Author's Note (REAAAAD): So–– School's here. (Has a small panic attack) Yes, well, due to hell recommencing, I am taking a semi-hiatuses, while maintaining some little smidgen of hope for writing time during the year. I am going to attempt to finish this book as best I can today, and leave y'all waiting for the next installment, hee hee hee! Anywho, I'd like to take this moment to dedicate Harriet and her lovely insanity to my best friend, a Miss Silberstein, whose laugh attacks will never leave me without inspiration. I would also like to extend all my affection and extreme gratitude to Miss Sheetz, my editor in chief and dear friend. And I would like to digitally embrace, one and all, all those who have read and supported my ridiculousness–– I love you all.
Oh, and I'm so pissed with myself–– I finally thought to check what type of knife the Joker carries, and it's nothing like a harpy. It's actually called a Dart Out-the-Front Black Knife, otherwise known as the Cupid Clone. Stupid stupid stupid. Harpy hereby to be replaced with proper name henceforth.
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Epic terror and rage as performed by the London Philharmonic
––Gustav Holst, "Mars, the Bringer of War"
The light I am staring into bursts into a thousand fragments–– explodes into my mind, blinding me, wiping me out.
Oh god. This thing. This thing is big.
I am strapped to my steel chair in the middle of a cage, waiting. Waiting. Waiting, feeling fear rushing through my spine like ice forming on a windowpane––cold, rapid, inescapable.
As if to confirm my mind-consuming, irrational terror, an inferno suddenly devours the oxygen around me. Fuses and petrol–– fuses and petrol and gunpowder and the smell of the gaseous fear.
I reach blindly into the flames, grasp something––and begin screaming wildly. Alex is dying in my burning, boiling arms, his flailing body a pulpy mass of gore and scum. His face suddenly shatters into a thousand shards, visages ranging from clown to District Attorney to policeman, all of them screeching like harpies. As I continue screaming, their necks extend and their molars become fangs, their skin becomes rough, scaly. I rush backward, towards the flames, unheeding the heat. Before my bleeding eyes, Alex has become a Hydra, talons reaching to tear my flesh to slivers, and all I am armed with is the Joker's harpy. Hands trembling, I run my thumb along its edge, drawing a bead of blood.
In silence, I decide. Then, shrieking with hatred and terror, I plunge the knife into its heart again and again, tearing my eyes away from the anguish in its faces.
Black blood boils from its chest, a tidal wave covering my hands. In two seconds, all of its heads have been sucked into the fissure my blade has created––dust into a vacuum, astronauts into a black hole. The flames have vanished, leaving me in impenetrable darkness. I hear, through a new fog of panic, the faint sounds of circus music, creaking slats–– Alex softly calling my name. Insidious. Unrelenting.
Nothing but ghosts. Nothing but ghosts.
An icy fingertip runs the length of my spine, my heartbeat races–– and memories burst through a barricade in my mind.
Alex playing his games, assigning "tests" to the children at school. A sniveling boy grabs onto the electric fence as Alex holds me to his body as he and his friends laugh. Every time the boy tries to let go, another jolt runs through his body, making him clench the barbed wire. His hands are raw, but he's been told not to cry, or yell, for fifteen minutes. I am speechless–– fascinated, horrified, my tears mirroring the ones forming at the corners of the victim's eyes.
Other memories boil to the surface of my mind.
Alex showing me how an animal dies, stating calmly that killing was the easiest job humanity could offer. Alex––"teaching me to survive." Alex protecting me. Alex finding me. Alex hurting me.
Me––hurting Alex.
Onomatopoeia.
I am not dead.
This is the first thing I register. Then I realize that I am no longer strapped down anywhere, that the pain is making the rounds on the circumference of my skull, and that I am most definitely woozy-fied. Pure alcohol to the bloodstream, eh? I groan, facepalming. And that combined with hallucinations and being on the edge of a complete nervous breakdown is equal to walking death.
"Hulllllo?" I call. There isn't an answer. I try to move around–– and roll right on top of that horrid (shudder) fucking clown doll. It emits a loud, sinister cackling, and I jump nearly fifty feet in the air. "Holy––!" I scramble uncoordinatedly away from the fiendish plush thing, all appendages going simultaneously until I fall right over the edge of my brightly colored mattress. "Holy––!" I burble, feeling my stomach heave. Down, nausea–– down, boy!
