Author's Notes: Hello lovelies!!! I finally finished another chapter, I'm not giving up on you all :) This is almost the end of the story, it's drawing to a near-close...and I really appreciate the readers who have stuck through with this 'fic for such a long period of absence on my part. You guys all rock and I love all of you, to be completely honest. You're the reason I'm determined to finish this 'fic!
Anyways, I received requests for a recap on the events at the end of the fourteenth chapter because the fifteenth was confusing for some...at the end of the fourteenth, Rachel's encounter with the Joker left her in a panicked state of shock or hysteria. She was sedated and knocked out, and confined to a room in the psych ward, for two reasons: because she did not have a place to hide from the Joker as he threatened all of Gotham if they did not find her whereabouts, and so consequently the people of Gotham will think she is involved with the Joker somehow, and there are no options she can take publicly in hiding from him without being found. So it's for her safety that she be confined in the hospital...secondly, because she had the risk of posing a danger to herself and others through her hysterical little episode she threw and through the Joker's public want of her, either to kill her, or for some other reason the public is unwary and unsure of...she has lost all the trust of Gotham's public in her D.A. abilities because it is rumored she is in cahoots with the Joker somehow, and so she is feared and hated. It's a typical scapegoat or mass hysteria effect when a group of people are suffering through a crisis and they need someone to blame...
This chapter I didn't really expect to end in the way I did. But I guess it makes things more excited for the final two chapters...(yes, two!) I'm going to be really sad when I finish this, but I'll be continuing "Don't Fear the Reaper" after this.
Anyway, please read and review...and above all else, enjoy! :)
xoxo
Dark Humor
Sixteen
"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
Gordon was chain-smoking.
He had never felt such an urge in his life, but as he stared across at the television, his chest stung and his skin crawled. That wasn't where it ended, however. These past few days (days? Were they really only days?) of mayhem had been carefully calculated by the manipulative bastard, all building up to this climax of "sending a message to the citizens of Gotham"…that what?
That one of two ferries, one wielding citizens, the other prisoners, could have the level of sadistic insanity equivalent to the clown criminal and destroy the other to survive?
The restless twisting in the pit of his stomach told him he wasn't exactly optimistic about the outcome. The commissioner had seen many sights in his days; children's dead bodies lying precious feet from their mother's homes, families brutally massacred and mutilated, to doubt that there was any good within the world…let alone a single human being. Anxiously, he watched the policemen scramble to find any clues as to the Joker's whereabouts, clutching his cell phone in a rigid hand, smoke curling from the cigarette in his other.
He doubted the good of the few, as well as the collective whole, to willingly sacrifice themselves for others. The commissioner could already envision the explosions, like macabre fireworks of blood and gore, splattering the surviving ferry and countless feet across the shoreline of Gotham; inevitable, unstoppable.
But Batman could always fix these things better than Gotham's finest could.
And with that thought, he gazed upwards at the sky, not looking for a deity, or whatever lay beyond the stars, but for the hopeful fluttering of a cape and a bat-like shadow to renew his dwindling hope.
*
Rachel Dawes wasn't sure what to think when the sudden congestion in the streets plagued the roads like a vehicular stampede. Of course, she had just heard the news—who hadn't?—yet for some reason there was no flurry of panic in her heart; all she could do was lick dry, cracked lips, gaze nervously out from the stand-still taxi she was currently in at the masses of people frantically honking and screaming and banging on windshields in an animalistic frustration to get out. Gotham traffic had always had a reputation for being savage, with accidents on virtually every block, the middle finger flashing as frequently as stoplights and police cars packed with busy days of traffic tickets and accidents. But it had been nothing like this. The former was mere child's play; this was sheer, raw terror.
"What's going on?"
Her voice was deliberately a near-shout to overpower the frantic curses and screams from outside, penetrating the closed windows of the taxi, causing her head to throb. The driver, a middle-aged bespectacled white man, shook his head and watched the traffic jam ahead with wide milky eyes that seemed to tremble in their sockets.
