AN: Yay! Finally finished this! Honestly, I've been so busy with school, but I know you all understand…I was just able to get the time yesterday and today (meaning 3 a.m.) to finish writing up this short little chapter and post it up. So I was kind of in a rush, ugh. Yes, it is short, and for that I apologize…BUT I'm sure you'll all be happy to know that chapters 13, 14, and 15 will ALL be Rachel/Joker, and nothing but or at least mostly, not sure yet… This is including an ahem very "sexual" chapter, half of which I will have to post on and give you all the link to, since this site has its limits. But just as a warning; things are getting much, much darker from here on out. I cannot stress this enough. So if you think this 'fic is already twisted, um…well, just keep reading. Heh. I'm pleased with the way the story is going overall and I hope you all are, too. But yes, after this hell week of midterms, I should be posting the next few chapters WITHIN THE TWO WEEKS AFTER THIS WEEK, I PROMISE YOU. Or most of it within the month, because now the plot is in full-gear and I can finally do what I wanted with this story so I'm excited and ready to write more. Yay!
I love all of you guys who have read this story. I cannot stress that ENOUGH! I will review reply promptly whenever I have the time to, I promise! Love you all and enjoy.
Dark Humor
Twelve
"A trauma powerful enough to create an alternate personality leaves the victim in a world where normal rules of right and wrong no longer apply..."
-Batman Forever
The impact sent a jolt through her body as she was thrust against her seatbelt, her fingers digging into the wheel as the entire car jerked and shuddered forward, her eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second before she pounded her foot frantically against the gas. Rachel could barely think, could barely breathe as the police siren wailed throughout her ears, barely taking into account the destruction of the back of her vehicle or the red lights before her as she sailed forward. The honking of horns screamed through her body, flying shapes blurring before her as she flew past, yet every inch further was an inch away from the car that was frantically pursuing her. Adrenaline spiked her blood like liquor, impairing her judgment as she swayed and swerved across the cars before her, the almost abstract shapes crossing at the intersections going too slow, too slow, they're going to catch me, they're going to lock me up like a criminal—
More sirens at her side; fast as lightning, quicker even than the frantic, shallow breaths running through her body, than the tears that coursed across her corpse-white cheeks. Where had they come from? Was all of Gotham pursuing her now, as if she were some sort of freak, more menacing than the Joker himself? There were three cars, now; the car that had rammed her, trailing behind at breakneck speed, dangerously close to ramming into her bumper a second time—two at her side, their sirens screaming, speed-mangled voices crying out from either vehicle. She didn't care to hear what they had to say; their accusations, their lies.
Her breath caught in her throat as she focused through blurred vision towards the street before her. Somehow, she had turned into a long stretch of alley, and she was going at least 80 miles per hour towards nothing but a wall of dilapidated brick.
She was going to hit a dead end.
They were going to capture her.
The car behind her was gaining speed, enough that the force of impact would ram straight through her already battered vehicle.
Oh God, no. Oh God, no, please don't let it end like this.
If she kept going this fast, she would ram right into the wall within milliseconds. What would happen then, if her body smashed head-first into solid brick, mangled and battered beyond recognition? Panic shot through her mind, froze her heart into blank hysteria. Feet acted of their own accord as she slammed the breaks, the sirens closing in on her, the trio of pursuing cars led by her attacker. Her mind was empty, teeth biting through her lip to taste blood, eyes glazed forward as the car skidded, sputtered, screamed, the very front ramming into the wall with a crunch. The destruction would have been so close to encompassing her, as the entire front of the car was swallowed up by the brick, devouring the metal up towards the steering wheel as it flew from her hands with a jolt and she found herself lying within the confines of her seatbelt, bulging metal sharp and glinting against her body. Glass shattered and flew into closed eyes, cutting away at bare skin and her unprotected face. Stray pieces of battered metal gashed her leg, her still fingers, leaving raw, bloody prints on her skin; her head had hit the seat with a forceful thud, and she could feel the egg-like bump bloom against her scalp. Spots danced before her vision as she pulled her seatbelt roughly aside, turning an aching neck to peer at the car that should have slammed into her a fatal, final time.
The other two police cars had their doors flung opened. The aggressive car that had been chasing her seemed damaged beyond repair, its entire front battered with the strange sight of bullets that had somehow been inflicted in the short amount of time from her impact from the alley-to-wall. Smoke curled, gray and thick, from beneath the hood. Unknown officers were pointing their guns at a man of their own profession; the driver who had tried to kill her. He was doubled over, his face twisted with panic and a mixture of hatred as she pulled her suddenly dizzy frame completely from the wreckage, aware of the blood pooling from her split leg as the gash throbbed. She was vaguely aware of the cracked web that was once the windshield of the man's car—and the huge, black body that kneeled against it, glaring at the fallen officer with open hostility.
