AN: Hey everyone. Sorry for the wait in updating with this next chapter, it wasn't as easy to write as the others, particularly because it seems more like a transitional chapter between more important ones in regards to plot. It's also a very dark chapter for Rachel and her mental state, and rather short in comparison to the others. I apologize for that; the next will make up for it, I promise (though the Joker will either make a HUGE appearance in the next chapter or very little…haven't decided yet. :) ) I decided to include the Joker/Rachel sex in the future, because I found a way to make it work while keeping them still in character. (Yay!) But since I haven't decided how long I want to make this fanfic, I can't really tell you how many more chapters you'll have to wait until it comes up…but patience is a virtue, right? :)

Individual thank-you's/ review replies:

Shiann Reece: Thank you! :D I'm glad you liked the last three chapters...they were definitely the hardest but the funnest to write, heh. Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long! :)

Gema227: Thank you! Yeah, the speech patterns can be somewhat annoying to keep up with...especially when it comes to the Joker, because it's hard NOT to overdo his "accent" and go overboard, you know?

lpchick303: Thank you sooo much :D Yeah I know what you mean, I also love dark and twisted stories, too...(which is probably why mine seems to be dark and twisted as well lol.)

xxCherryRED: Thank you! I'm glad you think my characterization is up to par. That makes me so happy :)

chasespicer056: Thank you! I'm glad you think so :D I hope I can keep him consistent for you!

xheartxcorex: Haha thank you!! I also enjoyed the Rachel/Joker scene, because I was so excited to type it out. It was the first thing I typed out from this chapter :) I wish the entire fanfic would just be Rachel and Joker talking, chapter by chapter...but that probably wouldn't be as exciting, would it lol

SpiritFanNumber1: Haha, glad you think I'm bad lol :D And thank you! I love cliffhangers, so I tend to over-use them...:)

Kendra Luehr: Thank youuu! Yeah, I loved writing out the Joker/Rachel conversation so very much...and what you said about the future sex scene makes alot of sense, I've taken that into consideration, thanks for helping me out with that suggestion :D I like the idea of a primal-ness between the two of them, I think it's the best way anything Rachel/Joker can work, and be in character at the same time, you know? And I'm really happy you caught onto how the Joker makes sense BECAUSE Rachel is pretty broken at this point...

Update your fic now!! :D Haha

OpenSoulSurgery: Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed the last two chapters. And yeah, I wasn't going to kill off Bruce...it just seemed to evil even in MY mind. Killing off Batman would definitely just set things wayyy out of balance D: But it was good torture for poor Rachel, no? And... I hate Ramirez so much xD At first I wasn't going to have any more of her in my fanfic except for just...a single scene, but I decided to keep her and use her for my own purposes. :) As much as I hate her. lol.

Anyways, thank you as always for reading and please review and ENJOY! :)


Dark Humor

Seven

"Justice is balance."

--Ra's Al Ghul


"Wh-What are you doing?"

Rachel found herself staring into the barrel of a gun. Officer Ramirez stood before her in the pervading darkness, a grim smile etched upon her barely discernible face. She was clutching the handgun in a death grip, her white-knuckled fingers tensed to pull the trigger at any moment. Rachel fought the panic that threatened to overtake her mind, her own fingers trembling uncontrollably against the knife in her hand.

The look on Ramirez's face had no trace of hope in it. She had all intent to kill.

Carefully, Rachel found herself moving in a half-circle about the room, Ramirez following with agile speed, the gun never leaving its aim at the D.A.'s head. Her body was wracked with panic, so cold and heavy it jarred her mind into a prickling numbness, shooting fear through her veins faster than the adrenaline that already seeped through them. Rachel didn't know where the Joker was now; he could 

run up behind her and run her through with his knife if he wanted. All she could bring herself to stare at was the handgun threatening to destroy her with every passing second, Ramirez's hard eyed glare like a poised predator.

"I'm just siding with the winning team, Rachel."

As the officer spoke, Rachel's gut churned.

