Chapter Ten: A Birthday Surprise

Strawberry: Oh the intensity… *faints*

5:51 A.M.

He threw himself into a sitting position on the rickety mattress beneath him. He leaned forward and pulled back one of the curtains to see the world; the sun was showing no signs of making an appearance. He thought of a few things during the mornings, in the first hours he made himself conscious in the world. First he considered the location of his wardrobe: always the same purple suit, green vest, and blue shirt. He had seven oxford shirts, all printed with a hexagonal pattern hanging sloppily beyond his closet doors. Then he thought of the bolts across his door; they had been there so that no one would turn on him. They were there so that no one would have the displeasure of happening upon his makeup-less face in the night. Next he usually thought of the day's work, of what he would need to plan. These days, that space of time was dominated by the downstairs room just outside the window of the food court. It dealt with the nervousness about the unlocked door with the word "EXIT" spelled in red neon letters above it.

It dealt with what Fana was dreaming about, or whether she was simply unaware.

5:53 A.M.

He swung his feet off the edge of the bed and stood, engaging in an internal battle between his humor and his humanity. He stared down at himself, bare and minuscule. He had on old gray slacks with enough wear and tear to make the inside material soft. That day, he didn't have to change out of them, knowing the men in uniform would be providing him with the day's wardrobe. With this in mind, he bent down to pick up a stained, white pile of cloth on the floor and began untangling it. Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the window, he scowled as he pulled the shirt over his head, covering his scarred torso. He was too skinny.

Slowly he moved towards the bathroom. He did not bother to turn on the light that morning; that day, he could not paint his face or he would completely give himself away. It was a sacrifice…but he had to make it. To distract himself, he hummed and twisted the faucet handle. Annoyed, he dunked his head in the sink, letting the water run over his head for a few seconds before switching it off again. His hands grasped the sink as he looked up, the mirror less than viewable in the darkness. His stringy hair was dripping green; it was coating the sink and making the drain bubble as it mixed with the water. It began staining his face, but he forcefully rubbed it away and threw a towel over his head, scrubbing his hair dry.

7:32 A.M.

He was walking down the hallway heavily, exercising his jawbone melodically as he went. He could hear the heartwarming shouts of his men and followers; it was the Asylum's pep talk, and the response was gravitating towards him even through closed doors. "You've gotta hold the gun like this and then the guy'll say 'Honor…etcetera, etcetera…'" one of the men was explaining. "And then you shoot once and fall back into this stance…He'll say something like… 'Ready, aim…' but you'll know that's the time for sure. That's when you make a point to shoot the same range again, but we're all gonna turn this way and bang…there goes the mayor."

He stepped into the room where the instructions were being given. He had almost expected them to be already holding rifles, but he knew better that they had to wait. He nodded to two of his men: they returned his orders and jogged out of the doorway, giving him respectful expressions as they made their way around him. They were going to kidnap the men, rounding them all up into apartment number 1502. Meanwhile, the Asylum patients were glaring at him. His stomach twisted, knowing well that they were looking at the scars. He thought of what Fana had said and how the makeup supposedly did make them less noticeable. Clearly they were the focal point of the room. Everything had gone silent.

"You know what you're doing, boys," he said scathingly, fixing his attention on a defect in the wall opposite him. "Are you ready for the mayor's…birthday surprise?" Forcibly, he feigned a grin, watching the way they stared at every single movement of the mouth he made. Then he could really truly smile as their fascination poured onto the floors. They were so emotional. What did he have to complain about? He may have had the scars on the outside; but all that meant was that he was not subject to the internal scars they would all suffer throughout their lives. He laughed for them, feeding their desires. "Come on. We don't wanna be late…do we?"

8:47 A.M.

There were thirteen minutes remaining. He was securing the zipper of the pants he had taken from one of the officers, who was now tied up next to his buddies with duct tape over his mouth. They were speaking muffled tones of reason, but he ignored them and happily pulled on the rest of the uniform. He shook his head, ruffling the tangled mess of hair and stuffing it beneath the hat in his hands. When he looked up, his men were still dressing. Dogs…idiots… he thought about them bitterly. He knelt down in front of one of the robbed officers and examined his face. He had spiked hair and a fleshy face. His cheekbones were raised and strong and his mouth bore no signs of defect. Stupid man. "Are you worried, buddy?" he asked the man teasingly, doubling over in laughter as the man's shaking increased. "Mhaha…heee, ooh…you, uh…little nervous for today?" He removed his gloves and stuffed them in the pocket of the uniform. "Oh, don't worry. I'll take care of ya. Look, I got me a comfy ol' uniform here…and a…a nice rifle…" The man nearly lost it. "Shh, shh, I've got it covered, sunny boy."

