You know those pictures of boxers throwing punches, where they are completely balanced and controlled, their bodies taut and fu

Author's Note (YOU'D BETTER READ IT): Okie dokie–– Harry's talents in the areas of firearms and general fighting are to be explained, in very little detail, and, hopefully, very little angsting, which I find obnoxious in main characters, and which is the mark of a Mary-Sue. Let's take a moment to wish ourselves the best of luck in this regard.

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C'mon now

Who do you

Who do you

Who do you who do you think you are?

Ha-ha-ha, bless your soul

You really think you're in control?

Well, I think you're crazy

I think you're crazy

I think you're crazy

Just like me

––Gnarls Barkley, "Crazy"

You know those pictures of boxers throwing punches in sports magazines? The ones where the puncher is streamlined, balanced, and controlled, their bodies taut and full of energy, slamming someone across the face with all their muscled might? The ones that make you appreciate the beauty of the human form and the power of the athlete?

I am that, facedown.

Yes, due to my supernatural inability to maintain equilibrium, my furious punch has completely missed the Joker's face and led me to fall upon my own. I'm surprised National Geographic hasn't made a series about my unique talents yet––girl born unable to walk without destroying something, study headlined Pathetic. This spectacular display was helped, of course, by the fact that I no longer have any depth perception, and that the pain in my ––oh yeah–– broken shoulder has overwhelmed my capacity for rational thought. Pathetic, I think, and roll onto my back in time to be hauled up by the straps of my dress. McClown is holding me at eye-to-eye height, and the air between my dangling feet and the ground is an ignominious reminder of my dwarf status. The anger still boils through my body, but the utter shame brought on by my pathetic–– absolutely pathetic–– attempt, combined with the agony I experience, makes me go limp. I bawl like a spoiled child refused Snickers (product placement in my mind, when will the capitalists stop).

I'm thrown down upon the ground, head slamming into the dusty carpet (apparently no one in Gotham has used a vacuum in the last five decades), and I sob even harder, choking on dust bunnies and whimpering as I'm pushed inexorably into the floor–– like a gravitron, but with hands. Big hands. I cannot see through my tears, but feel–– oh god, feel–– hot, grasping––skin? leather?–– sliding along my body, making me panic. Shocked, blushing in shame, I lash out against the heat, giving way to a pure and all-consuming fury, viciously hoping that whoever it is has a really big nose. Everything has dissolved in the face of overwhelming rage––the exhilaration of harming this–– this thing. I punch and gouge heedlessly, mind a brilliant mess of neon nerve explosions, thrilling to the sound of crack, a snap, a gush of blood.

Assbitch crack whore scum-sucking motherfucker.

This little litany runs through my head like a liturgical chant as I feel my hands, arms, and torso being baptized in another's fluids. I feel–– feel–– like there's something inside me, clawing at the walls of my body, screaming, turning my heart into a mess of pain and searing anger.

And you know what's really scary?

It's nice.

I feel someone grab me from behind, someone tug me back, away from the dark and the loud and the dust and the nice, just as inexorably as I was pushed into it. Gentle hands pressing my flailing arms to my sides in a serene bear hug, murmuring in my ear (which is torn and bleeding, funny how these new sources of pain barely register now) and I don't want it, I don't want it, I want to punch and gouge and feel the nice. Not this artificial nice, the raw, thrilling nice of the inferno that explodes inside me with the sound of my fists making someone shriek. But–– but–– but they're trying and this nice is so nice that it's the sort of nice you have to treat nice. Comprende?

Neither do I.

"Harriet, are you okay?" The voice is feminine, concern slurred with the remains of sedatives. Rachel. "How are you?" Such a small talk question in such a big-talk setting. I want to cry.

"Nicely nicely." My head bobbles like a doll's. The embrace tightens, and I'm a little girl again–– the one protected, not protecting. Maybe this protector I won't have to protect myself from–– a sister, instead of a brother. I clutch at the arm, at the artificial warmth, at the gentleness, squeezing my eyes shut to the long shadow rising up in front of me, giggling.

"Why, don't you look ridiculous Harry, huddling in the arms of your surrogate mother?" Parts of me that are not overrun by terror and pain muster up enough idiocy to reply to the hot breath on my face.

"I'm still not the one in the Beetlejuice costume." I am jerked up by my arm–– the broken one–– and again my mind is awash in neon-colored explosions of pain, causing me to lose hold of the Rachel's desperately clutching hands. Am I a masochist? Is this why pain is always so brightly colored? Or is it just the Joker's influence, turning my entire life into a sick carnival? I strongly believe it's the latter, and find I don't want to open my remaining eye–– I'll be staring into pits just as dark, and infinitely less comforting. "Oh–– ow, fuck–– c'mon Joker, you have to admit you walked right into that one," I mumble dazedly. "No–– you were made for that one."

"Joker! Let her go! You have Harvey's word–– you can't hurt her while the bargain stands!" My mind jolts into action, even as I hear her being beaten with vigor. "You have to let her go!"

"What?" Ominous, this is. "Rachel, tell me Harvey did the right thing."

