Author's Note (READ DAMMIT): I'm sorry this took me so long to write! Another chapter's already in the making–– I'm having such a hard time trying to decide whether to destroy Harriet's sanity. It seems like such a waste of good character! But it's going to happen. Oh yes. Cackles evilly

Panic! When in danger or in doubt,

Run in circles, scream and shout!

Ahhhhh!

-- Tom Servo, "Panic"

Harvey Dent. Harvey, Harvey, Harvey. Now there is a man who has huevos.

Yes, the Joker has taken direct aim at little Johnny's forehead with an extremely large gun. Yes, everyone else is frozen with terror, myself included. But Harvey Dent has the guts to take a bullet to the gullet. Well, not really, it hits just under his collarbone, but it's pretty damn impressive nonetheless. I think people would have applauded if they weren't panicking, running around like roadrunners on crack. I know I would have cheered if I weren't preoccupied with shrieking at all the blood spurting out of the DA's body. Jon and his parents run for the entrance, and I scream after them, urging them on at the top of my lungs, jumping off the stage and running to Harvey's side. Then two loud bangs and a pair of screams comes echoing down the hallway.

I freeze. Suddenly, I'm climbing again, and I can see the corpses of policemen flying past me. How many dead? I wonder, ice flowing through my veins. How many dead?

"Got the parents, boss, but the kid's quicker than a gunshot." I snap back into reality, staring down at the gushing wound in Harvey's chest. It looks like its boiling, I think numbly, stomach churning, and I press my hands upon it because a) Every survival manual/class I've ever taken has said that this helps in some way, and because b) I really don't want to see it. How many dead? How many dead? It runs through my head like a nervous, frantic loop, a monks' chant gone horribly wrong.

A large, spider-like hand crushes my shoulder and, crying in pain, I am dragged upright, spun around, and pressed far to intimately against Mr. Joker's wiry figure. "Sooo, Harriet… I heard you, ah, learned to ball-room dance, hmmm?" I nod, biting my lip, trying to keep my terrified prattling inside my head. "It's a real shame, then, that you're partner has left the building–– I was looking forward to watching you tango, hee hee hee!" Bruce. Bruce. I twist around in the Joker's arms, and he lets me, keeping my back pressed against his chest, our hands still locked together. "Oh, don't worry," he hisses in my ear, bright red lips pulled back from the tips of his yellowed teeth. "I didn't do anything to him. He's just a very, ah, sensible man."

I blanch. Billionaire Bruce Wayne, playboy extraordinaire, had just cancelled my life like a bad deal. Sure, he would protect me from everyone, everything–– as long as it was within his penthouse, the safest place in Gotham. He was probably speeding there right now in shiny Lamborghini, letting Harvey–– poor Harvey! –– take the bullet. Not mention everyone else. Not to mention me. I feel the blood draining from my face, nauseated by the idea that I never saw what a coward he truly was. Enraged that I had almost been tricked into loving him.

The Joker spins me back around, a sadistic glimmer in his eye, yellow smile curling on his face. There is a pause. Mustering my strength, I smile at him blandly. He groans, pulling me close enough that I cannot escape his smell of face-paint, gunpowder, and dried blood. "Harriet, Harriet! You dis-appoint me." I feel, with a thrill of horror, cold lips at the base of my neck, nipping me lightly. I gasp just slightly, revulsion pulsing through my veins and heat rising in my cheeks. "No–– anger? Not even your usual self-deprecation? You can't fool the jester, Harriet, no…There's a–– a fuse burning in that mind of yours, and if you're not, ah, caaare-ful, girly, it's going to blow you apart."

"I bet you'd love that," I mutter, still keeping my blasé grin fixed upon my face, even while my body flushes traitorously. The monster in the make-up stares at me then grabs my cheeks with rough fingers and shakes my head violently, giggling maniacally.