The bitch. The traitorous, lecherous bitch.

Once a crooked cop, always a crooked cop. Remember?

How could she have brought herself to trust her? How could she have been so stupid? To still think that the woman who had played a role in Harvey's death would have been repentant, would have had any ounce of pity left within her?

No, it was easier for her to keep killing. Easier for her to keep working for the mob, to keep working for him, the man who had orchestrated this entire trap, than turn her back and try and reform. Even if it meant taking Rachel's life.

As if in agreement to her thoughts, Ramirez smirked mockingly, jutting her chin upwards,

"No hard feelings?"

Waves of hostility rippled through her at Ramirez's taunt. She clenched the blade of her knife firmly in her hand, her eyes narrowing in defiance,

"Fuck you."

Ramirez's hand moved—at first Rachel thought it was for the trigger, but she merely used her free hand to swipe across her mouth, as if to control the laugh that burst from her lips,

"Really, I don't think it's a good idea to curse at the people who can kill you right now. Now,"

With a quick flourish, she cocked her handgun and aimed at Rachel's forehead with both hands,

"On your knees."

She hesitated for a moment at Ramirez's command, as if weighing her options. The traitor was facing her, not even a foot away, and if she paused and did as she was told there was no chance she wouldn't get a bullet right between her eyes. If she made to run, there was a slighter chance of survival—but barely, as the officer seemed poised and ready for that outcome, and obviously had formidable aim by the way she was handling her weapon.

Instead, Rachel shook her head, continuing to walk in a slow circle, her heart beating faster with every step, knowing each may be her last. Ramirez's eyes widened slightly, obviously not expecting this, and her gun almost seemed to quaver in her grip as she repeated her words,

"On your knees. I mean it, Miss D.A."

Rachel was still shaking her head, struggling to fight the raw fear that clung to her like a second skin. Ramirez hadn't shot her yet—maybe this was a good sign. Maybe she could still talk to her.

"You don't have to do this."

Her voice was quiet, cracking against her struggle to keep it steady and formidable. Ramirez was the one to shake her head, now, her gaze unnerved and skeptical, her eyes wide and narrowed,

"You think I have a fucking choice? It's your life for Gotham's, Rachel. For my mother's. What choice do I have?"

Rachel swallowed her rampant heart forcefully in her throat,

"It's okay…it'll be fine. You can keep me alive, you can walk out that door right now, and Gordon and the others will resolve it in the morning. They can put you on protection, and me, too, and Gotham will be unharmed. You know there's another way, there always is. Now please…please drop the gun."

Ramirez's hands shook, yet her aim did not falter. Rachel's nails dug into the skin of her palm as her grip on her knife tightened, watching the woman who held her life in her hands. Her legs were tiring; she couldn't keep this up for long, not while her head still throbbed, her situation becoming more and more hopeless. She couldn't do this anymore—it had to end, and suddenly, raw boldness took her as she slowly walked forward, her hands held out, palm upwards, the knife glistening in the moonlight,

"Drop the gun, Ramirez."

The officer scowled and shook her head again; Rachel was coming closer and closer to the weapon, yet with each step the gun merely trembled more forcefully.

"No."

Rachel's nerves were fraying, collapsing in on themselves; the gun was so close any pull of the trigger could shoot the bullet straight through her brain. The fear in her eyes was exposed as she stood still before Ramirez, her knife still splayed on upturned palms, yet her voice was high and stiff with nerves,

"Drop the gun!"

All the steadiness of Ramirez's gaze drained away from her face, instead contorting into wide-eyed panic at Rachel's proximity. Her gun shook so wildly Rachel was stunned it hadn't flown from her hands. Ramirez was backing away, her jaw clenched,

"You can't fucking make me! You can't even hurt a fly!"

In her heightened panic, Ramirez's finger grew heavy on the trigger. Rachel grabbed her blade, yet she knew at once it was the wrong choice to make—

Ramirez screamed for her to stop as Rachel leapt forward, thrusting her entire body at the officer. The cries of protest were all she could hear against the deafening gunshot and their bloodcurdling screams.