"No idea what to do," He replied in a hoarse whisper, "Dunno if we're ever gonna get outta this jam for a couple'a hours, people tryin' to get past the bridges when they wired with TNT, crazy motherfucker trapping us all in this damn hellhole city…all of Gotham out here tonight, hopefully my kids still at home, and all because of some fuckin' clown! Damnit!"
Rachel watched his thick brows knot together through the rear-view mirror as he slammed a fist into the steering wheel, causing the horn to honk in a long, frustrated cry. It was a chorus of honking horns, of fists bashing, of children crying and men shouting at one another. Nearby was a plain black van, a toddler crying while trying to comfort the screaming newborn at his side all at once, their parents gazing off through their places in the front seat with mortified expressions. The sound of a gun burst through the air, intensifying the panic tenfold, as Rachel stared at the brawl unfolding before them. A gang of men were beating one another, their car doors left wide open, fists and brass knuckles and knives flying as they fought recklessly, blood spraying white t-shirts and splattering against cars pressed against their sweating backs and on tire-streaked pavement, and she saw the dent in one of their vehicles, saw the raw panic mixed with fear on their faces that they could only satiate with violence…
"Jesus Christ!" Her driver screamed, and she managed to duck before a body flew at her window.
A man, wide-eyed and obviously dead, was pressed against the car door momentarily, his blood-soaked cheek against the glass, before slipping off slowly, leaving a thick trail of red where he had fallen. She had seen the glint of a knife in his throat and with morbid curiosity she found herself leaning against the red-splattered window, looking downwards for a closer look at his fallen body…
She licked her lips again, and went to open the door, if only to get a better look at the mangled face…
The cab driver's hand gripped her collar tightly and pulled her roughly backwards, causing her to cry in surprise,
"What are ya, crazy?! What do you think yer doin' tryin' to get outta the cab with all this shit goin' on?! Yer gon' get yourself killed, and I'm not about to have a payin customer lose her life in all this shit before we get—"
The color drained from his face. Rachel saw herself in the reflection of his glasses, her gaze vicious, hand trembling against the pistol she held up before him. His eyes trembled again; she noticed a vein pulsed purple against his head when he was nervous, and the look he was giving her was almost…comical. Something raw and primal filled her with adrenaline; whether it was the chaos outside, the way the taxi still shook from the frantic police cars driving hurriedly to struggle to stop the chaos, the recent surge of violence, or the man's fearful gaze before her as she held her gun up to his face, she wasn't sure. But for once in a very long time she felt in control, and she was going to make sure she wasn't about to lose that feeling anytime soon.
"Listen," She said carefully, keeping her tone level and choosing the most delicate words she could muster, "I need to get somewhere, and I need to get there…fast. That clown you were talking about? I'm planning on shooting him with this very same pistol that I have aimed at you, right¸now."
Although the cab driver's face was still white and rigid, a snort of disbelief came from within his throat. At this she immediately cocked the pistol and at the sudden sound the man whimpered and shook his hands,
"I…I got kids, I got kids in all this mess, so please—"
"I'm not going to hurt you, if you cooperate with me," She replied soothingly, though her finger felt hot and prickly against the trigger, "I just need to get a way out of this jam. Do whatever you can to get me as fast as you can to the coordinates I give you. Then you can go along your way, and I'll even pay the fare. Do we have a deal?"
It was as if she expected him to falter, to fight back somehow. Her fingers trembled even more when she waited for his response, and she felt that he could see right through her, could see how inept she was with her weapon, would punch her and try to subdue her…
But he nodded, slowly, shaking so severely his glasses began to fall against the bridge of his nose. A grin of relief appeared carnal in the reflection of his spectacles as she pushed it back up towards his eyes and nodded her head, gun pressed to his temple.
"Drive."
*
False coordinates.
Batman snarled and slammed his fist into the motorcycle as he sped through the streets, cutting across sidewalks and weaving through screaming pedestrians toward an unknown destination. Static whizzed through his helmet, the phone lines flooded with frantic conversations, whimpering "I love you's" and inaudible, muffled crying. The crescendo of voices was almost overwhelming; his vision blurred and his head throbbed with the pain, with the overwhelming guilt. He could have stopped this frenzy of panic days ago, could have broken his rule and killed the goddamned face-painted bastard.
