When there's a bluebird singing by your window pane


And the sun shines bright all day through


Don't forget boy


Look over your shoulder


'Cause there's always someone coming after you

––Alan Price, "Look Over Your Shoulder"

It's a beautiful day for the Inquisition, I think wryly. The sun is shining, bright and beautiful, glimmering off of five stories of windows and glancing off of the steel Gothic statues still standing from the 40s. I'm wedged between Dent (who insists I call him Harvey now) and Bruce on chairs outside City Hall, wearing an absolutely ridiculous outfit. It looks like a costume error from the combined sets of My Fair Lady and Blade Runner, complete with oversized hat, skin tight dress, and thigh length boots–– all black, of course. And on this sweltering day, I am discomforted both emotionally and physically, and my so-called friends are thoroughly taking advantage of it.

"Dent?" Bruce says from my right side, where the hat obscures the whole of his upper body. "Dent! Are you there?" I roll my eyes, exasperated beyond belief. They've been doing this all morning.

"Wayne? Where are you? Are you hiding?"

"No, Dent! Actually, I think I'm being held hostage! I can't see any of the outside world, and there's this big, menacing black discus encroaching upon me!"

"Oh God, Wayne, how did you get yourself into this terrifying situation?"

"I don't know, Dent, but I think it's trying to frill me to death!"

"Okay, enough," I snap, purposefully turning to glare at Bruce and hitting Dent in the face with my hat. "You know that the hat wasn't my idea! Nor the etiquette lessons," I continue, ignoring both Dent's little noise of pain and Bruce's smirk, "or the calligraphy classes, or the ballroom dancing. That, my friend, was your butler's idea. Or, rather, revenge," I finish huffily, folding my arms and slouching. Bruce smothers a laugh and tries to look reproachful.

"Now, Harriet, I've already told you–– Alfred has entirely forgiven you for breaking the Ming vase." I raise an incredulous eyebrow–– or, rather, an eyebrow incredulously (heh heh). "No, really, he's not one to hold a grudge."

"Yeah," I say sarcastically, eyes like slits, "this torture device disguised as an item of clothing was clearly purchased out of great love and affection for yours truly. Bruce, you haven't seen the resentment in his eyes whenever they pass over that coffee table–– and he isn't planning on replacing the vase, either. He's going to keep that table empty of flowers for as long as I can visit–– for as long as he can guilt trip me about breaking the damn thing. Honestly, I'm just happy he didn't slay me the moment we walked in the door that Sunday! I can only suppose that it's because he has qualms about killing animals in pain or something, because I'm telling you right now–– Alfred doesn't just keep grudges. He breeds them."

Bruce just laughs at me, patting the lace on the top of my head patronizingly. Oh yes, ha ha ha, let's all laugh at the girl who can't punch with her good arm because it's in a sling. Rich bastard. Rich, beautiful, flippant, understanding, charming playboy bastard. He flashes his customary charismatic grin. I scowl in return, refusing to let myself be charmed out of my angry mood. I need my angry mood right now. I'm going into battle with the gnats, mosquitoes, and gadflies of the human world: reporters. Which really isn't saying much for myself, but is true nonetheless. They've all gathered here to grill me on the events of that Sunday–– most importantly, what happened in the warehouse.

I totter up to the podium in my idiotic high-heel boots, knowing that I look like a dominatrix from the Edwardian era–– Eliza Doolittle meets the red light area. Not really the metamorphosing guttersnipe I'd envisioned myself as, but then again, I still didn't have Leslie Howard by my side. Just one seething English butler.

There is a flurry of flashing lights and a cacophony of clicking as I take my place behind the stand, wondering if it's too late to reconsider answering these questions without Dent's help. He was afraid (though he never said so out loud, and never would, the political fox) that I'm going say something idiotic to those people, something that could place me in jeopardy. And staring up at their hungry expressions, I seriously begin wondering if I won't.

"Miss Vince! Miss Vince!" A chirpy young man, obviously new, raises his hand. I try not to smile at this childish instinct and nod for him to begin. "In your official debriefing, you said that in order to get away from the Joker's henchmen, who were about to attack you, you set fire to the ring of petroleum that had been originally drawn to kill you." I shake my head slightly.

"Not kill. Threaten me into a corner where I would have to beg for their mercy, for him to spare me." The kid nods a little more solemnly, but continues his eager beaver questioning.

"Alright, but if this is true, how do you know they escaped?" I blink. What if they hadn't escaped––?

"I'd say it's a lovely piece of irony, kid," I say, wryly. The majority of the reporters chuckle, but a couple frown, and I think I see Dent facepalm in my peripheral vision. "But it's highly unlikely, seeing as they had originally planned for the ring to catch on fire––"

"But I thought you said that they were only threatening you." I frown at the woman who spoke.

"That doesn't mean they didn't consider that it would happen. It was real petrol, after all, and I'm sure the Joker wouldn't have minded it catching flame. So I'm sure they came prepared."

"But were they prepared for you to attack them?" I force myself not to roll my eyes and make a snarky comment about the essence of irony.

"Well, no."

"So, in their surprise, could they have been killed?" I stare, long and hard, at this young guy in front of me. Why was the little voyeur so excited by the idea of death? And then I remember. The Joker hasn't shown himself for an entire week and a half, which is a very long time for him to stay silent. It's thrown the GPD into alternating fits of apprehension and optimism, and apparently this kid is an optimist. I sigh.

"Sir, I wish could be certain. I wish I could tell you one way or another, whether he lived. But at the time, I was not considering such things. I was more worried about the boy tied to the monorail system." There are chuckles again, but the guy keeps dogging me. He must be hungry or something, because he's obviously trying to make a front-page story out of a done deal.

"But if it's true–– if we assume that he's been killed–– then doesn't that make you his murderer?"

Time freezes.

Then everyone starts shouting.