, I check to see if I have the damn things before I enter the building." The others chuckle, and I shrug. "I guess it was just dumb luck, really."
I tell them the rest of my story, and watch their eyes widen as I hold up my scratched and battered hands. Bruce does not interrupt me, but silently signals the nearest waiter and requests a bowl of warm water and extra napkins, which makes me glow. After I finish, the three most important men in the city sit dumbfounded as I clean my wounds in the water brought to our table. I shrug guilty, interpreting their silence as disapproval. "I know I'm a coward. I've been trying to tell you guys––I'm no hero!" I feel self-loathing rise within me like nausea, and I grow hot and flushed, trying not to cry. Why should I react to their resentment so fiercely? I hadn't done anything to merit their high expectations, but their regard for me throws my ingratitude and cowardice into sharp relief. Choking back self-hatred, I clench my hands and try to laugh. "I have a highly-developed sense of self-preservation, sirs, not to mention dinner plans to fulfill."
To my relief, they laugh with me, and Bruce gently begins wrapping my hands in spare napkins, saying as he does, "We aren't angry with you. If anything, we're relieved that you're safe, and impressed at your quick thinking. Right, gentlemen?" Gordon nods fervently, smiling at my astonishment.
"But–– but I ran away! I did the exact opposite as a hero–– as someone like Batman would have done!" Dent laughs and tells the newly arrived waiter our preferences, and turning back to me, shakes his head.
"You forget that Batman is a Sasquatch compared to you, and far more capable of taking out six fully armed hooligans." I inwardly snigger. Hooligans? Was our DA raised in an old folks home? He continues. "Really, this proves even more that he was threatened by your outspokenness." I consider that, and shake my head.
"No, I don't think that's it. A little girl who panicked and attacked him with a camera and a plate of appetizers wouldn't threaten him." I frown. "What exactly did you tell the reporters when they arrived?" The others glance guiltily at each other. I'm a little worried about this–– I never got to read the newspaper today, seeing as I was knocked out during its greater portion. Bruce looks to Dent, who clears his throat apologetically.
"We, uh, told them that you had acted with great courage. Great audacity. Stood up for the people held frozen by fear. That you are, uh, a symbol of Gotham's awakening bravery and a role model for the civilians, who, unmasked, can fight against crime and evil in their own areas." I curse inwardly and several colorful remarks bounce around in my skull. Of course I don't threaten the Joker at all–– he's diverted by me. He's amused by their desperate faith in me. I'm just another pawn in a very dangerous game, someone to be built up, lionized, and martyred. Or, in his eyes, another death used to wound Gotham's already weakened morale. He seems like the sort of person who'd kick a man while he's down.
I tell them what I think, and watch their faces fall. They really thought, just for a second, that one little journalist had gotten under the Joker's skin. I sigh, pitying them. "Sirs, I think you depend too much upon me and my so-called audacity. I'm not one of your heroes, your protagonists. I'm at best secondary character who got thrown into an awful mess, but most realistically an extra who missed her cue to shut the fuck up." I smile at them sadly, realizing how much I want to matter to these people, but how dangerous that would be for everyone involved. I can't be their icon. It'll just hurt ten times worse when I fail to uphold their expectations, and will probably do ten times as much damage. "Please, if you have any common sense, take me out of the limelight. Forget me. I'll do your muckraking, your sideline cheering, and I'll be as brave as I can–– while doing my job. But don't fool yourselves into thinking that I'm something I'm not. I won't be used to hurt you that way." I can feel tears well up in my eyes now. They're hot and full of bitter self-recrimination.
Bruce squeezes my hands as softly as he can, and Gordon murmurs, "We need to believe in someone, Harriet. You might not consider yourself ideal, but neither do we." I look up at him, lips trembling. "We're all just people–– extras–– who ignored our cues. We made one decision, and whether it was accidental or not, we've been given the hopes of thousands of innocent people. No matter how unprepared and vulnerable we feel, we have to remember that we're the only ones keeping them from despair. We never feel brave enough, tough enough–– I don't even think Batman is without those insecurities, and he has ways of avoiding their reality. And," he continues, smiling, "we're not asking you to become a superhero. We're asking you to do your job, which I hear you do very well."
"Well, yeah," I say sarcastically, flicking away a few escapee tears, "it's a lot easier to be brave on paper–– if people don't agree with the newspaper, they'll throw it, and not you, into the incinerator." The others chuckle as the food is delivered to our table, and I instantly dig into my lobster, feeling drained by my second catharsis of the day. Intense pity, how you hollow me. "Just, um, don't glorify me. It isn't suitable, and will only make a big target on the heart of Gotham. I'll be a celebrity journalist. They get to show up after the dirty deed and make their scathing remarks." Again, they all laugh at me and my silliness. Silly me, protecting my silly self with my silly typewriter and camera. I'm just happy they haven't made any protests.
"So, Miss Vince," Dent says, "what do you do in your spare time?" Flashing a big white-toothed grin. I blush deep red and begin my trademark blithering.
"Oh, well, on my nights off I like to dress in black spandex and run around the city fighting crime."
There's a long silence.
I nonchalantly take a bite of crab, and continue, "That, or watch late-night romantic comedies on AMC."
Bruce suddenly snickers and the table bursts out laughing. I roll my eyes and pour myself some wine, unable to stop giggling. "I mean, I know I don't seem like the type––" That induces another bout of hooting, and I find myself cackling into my wineglass as Dent pounds on the table. Nothing like death to make everything in life seem funnier. The other restaurant goers are looking around at our hysterics with slight concern, which becomes more pronounced when I start waving my hands in front of me like paddles. Of course, the guys notice this and laugh even harder.
"Wha—what the––hell was that?" Bruce snorts, chortling. "You looked like some sort of–– of––idiot seal!" My cackles redouble at that, tears are running from my eyes, and I see Gordon slips sideways in his chair, doubled over and wheezing through his mustache. I love laughing like this.