Explanation:
I'm sorry about the last version of this chapter–– one, for its poor quality, and two, for its being so incomplete. I uploaded the wrong version of the chapter, but have fixed this now (see The Train: Director's Cut). SO REREAD IT.
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Love is a burning thing/ And it makes a fiery ring/ Bound by wild desire/ I fell in to a ring of fire... / I fell in to a burning ring of fire/ I went down, down, down and the flames went higher/ And it burns, burns, burns the ring of fire/ The ring of fire.
I loathe the Joker.
"You know why I'm doing this, Harriet?" He's managed to make himself heard over Johnny Cash, and is now doing his best impression of an obnoxious, incorrigible child pestering his mother as she tries to talk on the phone. "Hmmmm? Harriet? Do you?" I grind my teeth together. I want to smash that damnable camera and continue jumping on it until it's pulverized, or until I get blisters. I hate fuses, I hate his sick, sadistic "game," I hate fossil fuels, I hate my life–– but I abso-fucking-lutely despise that damn clown.
"You must not have a really strong inclination to keep me alive, mister, or else you'd shut the fuck up." I glower over my shoulder at the camera, which just emits another paroxysm of giggles.
"It's funny, the way, ah, the way that you're starting to crack under pressure: you're not being so careful with your language, my little journalist." Now it's my turn to laugh.
"Careful with my language? Mr. Joker, do not kid yourself. We both know that my inability to silence my verbal idiocy is the reason I'm here, being tormented by you. And if you're referring to the swearing, well––" I allow myself a small self-deprecating smile. "Let's just say that I've watched a lot of Quentin Tarantino movies." I turn around; pause, and glare back over my shoulder. "That being said, once I'm out of here, I'm going medieval on your ass."
I face my bonds again, blocking out that bastard's maniacal laughter. It has been a little over a minute since I learned the extent of the Joker's depravity, and the fuses incapacitating me are still, I notice unhappily, sizzling with their original fervor. No lucky gust of wind has blown them out since I awoke in the warehouse, and certainly no caped crusader has come to rescue me. But that's part of the game, apparently: I'm supposed to prove to Gotham–– to myself–– that I can be considered a "real hero", a true symbol of bravery, and not just Batman's cheerleader. But I know he doesn't want me to succeed, in fact, he's depending upon me–– and poor Johnny Tambling–– dying. No, he's making an example of the heroes, showing that people like me are too human to fight demons like him. A twisted Faustian story, this is.
The one nice thing the Joker has done for me is to place all the lit fuses where I see them–– I think. I hope. But there is nothing that I could possibly use on them, other than possibly smothering the flames with my clothing, which I was happily surprised to find still on my body. Taking care to keep my back turned to the little red light and the lit fuses in my line of vision, I begin checking my pockets awkwardly, both hands scrabbling at the fabric for anything, anything at all–– and to my shock, I feel a small, square-shaped lump in my right coat pocket. I force myself not to freeze or look conspicuous, pretending to check the inside hems of my coat even more frantically while drawing the coat's material in front of me and surreptitiously retrieving the item.
I stare at what appears to be a jewelry box, nonplussed. It's black velvet, the sort of little box that would hold your anniversary earrings, or–– I gasp, horrified. This is exactly the sort of proposal one would expect from the Joker. Tying the prospective bride with bomb fuse, placing her within a circle of petrol, and leaving her to discover the engagement ring to the sound of–– oh God–– "Ring of Fire?" The taste of love is sweet/ When hearts like our's meet/ I fell for you like a child/ Oh… but the fire went wild. Ugh. Theatrical and sadistic. Completely to his taste.
"Harriet, the clock's a-ticking!" The Joker's voice calls out, gleefully singsong and sadistic. "Have you, ah, found the key to safety yet?" My eyes bulge from their sockets. No way. No way a make-up wearing psychopath is proposing me to at death's threshold. This cannot be fucking happening. I mean, he doesn't like me that much. Hands trembling, I open the lid and just manage to catch a small piece of paper before slips out of the box. Honestly, Joker, you could've just asked. I unfold it, however, still clutching the jewelry box.
Harriet
I have no right to compare myself with you–– your bravery awes me as much as it worries me, and although I know you'll be fine, I want you to have this, both as a token of my admiration and as a protection against your enemies. I had Lucius make it yesterday, after the article came out, and I hope it serves you well.