"No, no, no! Harriet, you've got it all back-wards! I can't get enough of you, Miss Vince––what would I do without such a playmate!" He purrs, flicking his tongue along my jaw line. My entire body flushes, mortified. I feel dizzy–– falling, and policemen plummet past me, screaming hollowly how many dead? Suddenly, I am claustrophobic, shoving myself from my enemy, eyes wild.

"Don't touch me!" I hiss, hands clenched so tight that my fingernails cut into my palms. "Don't you ever–– ever touch me again!" The deranged laughter fills my mind, flooding it with horrible memories.

"Why does it take such an effort on my part to make you do what you're born for?" The Joker growls, pushing back his lank, stringy hair, scars twitching slightly. "Why do you hide this side of you, hmmm? Are you afraid of having to face the darkness alone?" His smile stretches to its breaking point. "Why do you put on your happy face?"

"Maybe I want to see if I can out-smile the Joker," I growl, and a second later, am slammed bodily against a wall. Ow. Fuck, that was a stupid thing to say. I peer up as the maniac towering over me scowls through his carved-out smile.

"Try again, little girl. I know you're not as sane as you want to believe–– I know about your nightmares. The ones you deny during the day–– hide during the night." He leans over me, whispering into my ear, closing his eyes, making them look like dark, hollow sockets. "What do you replay in those moments of terror? Death? Murder?"

The dreams of fire. Of pain. The sounds of hissing fuses and humming train lines, of metal bursting into flame boiling into an ocean of blood. A shadow train bearing down upon the sun. The cold white faces of dead policemen falling past me, eyes huge and hands clawing at themselves, at the air, as if the sky held the essence of life–– as if they were trying to return their blood to their bodies. And then I will be falling, holding onto the only person I can save, tears and blood flying out of me, quick as running water.

My eyes fly open, breath catching like a fishhook in my throat.

He is close–– far too close–– and I punch him in the gut, as hard as I can, snapping, "Yes, and it's called Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I'd like to note now that people suffering its effects are easily provoked to violence. So, Joker man, you want to back the fuck away from me. You want to leave me in relative peace and quiet for a very long time, because I'm telling you right now that there is nothing more that inflames a PTS patient like a freaky-ass clown skipping all over their line of vision. And I do not want to hurt you–– I can't want that." He cackles, unbending himself.

"Perhaps. But I do. I covet it." I cock an eyebrow, forcing joyous images of drawing and quartering the (shudder) clown out of my mind.

"Sado-masochism? Well, bring on the whips and chains!" I say sarcastically. "I regret that I didn't pack my leather miniskirt ensemble, but I can borrow some cuffs when the police arrive." The Joker licks his lips again, inhaling deeply and grinning. I desperately want to ask if he thinks I've cooked long enough, but right now is really not the time.

"Violence really brings out the best in you, Harriet. Where do you hide this wonderful facet of your personality?" The Joker giggles softly, clumsily stroking my hair. I have to forcibly keep myself from shuddering.

"In spare pockets?" He throws his head back, cackling.

"Oh-oh-oh. Harriet, you are really a jewel." I feel cold leather lightly trace the length of my spine, and unconsciously arch backwards. He purrs into my ear. "Mmmm… this side of you is so delectably erotic."

"Violence is inherent to sex, sir," I quip, blush returning with indecent enthusiasm. "Read A Clockwork Orange." He laughs at my reaction, and, to my surprise, steps back and tosses me a pistol. I stare down at it, then back up to the grinning fool in front of me. "A gun? Isn't that a bit heavy-handed and–– short-lived?" I smirk to myself, turning away from him. "No pun intended."

"Wel-l, it all depends on where you shoot, really. But––I know what you mean: a gun doesn't give you the chance to savor all the, ah, the little emotions. Take, for instance, Harvey Dent–– if he hadn't intervened in little Johnny's execution, I would really have preferred to use a knife––"

I snap.

BANG! The Joker's knee explodes, and he screams in an awful mix of anguish and ecstasy, collapsing into a hysterically cackling mess. I stare down at him calmly, examining the barrel of my gun. "You were right. It's all about where you shoot."