Somewhere in the following silence–– as I hug my mid-riff, body shivering uncontrollably–– my scrambled and terror-infused conscious starts to suspect that my sickness has deeper, and infinitely more disturbing roots than alcohol.
This feels more like extreme trauma to the heart–– think of the cut of a carving knife. A part of me is not–– right. Not there, even. I pause, loosening my tight self-embrace, slow realization rising like a grey dawn. I feel like someone tried to patch my heart with canvas–– and then left in the middle of the proceedings. The wounds have healed badly, like the Joker's scars. My conscious feels bumpy––a new disfigurement in my mentality that oozes the dregs of fear, paranoia–– and pure hatred.
What has happened to my friends? What has happened to Bruce? For all I know, they could all be dead by now. Oh. Oh. Everything, everything, everything is hollow, I chant to myself, hands cradling my pounding, screaming head, heart twisting and pulling apart at the seams. The world is a pain-filled pit–– a dank and dirty black hole festering, discharging pus. I'm falling through its center, disturbed laughter enveloping me, penetrating me. Falling and knowing the hell that awaits me when I hit bottom. Falling, burning with rage and broken pride.
And then he fell into a crevasse, I think, remembering that documentary I watched about human willpower.
Laughter.
I whirl around, gasping, heart pounding like timpani. Somewhere in the room, someone has succumbed to high-pitched, wheezing, maniacal sniggering, and it hangs in the air like a bad smell. Straining, fury scorching my heart, I try to pinpoint the sound, and then realize: I'm giggling.
Did the explorer break his leg before or after he fell? I think, some perverse part of my mind running on, leaving the other half of me disgusted and horrified. The little demon within me, of course, gives way to body-wracking laughter as I remember watching that poor fool continue to fall into crevasses, going deeper and deeper into the ice, just like a cartoon. The best part, however, had to be when he finally climbed to the surface, then realized that he had to trek over miles of glacier–– which were all full of crevasses. I shake my head, schardenfreude bubbling from this new hole in my psyche. From college to this–– to being the quiet girl who ran into things and read books at sorority gatherings to the numskull blabbermouth lying beaten, half-insane, and in the clutches of the mass murderer of the century.
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!
Who has terrible taste.
Suddenly, the door is kicked open with a loud bang! Interesting, I think disconnectedly, and with tremendous effort, I throw my torso up and onto the bed, head flopping on the mattress comically, arms splayed upwards. I'm staring into the painted eyes of a clown face crudely painted on a canvas bag, which has been pulled unevenly over–– whoever it is's face. He's holding a large, half-empty bottle of vodka, and thrown over his shoulder is a somewhat humanesque figure. Fighting to stop myself from slaughtering him, I attempt to maintain homeostasis. After all, alcohol is a depressant, and he's done nothing to me–– directly. Shoving my hand under my chin awkwardly, I keep my eyes disinterested, trying to stay cool while desperately hoping that whoever is slung over his shoulder is not already experiencing rigor mortis. "Heeeeyyyy." I look around lazily, reach for the sunglasses on the wacky bedside table and nearly poke out my undamaged eye with them. Smooth, Fonzy.
"Hey yeself." The clown is disgruntled, and I am (nauseously) interested. What deflates a clown, hmmm?
"Why so serious, Grrrum-ps?" I drawl, giving my best Joker impression. To my supreme amusement, it works well enough to make my companion start violently, and he rounds on me. "Ah-ch-cha!" I tsk, giggling furiously, "No touchy! Noooo touchy. I am dead–– hee hee –– I am dead drunk, and, y'know, there are rules about that sort of thing."
"Drunk?" I imagine, from the tone of his voice, that Mr. Grumpy is cocking an eyebrow. I cock one right back.
"Yes–– as in what one is after sixty milliliters of pure alcohol is injected directly into their bloodstream. I'm guessing the twenty minutes of flirting with death are over?" Grouchy nods his canvas bag. "Someone came to rescue me?" The masked man shrugs, lightly tossing the still unidentified form onto the bed, which shakes with the impact. I am absolutely bewildered–– admittedly not difficult thing when your head feels like it's filled with cotton candy. Why am I alive? Who is that lying motionless on the mattress? I feel a shard of fear plunge through my heart, and I scramble up onto the bed. "Someone's been killed, haven't they?" But my companion remains laconic, shrugging yet again. I sit back, mouth twisted with exasperation. "Well then, Frowny McClown, what's the deal? Why aren't I dead or dying?"
