She's not scared anymore, not really. You can only get kidnapped and beaten by an insane homicidal clown-themed psychopath so many times before you kind of get used to it.
Michelle sits in her chair in the office of the factory (it looks like an abandoned chemical factory, from the equipment she's seen here), hands folded in her lap, body aching from the latest lesson in respect by the man now sitting on the (very nice) desk, offhandedly examining his gloves instead of telling her what he's called her here for. The office is littered with newspapers (he's fond of newspapers, she's found), and empty curled-up tubes of grease paint, and of course, a host of different length knives, all obsessively sharpened to perfection. She stares at him, blankly, for a couple more minutes before eventually getting fed up and snapping. "What is it, Joker?!" She asks him, tersely; it's been a few days since he dragged her here, and she's been staying in an old storage room (how familiar) for that time, waiting. And now, he's called her up here to...ignore her.
"Ta-da." He throws a newspaper at her (everybody has a thing for throwing newspapers at her), almost as if he had been waiting for her to snap at him the entire time. She glares a moment, before taking the newspaper and unfolding it, hunting for any relevant news. More chittering about the Joker escaping, about how they don't know how he did it, about...well, everybody freaking the fuck out. People are moving out of Gotham just because it's so easy for a madman that's blown up more than his fair share of innocent people (and cost the city millions from his damage toll) to escape a top-notch asylum. Well, it's probably not easy; they still have no idea how he got out, and Michelle now wants to ask him about it. She peeks over the top of the newspaper to look at him, and he's reading the back page of the newspaper, the one that she's holding; he can't really be reading the coupon page, can he? Michelle shrugs it off, and keeps hunting. After two run-throughs of the newspaper, she folds it up and waves it slightly, to emphasize her point.
"I don't see anything; what am I supposed to be looking for? There's nothing here!"
"Ex-actly."
Michelle stares at Joker for a moment, blankly, before unfolding the paper and hunting for anything at all about a former captive of the Joker being kidnapped from her apartment washed with blood. There's nothing about it.
"They want to forget about you. And you know why?" He stands, pulling the paper out of her hands; her fingers are so loosely holding it that it just slides out of them. "Because," He leans in her face, smiling. "They blame you."
Michelle stares blankly at him, for the moment ignoring (or possibly not even noticing) how close he's leaning in her face, or how insanely creepy it is. "Me? Blame me? For what?"
"Me...taking a vacation from Arkham." He straightens up, rolling up the newspaper tightly, and beginning to pace. "They're dogs, just like you are. And the moment a bigger...rabid dog showed up, they tore each other apart. They need a sacrifical goat, and they picked you; after all, Michelle King is a lost cause! She's on the Joker's hit list already; we can't do anything for her." He points at her now, and she just stares. "You're dead to them. They probably even want you dead, so they can get rid of you once and for all." He watches her put her face in her hands, and smiles a little wider at it.
"That's right. They don't want you anymore. Dog eat dog world, Michelle, and the dogs just ate you alive."
She's not crying, he can see that, but her hands are quaking. And suddenly, she looks up at him again, and her face is almost devoid of worry or care or anger or anything at all.
"Your hair isn't naturally green?" She asks, almost childishly curious, and it throws him off for a moment. Oh, that's right; his roots are showing (a breezy blond color, if he ever washed his hair) and he needs to dye it again. He's been meaning to do that ever since he got out of Arkham. He glances at the crown of her head and says what he's been meaning to for a little while, before he got carried away in trying to corrupt this woman.
"Yours isn't naturally black?"
Michelle blinks, running a hand through her hair. She's been meaning to do the exact same thing.
"I'm not Asian; of course it isn't. It's red." She pulls her hair in front of her face and fiddles with it, absentmindedly. She's not thinking about what he's said; she's regressing somewhat into an almost childish nature. It's a defense mechanism. He knows that what he's telling her is working. He takes hold of her by the upper arm and pulls her to her feet, guiding her towards the door as if they were old friends.
"Why don't you go lie down? You look kind of...pale."
"I do? Oh...sorry...I think I will...thanks..." She mumbles, distractedly, and when he opens the door, a masked thug (there aren't that many, at least not yet; he has to build his force back up from the foundations) grabs Michelle by the back of the neck and roughly jerks her in the direction of her room. She yelps in pain, before the thug does the same thing and lets her go, clutching a long gash heading from the back of his hand down to his elbow.
"Ah-ah-ah. At least pretend to be civilized." Joker admonishes, waving a knife like a baton, and he doesn't miss the way Michelle looks back at him thankfully, almost admiringly. It's so easy to destroy people, so easy to take a good person with strong morals, and find that little crack in the chitin armor they've constructed around themselves. So easy to jam a knife in that crack and keep twisting it until that armor spiders like breaking glass and falls to pieces at their feet. The thug cusses under his breath and then carefully (politely) guides Michelle down the hallway, towards her room. Joker doesn't miss how she turns around and looks at him over the thug's shoulder, before turning around and walking straight again, and it makes him want to laugh until his stomach bursts.