Chapter Six: Civil Awareness

Strawberry: And her story begins…

"I'm sorry…" she muttered. He sat casually on a bench across from her, staring at her through harshly lit room that might have stained his skin. She had already tossed herself over once on her sleeping surface; he was flipping over a playing card in his hand as if betting that she would fall off at any moment, crashing to a startled wake. He briefly considered what he would do when she came to and saw him doing nothing but watching her. It was only barely into the evening then—only eight o'clock. But she had dozed, perhaps for lack of anything better to do. He had only just returned a few minutes ago. He was pleased with himself as he thought of how well the day had gone.

He had left shortly after waking Fana and planted rigged drums in the basement of Arkham Asylum. He stood outside when he had finished, holding the detonator threateningly in his hand when the guards flooded out of the building, some frantic, and some trying to reason. "What do you want?" one of them finally asked.

"Me?" he had said mockingly. "I want…" He had lifted a sheet of paper to his face to read the names off of the list. "Randy Pierce, Langston Waters, Charlie Fetter, Thomas Schiff, and Mark Edinburgh." He had known them all to have been especially troubled. He also knew himself to be especially troubled, and considered himself well able to identify with them with pleasure. "Hand 'em over to me, and I won't blow this place to smithereens." One by one, the five men were carted out, shackled, one in a wheel chair. "Bondage…no, no, no, give me the keys, or you haven't done any good at all." He was tossed a full ring of keys, much to the protest of the other guards. He smiled appreciatively. "Thank you, good citizens…" he hissed, instructing each of his men to grab a patient and stuff them in the bus. He had twirled the ring of keys around his fingers, feeling successful.

He remarked at his plan. He had captured these men in particular, because he always loved having someone think they were finally understood. He almost felt noble, as if he were relieving their suffering by extracting them from the walls of the prison. Those men had probably not done anything but be victims of an accident of birth or some sort of defect. Did they deserve to be locked away?

Well, it was nothing short of what they still were. He vaguely pondered how it was going on the second floor for his cronies as they held down the men they'd captured. Were they already promising that they would be set free as long as they participated in a plan? If they were, as scheduled, he would have perfect opportunity to go in later on and convince them that they could use the idea to get back at the society that had punished them for their downfalls.

They would be killing the mayor soon enough at a ceremony three days from then.

"Mom, that's not…" She was mumbling again. He now gave her his undivided attention. Vaguely, he recognized a familiar habit mirrored in her own jaw as she stretched and contorted it with the emotion of whatever she was dreaming of. "That's not true, I wouldn't…of course I would help you…" He grinned. He nearly offered her sympathy, but he did not truly care at all. It was simply humorous the way she was letting her heart do all the talking. That's a mistake… he sung in his thoughts. He laughed as she twitched slightly, now muttering so quietly that it was inaudible.

"What?" he taunted, cupping his hand around his ear. "Can't hear you, Fana banana—speak up! Why don'tcha…" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He narrowed his eyes. She had gone completely silent, rather than raise her voice any. He watched.

"Dad, Mom's in an accident, we have to go find her!" Fana was grabbing her coat from the hanger, collecting her cell phone and frantically running her hands along the kitchen counter, picking up water, Band-Aids, rubbing alcohol. She knew she couldn't do much, but it was all she could do to prove to her mother that she did care. Of course she cared…

It was her mother who didn't care.

"She hates you," her father said. She shrugged off the words, continuing to move quickly.

"I don't care if she hates me. That's my mom, you—what the hell are you doing, Dad? Hurry up, we've gotta go, she's just on the other street! Prince Hall street, it's right across from our house, please move!" Briefly, she took note of the tears that were welling in his eyes. She hated him. She hated everyone because everyone hated her. He was trying to kill her mother, she could tell. Everything he had done was to hurt Fana. And every time she called him out on it, he would only say, "You think everything's about you, don't you?"