He stood and smoothed the uniform jacket. The majority of those involved were dressed at last, and they all looked like a mess of…

Chaos. "It's a funny world we live in," he said, rust tinting his voice.

Outside, freshly garmented and ready for the plan to commence, they joined the lineup as routinely as they would if they had really been meant to be there. He stood next to Thomas Schiff, who he could hardly imagine to have looked more painfully eager in his life. He looked official and certain that he was going to be the best. Every so often, Thomas looked over at him out of the corner of his eye, obviously examining the scars. He didn't mind. He knew that people were thinking about it as they watched the news reporters arrive on the scene. Some of them at least had to have caught sight of his face. They were probably thinking, "That poor man." Spare me, he thought.

He peered around Schiff and looked at the band marching towards the front. He caught a brief glimpse of the mayor and grinned, hardly able to contain himself. What a day it would be…

Fana woke with a start at the sound of a reporter's voice. She looked around, vaguely considering having been discovered, the Joker's plan having been destroyed. But it was only the reporter on the TV, she having rolled over on the remote. She wondered why it had been left on the floor beside her during the night, but ignored her curiosity to shut the volume off. Before she could turn it off completely, something traveled to her ears that she could not ignore. Frantically, she got to her feet and scrambled into the room with the couch, fixing her eyes fully on the television screen.

"Even as they mourn Commissioner Lowe, these cops have to be wondering if the Joker will make good on his threat in the obituary column of Gotham Times to kill the mayor."

The remote slipped from her hands. She craned her neck to see the clock on the wall in the other room: It was merely a couple of minutes before nine o'clock. By then, he was usually up and around, somehow making his way into her presence either by waking her or being right there with her when she awoke. So where was he today? "Oh, oh, not good," she said, racing out of the room and over to the ice rink. He wasn't there either. It was…imperative that he was there right then to prove that he wasn't going to stir things up by attacking the mayor. He had gone out a few times before, letting her simply know that he was going to be out on some kind of…adventure. Knowingly, she accepted that it probably meant terrorizing the citizens of Gotham. And she hadn't bothered herself with that before; she simply sat around all day, occasionally setting foot on the ice or rummaging around in the food court. But this time was different.

This time, it was the mayor.

"No, no, no, no, where are you?" she spat, swerving into the food court and going right back out again when she didn't see him. She stopped at the staircase, briefly considering that other people might have been up there, even if he was not. She had never been up there before, though it was true she'd been invited. Still…still it did not seem to be a good idea. "You're an idiot," she said to him, wishing he was there to hear it. "The mayor?" It was too much commotion for her to handle. Throwing caution to the wind, she started up the stairs in a rush.

The hallways were empty.

Music was playing boomingly in his ears as the band walked up. All the men were wearing plaid skirts. That's embarrassing, he noted, collecting air in his cheeks to suppress his laughter. I like my costume better, sheriff. "Are you nervous, Mr. Schiff?" he said, tilting his head to the side so that Thomas could better hear him.

"Uh…a bit," Thomas replied.

"Aw, why so?" he prodded. "You know…this is your stage, Tommy. You…have the spotlight. And nobody—I mean nobody—is gonna take that away from you. Huh?" He knocked his elbow into Schiff's upper arm. "You're the authority," he went on. "After all…what more could you ask for than a chance to…upset the established order?"

Thomas looked heightened.

"Oh, my…God…" Fana opened the last door in the hallway. She had already stepped into and searched through three different dorm-styled rooms. Most of the rooms were filled with cheap, thin beds. Two other rooms she went into looked completely filled with some kind of ammunition. The one she had entered now had only one bed, a larger one with a thinned mattress. There were three black and white piles of clothing on the floor, but she turned her head away, preferring to look at something else. There had not been one person in any of the rooms so far—she was banking on this one. Draped over a tall dresser was a purple jacket; on the floor below it laid the pants to accompany it. His room. She sighed and massaged her forehead. "Where are you?" she whispered.

The mayor had begun speaking. He was not listening to any of the words; instead he scanned over every face that stared in his direction. He did his best to play the innocent face, but could not help but think he was unsuccessful, judging by the way people still stared at him like he was something to worry about. He was, of course, but he was hoping, in general, that they wouldn't wise-up this time around. Most likely, they wouldn't; he knew people well enough. They couldn't put two and two together to save their lives. Otherwise, he would've already been in the back of a cop car, being towed away to Arkham Asylum. He wondered if anyone had recognized any of the former prisoners. For Thomas' sake, he hoped that Mr. and Mrs. Schiff were prowling around in the bystanders, trying their hardest to make sure they were correct in what they thought they saw. Oh, you are, he thought, closing his eyes to the silence when the mayor paused. He straightened his posture slightly, noticing the way he seemed hunched over next to the other men.