"Oh, he did." The Joker's sneering voice wafts like a bad odor through my mind. "Har-ri-et, you might be interested to know just how ma-ny people cared about your safety, in the end." There are geysers forming in my eyes, but I shake my head furiously, still not daring to look at the monster. Hot leathered fingers caress my face, making me shudder, and I hear his insinuating voice slithering right into my ear, serpentine.

"One."

I've been shoved in the stomach. Old Faithful bursts from my tear ducts, breaching my eyelids and forcing them open like a dam before a flood. I collapse to the hot carpet, dirty and bloody, sniveling, gulping and moaning horribly. My head feels like its being split by an axe murderer, and my eyes are heavy and deep-set in my head. They have to throw you away. Every time, Harriet, and every time you know it's the right thing. I am too weak to be a hero, was too cowardly to risk escape, and now who knows what happened to them. I know I have no right to feel bitter, to feel abandoned, but I also know I feel like a used douche–– used to wipe the world of scum, and always collecting more.

"Harriet, they didn't have a choice!" Rachel's voice is strangled with anguish, pity. "I saw the map, he placed bombs in the school, civic, and financial districts–– too many people had family, friends–– in–– in danger, and oh God Harriet I'm sorry! You don't deserve this! None of us do!" To my horror, I hear her breaking down, sobbing somewhere on the ground beside me

"You mean you don't deserve this." The Joker's voice has risen to a near-hysterical pitch, and in my peripheral vision, I can see his gloved hands dancing and twitching on my shoulders, his painted face stretched wide with glee. He gestures, and with a swift motion, McClown brings the palm of his hand to the base of Rachel's neck, knocking her out. The Joker's head snaps around, smile widening as his face slides closer to mine. "They don't seem to care about what happens to their heroes–– in the end. In the end, when their lives are at stake, and the lives of those clo-sest to them are thurrrreatened–– they don't really care if their spunky little journalist, who would gladly die for them–– does!" He cackles, turning to look at Rachel's unconscious form. "She gave everything for you, and you abandon her? Tsk, tsk, tsk.

"Harry," the Joker continues, twisting his face down into my hair, his mouth hot, moving sporadically against my ear, "what did you say in that article of yours? Something about the betrayal of saviors being the highest form of ingratitude? Such a poor response to such a heroic statement! It's sad, ah, pa-the-tic, what they have done to you." I gulp back a sobbing moan, and he's stroking my hair in an awkward facsimile of tenderness, and I hear him whisper incoherently into the nape of my neck. Too close too close too close. He is slowly moving around me, and I see his eyes are greedy and yes, frighteningly possessive. I also notice with horror that his mouth is bleeding. "You see, Harry, I can see what you really are–– I just can't figure you out. But the others–– the others, they, ah, they don't even allow themselves to see that much. At the risk of sounding cliché, giiiirly, I'd like to note that you're twisted, Harriet––and so am I. We're two of a kind! There's got to be reason behind that sort of madness!"

Using the last of my strength, I push away from him, only to crumple again to the ground, whimpering like a kicked animal. Which is fairly accurate analogy, I admit. Then I realize––with the same shock as when I realized I was laughing–– that I am muttering to myself, mumble-chanting that I don't want another brother. Panicking, I shut myself up, desperately hoping that no one heard me. Of course, with the way things are going, its no wonder that the next thing to be said is, "And what's wrong with your first brother, Harry?" I answer without thinking, too busy pulling myself on hands and knees to Rachel's side.

"He's a bully, he's bigger than me, and he thinks just like you." There's a prolonged cackle.

"Brilliantly?"

"Try sadistically." His big black shoe swings up and slams into my stomach, hard. I curl up like a roly-poly, moaning and spitting up blood, praying that I will not receive any more blows, oh please God, no more pain. I'm virtually wallowing in neon starbursts now––a Fourth of July spectacular taking place in my skull. This desperation quickly turns to indignant rage, and I try standing up, only to be kicked in the mid-riff again. I burst into great, gulping sobs, now entirely frustrated and infuriated. "What? He was! I was his little protégé, dammit, I should know! Fucker made me afraid of everything, just to show me how much I needed him! And then tried to turn me into a carbon copy of himself! You want to know why I know how to climb up a drainpipe? Because I spent most of my childhood avoiding him."

I roll onto my front, legs still clutched to my chest. "And when I didn't avoid him, I believed him. I believed that I would have to be a coward and his dependent for all time–– because I'm weak and klutzy! I was happy he was teaching me to fire guns, happy he was showing me how to survive in a sick and twisted world, because I genuinely believed that my purpose in life was to help him, just as he 'helped' me."

I gag a little on the blood rising in my throat, and spit it out, onto the carpet, still sobbing. My head hangs down, warmth dripping from my nose, eyes, ears, and mouth like a leaky faucet. I stand up slowly, and, wobbling, turn to look the Joker in the eye, sniffing a little. "So I don't need anyone telling me how alike we are, and how we can survive and slaughter and 'kick ass' together, because honestly, I already know, and I don't want to be a part of it. Beingaround another Alex––I don't want to lose control–– and I know I will. I know it. I'm a coward, and I'd snap when threatened, or I'm a coward and wouldn't be able to face that I'm capable of snapping–– but either way, Joker, I can't be like you!" I take a deep, shuddering breath, reaching my catharsis. "I'll die before that happens."