Now, apparently, it's his turn to laugh at me. Well, I think, entirely irritated, every encounter I've had in Gotham ends up like this, one way or another. I just wish that this audience wasn't so antagonistic.
"You ain't drunk, lady–– it took us all night to bring you back from the edge of death, so you've gotta be weak. What you feel rollin' around in your guts is alcoholsickness plus morphine." Oh, I think dully, and slump onto the bed next to my comatose companion. Hello Mr/Mrs. Catatonic how's the family? Oh god I hope you don't have family. The clown sets the bottle of vodka besides me. His other hand drifts a little ominously through my hair as he does so, traveling down my arm as he relaxes into a chair, the eyes of his mask still fixed on my face. "Look, lady, I'm a nice guy, so until the boss gets here, ye safe. You just drink–– as much as you want." Oh Jesus. I'm stuck with the plotting perv. If my energy weren't concentrated upon keeping myself from passing out or going berserk, I'd probably be weeping from the anxiety caused by McClown's presence. Instead, I devote myself to musing on how much of my strength I'll need to regain before I can simply beat him to death.
"Well, aren't you the gentleman?" I say snorting like a bull and rolling onto my back, lifting up a piece of hair covering my companion's face as I do so. I feel paralysis seize my entire body.
It's Rachel Dawes.
Mind racing, I stretch indulgently to grab the vodka, praying that I can manage to run when the occasion calls for it. What the hell is Dawes doing here if Harvey and Batman (and Bruce–– but the Joker wouldn't know that) were supposed to make a self-destructive choice? "If you're going to be courteous, Grumps, why don't you just let me and my sleeping friend out of this hellhole, hmmm? Open the door, ladies first, and sorry for the bad hospitality m'am would you like a chauffeur to drive you home?"
"'Cause, lady, I can't risk getting fired." My mouth forms into an exaggerated "O" of revelation, and as I slowly slide headfirst and backwards off the bed, I point my right hand at him like a gun, hoping that he keeps his eyes on my face.
"Or fired at!" I slur, adding a "pzzew!" for good measure. McClown shrugs, and I hear him chuckle as I hit the carpet and flip over backwards, luxuriously stretching my arms for good measure.
"What difference?" he says, laughing. Oh, yes, he thinks I'm safe–– but in two seconds, this damn bottle is going to be used to inaugurate the maiden voyage of the HMS Concussion. Before this plan can be set in motion, however, I hear the floorboards creak.
I freeze.
"What difference indeed?" I twist around, terror weakening every muscle in my body. I to sink back to the floor, defeated by the silhouette of the Joker's hunched frame in the doorway. I choke, eyes flying shut, and––
I'm in my room, crumpled sheets in a dark bed. Hunched silhouette in the rectangle of yellow light. A voice I never want to hear again, whispering, "Hello, Harry." I hear myself cry out, and––
I've returned to Real Life, which is already in progress.
In the last two seconds, the Joker has already advanced far too close for comfort, the hem of his sewage-and-blood-splashed trench coat brushing my ankles as he nudges McClown impatiently with the barrel of his gun. "Up up up," he mutters feverishly, finally shoving his henchman from the chair with the nose of his submachine. Without sparing McClown a glance, the Joker sits down, tongue darting around his lips like a horse around a racetrack. "Hello, Harriet." He speaks quickly, long fingers flitting over the handle of his gun, through his strange, green-tinted hair, mouth twitching spastically. Oh lawd, I think miserably, who's gotten him ticked off now? He kicks McClown in the ribs a little emphatically, not bothering to look at him. "Trying to, ah, corrupt my staff, hmm?" My breath catches in my throat, but I force myself to stay calm. With vodka on my breath, who would guess that I'm still capable of outrunning a train? I stare into the Joker's hungry black pupils. Better play up the drunkard act–– meaning showing no fear at any time. On this note, I laugh, upping my wooziness.
