Author's Note (READ, PLEASE): Gags aren't funny when they're explained, but I think mine needs some clarification–– see, the self-insert genre is the joke, and Harriet's the punch line–– in the end, she's just cowardly, ditzy, and ridiculous, like every Mary-Sue! Ta-dah! XD
Babydoll do you believe they'll catch you when you fall
And when morning comes the sun is gonna shine
Don't forget your minor keys your half lit cigarette
Cause when morning comes God knows that you'll be mine
–– The Fratellis, "Babydoll"
"I have to, to a-polo-gize for the unprofessional getup of our little experiment, but I'm afraid, hee hee hee, that Dr. Crane is currently, ah, incapacitated. Right–– right now, I'm the only ex-pert in his field!" The Joker's twitchy, dancing movements make me think of those trained monkeys you see next to the hurdy-gurdy players, and I shudder all over again. The nausea I've fought ever since we were introduced rises in my throat, choking me a little. I try to shake it off, whimpering and shuddering at the visage of the sick, demented, fucking clown. This same bastard, I notice, carries on jumping around with a decimated knee as nimbly as the prima ballerina of the Moscow Ballet. Whatever painkillers he's on, I hope I'm getting a dose of the same, I think dully. I doubt the Joker's extended that courtesy, however–– my side is an epicenter of agony, as is my maroon eyeball. Right now, my only protections against pain are silence and the basics of self-defense, the latter option made null and void by my being tightly strapped to what appears to be a modified electric chair. A snarl rises in the back of my throat–– a geyser of pain and anger––but I attempt to keep it quiet.
"Expert on what?" I grumble to myself, twisting around and trying to keep the dangerously happy man in what's left of my vision. "And how come you get all the morphine, hmm? Didn't your mother ever teach you how to share?"
Unfortunately, my inner voice is akin to growling megaphone static and is easily heard by anyone within a radius of about five yards. I immediately find myself shrinking into the steel-plated furniture, trying to nullify my propinquity to the Joker's giggly person.
"I am an ex-per-t on fear! I'm actually completing Dr. Crane's study of terror as a cause of insanity–– and you, Harry, are the test subject! You––" he whips out that damnable camera–– "are–– are the lead in a, ah, groundbreaking documentary! Or a heartbreaking documentary–– we'll just have to see what happens!" The Joker cackles, tightening my straps and muttering to himself, "Oh-oh-oh the joys of science. And Harry––" his eyes lock upon my face "––you can't have any, ah, painkillers because pain is es-sential to fear. I mean, he he he, you wouldn't be so qui-et now if you didn't think you had anything to be frightened of, right?" I (literally) cannot help but notice that when Joker's excited, he talks rapidly, while still managing to be extravagantly articulate, which makes ineloquent me incredibly envious. He's both menacing and maniacal, with that pointed tongue of his darting around the edges of his Glasgow grin, and his raccoon's eyes glittering. Oh, and he likes to slap the sides of your face. A lot.
"But, Harry," the Joker continues, now fiddling impatiently with the camera, "I'm going outdo my, aha ha ha, col-league by not only experimenting, but by extending this little activity to include our audience! We'll get to see what scares them most! Well, I will–– you'll probably be too, ah, pre-occupied!" And with a flick of his wrist, he's grabbed my glasses and scurried off like the deranged elf he is, cackling wildly. I am dead in my chair. The only thing I can feel is mind-dulling pain, and my left forearm down is completely numb–– it's fallen asleep, probably.
And then I hear, quite distinctly, the soulful grooves of the Foundations. Why do you build me up (build me up) / Buttercup, baby /Just to let me down (let me down) / And mess me around / And then worst of all (worst of all) / You never call, baby / When you say you will (say you will) / But I love you still. "Welcome, people of Gotham, to the new entertainment on your moving picture machine–– the Romantic Comedy!"
Oh Jesus. This fool cultivates smarm like corn. Or–– or he grows corny-ness–– and eats it, drizzled with copious amounts of cheese!
Yet another inner blooper I'm happy was never aired.
And now, apparently, all of that–– corn going to die from corn smut, I think grimly, attempting to tug the hem of my tiny dress a little further down my thighs. While I was out, tackiness must have become a new art form, because I haven't seen so many sequins since my sorority's Halloween party. Ugh.
Someone (three guesses who) takes the corners of my mouth and twists it into a demented grin. "Here's happy Harry! Hee hee hee, doesn't–– doesn't she look gorgeous? I'm afraid filming was de-layed because–– because Sleeping Bea-u-ty here didn't hear the alarm go off. But she's awake now! so we can start our, ah, broadcasts. Now," he continues, popping his fingers out of my mouth, "I'm sure at least half of Gotham, or at the least all of the Gotham females, know the genre of romantic comedy–– story of boy meets girl, they fall in love, are separated, and then get back together. However, in this situation, you get to decide whether your future happiness with Miss Vince is worth the supreme effort–– and possible pain–– of rescuing her! I'll tell you what–– if you renounce all association, obligation, or love with or towards little Har-ri-et––" I grit my teeth "––I'll spare you the pain of watching her life and sanity dissolve––and I'll withdraw my threats. What threats? Wel-l let's bring out the three people supposedly closest to Miss Vince: Lieutenant James Gordon, District Attorney Harvey Dent, and playboy Bruce Wayne!"