Red hot pain bloomed across her shoulder as the sound of the shot tore at her ears. In an instant she was falling, Ramirez beneath her, the gun clattering to the carpet. She heard her own ear-splitting scream, echoed by Ramirez in her ears as a revolting squelching noise shot through the air, a desperate gurgle—then, finally, finally, it was quiet.

Darkness bled across her vision, followed by hot white lights of prickling pain. Her body felt shattered like glass, her nerves tearing with each racking breath. The gun wasn't poised to shoot any longer, despite the pain that bit at every nerve, and for a fleeting moment she felt the primal rush of euphoria it felt to still be alive.

She wasn't aware until she looked down that her hands were slick with blood.

Beneath her, Ramirez's were eyes wide opened yet ghastly cold and still.

Rachel let out a deep, shuddering gasp, her body buckled and cold except the scalding heat of the blood on her quivering hands. Heaving herself away from the limp body beneath her, she gazed in horror at the kitchen knife—her knife—sticking through the officer's throat, the trail of crimson gushing freely in streams to dirty her immaculate white carpet, her white fingers.

Her shoulder ached and stung with each movement of her arms as she pulled herself to her knees. The bullet had bitten through, and her own blood matted her bare skin, the side of her nightgown. It trailed across the pink fabric in deep, dark scarlet, the stream of blood never seeming to end, her own liquid mingled with Ramirez's.

When would it ever end?

Rachel forced herself to lean forward despite the shooting pain in her limb, and, fighting back the sob in her throat, gingerly touched the officer's throat. Fresh currents of red spurted in streams across her carpet. She covered her mouth with a blood-coated hand and fought the urge to vomit, her eyes tearing, her breath frantic. Her door was shattered, her apartment streaked with blood and the already-apparent smell of death.

She had killed Ramirez—

Killed the woman before she could kill her.

As the realization sank in, Rachel fell to her knees, covered her ears with her hands, and screamed.

oOo

How many times was it, now, that she's blacked out?

She was sitting, propped up like a doll, against her kitchen chair, watching with glassy eyes the officers huddled about Ramirez's cold body, inspecting her with the hardness of an object. Her eyes still stung with tears, yet she found no more strength in her to cry. They hadn't been tears for the officer, but tears for herself—for what she had done, for taking another human life, if an act of self-defense or not. And they were going to find out, wouldn't they, no matter how silent she had been when asked what had happened? They had found the Joker card, left behind in Ramirez's pocket, yet there was no doubt whose fingerprints marred the knife, no doubt that she was now as good as the criminals she prosecuted.

The Joker's words throbbed through her mind like a mantra, vicious and painful and so terrifyingly logical.

Maybe we're more, ah…made for one another than you once thought, Rachel, thinking you were better than all the criminals you've helped Dent put to jail, thinking you got some sort of self-worth and satisfaction from all of it, hmm? But to know now that Batman would have betrayed you, that your closest associates are working for Maroni…how does it feel to have no one to trust, not even yourself any longer?

No—she didn't care anymore, didn't care if they would see her as a killer. Wasn't that what she really was, now? She shut her eyes and swayed in her seat, her hands clasped against her knees. She had killed Ramirez, and the worst thing was, the reason her tears still ached to fall against the insides of her lids—

She had actually enjoyed it.

She could remember, beyond the overwhelming guilt, the sickening satisfaction that slithered within her, venomous and penetrating. She remembered the feeling of relief at gazing down at that cold, inert body, the feeling that she would never have to see this woman again, would never have to endure Ramirez's hostility, never would have to feel the pain at letting her go free when she had caused Harvey's death…

Almost as if I was happy to see her bleed. As if it served payback for Harvey's blood, as if it was the only fitting form of justice…

Justice.

The word burned in her throat, acidic and stinging in all its jaded meaning—a traitor in the false, empty hopes it inspired.