She ran to the door. "I'll go without you, you sick bastard," she snarled, ripping the door open and tearing out into the driveway. She could hear him behind her, screaming her name maliciously. She ignored him, focusing on only trying to see past the torrential swirls of snow that clouded her vision. Her eyes could barely keep open, the slick cold air burning them and freezing the liquid swimming in them. She otherwise would have been very careful of slipping on ice, but given the situation, she had no time.

She looked behind her, frantically sliding her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. With a start, she saw her father chasing after her, howling and barking threats to her that she regarded as hollow. Something glistened in his hand.

He was faster, and she was afraid.

In her frantic movement, her foot slid on the ice and sent her hurtling to the ground with a frozen gasp. She hit her head. In no time, her father had caught up with her and was dragging her by the shoulders back up the driveway and through the door in the garage. A knife was pressed to her neck.

Fana started crying. "She's gonna die!" she said hoarsely, desperately looking out at the commotion in the street ahead. Something had caught fire. "Please, just let me help her!"

"Don't pretend you care." Hot liquid trickled down her neck. He had pushed the blade as a slice into her neck. "You're an ingrate. All you care about is yourself. And look at you. You're killing her as we speak."

There was a scream. It was her mother's scream. She struggled, but he only dug the knife in further. "Murderer," he whispered in her ear.

She woke with a jump, feeling the blow of a short fall thud against her back. She groaned and looked above her head to see that she had rolled off of the bench she had fallen asleep on. Startled by her fall, he stood defensively, as if he might have expected her to pull a gun on him, though he knew all too well that it would have been a treat if she had. Fana tried to catch her breath, staring at the metal ceiling with bug-filtered light covers glowing down on her with an olive tint. "God," she said, smacking her hands over her eyes and removing herself completely from her unearthly slumber. He was intent upon her, still staring fixedly at her dumbstruck figure lying stupidly on the ground. He wondered shortly what she would say when it was discovered that he had clearly been watching and listening to her sleep gibberish.

"Nightmare?" Fana forced her eyes open and turned her head, holding her hands above her face to see. The Joker was standing there amongst the line of benches, eyeing her as if he had been a significant part of her dream, walking in the world with her. My angelic mother…was always a little…different. She could remember well the story he'd told her of his mother. She dared not compare the two of them; she shunned any ounce of similarity they may have bore to one another. She exhaled deeply and turned her face to the ceiling again when he did not continue speaking.

"I hate sleeping," she said in a mellow tone. He gnawed at his lips from the inside of his mouth, stretching them once he had caught her words properly. "I hate sleeping because I hate dreaming. You know that?" He was unsure of why she was bothering to speak to him at all. He distantly offered his attention, but dimmed it out to make sure she knew that he hardly cared about whatever minuscule hardships she suffered. If she couldn't learn to laugh, he couldn't learn to give her any sympathy whatsoever.

He had no sympathy for such imbeciles.

"I hate sleeping, too," he answered her, having stirred up such a beautiful creation that she would be lost for words. She did not acknowledge his response. "You know how…well, listen. The human mind produces seven to eight dreams a night. They only last a matter of seconds. And during those dreams…you live through your dream body. And you're aware of yourself just like you're aware of yourself when you're awake." He took to pacing, smiling peacefully to himself at how brilliantly funny, pointless, idiotic the human brain was. "If you dream eight dreams," he concluded, snapping his gloved fingers, "the most time you can spend with your head in a…dream world…is only a minute…and twenty-one seconds." He tilted his head to the side to crack his neck. He was unsuccessful. She was still not watching him, obviously meditating over the dream that had caused her to address her mother. "You sleep a lot longer than that, don't you?" He edged his face into a sly expression. "So what do you think you're aware of when you aren't aware of yourself being physically in a bed, and you're not aware of yourself…doing your little…dream ballets?" He started out of the area, towards the food court to pick up a bottle of water. "You're not aware of yourself at all." His steps echoed in Fana's ears. "Makes you feel empty and helpless, not being aware of yourself…doesn't it?"