My heart flies into my throat.
"Harriet! Harriet can you hear me?" Gordon is yelling into what must be his cellphone. I can hear the sounds of the MCU behind him, the panicked and angry voices of officers and detectives, surrounding the sound of instant playbacks of the broadcast. I want to scream to him, to yell to save himself, but I can't bring myself to speak. Terror at what the Joker has in store for my friends has filled my mouth like cement.
"Harriet–– it's me, Harvey! Are you okay? Where are you? Please, answer me!" Another voice, another overwhelming heartache. Harvey, please don't do anything rash––remember who you are––
"…Harriet?"
The world stops turning. My blood is humming in my ears. Despite everything, my heart fills with intense joy, and all I can hear is Bruce.
"Harry, if you an hear me––please, please forgive me. I shouldn't have left––I should have known you wouldn't run. With Harvey out, those people in danger–– there would be no chance of your leaving. I was a fool and–– and a coward, and I have been condemned by everyone. I hope you forgive me." There's a long silence, but I still can't speak. Someone–– Alfred, I think–– whispers something about talking me through this. Bruce starts speaking again, now more upbeat. "I miss you. Alfred misses you." I smile, staring wide-eyed into the spotlight. "Your defense fund has overflowed–– we could probably make bail now! I told the news about that damn necklace, and yes, the tabloids had a field day, but now everyone knows that those deaths were purely accidental. So–– so just hang in there, because the hopes of Gotham's finest are riding on you again. Garcia even compared you to Mulan yesterday––you know, in private–– and sang that bit about making a man out of you. I actually smiled." There's a pause. "I haven't smiled since you disappeared, Harriet. I need you around to laugh."
At this statement, some asshole (who is probably wearing clown makeup and a horrid purple suit) starts playing "Can't Smile Without You," completely ruining the moment. My fists clench and my molars grind. Of course he'd have Barry Manilow. Tacky bastard.
"Well, this is touching and all, gentlemen, but before you start pledging allegiances to a mur-der-er–– manslaughter or not–– I want you to know alllll the options. Namely, the choice between Harriet the Heroine and the secondary characters: the Gordon family, Rachael Dawes, and Lucius Fox, each of whom are in terrible terrible danger." There is an explosion on the ends of each of the lines. The Joker continues gleefully, "I'd say that after this injection of fear-toxin-infused alcohol–– pure alcohol–– you each have about twen-ty minutes to discover what you––and Miss Vince–– fear most. Here are the rendezvous points––"
I feel a dam burst inside of me––all of my terror overflows. "Harvey!" I scream, surprising even myself, "Get Rachael! Please, don't waste your time–– go wherever he's showing you and save Rachael! He's trying to––to twist you, all of you–– you would never forgive yourself if Rachael died, Harvey, you have to go to her now!"
"He's not the only person who's devotion will be tested." The Joker's insinuating tone is enough to make me want to snap his neck.
"What the hell does that mean, Joker?" Angry mood rising.
"Well, ol' Batster seems to have a thing for both of you–– he went well out of his way to save you, and threw himself out of the window to save Miss Dawes." I roll my eyes as well as I can without bleeding/crying.
"Pssssh. He might just have a thing for catching falling women, have you thought of that? Maybe that's why he started being Batman in the first place: 'Oh man, I hit the jackpot this time! Whoo-hoo, Batboy, let's don the spandex for the ladies who plunge!' Or, y'know––'There might be klutzy ladies on rooftops out there! I'm gonna save 'em!' He'll growl in a chipper tone. Or something. Joker, this will fail miserably––I'm sure Batman doesn't have anything invested in my life."
"Except, perhaps, retirement?"
I've been concussed. The wind has been clean knocked out of me. Of course. Of course–– now all the fuss is explained. Batman won't want to save people forever! He–– not to mention the rest of Gotham–– wants unmasked heroes to take his place in the fight against corruption. He probably wants this sooner rather than later. And little Miss Vince, with her big mouth and would-be heroics is candidate number–– two, actually, counting Harvey. Oh, the woes that accompany being in the wrong place at the wrong time. At least they'll culminate very soon, I muse miserably as the Joker squirts his hypodermic needle, giggling wildly.
You see I can't smile without you / I can't smile without you / I can't laugh and I can't sing / I'm finding it hard to do anything / You see I feel glad when you're glad / I feel sad when you're sad / If you only knew what I'm going through / I just can't smile without you.