AUTHOR'S NOTE (aka hello again): So. I'm back! This is the end of this book, the apocalyptic chapter of doom. It is arranged by hours, the hours the Joker leaves Gotham to decide what to do about Batman, and to escape his control. This begins The Solemn Hours, and each will be prefaced by another character's POV. Enjoy.
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Sanctus Espiritus, redeem us from our solemn hour
Sanctus Espiritus, insanity is all around us
Sanctus Espiritus, is this what we deserve?
–– Within Temptation, "Our Solemn Hour"
He was flying, veering, careening, and the part of him that screamed to go back, which shouted the truth to him, was Batman. The part that whispered doubts, that screamed uncertainties and disappointments was the Dark Knight. But it was Bruce that had the wheel, Bruce that sped along in the night, that was nothing but a blur of shadow against darkness, relentless and–– pointless.
He was a silhouette. No light glowed in the driver's seat but one radiated from the passenger's, the bluish-white light of a computer that threw Harvey's profile into sharp relief. In Bruce's peripheral vision, it was impossible to comprehend his companion's expression. His reflection held no answers: in the tinted glass, he was nothing but silhouette himself. The tinny, recorded sounds of screaming–– of tortured shrieks and sobs–– emanated from the laptop speakers. Sounds of her. Sounds of death.
At that moment, Bruce realized the beauty and kindness of a gun.
He pressed the pedal to the floorboards.
Hour 1
The waffles are disgusting.
I wake up, and there they are, right in front of me as I sit, strapped to a too-small chair like a child in my clown (shudder)-decorated room. Its mouth is made of bright-red bacon, but apparently to someone, that horrible smile was not enough. They have expanded its reach from ear to hypothetical ear with strawberry jam, and the egg eyes have been emphasized with blackberries encircling them.
What I wouldn't give for Frosted Flakes. I always liked tigers.
There's a big bang and through the door strides my old friend McClown, carrying another dish of nasty. He doesn't say anything, but I sense that his gaze is reproachful. Apparently I'm supposed to eat this repulsive meal. "You do understand the insulting innuendo contained in this meal, don't you? You do understand why I'm very pointedly not chewing on Bacon-lips here?" McClown splutters–– he might even be embarrassed–– and uncovers the second dish. "Exploded sausages, very nice. Just like the Joker to put the 'gore' back into gourmet." Something slams into the back of my head, shoving it into the food and causing blood to pour from my nose again. Yuck.
"Hmmm, in-teresting idea, Harry. Whaddya say to being the maitre-d?"
I twist up and away from McClown's painted eyes, spitting bile and blood and whatever else my body contains. "Yup," I rasp, "Black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, blood––I think I've just hacked them all out. Now all I have left is bad humor."
And yet, they still manage to laugh.
"Harriet, you have to calm down." A cold hand touches my ankle and my body attempts to jump a foot in the air. Unsurprisingly, it fails, doing a little more of a jerk in my chair. I moan at the excruciation this causes–– as my stomach is wobbling like a pained bowl of gelatin. Ignoring the questionable structure of that description, I moan dazedly, looking around, ideas and observations disjointed, apathetic. A crumpled figure lies by my feet.
"Rachel? Are you awake then?" She nods, tears start to her eyes, and she opens her mouth to say something apologetic, but I shake my head as furiously as I can without getting motion sickness. "No, shut up, I'm telling you now. Nothing and no one has caused my pain other than, you know, the cause of all my pain." Said tormentor cackles behind me, but I attempt to ignore him. "And I wouldn't trade in my experiences for anything! I've made–– friends, and realized things about myself and, um, others, and I wouldn't give up my experience with–– with you, or Alfred, or, um–– Gordon for anything!" I'm turning bright red. Infatuation is not something you mention to your one friend who also happens to be the love interest of your love interest but who may or may not return those feelings because of another love interest who you yourself find interesting. It's too messy for a tenuous friendship, barely founded and based on shared pain. I blink furiously, attempting to look sincere. No, I have nothing to hide.