You are forever my hero.
Bruce
Stifling relieved laughter, I look into the box, and begin chuckling softly under my breath. It's a razor blade on a steel chain, and cut out of the center is a small bat icon. You are forever my hero. Steady breaths, Harry, save your tears for appropriate occasions. I know what course to take–– I always have. Now it's just a matter of how.
Quickly and quietly, I begin severing the ends of the fuses from their main bodies, halving the cords as exactly as I can and laying each of them in front of me, making sure that there is both enough cord for me to play for time, at that, when I face the camera, it'll still look like the lit ends are trailing behind me. Then I turn slowly on my hands and knees to face the Joker, clenching the chain of Bruce's present behind my back and summoning every ounce of liquid to my eyes.
I hesitate, and murmur brokenly, "You really want me dead, don't you Mr. Joker?"
He muses on this, and when he speaks, I can hear the smirk in his voice. "Hmmm, ya know, Harriet Vince, I don't think I do. I haven't had this much fun in days! Though, ah, you had quite a bit to do with that, m'dear." He licks his lips audibly. "I'd say that this is–– is merely a test, of your true loyalties, as it were. I'd suggest you choose your friends fast, though," he purrs, "'cause the fire is starting to think you're his companion-for-life, hee hee hee!"
Taking my cue, I pretend to break down, letting my tears run like a faucet turned on full-blast. "Pl-please, Joker–– I–– I won't cause any more trouble for you–– I just–– I just want to go home––!" I stare into the camera, eyes gushing water like the Niagara, and hear his deranged cackling fill the darkness like a warped laugh track. "Pl-please! I just–– want to go home––!"
"Home? As in your best mate's pad?" I start and turn crimson, not having realized what I was saying. Wayne's penthouse is my home now–– my safe haven, provided Alfred isn't there. But the Joker doesn't stop there. "Well, you know––" he giggles "–– what they say about 'home being where the heart is!'" I feel as if I'm having a cardiac arrest. What is he implying? What does he know about me? I can't take the chance of finding out. I shuffle forward on my knees, weeping and splashing through the petrol, smelling danger splatter my person, though my fuses still trail far behind me, and feel for the camera, grabbing it with both hands and looking directly into its lens.
"Please. Please. I know you need good publicity, Joker–– you need fear. I can give you that! I can be your spokesperson for however long you need me, and–– and be easily disposed of afterwards–– just don't kill me!"
The lights go on, and I blink, dumbfounded at the sight before me.
He's been here the entire time. He's been sitting here with stereo, microphone, speakers, video camera–– and a truckload of clowns. I sigh with relief, scooting backwards and putting my feet out in front of me as one of them approaches with a gun and a knife, which he uses to cut my bonds. "Public Relations Lesson Number One: Appealing to public knowledge. For a Joker, sir, you're really uninformed–– don't you know that you can fit a thousand clowns in a tiny car?" He giggles, scars twitching with nervous pleasure, basking in his apparent victory.
"Ready to be friends, Harriet the Spy? Ready to play nice with the other children?" I pretend to consider this as my bonds around my ankles are cut, while slowly reaching behind me and letting my left hand curl around the severed ends of the long, still-burning fuses. In my other hand, I grasp my silver chain; my savior.
The madman with the knife drawls on, perhaps sensing that something is not right. "Now is not the time to reconsider, m'dear. Now is the time to commit." Henchman number one shifts his position slightly, and I see the muscles under his long-sleeved shirt ripple, the way the ocean does when a dorsal fin carves through its surface. I look around at them all, the jackals, hyenas, and curs stuffed into clown suits, their sharp white canines hidden by ridiculous masks. I reserve my longest inspection for the king of beasts presiding in their midst, see the predatory posture, the malice in his paste-white face and black eyes. I know then that I can never be one of them–– I can never be made a circus animal, to perform at a ringmaster's leisure. Never.
I stand up slowly, shaking my head. "I'm afraid that we can never be friends, Joker. At best, we'll be congenial enemies," I say, as the man who freed me, hearing this, instantly charges me, gun raised. "And this––" I continue, turning 180 degrees to hide the lit fuses and using my entire body weight to slam the clown's gun arm into the wall, making him drop the firearm with a yell, "––is not the best of times. Now––" I slip my necklace over my head and grab the gun from the floor with my right hand, turning around to aim it directly between the Joker's eyes "–– you tell me exactly where Jonathan Tambling is and exactly how long I have to save him or I paint a Jackson Pollack with your grey matter."