"We must remember that vigilance…" He looked up, recognizing that the time had nearly come. Selflessly, he offered Thomas the glory of it all, watching the way his mouth curled in a satisfied smile before the cue had even gone out. "…is the price of safety." The mayor nodded and stepped away from the podium to observe the salute. The gun was jumping in his hands, rearing to go.

"Honor…guard…atten-hut!" He raised his gun to his shoulder, noticing that all signs of any nervousness in Thomas had disappeared. "Ready…aim—fire!" He turned his gun to point at the sky and fired a shot, as did the men at his sides. Not all of them were at his command; some were left over, some that hadn't been stripped and robbed. Everything was going to be perfect…

She crossed the room, squinting in the pale sunlight that seeped between the curtains. Noticing a doorway, she stepped inside, searching for the switch on the wall the minute she entered. The first sight she saw made her jump slightly. In the mirror was her reflection; framing her reflection was a set of white hand prints, having clearly been dragged down. There was a crack at the very bottom where the trail stopped, as if it had been hit. "You're full of hate," she muttered, gingerly resting her hand on the broken glass.

"Ready…aim…" Another shot. In seconds the timer would release, the blinds would go up…

"Ready…aim…"

The timer. Twelve men turned on their heels to face the mayor. He himself was the most hate-filled as he fired the shot at the dark-haired man by the podium. Someone looked at him. Now they knew. But it was too late.

He stepped through the iron door to the icehouse, anger welling in the pit of his stomach. He wrenched the hat from his head and tossed it to the side, instantly glancing up to check for Fana's whereabouts. Growling empty threats as he strode, he noticed vaguely that she was not asleep on the benches. The television had been left on, but he could think of no reason it should have mattered. He walked into the next room, looking over the back of the couch.

She wasn't there, either.

He could hear his men chatting just outside the door. They did not share his immense distress. Beginning to feel…uncontrolled, he went to look for her in the ice rink, but that too was empty. "Where are you?" he hummed, thoroughly telling himself that it did not matter if she had left. He peered in the food court but yanked his attentions away the moment he did not see her. His only hope was up the stairs. "Fana, Fana, Fana banana, you just couldn't make this simple, could you?" He stamped his feet against the staircase, huffing as he went, his bad mood escalating. "You didn't leave," he assured himself. "No, no, no, you don't have anywhere to go, do ya, doll face? Nah…" He threw open the first door in the hallway. "You don't have a family." He tried the next one. "You don't even have a friend to try to get you out of…this mess…" The third one. There were only six doors; she had to be there. "Nobody…" The fourth and fifth. A deep sound escaped the back of his throat, a sound of desperate annoyance. Good ol' Jim Gordon had saved the little mayor's life…and at no cost.

He opened the door to the room he had slept in. He didn't see her, and his heart gave a satisfied leap—perhaps unsatisfied. Maybe…she had simply gone. "That's ok…" He gave his face several helpless smacks before taking a step through the doorway. "Maybe now she'll…live a little…ohaha…" He headed towards the bathroom, intending to apply his paint for the day, hardly up for the empty feeling a bare face gave him.

The bathroom light was on. He fell into a shock when her face appeared around the corner. She was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, cradling two of the paint jars in her hands, supposedly doing nothing at all with them.

She looked shocked as well. He wanted to kick her in the face.

"Hey, you didn't…"

"Get out." Fana blinked, her heart racing at his appearance. What reason did he have for not painting his face that day? She tried to redirect her attention, but her eyes continuously fell on his mouth, scarred and cut, with nicks across his lower lip and jagged, pulled slice marks stretching to his cheekbones. She started to stand, but before she had even had the opportunity to do it on her own, he was in front of her, yanking her up painfully by the arm. "I said get out," he spat at her, pulling her behind him to the doorway.

"What's going on?" she asked. He wanted to slice her neck right then and there, pretending like she didn't know. He snapped his wrist and sent her hurtling back into the hallway, the jars of paint clattering onto the floor; one of the tops burst off. She was looking at him, as if she was the one who'd been hurt. As if one of her greatest secrets had just been revealed to him.

"You like 'em?" he snarled, making heartily sure he still had at least one knife on him. He did. "Huh? Yeah, take a good look…" He pointed to the sides of his face and said, "You happy now? Yeah…I bet you are, you—"

"You think I care about that?" He stepped toward her threateningly, and she backed away in turn. "I didn't…I didn't do this on purpose; you weren't even here!" He grabbed her by the arm again and thrust her against the wall. She only stared back at him with the same sickly determination. "I'm sorry, I thought—"

"Is that so?" he hissed into her face, raising his eyebrows. She pried herself from the wall. "Spare me."