Another update. It has come to my attention that this story has become slightly more cerebral than originally intended. For that I apologize, although I'm only assuming that this may not be to everybody's liking. While this chapter has some fluff (mostly Joker related), I'll probably go back in and try to apply more to other chapters, though, when I have the time. I've always believed less is more, but even I have found myself wanting. So again, apologies for lack of fluff, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless.

. . .

CHAPTER 9: EVOLUTION AND EXERCISE

She's evolved.

Martha Aiken has slowly become less of a distraction, and more of an outright dilemma in the eyes of The Joker. A wonderful, irritating, stimulating, agitating dilemma almost comparable to the Batman.

He paces back and forth, footsteps echoing off the linoleum and somehow matching the rhythmic dripping of the faucets. He stops to eye his reflection in one of the broken bathroom mirrors, wishing he could go back into the office and sneak a peak at one of the dozens of newspaper clippings of the Batman. If he could only just see one of those blurry, black and white photographs – if he could only just read a headline or two about the so-called "Caped Crusader", as the papers have dubbed him, then he is sure this new dilemma would resolve it's self in no time flat. He needs the reminder, and he knows it. He would be back on track, knowing that there was somebody else out there like him – somebody else who felt they had to hide their face for whatever deranged reason, somebody else who felt they had to adopt a secondary persona in order to have a decent excuse for their utter lack of sanity. And besides, how could he pass up the opportunity to screw with someone so blatantly against the kind of chaos he was capable of producing?

He smiles at himself. It's no good.

If he could just go back into his office and reacquaint himself with the Batman, the entire point behind all of his actions since his escape from Arkham would come back to him, and some semblance of clarity regarding his true priorities would hopefully return. Of that, he is positive.

Turning swiftly he puts his hands over his face, overly dramatic with every movement, as though he's mimicking the theatrical attitude of a famed diva. It bothers him that he can feel himself slipping, and the lack of explanation behind his poor performance doesn't help either. He feels helpless, and he just wants a picture of the god damned Batman to throw some darts at, maybe draw a mustache on. Just to perk himself up.

He contemplates going to get one, storming down the hallway like a spoiled boy, mommy I want my toy now! But he can't. He refuses to set foot in there again.

In hind sight it was a silly idea to store all of the articles in one place, his office in the wine cellar, but he can do nothing about it. He knows that if he returns to the wine cellar he'll see Martha there, cowering like some kind of wounded animal and rubbing the bruise he'd given her at their climax several nights before, and he'll do it again. He'll do what he did during their little dinner date, and he isn't sure if he'll be able to stop himself a second time.

He stares at himself, pondering the problem in it's simplified version.

If somebody, anybody, is now out and about looking for dear, sweet little Martha he has a limited amount of time left to house her. Eventually, he will have to let her go. He has received a wealth of useful information from her, more than he could possibly need, and therefore has no more reason to keep her here at his little hide-out. Her usefulness is expired, as anything else she tells him will only be a repeat of something she's said in the past, highlights of things he already knows. Sure, he could continue to keep her, lying to her that he needs to know more about Gotham 1st National, about the Colmany building even, but even if she didn't see right through the lies, even if he somehow made her believe that her little going away party had just been one big funny joke, sooner or later they'd come for her, and find him as well. He's good, but even the best of criminals can still get caught.

The Joker withdraws his knife from his trouser pocket and pokes at the blade, curious. He pushes down with the tip of his index finger until he draws blood. He hardly notices the pain, and rubs it together between his thumb and forefinger until he is no longer intrigued.

Despite the completeness of the plan and readiness of his men, nothing has been done about Gotham 1st National whatsoever. Not a single one of his men knows how close he is to putting his plan into motion. He has purposefully neglected to tell them, but he knows he can't stall forever. The excuses he gives are good, and for the most part fairly believable, but sooner or later one of them will start asking questions, and pick apart his reasoning until all that's left is this awful Martha issue.

The Joker wipes the blood on his lapel and groans.