There is a lull in the conversation. The Joker considers my bargain, staring out at me from under hooded eyes, mouth slowly twisting into a smirk. "Does this, ah, bravery make you feel righteous, hmmm, Harriet?" he purrs. "Are you pleased with what you're, ah, prepared to do? Oh, don't worry–– I'll tell you where Johnny is. You see, I have nothing to lose, whereas you–– you have everything to fear in failure. And fear everything.
"But go right ahead–– run along to the, ah, Metro-link station at Wayne Tower, little girl. Scamper to save some 'innocent' you've never met–– and, in forty-five minutes ex-act-ly, will never meet. And remember this, m'dear –– if little Johnny dies, or if the Bat freak saves him, you're mine. Oh, and if Batty McBatster gets there first–– I'll kill the kid myself. Think about that. You're my collateral, girly, so don't damage yourself…." He begins cackling again, as his henchmen prepare to rush me, the girl with one gun.
"You know, Joker, I don't think that this is really a "ha-ha" sort of funny–– this is more of a quiet sort of funny," I say, quickly stepping backwards, placing the gun into my right back pocket (clicking the safety as I do so) and moving to the other side of the moat of oil. Nasty, nasty petroleum, I will never deal with you're liquefied dino remains ever again. I renounce all diesel vehicles now and will buy myself a nice electric car, yessireebob!
…I'm really happy no one heard that.
"No, but that's because the joke's on you!" the Joker crows, startling me out of my spell of temporary insanity.
"Well," I mutter, pulling the lit fuses from behind my back, "I wouldn't go that far." And with that, I toss them onto the oil, listening as he bursts out laughing. Then I'm running as fast as I can out of the warehouse, trying to scream as his sick laughter echoes just behind my clanging footfall, throwing myself against the sliding door and bursting out onto the wharf, just barely catching myself from flying headlong into the water. I run like a madwoman chased by phantoms (which I've seen, by the way, and it's really amusing). I run terrified of what I must do––what I have already done–– to save this boy, this little Johnny, whom, as the Joker said, I've never even met.
But it's my job–– and no one else can do it.
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I pull up in a taxi to the most famous landmark in Gotham–– Wayne Tower. Craning my neck, I shield my eyes from the neon and sodium lights glinting off of the immense building and the newly-rebuilt monorail leading into its station, located mid-way up its glass and steel structure. Its terrifying to understand that somewhere on those rails, a boy only has twenty-five minutes left to live–– and that I, a mere journalist, am the only person who can save him.
It seems, however, that I'm not the only one who's trying to.
A giant spotlight is focused on the boy, who is being guarded by a small gang of thugs, who appear gunning down anyone who attempts to free the boy, namely, the policemen carefully walking to avoid the edges of the narrow track and calling to the child not to panic. I have stepped into a crowd which has gathered at the base of the building, and which includes a crew from GCN. "This child's life it appears is unfortunately yet another pawn in the battle for Gotham. The Tamblings, prestigious city patrons and avid, outspoken Batman supporters are facing a crisis more terrifying than any attack on the Narrows, armed robbery, or public bombing–– the willful abduction and murder of their child." Behind me, a woman screams, flailing helpless against the cops restraining her.
"That's my son!" She wails, her hair flying and mascara running in rivulets down her cheeks. "Jonathon! Someone, save the life of my child! Save my boy!" Her anguish pierces my heart like ice, and I too begin struggling to get into the Wayne building. The GCN woman continues her fretful commentary.
"The psychopath who operates under the alias 'The Joker' hijacked the Gotham monorail at the 9:10 wharf rail station and is driving it at full speed towards Wayne Tower. He has given two methods of ransom: either Batman turns himself in, or a citizen–– not a policeman–– dares to save little Jonathon. DA Harvey Dent has declared this bargain unacceptable, but police forces have been halved in the search for Harriet Vince, twenty-five-year-old journalist whose heroic stand against the Joker may have brought her to an untimely end––" I don't stop to listen to the rest, but, adrenaline pumping, shove my way to the front.
"Officer," I scream to the policeman, "Officer please listen I have to get up there. It is––" I inwardly wince at the obvious cliché "–– a matter of life and death! I have to save that boy!" The policeman (or boy, rather) shakes his head violently.