This had been her own form of justice—accidental; yet so horribly right in her mind, so regretless it chilled her to the bone. Prosecuting had always been difficult, if not formerly fulfilling; the criminals were in your face, taunting you with the written implications of the law, finding loop holes through bribes and threats only to escape and cause more damage.

But this…this had ensured Ramirez wouldn't have run anymore crooked deals. No more deaths, no more murders. No more people like Harvey, innocent and desperately hoping in the good of others, dying at 

the hands of corruption. No more people like her, grieving endlessly for the loss of the man she had loved most in her life.

She wanted to scream at herself for how much sense it all made. For how at peace she felt; numb, detached, untouched from the world. There was no grieving, no guilt beyond that of human habit.

It was then that her eyes caught the flit of a black cape before her, and her vision darkened as the silhouette overtook her blood-splattered being. Even as dawn filtered through her windows, alighting her wrecked home like fire, he stood still like a total eclipse to douse everything in cold.

An obstruction in her path, like always.

"Batman."

He stood before her, his masked face stern and carefully apathetic as usual as he scanned her frame to survey the damage. She watched as the vigilante took in the sight of her shoulder, now bandaged and matted with blood, at the stained nightgown she hadn't changed since last night. He wasn't standing as straightly as before—he was hunched over, slightly, his wounds still healing.

The stubborn bastard.

She saw the way his gaze darkened when he eyed that blossoming, bloody wound that had raked her shoulder. He would blame himself for allowing this to happen, she knew—yet, for some strange reason, Rachel found she didn't really care. All she cared was that a part of her mind seemed to feel remotely normal, again, calm and rational. Bruce was making his own choice in dragging himself from the hospital to play the weakened role of the vigilante who couldn't kill. His choices wouldn't affect her anymore.

Not when she wasn't the Rachel he knew anymore. Not when he could never truly protect her again.

"What happened here? Who hurt you?" He asked in his gruff, scratchy voice, always so carefully concealed.

Rachel watched him carefully, contemplating on telling him the truth outright.

I killed Ramirez, that's what happened. She tried to attack me, and I stabbed her and took her life, and now what are you going to do, Bruce? Throw me in jail? Arkham, perhaps? Prosecute me like all the rest?

She turned her head and spoke, automatically, her mind slack and numb with the slowness of her words,

"The Joker came to my apartment last night. And so did Ramirez."

It was all she could say before she turned her gaze towards the circle of officers, still prodding and nudging the body with curious apathy, as if it had not been a living being mere hours ago. As if it was a piece of furniture. It sent a jolt of smugness through her, one that terrified her even more intensely, as she thought of Harvey's body, lying out of her reach, and the body that was so roughly handled before her that had brought her fiancée into such a state in the first place.

It was as if some carnal craving had been satisfied, though not completely—never completely.

Batman was silent for a moment. She could feel his eyes analyzing her, penetrating her, as if struggling to tear from her mind the truth. But her body was limp and mute and overwhelmingly tired.

"It's important that we know everything that happened, Rachel. In order to properly catch and put the Joker in his place."

She laughed.

She couldn't help it; the bitter laughter bubbled through her, escaped her lips in an upturned, angered sneer,

"His place? You couldn't even keep him in that cell before. What makes you think you can now?"

Her tone was bitter and hard; she hadn't meant it that way, yet it was how her lips processed the words, how it sounded in her ears. Bruce grew stiff beneath his bulky suit; she could practically feel his nerves taut in the air.

"We'll get him, Rachel—him and everyone else responsible."

His words held a meaning, meaning she wasn't sure whether to attribute to her own dementia or his suspicion. Rachel found herself laughing; bitter, angry laughter, frustrated chuckles that surfaced from her eyes in prickling, unshed tears. Get him? Who in God's name had the power to get him, to lock him up and keep him there, when he slithered through every obstacle in his path like a serpent, scheming and malicious and always ready to strike when you least expected it?

What could you do but kill him?