No. Calm down. So close…you're so close. You can't let him get the best of you; stay focused.
Teeth gnashed against one another and his bike whirled through side alleys and streets backed up with traffic, the motorcycle whining as he pushed a button and a spray of flames burst from the back. Instantly he was propelled into the air, the vehicle jumping across swarms of congested cars and people running through the traffic in an attempt to somehow escape, his cape fluttering in the air as if he were actually flying for some surreal moment.
Surreal? Gotham is surreal. This whole situation is surreal.
"And I refuse to let it go on any longer," He hissed beneath his mask, and as if on queue, the static in his head seemed to focus on a shrill, high-pitched cackle.
"Heeelllll-ooooo, Batsy-boy! I trust you can hear me cuh-lear-ly with what-ever little con-trap-tion you've got in that freak suit of yours!"
A series of giggles ensued, to which Batman snarled and jammed the brake on his bike in response. He couldn't drive with the intense rage boiling beneath his skin; every fabric of his being seemed to prickle and churn, and as he leaned against an alley he held his phone to his lips, ready to call Gordon.
"Joker," He hissed in return, "what the hell have you done? WHERE ARE YOU?!"
His voice was a shout that elicited a mocking yelp from the Joker,
"Owwwww! Not so easy on the ears, are ya, Batsy?! Any-way, I figured I'd in-vite you to my little pre-fireworks bash I'm having at my liiiii-ttle spot near the ri-ver! Ya see it's only V.I.P, and you're my guest of honor, having failed all of Goth-am!"
There was no laughter in his voice then; sounding serious, he lowered his tone to a sadistic whisper,
"…How does that make-uh you feel? Knowing you're killing your loved ones…your little Ra-"
"Shut up and tell me what you want, Joker," Batman growled in response, his nerves teetering on the edge of collapse, "Tell me why you're doing this."
"Why?! WHY?!" The Joker burst into hysterical laughter, a hyena with undertones of something more sadistic, more carnal and wicked.
Batman was grabbing at his helmet, his teeth grit, before the Joker's laughter suddenly subsided, "Oh, you knowww why I'm doing this, Batsy…because it's fun! Who said Gotham couldn't use a few fiireee-works to cel-ebrate the joyous occasion of its death?! Don't be quick to judge the po-ten-tial of its grand citizens, Batsy boy…you've misjudged a few pre-cious people in your life, after all."
His voice took on a smug tone; Batman flinched, his eyes wincing beneath the suddenly overwhelming heaviness of his mask.
Rachel.
"I'm not playing your games, Joker," he snarled, ignoring the air of amusement he could feel the Joker's very presence emanating on the other line, "Tell me where you are!"
"Oh you'll play my game-uh, Batsy. You'll play it alright. If you want any of the people on those ferries to survive, and if you don't want Miss Dawes' cold little body in your hands, drained of all its…buh-lood,"
he could feel the smile creep onto the Joker's face, could visualize the licking of his lips, the excited leer,
"but actually, you know, cold and lifeless would suit her! I mean, the way she's been act-ing lately, first it's the mind, then it's the body, all chopped up into tinnyyyy little pieces!—"
"TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE!"
A spray of spittle from his lips, his fist colliding with the brick wall nearby, a shower of debris and rubble falling to the ground in the wake of his rage. The Joker let out a satisfied chuckle, before purring like a satiated cat,
"That's a good little bat-tuh…I'm not faking ad-dress-es anymore…come catch me if you caaannnn….!"
The line went dead, and immediately the coordinates were recorded; he dialed Gordon's number while speeding blindly through the streets of Gotham, too angered to question the bloodthirstiness that enveloped his mind.
*
The taxi came to a jolting halt. Five near accidents down three streets, at 70 miles per hour, there hadn't been a police car in sight as so many were preoccupied with calming down the frantic citizens. The bumper was damaged and there was a dent near the end of the taxi, yet it was stable enough to last the night. Considering the conditions they were all under, a little damage seemed justifiable enough in Rachel's mind.