He recalls it, Martha's skin against his tongue, the taste of her and how disconcertingly tantalizing it was. He is fully aware that her little move in to him was impulsive. He himself is impulsive. And why shouldn't he be? If everybody insisted on calling him insane, why should he disappoint them by not acting the way they all expected him to?

The bittersweet memory has plagued him for days, it's beginning to become vexing, especially now that he knows he has to give her back. He is well aware that he should be focused on more important things, on working out the last few kinks of the master plan, on assembling his men and briefing them on the strategies of the execution. On finding out the identity of the Batman and ruining Gotham in the process. On figuring out the best thing to do with Martha. But so far he can't seem to think a single coherent thought.

He hears the footsteps of one of his men as they pass by the bathroom entrance. Raising his head, he reflects on how he has been a ghost in the presence of his underlings as of late, barely there at all save for fleeting instances in the hallway or bathroom. He has avoided them at all costs, giving them orders from his private room via small pieces of notepaper, passed down from goon to goon like a Chinese whisper, and occasionally coming to dinner only to repeat the excuses as to why Gotham 1st National has not yet become a reality. So far, he has been a train derailed, and he is worried that his men are beginning to suspect his internal struggle. He figures they still fear him, but fear without respect is meaningless.

His finger is still bleeding. He puts it to his mouth and sucks; it's not the same, his blood is a poor substitute for hers. He yearns for her taste. He turns back to the mirror, eyes miserable and grim but face grinning as usual. He won't admit it verbally, but somewhere in the back of his mind it is announced that he wants her, wants to have at her again, although whether it's only with himself or a knife he can't be sure.

The Joker is not a stupid man, far from it. There have been women in his life, and he has handled them all in more or less the same way. He is and only ever has been human, but never has he allowed a woman to burrow so deeply under his skin and divert him from his habits. Never has he allowed a woman to put him off of his objective like this. He is both irate and obsessed. Up until now thoughts of passion did not burden him, not until recently, and even if they had he would have ignored them, pushing all distractions aside to focus on his master plan. That, and he detests the act, not out of resentment, he could get a woman easily (believe it or not), and not out of physical reasons (all the plumbing works just fine). Rather, he detests the act out of practical reasons. His reasoning is this; why have sex when you could be causing pain, wreaking havoc, making things go ka-boom. Sure sex is nice, but is it as nice as pouring a tank of gasoline over a box of pigeons, tossing a lighted match, and watching the burning birds fly off into the sky?

Up until now he's been as steady as a rock. Up until he sampled Martha Aiken.

Now look where he is.

Standing in a bathroom with his hands on his face and trying to solve a brand new problem, unfamiliar and difficult with no funny side to it whatsoever. How depressing. What's worse, he's allowed himself to get attached. He feels like slamming his head against the basin of the sink again and again until his nose crumples in and his teeth fall out. He is attracted to her, despite the fact he does not want to be, but this strange craving she has brought out in him is simply too strong to tune out.

He could have dumped her out in the middle of nowhere after she collapsed. That had been his initial plan, at any rate. It had taken him ages to decide, but when he had finally had the idea of releasing her into the wild, it was a simple, elegant solution. He could have sent for one of his men and ordered her to be taken away, to wherever they saw fit, the moment she passed out. He could have washed his hands of her right then and there, but he didn't. He chose to bring her back to her room and lay her carefully back on the couch and leave without word. And now here he stands, well aware that it's become nearly impossible for him to even consider giving her up, not until he's had her fully, at any rate. A horrifying thought strikes him. What if he does it, has his way with her, and afterward he still can't bring himself to give her up? What then? Does he make her his approved drug, his addiction? Dress her in some ridiculous costume like himself, make her his side-kick, his partner? Perhaps give her a collar and leash, make it official that she's his pet. He isn't even sure anymore if he wants a companion. He isn't sure if he wants her for sex or if it's something else, something he dreads to interpret.

After a time the Joker straitens up and utters "To hell with it." and tries waving away his thoughts as though they're flies buzzing around his head. If only it were that easy.