"I thought corruption came with the package!" I squeeze my eyes shut, giggling and swilling another "gulp" of vodka. Oh, the lessons learned in college. "I mean, you–– you just seem to have that effect on people! Take me, for instance––"
"Don't mind if I do," McClown mutters. I attempt to kick him from the floor, missing by inches. The Joker, however, obliges. I incline my head in thanks.
"As I was saying–– take me for instance. All it took was violence, PTS, and fear toxin to make me want to destroy the world. And I'm not even all gone yet!"
"This is why I'm taking this moment to have a little, ah, bonding time." I give a sloppy grin, waving my vodka rather haphazardly.
"Hydrogen or covalent?" That crazy red curve splits apart, revealing his yellowed molars.
"Either way, Harry––we have, ah, chemis-try!"
There is a long and profound silence.
I laugh as drunkenly as possible, grabbing the bed and standing up clumsily, groaning with the sheer horribleness of the joke. "Are you trying to kill me with punnery? That–– that was terrible!" I sway closer to the chair, quiet giggling becoming uncontrollable. The vodka is clutched behind my back–– I try not to let it slosh as I lean in towards him, placing my hooded eyes two inches from his own.
I'm far too close to the Joker.
"Mmm." I breathe deeply, closing my eyes. "You smell like–– burnt flesh. Gasoline. Sweat…blood–– and theater!" I slur happily, languidly straightening up and pinching his cheek. "Why Joker, you're just a big ball of smelly!"
I'm toooo close.
Too close, of course, meaning that when I try to bean him with the vodka bottle, he knows exactly what I'm doing.
I scream with pain as fingers close around my wrist, bruising the skin and making me drop my one weapon–– not to mention my one defense. I'm pushed down onto the floor, the Joker's evil, permanent smile mocking my failure. "You–– you haven't learned at all, have you, Harry? Or perhaps you're finally understanding the, ah, desperateness of your sit-u-ation. Or, rather, Batman's." Oh god, I think, horrified.
"What have you done with my friends? Where is Bruce?" I whisper through gritted teeth. "Where–– where is Gordon––Harvey––?" I realize how terrified I sound–– how terrified I am. Have I been destroyed inside and out, only to see the people I love most die? "Rachel–– what's Rachel––?" He laughs into my face, now streaked with tears that I never realized had filled my eyes, his hand clutching my chin. I feel something inside of me burst–– a panicked, destroyed, and ravenous creature is ripping me apart inside. My throat tears and cracks with its screams. "Answer me, you bastard!" He clucks his tongue, wiping my tears roughly with his palms.
"No-no-no, Harry, you don't see–– that isn't how we play this game. You–– you see, in a world like ours," he says, grandly, standing to tower above me, "man is the measure of all things. The only truth is force, and the only love is that of power. You, Harriet–– you're not a pawn, not anymore. You're a queen of cards." With a flick of his wrist, he's presented me with a playing card.
Queen of Diamonds.
"Cute," I growl, furious sarcasm piercing my terror as I tackle his knees, causing him to do a faceplant. Got to get out of here–– got to get Rachel and run. Scrambling over his thin, prone form, panting, my desperate fingers scrabble to find a weapon, any weapon, Rachel's arm–– anything! Hearing him turn over with an enraged snarl, throwing me off of him bodily. I fall sideways, dragging the blanket on top of me. "Oh fuck!" is knocked out of me like the dust rising in a cloud from the carpet, and I feel pincher-like hands seize my ankles and begin pulling me inexorably backwards, my raw hands clawing feverishly at the linty key-green shag, leaving little trails of crimson like some campy horror victim. He continues hissing to me, sounding much like an extremely peeved swan.
"We play a game of persuasion–– we all have different realities. You know it. I know it. But what if we shared one. That's–– that's what I'm driving at." His long-fingered hand reaches down like a mechanical pincher and seizes my upper arm, dragging me upward. "You and I, though you won't admit it––" his face fills with irritation "––understand the world in the same way. We know what it takes to win. Not to be just. Not be–– be vir-tu-ous. But to win." His eyes take on a singularly sadistic gleam. "All you need, Harry, to see things my way, hee hee hee, is a little––a little, ah, perspective. You––you already have all the training."
My heart stops. The rictus grin splits wide open.
"Alex, did you say?"