"I'm sorry miss, I have strict orders from Harvey Dent not to let anyone through. There's no way someone could save that kid now and get out of that train's way in time. Let the officials take care of it, please!" I point to the center of the spotlight where rapid gunfire is accompanied by the screams of policemen.
"Your officials aren't going to be able to hold out much longer–– can't you see that the Joker will just keep on murdering your men until one of us goes up there ourselves? Jonathon will never be saved! We can't let this continue–– you have to let me through!" I'm crying, throat raw from screaming.
"Miss, I can't let you!" I look up at the clock. Twenty minutes. I have no time for this. I pull out my gun, pointing it over the officer's heart, and the crowd screams and draws back like an animal from pain.
"Let me through!"
"Miss, I can't!" I cock the revolver, sweat pouring from my face.
"Either you let me by or I walk over your corpse!" The officer only shakes his head, eyes huge with fear. The gun trembles in my hands, and I glance towards the monorail, its structure. Could I face myself if I killed him? I freeze–– this is what the Joker wanted. He wanted me to crack, transgress my own moral code. I can't do that. No matter what happens, I can't let him win!
I hesitate, then throw the gun as far from me as possible. Without waiting for a response, I race back out through the frightened masses and straight to the metal structures holding the railroad tracks, a spotlight trained on me all the way. Lucky me. These columns have no ladders. For the second time in the last three days, I have to climb an unwieldy structure to save a life–– except now it's not my own.
I throw off my heels and my coat and begin to climb the crisscrossing metal bars. They're hard and ice-cold, and I can feel them shudder with the approach of the train, feel cuts two days old reopen. The climbing is fairly easy, consisting of a steady pattern of bracing alternating feet on v-shaped angles, but when I hear the shot of a machine gun and see policemen plummet to their deaths (if they aren't dead already), my bloody, cut palms and feet tremble and slip ever so painfully on the steel I scale. I do not, in any circumstances, look down.
I hear the clock on Wayne Tower strike a quarter to ten, and gasp in dismay, looking up towards the rail. I'm not even halfway up the support! Panicking, and fueled by pure adrenaline, begin rushing to get to the top. I cannot let my stupidity and over-confidence be the demise of another, especially when the execution is so cruel and clichéd. The Joker seeks to make mockeries of us all, even the most innocent, even in death. Thinking of this, I speed to the top of the support, gasping for breath and relief from the pain in my hands and feet. As I begin pulling myself up, the rumble of the approaching train throws me sideways, leaving me clinging to the edge of the track platform with one hand as my arm twists back and around, screaming as the sudden wrench I experience snaps something in my shoulder, sending waves of excruciating pain through my body.
Ignoring the fireworks that burst before my eyes, I swing my good arm upon the platform, and using my elbow as a support, pull myself over the edge. Taking a short pause to clutch my arm to my chest and whimper like a kicked dog, I stand on the monorail, bloody feet slipping slightly as I see, with pronounced horror, the very distant, speeding light of the train growing larger with each passing second. I can't pick my way over to the hostage–– I don't have enough time. Hoping desperately that my momentum will carry me forward before my feet can slip over the edge of the platform, I begin dashing on the monorail, its smooth metal pipe treacherously slippery, glaring in the spotlight.
Without pausing–– without thinking–– I run towards the Joker's men, who, seeing me, lower their weapons. "It's her," I hear one mutter into a walkie-talkie as I rush past him, barreling through he and his five or six compatriots, eyes tearing as I nearly trip over the tiny supine figure of little Jonathon. Falling prostrate before him and bloodying his person with my hands, I slip Bruce's present from around my neck and cut, as quickly as I can with a lamed right arm, the boy's bonds and remove his gag. He instantly breaks down, throwing his arms around my neck, and I choke to him that it'll be okay, looking at the little miracle I have clasped in my fist.
Then I notice that the gangsters have left, see a grappling hook disappear off of the side of the platform, and clench the razor blade in my already-bleeding hand. When the rats abandon ship…. I hear a squealing of metal on metal as, to my horror, I see train number ten come screeching around the bend, faster and faster, as the clock begins to strike ten o'clock sharp. Jonathon and I are too far from the Tower, I realize, panicking. There's no way that we'll be able to escape the train if we run along the rail, and John's trembling so hard, I doubt he could dash across a broom closet without falling over. I swallow, reaching down and taking his delicate child's hand in mine. Looking down into his round face, hear my distant voice ask him to trust me. He nods, terrified, eyes as big as portholes and the same shade as the ocean. They are the last things I will probably ever see.
