Author's Notes:

Holy.

Snap.

This 'fic was last updated in February.

Well, in MY defense, this has been an extremely crazy year for me. But I am still ashamed and owe you all a HUGE apology. I mean to continue this fic 'til the end, and it's ALMOST the end, and I am going to see this through with the best quality (and timing!) possible. I can't believe how long it took me to finally have the time to update this, but here it is…the fifteenth chapter. Things are winding to the final climax, and I couldn't be happier. Actually, I'll be MUCH happier if I can get the next few chapters out with the best quality possible and am able to satisfy everyone in a good amount of time…I'm giving myself a deadline of a chapter a week, hopefully even more brief.

There's about two chapters left, actually. Sad.

But yes. I love you all, and thank you all SO much for reviewing, and reading, and liking this story. And I can't wait to finish it up until the epilogue for all your satisfaction & my own. This chapter's a little shaky, but I'm trying to get back into the groove of my writing style for this 'fic, so bear with me.

Love,

xxnadsxx


Dark Humor

Fifteen

"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 moon over Gotham was a scythe, sharpened for bloodletting. The stars were above him, their light never daring to illuminate his blackened frame. He'd always thought he didn't deserve that sort of light, anyway.

Maybe it was seasoned training that told him something abominable was going to happen. Or maybe it was just paranoia. Either way, he had been doing this for far too long, and had his mangled sanity to show for it.

And really, the most amusing part of it all is when the lines blur between the villain and the vigilante…when you don't know what you're fighting, who you're fighting, why you're fighting. It is the most horrific, most horrible feeling in the world, and when it takes you it shakes you and never stops bleeding you.

He laughs, beneath his mask—the muffled noise is lost in the impenetrable darkness surrounding him. Eyes filter through pinpricks of holes, scanning the horizon back and forth, to and fro; a relentless dance. Fingers tap the side of the heavy helmet upon his head, confining his all-too-human skull, gauging the suddenly deafening sounds of static crackling in his ears. He taps his right ear sharply with his gloved hand, then with more force, cursing inwardly as the static rises to a crescendo of sharp screams—then altogether stills, quiets, falls to a comfortable hum. He is oriented again, and poised to strike, taking in the muffled speech of hundreds, thousands; people whispering and laughing and crying on their phones even at this late hour.

The job was despicable. It made you all the more paranoid of the citizens of Gotham—which ones carried bad intentions in seemingly innocent voices, which ones held double meanings to carefully muffled words.

No matter what you did to try and protect something, to try and save something, it always ended up destroyed later.

Such was the law of nature.

Something even he was powerless to stop.

Powerless.

Rachel.

The name seared through his mind like a flame, burning his thoughts with pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and tapped at the mask again, a second, a third time, almost willing wishing wanting to hear her soft, delicate voice gracing the phone lines, pleasant and intact and unharmed.

He feared if he heard her, he wouldn't be able to even recognize her. How long had it been since he had spoken to Rachel Dawes, his childhood friend, the object of his affections, and how long had it been since he'd spoken to her without the hysteria? The little girl with pigtails swinging to and fro like a bird, the young woman with her hair in a bun, confined in her suit…

Her face was a glazed mess in his mind; the eyes strained and haunted; the mouth thin and gaunt with tension. She was a corpse without death, and he had allowed her to decay.

But she's still in there, somewhere…Rachel. My Rachel. All I have to do, is put the clown behind bars permanently.

As if a premonition of what was yet to come, a searing cackle filled his mind, static and crackling and making his ears ache. Bent forward on his knees, fingers digging into his mask, his jaw tightened and blood pulsed through his head. The high-pitched voice began to speak and, in a blur, he was flying through the air, the thick billowing currents catching his cape aflutter, the world pumping and throbbing with adrenaline as he rushed to find the man who had destroyed everything in a matter of days.

He wasn't going to break his one rule, but he was going to get as damned close to it as possible.

*

Rachel Dawes was somewhere strange; somewhere she had never been before.

Her breath was heavy, rampant; her head ached and throbbed yet seemed to float in mid-air, her brain a suspension of heavy, muddled thoughts. Light flickered before her—whether in her mind, or in the room, she hadn't the faintest idea—and the room itself seemed to spin. Something pricked at her skin, sharp, fluids racing through her body yet seeming to slow and then quicken with her heartbeat.

Then, icy coldness clamped around her leg. She tried to shift in protest, yet her body refused, lying inert and unresponsive outside of her mind. She was too fatigued to even panic, yet her heart still quickened curiously in her chest…as if anticipating…as if knowing…

"Peek-a-boo, I foouunndddd youuuu!"