He decides to test this new theory. For all the 'what ifs' in the world, he retires to his room, locks the door, and turns Beethoven on until the volume is at it's peak. He plays with himself, thinking about Martha. About her soft lips, her smooth legs, about shoving the base of the dress past her hips and bucking into her. He thinks about how she might wriggle slightly under him as he bends down and removes the unnecessary garments from her body. He centers on the noises she might make if he were to take his tongue and please her that way, the way some women like best. He wonders how long it would take to make her moan, one long, singing, quivering sound that announces the height of her satisfaction. He pictures himself drawing the knife at that precise moment and carving a beautiful, violent little smile across her face and shoving himself in to her simultaneously, and can't help but think that the combination of pain and pleasure would likely appeal to her. He knows it appeals to him.

All at once it's blood and pain and glee and sensation and he pictures himself moving within her. It doesn't take long for him to reach his apex, a combination of how long it's been since he did anything even remotely like this, and how strongly he wants to with Martha. The pinnacle takes him over the edge and leaves him shaky and tranquil.

The aftermath finds him sprawled out on the bed, heavy lidded and breathing hoarse and hot. He scans his mind for Martha, and to his despair, he finds she's still there, whole and unbroken, still as troubling a thought as ever. If anything, the act of self release has made her even more prominent in his head.

He yawns, strangely sleepy. He considers doing it again, and finds, to his surprise, that he seems more than physically able. He does so (twice in a row, he hasn't done it twice in a year, let alone twice in a day) and once again the finale leaves his pupils pleasantly dilated and the skin below his makeup febrile and flushed, with a pool of stickiness splashed across his stomach he hasn't the energy left to wipe away. Still, she remains, and despite his frustration (both sexual and otherwise) at his own ability to solve this little problem, he seems relaxed. There's more than one way to unwind, and some leave him less tense than sticking cats in the microwave.

In his mind he rehearses what he'll tell the boys when he goes to dinner, halfway between deciding whether or not he should even attend the evening meal. He supposes he ought to kick things into gear now, at any rate. He ought to, but he probably won't. His thoughts still partially on Martha as he drifts languidly in to an afternoon nap, he wonders how she's taking this new and thrilling – if not incredibly agonizing – twist in their relationship.

Martha Aiken stands in the center of the wine cellar, totally naked.

She holds her gutter rags in both hands, preparing.

There are no mirrors. If she could only see herself now, she would see how considerably she's changed.

Her hair is longer, her skin is pale from lack of sunlight, and while her weight loss has not been substantial it is still relatively noticeable. And almost everything about her personality has changed. If she had the option to really step back and study herself, she would be highly alarmed at how different she has become. Her reactions to most situations now are radically unlike her. Whereas before she was a nervous, frightened little mouse caught dumbly in a trap, now her captivity is entirely too familiar, and she feels more like a zoo tiger who is not necessarily content with its situation, but not quite willing to do anything to change it either.

If she could see herself, she would see how unrecognizable a human being she has become.

The Joker had meant to let her go that night. Of that she is certain. Sure, it could have been one big elaborate joke to destroy the rest of her spirit, but her instinct tells her differently. He had meant to let her go that night, probably after the wine had sent her off to sleep like had been intended. And why not? She'd said it during their little date; ever since the milk carton arrived she had become a liability to him. But things had gone wrong very quickly, and before she had any grasp of what her body was doing, she was shoved up against a wall, clinging to the shaking mass of a madman who was her captor – sucking at his face like some despicable high school slut. The idea had been her own, but the courage to take the initiative had come from the wine.

What was worse was that she'd enjoyed it. She knows she had because even when she woke up she could remember it all in vivid perfection, despite the confusion and the remnants of the drugs. Her body just wouldn't forget. And she knew that he had enjoyed it too. She'd felt him coming alive under her at the time it was all happening, felt the pressure of that particular part of him straining against her thigh and begging to be more a part of what they'd been doing than was appropriately allowed. What a fool she'd been to have started them off like that, for in doing so she has condemned herself to spend the rest of her life as his captive, despite her ended usefulness. She knows he will keep her now no matter what the cost, even if it destroys him. Her instinct tells her so.

Either that, or he'll kill her. But, she reasons, surely he would have done that already. If not now, soon.