Batman.
It was only a matter of time before he would see her. She was cornered, after all, and he would turn his attention upon her as soon as he was finished with her attacker. Her lips pursed as she saw the man's face, recognized him from court cases—Rodriguez—no wonder he had attacked her, with his mother in the hospital that would be destroyed tonight if she lost track of the time.
The time.
Her life was being timed, and she was standing here in a daze, with Bruce about to whisk her away with each second's hesitation. People would die because of her reluctance. Because of Batman's goddamned moral absolution. Her gorge rose as she willed her shaken body forward. Heels ground against the asphalt, shaky legs working slowly across the ground, and—predictably—an officer's head rose from watching Batman and his companion force the attacker into one of their police cars. His eyes widened to saucers as he examined her bloodied frame, and his mouth hung open to form words. It was then that Rachel thrust herself forward, as fast her legs could carry her, willing all the strength possible into her left arm. Before the officer could shout an exclamation, she had struck her fist roughly against his jaw and kneed his groin, and he was on the ground, cursing and grabbing hold of himself as she broke into a blind run towards the station. Rachel barely had time to register the sound of a gun cocking, sight of the remaining policeman turning his gun on Batman's hulking shape. She heard the cape flutter as she ducked into a series of alleys, running as fast as her muscles willed, as fast as time could be merciful.
Apparently, mercy wasn't on her side.
Already the gunshots from the alley had come to a halt with a man's scream, and the whispers of a cape were coming nearer, closer. She had run blindly, already a good few blocks away, pushing past stray faces and wandering couples, gasping for breath as raw pain shot through her crippled, hobbling leg. She wasn't getting far, yet it would only take a few more minutes—fifteen, she just needed fifteen minutes, yet she knew he would find her so much faster, would overpower her—
No, I can't let that happen…I can't let him take me away! I can't let those people die!
It was the fierce, nearly sadistic determination that shot her through with renewed strength as she pumped the adrenaline in her limbs and willed herself forward. Blood grew hot and sticky against her wound, her nerves screaming with pain, gone mute by the frantic cries in her mind to run, run faster, as fast as you can manage, until you implode from the pain—
"Rachel! RACHEL!"
No.
Teeth grit; she was throwing herself across crosswalks without daring to glance over her shoulder, the blaring horns and angry screams as cars skidded and shuddered mere centimeters from her flying face, the wind whipping wildly in her hair, stinging her eyes with tears, her heart sinking as awe-filled shouts lit the clusters of people behind her like flames, coming nearer and nearer on a rampant, hungry trail. She turned into an alley, limping with her left leg and running with her right, splashing ankle-deep puddles and carelessly knocking over garbage cans, taking the shortcut from Avenue X to Bay Street. Her limbs were aching, her heart and head pounding, and she knew before she felt it that she was losing precious energy, that she would collapse sooner than arrive at her destination, sooner even than Batman would manage to find her.
But then, as she dug her nails into the brick wall and turned the corner towards the next alley, she realized her assumptions were dreadfully out of order.
"Rachel, stop! Let me help you!"
"No!"
The rasping voice bore down upon her even as she continued to hobble and limp forward through the deserted alley, panicked tears streaming down her face, sheer desperation edging her forward and forward until her heart swelled in her breast and she fought back breathless, sobbing coughs.
A flutter of a cape, and she was screaming and protesting as rough arms gripped her shoulders, trying to smother her. A hand clamped down upon her mouth and she was biting fingers, her teeth of no use against the armored glove, and she wondered for a lunatic second just how strong the teeth of rabid dogs were to penetrate the steel-like fabric, the iron grip. He was hoisting her up but no she couldn't let him, couldn't let him take her back, not when people were going to die so soon because of her, and she was kicking and screaming and scratching and for some miraculous instant her neatly manicured fingernails had caught into the patch of bare skin, torn at chin and lips until they were wet with blood, and he gave a strangled cry as another flying finger dug into an unprotected eye—
She was on the floor, writhing, pulling herself to her feet, and she was running and wild-eyed again, so close to the station now, only a good mile away. The gray building seemed so out of reach with Batman behind her, sweat rolling down her neck and freezing in her cold panic, and she only had a few seconds of running before he would be on top of her again, pulling her away with force this time, possibly even going as far as to knock her out.