"We're finally here," the cab driver rasped, his fingers shaking on the steering wheel, knuckles as ghastly white as his wrinkled face, "now please…"
Before he could finish, Rachel pushed the door open with a sudden frantic fervor, throwing a crisp 50 dollar bill at the now empty seat. Immediately the cab sped off without the door shutting, and a dark urge to giggle at the frenzied sight nipped at the edges of her mind. She tucked the gun into her coat pocket and traversed the suddenly too-long steps up towards the bleak building in which she knew the Joker to be waiting in.
Something escaped Rachel then; some semblance of…sanity? Her jaw tightened, her throat scratched with the urge to scream, or laugh, or cry, or a mixture of all these things at once, her fingers itched to curl into fists, to tear apart, to gouge…
Standing on the steps alone, she began to tremble uncontrollably. Rachel could feel the color sink from her face, returning in an overwhelming current of red heat that pulsed blood beneath her cheeks. Adrenaline, hot and fluid, frothed and boiled within her—the familiar feeling only he seemed to arouse, the licking of her lips, the tingle of her canines. The gun seemed to throb against her hip, and her eyes burned.
Finally…
Without another moment's hesitation, the D.A. stepped inside the building.
The first floor was barren, completely empty save for caked dust and a deafening silence that permeated every inch of the site. The entire building was still under construction, cold open air permeating through the lack of walls, with faulty flooring that creaked beneath her feet, the occasional rafter hanging lopsided in the air. Twice she quickened her step at the sound of skittering mice, and nearly jumped into the elevator. She pressed the button for the highest floor, assuming the Joker would logically favor such a high perch—where else would be most fitting to watch his little "fireworks show?"—and her adrenaline peaked to a new high, enough to dizzy her.
I can end this all…it will all finally stop.
She felt weightless in the elevator, even as it shook and rattled ominously through each floor, her legs like liquid. Momentarily shutting her eyes, she savored the pitch blackness. Soon her life would reflect that blackness, a monotonous peace she could know and enjoy, whether living or dead—she no longer cared. All she wanted was an end, and she would have one tonight.
A beep brought her back to reality.
The elevator began to open, almost painstakingly slowly, creaking slightly as the doors shifted apart. Her feet pressed roughly into the ground and she grabbed at the outline of her pistol in her coat, as if for comfort. Licking her lips, a strange hunger arose in her chest; not the pangs for food, but for something entirely different.
Blood.
It was what her mind was telling her; something that Rachel would have scoffed at before, in all her naïve little logic. But blood was what she wanted. She was no more than a vampire at that moment; undead, needing, wanting, vicious. She would kill, as she was meant to, as she must. And without bloodshed, she would have no peace; she would die if she wouldn't get her fill.
The elevator door opened completely, and Rachel took a deep breath before stepping out of it and surveying her surroundings.
What she saw elicited a gasp and stiffening of her limbs.
Men—gagged and bound all around her. Their wrists were in layers of duct tape, their mouths sealed shut, yet their eyes seemed to betray no fear. That was the most striking thing of all; they gazed steadily forward, without seeming to register their surroundings or the fact that they were being held captive. Rachel took a step back, nearly walking backwards into the elevator shaft. It took her a moment before she realized each little group of men, bound against pillars, was being held at gunpoint by…clowns?
No, they weren't clowns. Not the Joker's clowns, at least.
Their wrists mirrored those of the men against the pillars; wound tightly by duct tape, their mouths as well. Yet clown masks shielded their faces, and for an instant she could make out the face of a young girl behind a mustached clown mask, her eyes wide in terror, whimpering beneath the tape against her mouth. Guns were plastered to the duct tape against their wrists, and if she were standing any further away she could have sworn they were holding them.
It's a trick, her mind immediately hissed; he's planning to trick them. Planning to trick Batman and the entire police force. And all these people will be…
"Oh my dearest Miss Dawes, is that you I hear, whimpering like a liiiiii-ttle pup-py?!"