Her only chance is to escape.

But she is torn between wanting to stay with him and wanting to return to her normal life. She bows her head and takes a deep breath, trying desperately to break away from her own mind. Her gown, the one she'd worn on the night of her sin, sits in a disheveled pile on the opposite side of the room. She goes to the door and places the palm of one hand against the cool wood. Deranged dreams had plagued her after he'd left her on the couch, each nightmarish vision filled with grotesque, sexual undertones, and all of them featuring him, most likely a result of their friction and the drugs wearing off, but she had held strong against her body's raging hunger for most of the day. Now, she is determined to ignore it, hoping to retrieve her levelheadedness and begin composing a decent plan.

As her other hand travels down her midsection to rest between her parted legs, she thinks of him, of the kiss and of that part of him pressing against her thigh. Her fingers halt before they reach their destination, and she growls angrily. She brings her hand up to her mouth and bites down, hard, until she draws blood.

No, she thinks. My climax will come with the accomplishment of my escape – nothing more.

She begins to clothe herself, putting a pair of dirty trousers on first, and repeating the act two more times with a tank top and shirt, picturing him inside her, thrusting fast and hard, pumping away at her like a machine, every touch sending a bolt of pleasure throughout her insides until at last she collapses to the floor, forehead resting weakly against the wood and face crumpled into hot frustration.

"God damn it." She mutters, "Get a grip, Martha. You have to get out of here. You need to leave now."

The Joker doesn't visit her at all today, nor do his men. She does not expect any of them to, and is thankful for the privacy. The day after finds her back on that previous routine, where she sees nothing of The Joker and little of the men, save for when they bring her food and clothing. She registers something about the men, however. Each one who greets her with a fresh meal or clean garment seems confused as to why she is still there. She never questions any of them, just sits back, lets them enter and exit, all the while confident that he really had meant to let her go, and if it hadn't been for her, she would now be free.

Regardless of how much he disgusts her, and how much she is oddly attracted to him, she is positive that the only way she will ever see the light of day again, is if she does it all herself. But she is scared, alone, confused, and not entirely sure of herself. Nevertheless, her escape, she decides, must happen.

"It has to," She declares resolutely in to the emptiness of the wine cellar. "I'm not going to die down here. Not like this."

Exercise becomes the second passion of Martha Aiken, and escape her first. She works her body until all remaining strength and energy are depleted, and every night for three weeks she retires to bed sore and sapped. But after a time she begins to sense a change, both in her physicality and her attitude. She is becoming stronger, harder, more confident. Granted, she is still miles away from being free, and she recognizes this, but she also begins to recognize freedom as an obtainable goal.

Martha Aiken's revolution is this; the thing that happened on their little dinner date frightens her, but it gives her power over him too, because she knows that he wants her just as much as she wants him. For the first time since the entire ordeal began, she has a weapon to use against him, and because she's lasted this long with him, her fear of him has dwindled now into a tepid insecurity. He has ceased to be the curious monster he was, and now she views him as a small, semi-threatening man with scars and a predisposition for practical jokes – still dangerous, but no more so than he was to begin with. The only difference now is she can fight back, and she means to do so.

She plots. She does not request more crayons or paper, but keeps a series of notes in her mind, a selection of film-like mental projections that she replays over and over again in her head, tweaking here, revising there until she begins to see the semblance of a halfway decent plan emerge.

The Joker has memorized the exact position of almost every signal object, both big and small, both significant and insignificant, in the room. But Martha knows that he hasn't been in to visit her in a good while, and even then his visits were short and his attention elsewhere. She begins to wonder if he is capable of forgetting. She remembers when she first arrived, how she made the mistake of accidentally picking up a newspaper article and curiously examining it – and the frightening reaction she saw from him. His threat was deathly serious. He would kill her if she did it again, if she dared to move something else from his desk. Given this most rent series of events, she figures his threat may no longer be so brutal. But she knows she has to try. It is essential to her plan.