A smile in the darkness; red and twisted and vulgar, leering scars peeking at her from above. She recognized him at once—who couldn't tell that white face apart from any other being in Gotham, let alone existence?—and merely registered his presence with a blank stare. He seemed to float closer, slow and prowling.

He gripped her jaw with the force of an iron clamp, grimy thumb and yellowing fingers pressed against the soft flesh of her chin. She could smell the garlic decay as it blurred into focus between slightly misaligned teeth, the laughing irises watching her writhe in amusement.

"Did you rea-lly think you could get rid of…me? I don't for-get my petssss, Ra-chel. I'm not like the Bat-man, or Harrrvey. It's about-tuh time you realized that."

Her breath hitched, but her body failed to respond as much as she willed it to continue thrashing; her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth, as much as logic pressed her on to scream. It wasn't just the physical inability—it was that, deep down, a part of her didn't wish to scream, a part of her didn't wish this moment to end. Leering smiles curled into taunting sneers as a gloved hand reached over for her purse, found a silver tube hanging lopsided from the hastily-zipped front. He straddled her as he forced the top of the tube loose, and, cocking a head like a curious dog, sniffed the lump of red lipstick exposed to him.

"Why Miss Dawwezzz," He drawled, smile curling until his face appeared a slit gash from ear-to-ear, "If ya wanted to buh-leed all this time, ya could have just call-ed me!"

With a high-pitched cackle, he pressed the tip of the lipstick to the hollow of her cheek. Rachel flinched, then, not from the adrenaline crawling in the pit of her belly, but from the coldness of the lipstick against her cheek, the feeling of the almost-rough tip as it glided against her skin, almost curiously painful with the force of his grip. Press down enough and the whole tube would be wasted, a blotch of red on her former face, press down hard enough and she could swear it would somehow sink through her skin, into tissue and muscle and blood and even through her teeth, until a gaping hole lay, colored neatly red at the borders of a bloody orifice. Like grade school scribbles. The thought nearly made her giggle; she would have, if the lipstick wasn't in the goddamned way of her cheek muscles.

"You seeee," The Joker continued with a near-hiss, bringing mop of tangled hair and slanted eyes so close her breath caused a few strands to fly, "this…ah…lip-stick…is really just…well…processed whale buh-lood!" His voice cracked at the word "blood," and he shoved the lipstick with painfully rough force across her upper lip, so hard she was sure it would bruise within minutes. A gasp from her lips was the only indication of her pain, as his chuckling subsided and he eyed her again, mouth quirked in a predatorial smirk,

"It's quite a-musing, really, dearest Ra-chel…how you wear a mask, in and outtt, re-flec-ting the, ah…true you. Always painting that face, the loveliest shade of buh-lood, with your whale blood…does Batsy know how much you love the buh-loodshed, darling Ra-chel?! Did Harrr-vey figure it out…? No, you hid it, until it came back to hurt you in the end, Miss Dawezz! And hurt you, it will…"

A flick. The lipstick was against her mouth, forgotten, for the shine of the blade in the Joker's hands. He traced it against the half of her face he had painted, with a longing ache in the flick of his wrist, the slight gape of his mouth, the licking of serpentine tongue against cracked, scarred lips. Back and forth the knifepoint traced that line, back and forth, the coolness almost soothing to her, and she felt as if she were in a trance, something pulling her beneath the sway of his knife, something beyond human emptiness.

"I could just tear away at this little mask of yours…tear it all a-part…and what would be left, but the lit-tle monsterrr inside you, that little Batsy boy and Gor-don failed to see?"

Her breath heightened until she was sure she would suffocate, the knife gently digging into the hollow of her cheek, her own near-elated gasp as the feel of warm blood dribbled against her skin. He was about to pull his hand away but her fingers locked around his wrist—eyes wide, the Joker's lips twist into scarred confusion as she dragged the knife point back towards her cheek, her eyes half-opened, her breath hot,

"Cut me."

He hesitates; she grabbed the knife from him and welcomed the oozing, dribbling blood, his laughter an ecstatic cry into the night.

*

Rachel's eyes fluttered, sweat soaking her forehead as she awoke from her…dream? Nightmare?

Light seared at her vision, hot white and scalding—she focused in a daze of distorted colors and shapes, like the blurring of a kaleidoscope lens. Her body was numb cotton against muted white sheets, and she was suddenly aware she was heavy all over, as if an anvil had been pressed against her body for years and the weight had just been relieved. A groan escaped her lips as she pulled herself up to a sitting position—then realized she could only go as far as a few inches from her pillow.