"You're never going to get him," She whispered to his retreating back as he walked across her room toward Ramirez's body, "Not unless you break your rule."

He paused, then, a block of black ice. Recognition plastered itself across his features as he turned to stare at her, and for once, for a fleeting moment, Rachel could see fear flickering in those heavy eyes. Her words had been spoken before, she realized; spoken before and ignored. And look where it had gotten them. Look where it had gotten her.

He was staring at her as if she were the very same criminal he had been hunting.

There's no longer any difference, is there? Not even to Batman. Not even to…

"Bruce."

Her voice was a soft whisper as she lowered her head, watching the bottoms of the figures examining the fallen officer's body. How long could they look at a corpse, how long could they nudge and prod and poke and just leave it in her room? Her frustration grew until Gordon emerged from the crowd, his face grim, mouth set in a thin line. He was walking towards her, and her heart beat quickly despite herself.

She expected the same look on his face that Bruce had held—fear, recognition; hostility. Yet he was watching her with sympathy, the guilt that plagued his gentle irises so intense that bile rose against her throat for the second time that night. He regarded her carefully before speaking,

"Rachel…can you tell us why the Joker stabbed Ramirez?"

What?

Rachel fought the shocked expression that threatened to surface upon her features. She blinked, her body hot with bewilderment. Her mouth opened once, twice, found the words caught in her throat, never expecting this to happen. The best possible outcome of the situation, in her mind, had been that they acknowledged her murder of Ramirez as self-defense. But to not even know she killed her, when it was her knife, her—

"Look, we need to know, Rachel," Gordon continued in a gentle voice, his hand on her shoulder, "I understand if you're still in shock from what happened the other night. But the Joker's cards were all over her body, and that knife had no fingerprints at all. Now you may not remember, or you may have fainted, but if you do, please tell me."

His cards. Her fingerprints, wiped completely clean.

Her body went cold as the realization rushed through her, the only obvious logical thought within the illogical insanity that had become her life.

He hadn't wanted her to take the fault for this.

He wanted her to kill Ramirez, to harbor the guilt alone.

And he had been in her apartment while she had been unconscious—who knew for how long?—replacing the knife in Ramirez's body, making sure everything led back to him. Even the officer's corpse had been marked by his careful hands, and as she glanced over Gordon's shoulder, she could see the trail of Joker cards that lined the girl's body beneath her uniform, blood-red "HA'S" covering each individual card so that her figure was a chorus of bloodthirsty, carnal laughter. They had been stapled there, as if her skin had been nothing but olive-toned paper.

A shudder rippled through her, and she fought the creeping vertigo at the latest revelation. Rachel licked her lips and knew now, no matter what she said; they wouldn't possibly believe she had taken any part in the offensive last night. A part of her, a very small, self-righteous part, left behind from her days before Harvey's death, begged and pleaded in her mind to 

confess, if for anything, for justice. But the remainder of her body reacted the way the most primal of creatures would—vie for her own survival, her own safekeeping.

"The Joker…"

The name scalded her tongue as she spoke; she found she had to bite back a hiss in reflex,

"He came, with Ramirez. He…he threatened her to hurt me, but…"

Her eyes flicked towards the corpse upon the ground, then back towards Bruce, who was eyeing her carefully from his position near Ramirez's form, as if taking in every word she said with careful scrutiny,

"…But Ramirez wouldn't listen to him. And so…he took one of my knives, a-and…"

She shut her eyes, a cold finger trailing across her spine as she relived the memories she desperately needed to push away. The feeling of skin breaking beneath her grip, the heavy knife sliding through flesh and muscle and blood as easily as tearing through thin paper, the scalding sanguine heat slick on her hands, still pumping from a frantic, screaming heart…

And it was over, and I enjoyed it and hated myself even more for enjoying it.

Was it true? Could she possibly have felt no true regret at taking this woman's life? As she bit her lip and felt Gordon's hand retract from her shoulder, she couldn't deny the rippling strength that penetrated her despite her physical weakness. The feeling of being powerful, of being able to strike back at those who had hurt her so deeply…could it really be so intoxicating, so wantonly satisfying?