Martha Aiken has spent more than enough time in this cold, cramped place to have memorized the meticulous placing of each and every item as well. Alert and cautious, she takes the knife off the wall in the dead of night. Nobody sees her carefully dig the blade in to the pages of "A Clockwork Orange". Nobody hears her softly carve a simple gun-shaped slot, hidden and secure, out of the paper. And when she's finished and the knife has been placed back in to it's original place alongside the others, nobody knows the better. When the men come the following morning, meals in hand and grim-faced, she sits at the far side of the couch protectively hunched over the cushion, below which sits her book, her plan partly accomplished.

She says nothing and moves little, stone-still like a peeping owl, until each man leaves. Even as she eats she remains prudent, fearing that at any moment The Joker will burst in and see the knives on the wall on the opposite side of the room and know, somehow, by some word of God or psychic sense that she has been planning her crafty escape.

But he does not come, and after three and a half days her worry subsides and she begins to relax, self-assurance building.

Finally, she works up her courage and calls him. She makes not one, but four separate requests, demanding to see him specifically. The first of the four men she asks ignore her, as does the second and third (this is hardly an unexpected response), whereas the fourth man cocks his head and eyes her for a long while before finally disappearing out of the room. Moments later The Joker sweeps in, kicking the door open with a single, rigid move of his leg, face the perfect example of sinister temperament. He keeps his eyes on her, almost unblinking. Surreal alpha-male display of dominance. He doesn't glance away, not once. It's as much a test of himself as it is of her, and she meets his steely gaze with her own determined defiance.

Without waiting for him to ask she immediately launches in to an elaborate lie.

"One of your guards tried to grab at me. I can identify him if you want, but I don't think I should be treated that way. I haven't done anything wrong, I haven't done anything to warrant it. In fact, I've been incredibly cooperative, especially recently, and I've been more than generous with the liberties I've allowed you and your men to take with me."

She pauses a moment and catches his intense, glaring scowl. He's staring daggers of death at her, probably for the 'liberties' remark and the fact that he was mentioned as well as his men. And why not? After all, he's certainly as guilty of the aforementioned crimes as her fictionalized assailant is.

Martha swallows, throat dry, and continues unabashed.

"Frankly, I'm insulted. I don't know what you told them about me, how good I was – I don't know, maybe you gave them the green light for it. But if I'm meant to stay here, I deserve a little more respect, and I want to know what you're going to do about it."

She hopes what she's said has been frank enough to inspire the correct response from him.

He grins, pert, pinched lips, a forced courtesy smile, and calls in his man from the hallway.

Martha Aiken blinks.

The Joker has drawn his weapon in a flash, and there is not enough time for the man from the hallway to appropriately react before the bullet sends the back of his head spraying beautifully across the corridor and on to the adjacent wall.

Martha and The Joker, gun drawn, watch as the man drops with a thick thud to the floor.

"Was that him?" Asks The Joker, smoothly lowering the pistol.

It takes her a second to find her voice, and when she finally does she is surprised at how loud and unaffected her words sound.

"No. It was somebody else."

Death; how passé.

She cringes when he stamps his foot down angrily like a small child.

"Well he's gonna have to do! I'm a little busy at the moment! Other things to attend to, ya know. The world doesn't revolve around Martha Aiken, I'm sorry to say." He replies, observably annoyed.

She says nothing, nods, and before she can fully respond he's gone again, out of the room as quickly as he'd entered. It's ages before somebody comes to retrieve the body and give her back the key. In that time Martha considers several things. The Joker had not batted an eye at the fact she had taken one of the knives from the wall and replaced it, which meant one of two things. Either he has been too distracted (by events in or outside the room) to have recognized it's tampering, or he had temporarily lost that sharpness he had previously caught the misplaced article with. In any case, he had not noticed, and this helps her relax slightly, although not by much. This means The Joker is a fallible man, and a fallible man at the very least can be tricked.

When somebody does finally come to drag the corpse away, they don't notice the absence of the dead man's firearm, and even then they leave the blood in a large pool for Martha to see to afterward. She neglects it for some time in favor of stashing the gun, and having carved the dimensions of the hole through rough calculation, she is monumentally relieved to find it fits almost perfectly. Her luck, she thinks, has been unbelievable.