Author's Note (DON'T YOU DARE IGNORE THIS): I'd just like to thank everyone who took the time to notice little Harriet and her sometimes-courageous nature. She's really trying! And your encouragement and constructive criticism are like manna from heaven to her. She and I both would like to take this margin at the top of the page to offer thanks to Laurenmlbc, Teenage.Anomaly, Nabierre, Aviarianna O Lorien, and everyone who's still reading my drivel. Oh, and the faux Gotham Times can be found online, under w w w. t h e h a h a h a t i m e s. c o m –– minus the spaces and the flattering picture of Harriet, obviously. XD
Don't forget to review!
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By three o'clock in the afternoon, my article of defiance and persuasion has reached every corner of the Gotham media, from readings on talk shows to crude photocopies being passed out by paperboys.
By three thirty, Gordon, Dent, and Bruce are lecturing me on personal safety.
"You lied." Dent suddenly accuses me as the others stop to catch their breath. I am shocked.
"About what?" I ask, outraged. How dare he make slurs on my personal integrity when I just pulled Gotham's morale out of a nosedive? Dent paces back and forth, rolling his eyes, and finally throws his hands into the air.
"About not having a death wish!" I laugh, and scan my Joker-fied Gotham Times, turning to lie lengthways on the couch.
"But I don't, my dear DA! That's why I'm picking my fights from behind a typewriter!" I smile blithely. Dent just stares at me, mouth open and arms akimbo. He looks like a semi-evolved ape, but I really ought to keep my fresh comments to myself for now. Heh heh.
"A typewriter?" he yells, still staring at me. I nod, as I would to a little child.
"The thing that goes clickity-clack and prints words on paper, dear," I say in my most condescending tone. Bruce snorts with laughter, but instantly composes himself under the DA's fierce glare. Ooch. This is not one of Mr. Dent's more charming days.
"Do you really think that a typewriter will be any sort of protection against that man?" I laugh gently, and he steps back, visibly disconcerted by my response.
"Well, no, but that's why I have you–– right Mr. Dent?" He doesn't respond, but he looks pleasantly surprised––embarrassed, even. Gordon gives me an anxious, searching look.
"Why are you taking such risks, Harriet? I thought that this was exactly the thing you said you were incapable of doing." I laugh again, and spread my arms, trying to encompass the revelation I had experienced the day before.
"This isn't heroism, Gordon! I'm just doing the job I have to do. No one else was––is–– going to do it." I think I see, in my peripheral vision, Bruce's grin stretch a few more centimeters. "Don't worry! If he comes after me, I'll be prepared." I ball my fists and smile determinedly. There is a silence, in which they all give me incredulous looks. I explain, "You know, I'll use my natural weapons–– killer sarcasm and über-destructive klutziness. Bruce can testify." I grin at them.
And, completely blasé, I let them all head off to their various tasks, chortling contentedly. Who makes people work on Sundays, anyway? I know my job's not mandatory, especially after yesterday's mother load of an issue. I didn't expect Bruce to be going anywhere, but apparently he and Alfred have to consult with their co-worker, Lucius Fox, so I'm left home alone again, congratulating myself as I read about the resurge of brotherhood within Gotham, the large organizations being formed to "Save Batman." Finally, perhaps, I'm doing something right.
I flip on Bruce's enormous stereo system, plug it into the internet, and begin blasting "God Knows," in the empty penthouse, shredding air guitar in a white undershirt and key green boxers on Sunday morning. Yup, I know it: I'm way cool.
God knows that I would follow you/ If that is what you wanted/ Take me into all your darkest shadows and you'll see that/ I'm even stronger than you could know/ God knows that I am standing here/ And you could disappear/ Slipping right over the edge of the future–– if I had my way/ We'd be together forever/ Eternally God-blessed. Spinning around on the drum roll, I kick out wildly and knock a large vase of flowers from a coffee table. Gasping, I dive for it, only to feel my fingers graze its handle a second before it smashes to bits.
My eye twitches.
Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. Now I've really signed my death sentence. Alfred told me about this vase, it's Ming Dynasty and worth ba-gillons and apparently he's very fond and proud of it because he spent his salary (however the hell much that may be) to buy the blasted thing, and I've just gone and broken it. Cold sweat forms on my brow as I realize that if the Joker doesn't kill me, the Butler definitely will.
And it was shaping up to be such a nice Sunday.