Her wrists ached. Her legs were dead limbs against an invisible weight. She strained her hands to find they would not respond; instead writhed like captive worms in steely restraints.

Restraints. She was tied up.

Tied up and belted down, in a hospital bed.

Hysteria filled her eyes with empty tears, bit at the back of her mind like savage vermin. All logic and reason seeped from her skull and replaced itself with a primal spout of giggling, bitten back by her forceful teeth against trembling pink lips. She looked around wildly at the beeping machines and whirring monitors, the slick dead cleanliness of her white-tiled room, felt her gorge rise. She was restrained in this room like a crazy person. Like a victim of a psych ward, like a convicted killer on death row, waiting to be injected and filled to the brim with drugs. The thought brought a snarl to her lips, caused her head to dart to and fro in near-panic.

She had to get out. She wasn't crazy, she wasn't being held here for any good reason. She could barely remember what had happened before blacking out, but she had merely panicked, and such a response wasn't enough to warrant…this treatment. Curling her lip and feeling her heart pump viciously within her throat, she fought the violent urge to rip herself free of the straps as the door quite suddenly swung open and a gentle voice rang through.

"Oh, Miss Dawes is awake! Hi there, dear, how are you feeling?"

Instantly, Rachel winced at the saccharine sweetness of the nurse's voice, a short plump woman with thick glasses and a sympathetic face. Her syllables were careful and slow, as if Rachel were suffering a mental illness. The nurse was walking towards her with a steady pace, and further straining of Rachel's eyes toward her gloved hands indicated she held a syringe on a tray, along with pills and a cup of water.

She turns her head away to fight back the onslaught of panicked tears. She was being held here, restrained like an animal, and if she fought back she would be drugged and subdued. The room felt like a cage threatening to close in and suffocate her.

"Why…why am I here?"

Her voice croaked, unusually slow and soft—possibly from the drugs in her system, poisoning her, weakening her. The nurse stopped before her and smiled again, though obviously forced,

"You're here under the Commissioner's orders, dear. It's simply a means to protect you from all the mayhem in Gotham, and you'll be out as soon as the criminals are caught. Don't worry,"

her smile widened, and she patted at Rachel's right hand, sending needles of dull pain through her tired muscles,

"we'll take good care of you."

Humming to herself, the nurse disregarded any response from Rachel as she placed the tray on the desk near her bed and began to put the pills, one by one, into a cupped palm. She fought the panic that ebbed through her system, throbbing and pulsing into her veins, and willed her mind to think.

"Please," she croaked, and the nurse suddenly stiffened, as if stunned to hear her speak any further, "I'm…in pain."

"Oh, well dear," She immediately retorts in that sugary tone, "I've got just the painkillers for you! And it will help you sleep a bit, as well; you'll wake up good as new."

Suddenly disregarding the pills, the nurse began to fill the syringe, yet Rachel noticed her hands trembled, her eyes tightening.

"No…these restraints," she licked her cracked lips and groaned slightly, "…they're too tight. They hurt so much. Please, I won't hurt anyone…please."

The nurse hesitated; she cast a suddenly wild-eyed stare at Rachel, making her stiffen in her bed. What did this woman think she was?

"I'm sorry," she said carefully, "I was warned about this. All of Gotham knows…they know you're sympathizing with…with…"

Her fist tightened against the syringe and she pulled it against her chest, nearing Rachel's suddenly struggling form. She couldn't let her prick her with it; who knew how long she would be out, how much she would be drugged? She craned her head away yet knew it was useless; the restraints bulged and tightened against her grip, digging into her skin with biting force.

"He killed my husband," The nurse whimpered above her, her hands trembling more forcefully than ever, "he killed him and left his…his entrails around the house, an organ in each room, and his heart—his heart was in our bed. And you'll become a monster, just like him, if I don't put you to rest right now!—"

The syringe sailed through the air and Rachel opened her mouth to scream—

A loud bang interrupted the noise from her lips, the body plummeting down on top of her chest. Blood, hot and sticky, seeped into her hospital gown and her white sheets, and she found herself staring into the haunted, lifeless eyes of the nurse, then at the giggling figure gazing down at her through the boring hole in her forehead.

Rachel gazed questioningly at the man, feeling a curious lack of fear replaced with intrigue at the doctor-coated figure which was obviously anything but. From her vantage point he was ungodly pale, paler than the chipping hospital walls, his eyes ringed with either fatigue or drug-use or a very heavy combination of the two. Black hair clung in greasy strands across his neck and face; she thought a straitjacket would have suited him better than the uniform he now masqueraded in.