Rachel jolted from her thoughts, a cold sweat trickling along her spine. Strangely the reaction seemed instinctive, as she felt no lingering panic. Numbness swelled within her mind, keeping her relaxed as she craned her head upwards to regard the set of stairs and the highest floor the elevator wasn't built to reach.
Of course.
For a moment she envisioned herself pulling the trigger at the first sight of the milky white head that would pop out of nowhere to greet her, the bullet settling right between his eyes, an explosion of brilliant red blood and chunks of brain splattering all over her, cold and slimy and beautiful. Yet she merely shook her head and positioned herself nearby the stairs, hesitating before speaking,
"I'm here to finally end this, Joker."
His name was like a curse in her mouth; the gun was hot in her pocket. A surprisingly low, controlled chuckle from above followed her words. The sudden barking of dogs, booming through the wide expanse caused her to jump upwards, and the chuckle intensified to a series of whooping cackles as the barks subsided into growls.
"As you can hear, my dear-est Rachel…I brought a few, ah, guests for our little date-tuh tonight. But not to worry; they're not for youuuu! They're for our special guest. A certain...rooo-dent with wings!"
Her fingers ached to grab at her weapon, yet she kept herself still as she registered the Joker's words. She knew he wouldn't go so far as to kill Batman, yet he seemed to want to come as close as possible. And if his plan was so carefully construed as to distract both him and the police from saving the two ferries, what else was he driven to use…?
"Joker," she suddenly said in a low, irritated hiss, "Does he know I'm here?!"
Finally, finally, the sight of the Joker's white head popped from the top of the staircase, scarred lips twisting into a sadistically amused smile,
"Oh now my dear-est little Rachel," he practically purred, several leashes strung tightly in a gloved hand, the other swaying back and forth as if in a comforting gesture, "why would I…ru-in such a perrr-fect surprise?"
He cocked his head, eyeing her as if he were utterly confused at her questioning. Shrugging his shoulders to dismiss what she had said, he continued, his smile seeming to tighten and broaden all at once,
"Butyou knowww…it does help get him here a tad…fast-er, considering he feels oh-so guilty for letting you fall into my hands, though I'm sure you enjoy e-ve-ry minute of it!"
His tongue snaked over reddened lips, and Rachel felt her body shudder in a mixture of anger and…something else. She had no time to notice the strange feeling in her insides as her fists tightened and her teeth gnashed,
"He can't do it first. He can't…I won't let him!"
An excited cackle slithered from between the Joker's crooked mouth, and he momentarily let go of the leashes against his glove to hop gracefully down from the metal stairs to the floor on which Rachel stood. He landed inches away from her, causing her to jump backwards, a cloud of dust shooting upwards in the air while the purple-suited psychopath brushed the debris coolly from his coat,
"Weeelll, then!"
His high-pitched words were accentuated by the raising of his gloved hands, chalk-white brows rising above lined eyes in mock flattery,
"Miss Daweezz…I didn't know we were so in-ti-mate that you would want to…hurt…me so,"
His knife wasn't out, but she could still feel the biting edge in his voice; the threat that lingered, solid and fatal, in his every word. He was circling her before she knew it, his breath hot and revolting against her ear, a dirt-smudged gloved hand reaching to stroke at her hair. Recoiling slightly, Rachel found her legs refused to cooperate—why?—and instead she fumbled about slightly on solid feet. The Joker chuckled at her reaction and traced a finger along the back of her neck; she could feel his sharp fingernails even through the fabric of his glove.
"How many times has it been since I could have…killed you? Time and time a-gain, we keep having these little…ren-de-vouz without daddy Bat-sy's permission, and time and time a-gain, you always manage to—"
With lightning speed he jumped in front of her, thrusting his gloved hands before her face. Rachel yelped in response and fell to the floor, struggling to pull herself backwards across the dusty ground and keep level with the Joker's mirth-filled stare,
"POOF! Dis-a-ppear! Now that's bad manners, my pretty little Raaaa-chel, es-pec-ially when we're on one of our many…dates. And I may have to teach you a les-son or two in discipline. Mainly…"
A sharp glint of light in the dim room, and his knife was out, reflecting the oddly empty look in her eyes as she watched. Fear did not gnaw at her, nor trepidation, but rather excitement—sharp and hot in her bones, her breath quickening at the sight. The Joker licked his scarred lips in primal thirst, a trigger of the wielding of his knife, the power he held,
"…making sure you don't…leave this time. At least…not-tuh in one…piece."