I leap into space as the train thunders down upon us, pulling the boy with me and swinging him over myself and clutching him to my chest with both arms as I fall parallel to the ground, hoping to cushion him with my body when we make impact with the earth. The air whistles around me like a thousand dog calls, a thousand memories fleeing my falling body. My mother with her dark, navy blue eyes warm and smiling. My brother, twisted smile curling up affectionately. My father whose arms I could always find protection in. And Bruce. I see stars through the cracks in the smog, and all thoughts of pain gone, smile at the blade I hold in my crimson hand. I will die proud to still call myself his hero, I think. Tears are flying upwards, off of my face, rain falling the wrong way. I shut my eyes.
Suddenly something–– or someone–– slams into me sideways. Gasping, Jonathan and I feel an incredibly strong arm grip us in a protective embrace, and hear the sound of whizzing cord somewhere above our heads. Grappling hooks? I look at the arm clutching me. Black leather? I slowly stare up in awe at the famous masked visage above me, the vigilante who has now saved me twice in four days, and turn pale. Would the Joker consider this a breach of conditions? "Please," I whisper brokenly. "Please, if you have any capacity for empathy, let us drop, let me catch the boy's fall. You–– you don't know what he'll do––"
"No." I can barely hear his deep voice over the noise of the train. He does not look down at Jonathon or me. "Don't worry–– he knows you saved the boy. I'm here to save you." I flush bright red and blink away tears of gratitude, resting my pounding head against his chest.
"Thank you, then, Batman."
As soon as the train goes by, our savior gently lowers us back onto the monorail platform, as the crowd below us screams and cheers, shining the spotlight on our tearful, joyous faces, our filthy and bloody persons, and the cipher that is Batman. I turn to look at him, smiling. "You know what I really think prompted this?" I lean in close, as if to tell him a secret. "'Gadget envy!' The Joker was just fed up with having to deal with all of your cool toys!"
I can swear he chuckles, but the sound is so low, it could just be my stomach rumbling. Speaking of which, I think guiltily, as my guts voice their extreme hunger. "Wow. I'd better feed the creature that's taken up lodging in my innards, or else I'm afraid it'll start devouring me from the inside. Or leap out of my mouth and rampage through Gotham." Now I know he's laughing at me. I roll my eyes at myself. "Never trust an empty stomach to say something profound, whether it has barely escaped death or not. Ah, well. Steak, steak, all for me!" I chortle, slipping my bloody necklace over my head again. I see the Batman's eyes dart to it, but I keep on chattering. "Though I doubt they'll let me in like this." He nods solemnly and I imitate him with mock seriousness. "You know what they say: no shoes," I wiggle my toes, "no service!" Now, suddenly, he grins, and I gasp. "Who knew the caped crusader had a sense of humor? I know I'm shocked! Can someone from GCN get up here and film this breaking news, please?" I say, calling over the side. "Honestly, people, you can be such slackers!"
I turn back around, and he's vanished. "Dammit!" I yell, whirling 360 degrees.
"Yes, well," Gordon says, stepping out of the shadow beyond the spotlight, smiling, "he tends to do that."
Silence comes to rest between the two of us, a moment in which we merely stand and stare at each other. And then, mustache curving with his beaming mouth, and eyes very very bright, Gordon hugs me. "Don't you ever–– I mean, ever–– do that again!" I begin to sob into his Kevlar, heart rent by the words of a parent. "Please Harriet, you're far too precious to be throwing yourself off of monorails." I choke on a watery laugh, and lean back to look him in the face. He smiles again, and gently uses his thumb to wipe my tears. "Come on," he murmurs. "You've been hero enough for one day." And with my hand in his, I follow him into Wayne Tower.
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Well, you may have noticed that I fixed this up! Hee hee–– that's the ending of this particular story. Don't worry, don't worry! That's not the end at all. It's just the end of the, ah, the first issue of Harriet's adventures. Believe me, the Joker's not giving up that easily, ha ha ha! This is Book I. I hope you enjoyed it.
READ AND REVIEW! XD