"It's okay, Harriet––" Rachel begins, but then the door slams open again, clowns rush in, and the Joker's smile poisons my mind once more.
"I'm afraid I'll have to interrupt this little, ah, chat, but you and I have a program to view." McClown advances, and I feel a part of me go absolutely bonkers.
"NOOOO! GET OUT OF HERE WITH THAT WATCH! LAY OFF THE POOR BEAVERS WILL YA? SHEEEEEEEEEEESH! YOU'RE A CREEP! GO AWAY! WE WERE HAVING A GOOD TIME UNTIL YOU SHOWED UP! GRRRRRRR GO HAVE SOME COFFEE WITH CREAM––OR SOMETHING! CAUSE I'LL TELL YOU SOMETHING–– THIS IS A HAPPY PLACE!"
It has gone very quiet. Thank you, nineties cartoons, for all my childhood corruption. I sigh a little, glaring at the stunned henchmen. "Sorry, I'm having trouble regaining my usual façade of strained and neurotic sanity." The Joker gives another of his signature high-pitched giggles, and I restrain my urge to strangle him with a bit of string.
"I hate to leave you in such a state," he continues, licking his too-large lips. "But I'm off to hunt bigger prey." My entire body heaves, but as I cough black blood I glare at his cocky expression. He leans in closer, face lit with a child-like glee––if the child was also a sadist. "And I mean that in more than one way." He pauses. "Two!"
"Oh, now you're just trying to get on my good side," I rasp, unable to move for the pain, but also not wanting to get any closer to him than I already am. I can still feel his hot, paint-encrusted lips smearing themselves over mine, his glinting eyes locked upon my own shocked pair, boring into my pupils like tunneling drills, and I am grateful to him for the familiar pain he is inflicting. It's suddenly a safe zone on the edge of very deep waters.
The condescending bastard pats me on the head, and, to my horror, kisses my forehead. "Therrre, now, you'll be protected from all bad things." My working eye twitches.
"I thought only bad witches were ugly."
"Aaaaand that's why you're still here." He playfully slaps me, as is his usual conveyance of affection. "'Cause we both know, don't we, Harry–– true ugliness is found within."
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It burned and he fell.
He fell as it burned and nothing was solved, only worsened.
Harriet.
Batman knew so many have been twisted, undone, scarred, traumatized. That so many were like him.
But please don't let it be too late for her.
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"No! Rachel! Where are you taking her?" My screaming is bouncing off the walls, is a thousand-fold and I am many-headed and half-blind in every form. I can't even begin to understand the hands touching me, holding me back, the burlap that is rustling against my neck and the sick laughter emanating around me as I see her being pulled into a van, her feet disappearing after her shrieks. A clown–– do these people think that if there are more of them, there's a better chance that they'll be considered funny?–– caresses my face and sniggers lewdly.
"I know your all revved up, but me and the boys need to take care of little Miss Squeeze. Won't Dent be shocked to hear how she died?" I can hear his grin and I shudder, sick and cold to the core. "You should just be happy you got the good witch's kiss, sweetheart–– I can guarantee good things are coming your way!"
He nods abruptly to someone behind me, and I'm being dragged, pulled back into the darkness and the dank, iron-tinged smell of blood that is my bedroom/cell. My hands are jerked behind me and rough rope cuts into my wrists but all I can feel is the rawness of my throat and fat tears stinging my eyes. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel…! The man who steps around is faceless, hidden by shadow. Full of spite, I spit at him, now only concerned with causing the nasty fellow as much pain as possible. Bait 'im, Harry! "You cowardly bastard, are you just sticking around to get first dibs? Or do you not like the sight of blood? And where's the Joker, huh? Is he squeamish after all?" My head is jerked back and suddenly the good witch's raspy voice fills my dizzy, nauseated mind. Okay, so maybe I was not quite ready to reel in yet–– or maybe I was too much the bait to be in control of the situation?