He could tell without looking at her that he had done a fantastic job of toying with her mind. He loved it.

"Tell me something…"

He stood still, his weight unevenly balanced on his two feet, one positioned ahead of him and the other behind. His knees were slightly bent. It made him feel off balance. Little too human for my liking, he thought, standing himself up properly again. Once he had, he waited, almost impatiently, for her to pick up speaking where she left off. "Tell me something I don't know," she went on. With a slight puff, he rested his right shoulder against the doorway, crossing his right leg over his left.

"Gimme an example," he grumbled. She could not see him from where she lay. She wondered vaguely where he had gone, but spared herself the concern since he was, at the very least, responding.

"Just anything. Tell me something you'd want to tell me."

He thought for a minute. Briefly, he thought to ask her what was bringing on her sudden interest in whatever he had to say, but he decided against it, reminding himself that it was of no importance. "For Christmas, I'd like gunpowder." She made no reply or supposed movement.

"Why do you have me here?" she said at last. "I don't want to know about why you chose an icehouse. You probably did it because it's summer and it'll be cold in here regardless of air-conditioning, but that's just a thought. I want to know what…what are you planning? What use am I?" He directed his attentions to his deep purple dress shoes. He thought briefly, wondering why, seeing as he knew well what his reasons for keeping her were. He wanted to talk to Harvey. He believed in Harvey Dent. Haha…clever… Harvey was the ace in the hole, of course. If he could corrupt Dent—and he could; everyone could be corrupted, and he had living proof—then Gotham's spirit would completely break. Who would be their White Knight? Once they were shown that everyone could turn into a monster, they'd lose their only wills to live. Fana was just the bait. Why was she making it more complicated than it was?

Why was he considering it at all?

"I told you…" He sucked on the scar on the right side of his face. It stung with the sharpness of pins and needles, as if it were still healing, still ready to start bleeding again if it was hit the wrong way. "You really do need to start listening a little…just a little. You know, I'd think that…if I were you…in your position…" She sat up, dejected. "I'd listen when my…cap-tor made any comments. See, that way, I'd know what to expect and wouldn't have to ask so many questions…" He walked ahead to the counter that bore evidence of an aged register where orders were taken. He leaned out of the concession window and peered down at her. She noticed instantly. Their eyes were in perfect connection for a good seven seconds, he counted; before he started speaking again. "You're the bait," he told her. "I want to see some 'law-abiding' Gotham citizen…" He lifted his hands as if on the surface of a high shelf. "…turn on the whole city and bring me Harvey Dent." He brought his hands down to show a change in level. "Killing…it's making a choice. Someone out there would rather Harvey die than little miss Fana banana. Someone…will go to any lengths to kill Harvey to make sure you're out of harm's way."

Her eyes narrowed at him. He leaned his arms on the window and stared back at her, making sure she knew that he was boss. He alone was in control, the prince of the city…he could manipulate anyone because he knew that no one was incorruptible. If a person was pushed far enough…boom. There went their sanity.

He was the truest opposite of therapists.

"Don't count on it."

It was his turn to narrow his eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"You picked the wrong person," she said bitterly. "No one wants to save me. You won't be seeing Harvey anytime soon."

She IS a tragedy, he thought with a grin. Listen to her wade in depression… He laughed. "Are you tellin' me that I would've been better off…with Rachel?" he taunted, knowing well she might have taken it to heart. When she did not answer, he continued. "Well, I don't know about that. I'm satisfied with my choice. See, I don't know if I could promise her safety. You're a little bit different."

Her ears perked. "Why?" she asked him. "Why don't you want to hurt me? Why did you say that?"

He scoffed. "Now what's the point of a secret if you don't keep it?" he chanted, heartily exiting the food court, calling after her. She traipsed to the hallway, but he was out of sight before she had even gotten to her feet. He started up the stairs to the second floor where he would have to give instructions. Excitement welled inside him. She's losing it, he observed. It's only a matter of time.