He advanced towards her, while she pulled her body backwards, sliding her hands across the ground to distance herself as far away as she possibly could. Yet her legs stopped mid-way, her hands refused to move any further, and she merely gazed up at him, the curious emptiness building within her reflected in her monotone voice.
"I'm not going anywhere, Joker…and I'm not the one to be in multiple pieces."
For a moment the clown actually paused to gaze at her, his head tilted to the side,
"I don't think you…understand just how…hope-less your situation is, my li-ttle Raaaa-chel."
He was coming closer; his knife glinting in the dim light, yet Rachel could only glare at him, the whiteness of his skin a paper cut out in sharp contrast to the blackness around them, the blackness in his stare. His lips twisted as if ready to chuckle as he flicked his knife towards her in a sharp, rigid motion; yet Rachel didn't even flinch. She lay there like a stone, her breath hot in the frigid air, mirrored by the madman's excited inhales above her. The Joker's brows furrowed, the white lines in his forehead creasing. Rachel felt a giggle tickle at her throat at the rare sight.
The Joker was unnerved.
"You can't scare me."
Rachel's voice was a mere whisper, yet it mirrored itself in the digging of her nails in the ground beneath her body, the rigidness of her frame, the heaviness of the gun in her pocket, ready to be used at her discretion. For a moment the clown prince of crime seemed frozen; the red-painted mouth was curled into a sneer, the eyes still boring into her, as if struggling to take her soul apart, to pick at the fear he so wanted to see nestled beneath her layers of artificial courage.
"Oh?"
His voice was a high-pitched, mocking sneer. Before Rachel could register what was happening, she felt a sharp stab of pain in her side, thin metal tearing through the thick fabric of her coat and into bare skin. A sudden cry from her lips as the Joker's bladed shoe dug its way into her side, the metal piercing at her nerves, slicing into flesh and pulling out almost immediately, the flow of dark blood against the ground immense and vast like a miniature river. Rachel struggled to curl into a ball, her face twisted momentarily in a mere reaction to the pain, yet her face still savage and determined as ever.
''Do I scare you now, my little Raaa-chel?! Does it scare you to know you can buh-leed, without the Bat always sweeping you away to safe-ty?!"
The D.A. was still rigid on the floor, her lips pressed tightly, her nerves screaming at her to use the gun, use the goddamned gun—yet her body felt like ice, protesting against her mind, and all she could do was lie still, still and docile and unyielding.
The sight of the blood against the ground, her blood, curiously thick and dark—almost black in the dimness surrounding them—shot adrenaline through her body. She pressed a hand against the torn fabric of her coat and sweater, fingers plastered against the sticky wound at her side. Rachel found herself running a finger across the wetness two, three times, morbidly fascinated by the red and black smears on her fingertips, that never seemed to stop flowing, endlessly…
Her train of thought was interrupted by another swift kick to her shoulder. With another cry, she practically flew against the ground, gripping onto the sticky wetness that slipped down her shoulder blade, pooled into the fabric of her coat and stuck in thick droplets against the dust-caked ground. She was rolling back and forth, heat and cold blood pulsing through her body, her head throbbing, her vision doubling as the white head became two heads looming above her, the smile mirrored on either side of her…she had two wounds, four wounds, six wounds, and no matter how much she pressed her hand against them, no matter how much she smothered them, they would always come back, tearing open, the blood flooding out…and it was bound to happen again and again.