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A few minutes later, I run into the Times building, hair flying from my ponytail and my eyes wild. Panicking, I had written an apologetic note to Alfred and took a fast cab to the office. Anywhere located at reasonable proximity away from that vase. Clowns (shudder) with psychotic/pyromaniac tendencies I can–– I'm getting better about, but the idea of Alfred stalking me through the halls of a dark penthouse with a meat cleaver, glasses shining with crazed self-righteousness, is a bit more than I can handle. And I really don't want my epitaph to be The Butler Did It.
"Whoa, Harry!" I've almost run down Laura, the newspaper's morale officer, as I scuttle to get to my desk. Getting a better grip on the stack of folders she has, she gives me a mocking look. "Slow down, girl––is the Joker after you already?" I scowl at her ill-timed sense of humor.
"No, but the manservant is." Ignoring her look of bewilderment, I glance at the papers she is holding. "Demoralizers––? Laura, what are these?" She smirks, setting down the folders and flourishing a picture in my face.
"After your eloquent booster was spread 'round Gotham like the plague, everyone started acting real smug and over-confident. It's insufferable enough with the editor waltzing around, casually mentioning that you're staying at 'Bruce's' penthouse, so I'm printing out these personalized demoralizers for everyone. It's just to balance out the atmosphere, really. I mean, we shouldn't have to deal with smug pollution on top of everything else." She grins as I roll my eyes.
"Such impeccable logic in someone so–– irrational! Really, Laura, your frivolity never ceases to amaze me." She blows a raspberry and presses the folder into my chest, smiling.
"Why Harry, you smug old hypocrite! Here, take the lot of 'em–– but first, look at the one I wanted to give you personally." It's a picture of two pigmy owls. One of them looks distinctly irate, sardonic, even, but the other has its head cocked to the side, wide-eyed and stupid looking. The caption is RETARDS: We All Know One.
Before I can retort, Laura has uttered a cheerful "Buh-bye!" and swanned off, leaving me to huff. And she complains about people being insufferable.
At lunch, I'm invited to Pasquale's Bistro by a large group of people that I've never really talked to, or ever really wanted to. Namely, Constance B. Mooreston, the author of "The Awful Truth," a truly awful syndicate, and her fawning cronies, whose articles are better fit for a tabloid than a serious newspaper. They screech and squeal about the level of crime, but refuse to acknowledge the good effects of Batman, instead placing all of their faith in good-natured, good-looking, just plain good Harvey Dent. Being at their table was like being back in my middle school, surrounded by blithering, moronic children. I am brought to the brink of committing seppuku with my butter knife when they begin showering me with praise––sycophantism subtly laced with the poison of anti-vigilante dogma. I want to let the anger I feel boiling within explode out of me, want to scream at them and ask if they would rather I be a courageous citizen, or someone who leaves the trouble to be sorted out by the police–– by Mr. Dent. But I can't. It'd be very impolite.
Manners, however, don't stop them from inquiring after Bruce. "So, Harriet––" Constance says through a mouthful of lettuce. I clench and unclench the handle of my butter knife under the table. I really wish she wouldn't call me that. I never gave her my permission to be so familiar with me, I'm sure. "Are you getting an, mmm, close- up shot of Mr. Wayne? I hear that he's let you move in with him––" She pauses, gauging my reaction, and continues, "––And that he treats you quite like his little sister!"
Titter away, envious bitch. I smile, saying, "Then it's a good thing he's not known for his incestuous tendencies, isn't it!" There is a long and blissful silence. I dig into my steak. "Good meat, this," I comment cheerfully. "Very bloody."
Constance clears her throat slightly, looking a little admonished. "Harriet, dear––" Dammit, woman, I'm not your daughter! "–– I don't mean to put you on the spot, really, but I've made it my job to investigate the vices of the people upon whom we place responsibility." Clearly, you nosy old hag. "I know that he's charismatic––" but isn't Dent a dreamboat? "––But you can't let that fool you into doing something–– unwise." Like sleep in his apartment!
As I try to take a drink, Constance grabs my arm, makes me set the drink down, and comfortingly clasps my wrist. I stare at her and her "sympathetic" face. Is she checking to see if I have a pulse or something? "Just remember–– if anything happens, call me." She slides her business card across the table, and the others nod solemnly. I have to forcibly stop myself from rolling my eyes. Sure, Constance, next time I sleep with Bruce Wayne, I'll throw a slumber party and we'll have big girl bonding time. With a tight smile, I pretend that I have to leave, even though I've only eaten two bites of cow, ad-libbing something about a personal interview with Batman on the top of Wayne Tower. Before they can say anything other than "See you around," I'm making a dash for the door.
I don't quite make it outside, however.
"Whyyyy hel-lo, gorgeous."