And so it was with desperation that she continued to run, and when the police siren screamed across the corner her heart sank and alighted fiercely at the same time—she recognized the hardened face from before, from Harvey's funeral, recognized the gleam within the glazed eyes, and that was why she ran towards that car and why it stopped obligingly before her and opened its passenger doors. And quickly, quickly, without another word to him, she flung herself desperately into its confines, and the officer floored it as the Batman recovered to all but fling himself towards them; and yet they were now ten feet away at breakneck speed, disappearing like a pinprick of light against the pitch-black horizon.
oOo
"Good choice."
The only two words that came from his mouth; monotonous, almost robotic. She wondered if they were all like that, his men, hollow as vessels, defunct when off duty like discarded hand-puppets. A part of her didn't really want to know as they pulled into a stop before the door of the news station, settling against endless other cars with blaring sirens. At first she thought they would see her, be upon her within seconds, pulling her away from this place, away from the madman within—yet they were all like the man next to her, all of them hollow-eyed, masquerading beneath police hats and uniforms. Something within her clenched tightly as the locks clicked, the door opened against her hard fist, and she was out in the suddenly stale, dead air. No one could save her now, everyone so far out of reach—and here she was, in the very lair of the beast, waiting to be devoured whole.
For an instant, she envisioned herself turning on her heel and running in the opposite direction, panicked and sobbing and screaming for help until she was thrown into strong arms, frisked back away into Wayne Manor.
Then her mind snapped back into reality, and she began to ascend the station's steps.
Rachel wished she had remembered a prayer from her childhood, anything to whisper beneath her breath, anything to calm her frayed nerves as wobbling knees dug into step after step, as her fingers pressed against deathly cold glass and chills spread along her spine. The best she could do was retreat into the gaping emptiness inside of her for what she knew would only be inevitable—lying on a slab like a dead animal, mutilated beyond recognition. Maybe that would be the most peaceful way to go, how she envisioned it. Or maybe she wasn't going to go at all.
Maybe he just wanted to talk to her.
A burst of hysteria shot through her mind and threatened to erupt from her mouth; whether a laugh or a scream, she didn't know. Lips pursed as the door opened beneath her numbed fingers, and when she pulled herself through the threshold, her heart began to die into numbness. It would all end, soon. Soon she could finally rest; soon the bastard's games would be over, and she would be done with her role in his scheming.
And Harvey's death would have been for nothing—you would have never truly avenged him.
The voice within her mind was rabid and biting as she walked forward across the quiet ground, her heels making too much noise, alerting anything nearby of her presence.
But why make a quiet entrance when this entrance will most likely be your last? Why not be theatric, let the world know you before you cease to exist?
She would have sobbed at the thought if there were any tears remaining inside of her, if there was anything now but the sudden numbness that had possessed her and made everything within her a blank, empty slate. Rachel wasn't quite sure where to go, though she knew going anywhere within this building would be pointless. He would find her with ease, and he would do what he wished with her, as long as the innocents in the hospital were safe. Irony bubbled at the back of her throat at her predicament, bordering bleak amusement.
Once again I'm the martyr, the bait, the contender in the game…
She didn't see the pool of blood beneath her heel until she nearly slipped in it.
Regaining her balance with a cry, she covered her mouth with her hands and stared down at the former employees of the news station, greeting her with smiles. Once animated faces on her television set, in better, saner days, were grinning blankly up at her, their faces and throats slashed open into identical, leering grins, their eyes wide and staring like reddened dolls, chalk-white skin drowning in the blood which framed their almost meticulously laid-out bodies. They were stacked in a neat little row like dominoes, like artwork, the sickening stench of death and decay nearly making her retch. It was then that she saw the smeared blood, lining their torsos in an identical streak—it formed a line, an arrow made of blood drawn crudely upon their bodies, pointing westward against the carnage. Leading her towards the source of the massacre.
And these bodies were here all because of her. Just to make her a sign.
These people were dead because of her.
Just like Harvey.
The cry came from nowhere, bursting from her lips in a grating, desperate sob. White heels were stained red as she slid backward against the wall, biting back a long, piercing wail. She was being weighed down, her body pooling against the floor, knees soaking blood, face cradled in shaking hands, eyes staring listlessly through cracked fingers at the endless pool of red that smiled, sneered, leered up at her in cruel mockery.
Ten little corpses, lined up in a queue, rotting, rotting, all because of you.
In her mind, she could hear them laughing, each torn throat emitting a high-pitched, screaming cackle. Each one mocking, each one taunting. Beckoning. You'll be one of us soon. You'll be lying on the ground, smiling, all your pain taken away, and it's all your fault we're like this, it's all your fault…
As she gazed out at the display of corpses, pure terror and weakness overpowered her for the first time that night. And for the first time in her life, she was completely alone.
Rachel's head shook in her hands as she burst into panicked laughter.