"I thought my level of squeamishness was obvious." I retch, remembering that this demonic human being cut up his own fucking face. Suddenly the pressure at my back swings out before me. It's the Joker, but as I've never seen him.
The make-up is gone. His face is bared, as are his teeth, and without the white greasepaint, I suddenly see shallow, very real skin. Some small, malicious voice vehemently wishes that I could sink my nails into his flesh and tear away his face–– because now that we've started, who's to say there aren't others? Like a horrible, dark-eyed Russian nesting doll, one face after the other, just peeling away like layers of wallpaper. Bloody, screaming wallpaper. "Are you finally starting to get the Joke?"
I giggle a little wildly. This is too much, too much. "You used to be a volunteer in a demonstration of the dangers of Swiss Army knives?"
"Nooo… See, ah, you see, Harry, a joke isn't funny unless the victim has a modicum of dignity–– otherwise, its just pa–the–tic, and who–– who likes playing with broken dolls?" I shrug a little haphazardly. Another metaphor'd speech. "That's why I like you and Bats, but the rest of Gotham–– notice, heeheehee, notice how its almost like saying Goat-ham? –– well, the rest of Goat-ham is comprised of sniveling, baying animals."
A burning building is shoved, pixilated, before my good eye and the pit, while I hear the Joker dance out of the room, cackling. The appendage that still supplies vision widens. Two gurneys are being rushed by, and a bubble headed bottle-blonde bimbo is exclaiming and declaring. Suddenly I am filled with a nameless dread. "The White Knight and Profligate Prince of Gotham, both known to have close connections with Harriet Vince, were found at the scene of what appears to be a red herring. Lured by the promise of Rachel Dawes' safe recovery, the two men ventured unaccompanied to the rendezvous point. The body of Rachel Dawes was not recovered from the building–– neither was any form of explosive found on the premises. The blaze you see behind me is the result of an unexpected firefight between Dent and a group of clown-costumed thugs, started by a stray bullet coming into contact with a gas main. Dent himself has sustained horrific burns upon his person, and Bruce Wayne, billionaire and childhood companion of Miss Dawes, sustained several gunshot wounds, some of which have apparently punctured vital organs.
"Dent, who promised to do all he could to protect Gotham, now serves as a testament against our foolish selfishness: we abandoned the one person willing to sacrifice everything for us, just to be shown what little difference our petty efforts make. This fiend, the Joker, is manipulative, but Dent's last-minute negotiations last night may put us back on solid ground. Now, we the people, and not the politicians of Gotham, must decide whether to choose Harriet or Batman, barefaced courage or masked cowardice. The answer appears obvious. This is Marissa Blakely reporting for GCN."
I am furious.
"What appears obvious," I yell at the screen, tears darting to my eyes "is that he's playing you!" I turn to McClown, who stands, impassive, by the door. "You knew, didn't you? You all understood, from the very beginning–– there's no way this is about me. I'm a fucking pawn still and now–– now–– now we really have abandoned the one person who can help us. And Bruce––" I moan, burying my face in my hands. McClown snorts bitterly, if that were possible.
"Oh, this is just the beginning. If Batman refuses to show his face–– and I'm sure he's got enough intelligence not to–– more people will die: one atrocity for each hour." He snorts at my horrified expression. "And you–– are you so sure you want to be released?" Alex… Joker's knee dripping blood… McClown shakes his head. "I'm sure pretty boy can take care of himself." I glare at him.
"No, he can't, he's a total coward," I growl, now utterly miserable. He waggles his finger.
"Maybe, but he's a strong coward. You want to know why I'm still here? Not joining in on the day of terror? That rich son of a bitch knocked me out at his own fucking party! Yeah! He was heading off to some room, probably to hide like you said, but he knocked me out–– and broke my gun! The bastard took it apart and snapped it in half!"
My eyes can get larger. An old dog can learn new tricks. And a revelation does feel like you've been hit by a ton of bricks.
Epiphany.