The pistol was lead in her pocket, and her fingers twitched as if to reach for it; yet her mind was numb, screaming no no no, you think that would actually help? It would just be knocked from your hands, you wouldn't be able to fire it, like every other time you've tried, it's pointless, you can't even move—
The next blow to her hip sent her rolling across the cold ground, red and black streaks of liquid spraying in thick trails against the floor. Her raw wounded skin stuck against the cold metal, the pain becoming a warm fuzz throughout her entire body. Rachel couldn't make sense of the strange feeling that filled her; something euphoric, something dizzying—blood loss, adrenaline, ecstasy.
The sound of a low growl echoed above her, something dark and feral entity about to rip into her. He was worse than the dogs, worse than the human killers she had worked to prosecute; he was a beast, a monster, and he was going to tear her apart, limb from limb, because she wasn't capable of showing any fear. Because she was motionless, because she was still as stone, she would die like a rodent, squashed by Satan himself.
"Who's going to help you now, now that Batsy's laaaa-te?! He let you down once, he's doing it a-gain. Even the rat with wings thinks you're just a piece of trash now, just a craaa-zy little girl who deserves to be killed!"
She was disposable.
A soft whimper left her lips as she realized it.
She was lying wounded beneath the Joker's steely gaze, from mere seconds of being beaten with his weaponry, feeble and weak and pathetic. Batman wasn't going to save her this time, and then what could she possibly do?
All her struggling against the Joker, all her determination to destroy him first, her growing hatred for the man who had ruined her life, had destroyed Harvey, destroyed Bruce, destroyed herself…
All the running.
From everything; all her life…running, hiding, always so scared, always so powerless. She could have the pistol in her jacket, she could be in an army tank, she could be surrounded by superheroes and Batman holding her tightly to his side…but she would still be weak. Still so vulnerable, so easily broken, so easily dead…
A giggle from her lips; soft and slow, like a stuttering breath. The Joker was hovering above her, his tall, slouched body casting a shadow over her pale, blood-soaked frame. For a moment she fell completely silent; and then, when the numbing quiet continued all about her, when she heard no response at all from the man who was so close to finally ending it, to finally ending all of it, her giggle became a throaty chuckle, so deep and grievous her chest ached with dull pain. She rolled over, half of her face caked with the fresh blood beneath her, her eyes staring upwards through the blank white face above and up, up through the rafters, up through the sky, into the oblivion that they would all succumb to in the end, bleeding and broken and humiliated after endless years of running running running with nowhere to end up but where they were always running from.
It was all a joke, and this was the ultimate punch line.
Her life was worthless.
And as she realized it, her chuckle became a series of roaring, hysterical laughter, the twitching movement of her body causing the freshly torn wounds to reopen, blood splattering and falling around her like a black halo.
The pale face focused and refocused before her, a series of blurry colors of red and white and black, and she couldn't make out his expression even if she tried. It was as if she were on a drug, the high induced from the pulsing in her body, the curious pain and the ultimate revelation of how meaningless it all really was. Her chest heaved with the laughter that never seemed to end, tears trickling down her blood-stained face, entire body aching with the exertion of her hysterical amusement. If she kept this up, lying here and laughing, she would die—but why did it matter, what did anything ever matter?
After what were hours, minutes—seconds?—she was lifted into the air, the feeling dizzying and nearly knocking her into unconsciousness, her body wet and ragged from blood, sweat, and tears of the laughter that still wheezed from her cracked, dry lips. Her killer's pale face leered at her, a kaleidoscope of colors, and she felt herself dropped rather roughly onto the ground some distance away from where she was, though she couldn't think of exactly where. The smell of blood and asphalt and onions filled her nostrils, fingers caked with grime, the sound of her own laughter drowning out anything else around her.
She wondered, for a brief sane moment, if this is what Harvey had seen in her when he was alive. What he had been trying to keep at bay; what he had restrained whenever they made love, whenever she was frustrated over a lost case, whenever they came upon a crime scene, a gruesome sight, a battered body…
She wasn't afraid when the darkness began to overwhelm her, to seep into her from the outside, to invade her eyelids and the open wounds on her body. It felt comfortable, like a friend she had denied all these years; a forgotten part of her. And as her laughter suddenly dwindled, something within her seemed to stir, and for once, as her mind pulled her under, she felt at peace.