He's just laughing. Just–– standing there, laughing. At me. And my childhood trauma, dammit.

I feel like I've walked into a column again.

But this laugh is not maniacal–– well, it is, but it's not hysterical. It takes me a while, but I realize (with a horrible, hollow horror) that this is what is known as an angry laugh.

"Har-ri-et, why don't you love me?" the Joker says, voice lilting, mocking. I start. What the fuck? I roll my eyes nervously, anxious giggling shaking my body.

"What? Oh man, if you're hiring groupies, Joker, you'll have to look for someone more unstable than me!" I wish I hadn't said that.

Again, I have been hit. Such an abusive relationship. I idly wonder if this little therapy session is merely an excuse to use me as a punching bag. The Joker bounces over the bed, looking remarkably like an infuriated, deranged version of the White Rabbit, and throws me into the wall. "Jeez," I manage to choke out, "can't you take a joke? You really should learn to laugh at yourself!" I'm reckless, I'm spinning out of control, and I'm racing for nice-nice-nice, terrified by myself, but inwardly cracking up at the idea of the Joker in bunny ears.

Everything sinister has culminated into the truly threatening, and the Joker stands in the room, practically radiating rage and menace. "Why don't you love me?" I shake my head wordlessly, terror numbing every nerve, killing every thought process. What the fuck is going on? I squeeze my eyes shut, praying furiously for control. "Look at me–– look at me!" My eyes fly open, his irises are all I can see, and I can feel myself tumbling into their darkness, vertigo and sick panic within me and without me.

"You see–– you see––this is a game of per-suasion, Har-ri-et. We all have our own realities, you know it, I know it. But what if we shared one. That's what I'm driving at. You don't want to be like me–– but only because you know you already are." His tongue darts around his lips, and he looks like he's preparing to take a dive off of a high board–– determination tempered with mania. "You already have all the training––all you need is a little perspective!" His long-fingered hand reaches like a mechanical pincher and seizes my upper arm, dragging me close to him. "Do you want to know–– do you want to know how I got these scars?"

There's a long silence.

Then I realize he's actually asking.

I can feel my eyes become as big as saucers. Do I want to know about his scars…. I touch them lightly, almost unconsciously, with my fingertips, and flinch when he winces. "Sorry," I mumble, face turning red despite my fear, which mounts as I realize my proximity to Mr. Happy. The cuts are jagged–– ill-healed and raised in horrible contours upon his face, mountains and valleys upon the expanse of his cheeks. Scarlet face paint has settled deep into the cracks and lines of the skin–– tiny maroon rivulets etched in rouge-tinted flesh. I find my fingers slowly following the line of his lower lip, tracing the smile that deforms him. His eyes–– my own snap up to them–– are watching me, their umber is as dark as obsidian, with a glimmer in their depths that makes me want to step back and run-run-run until I've dashed into a universe where he can never find me.

Suddenly it dawns on me. I jerk, horrified, and begin thrashing like mad, vainly trying to escape from his grasp. "No! No! No!" I'm whimpering, shaking with fear. Oh god, oh fuck. He's crushing me to his chest, refusing to let me go, giggling maniacally, asking, mockingly, what's wrong? why am I upset? Trembling uncontrollably, I squeeze my eyes shut and manage to stammer, "B-b-because you made those scars yourself!"

There's a dreadful silence, broken only by his stifled laughter.

"Wha-t?"

I gulp, eyes still tightly closed. "Y-you–– Your stories, I don't know if they're true, b-but they would never do something like this. You wouldn't have to remain this way, mentally or physically, if you hadn't chosen to––I think you did this. Anger is only p-part of it." He has released my shoulders, has stepped back slowly. I allow myself to open my eyes, and in the one that is working, I see a slow grin forming on his face. "You gave them their power, Joker–– you–– you even relish them. Y-You think that humanity is like a little boy who kills flies for sport. That–– that may be so, but you're a little boy killing little girls. There's still a difference between callousness and sadism, Joker." I look into his face, preparing myself for pain. "I can't love sadists anymore." I smile weakly. "I barely like myself."

I draw a breath. And then, without warning, my mouth is smashed against his, being invaded and attacked viciously overwhelming me as my hands are pulled behind my back. I cannot breath, I cannot think, I am bewildered and set upon and terrified, and I manage to wonder whether this is a new method of suffocation, and whether I should be worried for my life. I'm sure I'm turning red, as if my very being is being dyed with tomato and strawberry juice, and I hit and kick at him ineffectively. I'm broken, scared, and mortified, but when I finally push him off, punching him across the jaw for good measure, I manage to gasp, "What a big mouth you have, grandmother!" I feel sick, and sicker when he answers:

"All the better to cor-rupt you with, m'dear."