"All right, we get the gist of it," Gordon spoke quietly to her, his gaze filled with endless pity as her eyes opened to meet his own, "We'll have to check the rest of your home as well for any evidence, any traces he might have left behind. Do you have anywhere else to stay, Rachel? Anywhere secure?"

Rachel opened her mouth to speak, contemplating on some low-key hotel, yet before the words could come out Batman was before them again, his rasping words more of a command than a suggestion,

"I know a place where she can stay. She'll be safe from the Joker and any of his lackeys."

Shit.

Rachel's eyes widened at Batman's suggestion; she knew, beneath the mask, that Bruce's gaze was fierce and determined. His fist was clenched at his side, as if unwilling to accept any inevitable protests from her—he would lock her away in his manor if he had to, hold her prisoner if it would enforce her safety.

Her skin crawled at the thought of being held captive with a murderer on the loose.

"Well, then," Gordon replied with a shrug of his shoulders, "Seems like it's settled. Unless Miss Dawes has any complaints against it?"

Rachel stared at Bruce for a long time before she could bring herself to speak. His gaze was unnerving, made even more so by the mask that hid the humanity from his face. She strained to see through that black cover, to somehow penetrate his shielded stare with her own stubborn defiance, yet she saw no way around the equal, if not more intense, adamancy of his frame.

She really would have no choice, unless her choice involved allowing Alfred to tie and restrain her to a pillar of Wayne manor or simply lock her behind the doors.

"No."

Rachel finally gave a heavy sigh of compliance as Batman's strong frame gripped at her arms, guiding her through the apartment complex. He ducked them into an alley nearby and almost immediately unmasked himself, causing her to frown in confusion,

"Bruce, besides the fact that I am stark-raving mad at you right this moment, why on earth would you just unmask yourself in the middle of the morn—"

"Batman doesn't usually prowl under cover very well when the sun is shining down on him and Gotham is filled with people, does he?"

Bruce interrupted her quickly, walking them through the short alley path and towards the street of a still-quiet neighborhood, where a sleek, black limousine sat in wait.

"Oh," Rachel retorted quickly, rolling her eyes despite the sudden burst of nausea that came with exerting herself from her physically taxing night, "And dragging a girl in a bloody nightgown while still in your bat suit and going to your manor in a stretch limo is much less conspicuous."

Bruce grinned almost earnestly at her words, his hard eyes glinting,

"Glad you agree."

As they shuffled into the car, Alfred greeting her in his usual jovial nature despite the undoubtedly gruesome sight of her battered and bloodied visage, Rachel drummed her fingers against the car window, her gaze searching blindly across the awakening streets of Gotham. Her mind ached from lack of sleep and doubtless physical and mental trauma, yet the sickly satisfaction still twisted its way between her ribs like a knife with feathered edges; penetrating, yet pleasurable in the most disgusting way possible. She wondered if Bruce could read her as easily as she felt; if he knew there was more to the night than she had admitted.

Well, she would know soon enough, wouldn't she? Being a prisoner undoubtedly led to some type of interrogation.

With a scowl at her drained reflection in the glossy limousine window, she caught sight of Bruce against its surface, his eyes closed; resting with his hand upon his torso where the deep gash began. Although she would have felt pity the other morning, it seemed as if it were all worn away from her, replaced with a bitterness that was difficult to shed.

Her nails nearly scratched the window's surface as determination settled in the pit of her stomach, deeper than any other thought that plagued her mind at that very moment. The Joker card she had found in her nightgown when awakening, minutes before the police arrived, still lay hidden against her breast. Upon its glossy surface were the sloppily scratched words forming a street address in downtown Gotham, one she knew to be some type of warehouse near the docks. The time: 5 o' clock sharp.

It was an invitation for her.

And, whether Bruce liked it or not, she was going to take it.

Even she had to defy the Batman to exact her own justice.