Without hesitation, he shoved the nurse's dead body violently off of Rachel's frame. It landed with a hollow thud on the ground, and Rachel gasped at the sudden burst of air into her lungs. He fingered a knife before rapidly slashing at her restraints, then turned on his heel and craned a wiry head out the opened door for any sign of hospital personnel that had possibly heard the gunshot. Rachel pulled herself to a sitting position, rubbing at her aching limbs, and willed her swaying frame to stand on the cold floor. Barefoot, she winced and pushed herself away from the pool of fresh blood, thick and flowing across the cold ground. She wondered curiously why her bile did not rise, why she did not turn away in disgust from the corpse and its remains. Instead she merely peered at it as an inconvenience, as she didn't want to get anymore bloodstains on skin or clothing.

"Let's go," the man said in a near-hysterical hiss, his voice crackling slightly as he spoke, "gotta get out. Boss's orders."

Rubbing at her aching wrist, she rummaged through a bag in the corner of the room to sift with relief through her personal belongings and clothing. She pursed her lips before asking the obvious question,

"boss?"

A sneer, the man's eyes twitching in impatience. He practically leered at her before replying,

"wasting time. Boss wanted me to get you outta here. Now you can do what you want, but don't land yourself back in this shithole again. Only chance."

He let out a muffled giggle at something down the hall; the sound of scrambling feet and frantic voices. Rachel decided that was their cue to leave, and pulled her bag at her shoulder, following the obviously crazy man as it appeared to be her only chance to avoid being restrained again. He grabbed at her arm roughly to keep her steady and force her forward, yet as she walked, she found she nearly tripped on a cold, smooth object on the floor.

It was a tube, lying inches away from the blood still pooling across the room.

She licked her mouth. The strangest taste welcomed her; not the taste of iron that blood so closely resembled, but the taste of something artificial, something with a similar bitterness yet heavy and dead. The thickness clung to the tip of her tongue, and as she reached for her mouth, she felt the surface smear. Cakey redness flaked upon her fingertips, and upon further examination, it appeared to have recently dried on her skin.

It was her lipstick.

*

The phone was ringing.

Gordon sat in a hospital room, on a sturdy chair, his head in his upturned palms. His glasses hung askew from eyes clenched shut, face pink with restrained frustration. The constant blinding flash of cameras cast white spots behind his eyes, voices interrogating the nurses, mops that dunked into blood and water, blood and water…

And his goddamned cell phone wouldn't stop ringing.

Cursing, he gripped the damned thing hard enough in his hands his knuckles turned white. The number flashed unknown; but he had just spoken to Batman, who was supposedly on his way to stop this fucking mess. Who could it be now? Did he forget something, did he lose the Joker again, did he call to let him know he had checked up on his family in the meantime, his wife and son were nestled safely in their beds, free from the massacre, and he didn't have to worry about seeing their heads hung on his front door tomorrow, like some of his closest fucking friends on the force…

"Hello?"

He did the best to restrain his voice; it came through clear and stoic, almost corpse-like.

A thin veil of static answered him.

Brows knitted in frustration, he clenched his teeth and came close to slamming the phone into the floor with brute force. He would have if it weren't for the breathing suddenly filtering through the phone—soft, feminine, oddly familiar…

"Gordon."

"Rachel?"

He felt his eyes widen and his voice was a loud whisper; several policemen nearby turned their gazes curiously, and he held a hand to dismiss them.

"Don't look for me anymore."

The voice sounded nearly lifeless, devoid of emotions. He wondered if it was the hospital drugs or just her state of mind. He pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced about frantically, taking in a deep breath,

"Rachel, you're in shock. Where are—"

"I'm not coming back, Gordon. This is the end."

He froze and fought the panic growing in his chest, "What are you talking about?!"

Rachel didn't seem to hesitate, as if she were robotic,

"I'm going to kill him. And after that, you won't be able to find me. You can't, anyway, no matter how hard you try."

"But Rachel, Batman is coming! Let him do it, I don't understand why you insist—"

"Goodbye, Gordon."

He was greeted by a dead line.

Cursing, he slammed his phone into the ground and grabbed at his face in frustration. His team was surrounding him, watching him with questioning, near-perturbed gazes. All he had to do was shout the orders, and they'd be following Batman in a heartbeat.

He didn't know if it would be fast enough.