CHAPTER 10: CLARITY
The Joker's scars do not regularly draw attention. Well, they do, but it is the kind of backward attention that is more helpful than harmful. For example, people see the repulsive injuries on his naked face and quickly look away, although whether this reaction tends to be out of disgust or out of pity, The Joker can never entirely tell – nor does he entirely care. Still and all, for safety's sake, he has decided to cover the lower half of his face with a silky, purple scarf. The wide-brimmed gentleman's fedora, coupled with the trailing black trench coat make him look like some 40's era gangster strait out of a black and white snuff film. Even without the makeup or visible scars, he can still appear menacing.
He paces the brisk streets of Gotham leisurely, breath rising into the air as he moves, continuing the walk which began the night before. Besides the occasional exhausted slug moving home from the night shift, the city is mostly vacant. Eerily so, but it isn't long before the morning work rush will commence, maybe an hour or so. He avoids the main roads, finding his way through the labyrinth of backstreets and alleyways. He moves like a phantom, gliding along with steps covertly hushed. At one point he finds a stray brick and launches it through the window of a shop not yet open. The sound of shattering glass along with the small explosions from the television sets on display make his knees wobbly, and for a fraction of a second his mind is free of the repetitive Martha-related thoughts that seem to plague him so consistently.
His ultimate goal is Gotham 1st National, but he is in no hurry to get there. At the moment, he is simply enjoying a nice, carefree stroll. Something to take his mind off of everything, especially the one invading thought in particular. Despite this hesitance, his goal is a necessary one. He is set on casing the bank just the one final time, before the robbery, as a safety precaution. He wants to feel solid about everything – solid about something, given the last week or so of torturous uncertainty.
When at last he arrives he strides into the bank casually, owning an air of streetwise sophistication, a kind of confidence that (along with his outfit) set him apart from the other early bird customers. He proceeds to stand in line, observing the tellers, trying to make eye contact with the other people, and is slightly hurt when nobody bothers to give him a second glance. He is there for all of five minuets before faking the huffy sighs of the impatient and storming out.
On his way back to the delicatessen, he is caught in the small beginnings of the crowds. He spots people waiting at the bus stops, men in suits b-lining for the underground, their numbers all steadily growing, and the amount of cabs in traffic increasing as well. Along the way he pauses at an intersection and a newspaper stand at the corner catches his full attention. After the delicate use of his five-finger discount he walks away with a paper containing a detailed article about the Batman, something he has been yearning for since that first kiss with Martha. He thumbs through the pages as he walks, waning concentration playing havoc with his speed. When he finds the story he stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, earning the annoyed grumblings of confused passersby. The article includes a veritable bevy of information pertaining not to the caped crusader specifically, but rather, the rising number of random citizens who have taken to disguising themselves in his image. These copycats would apparently take to the darkened streets of Gotham in the same pattern as the Batman, in an effort to help him, and prove their worth as heroic vigilantes.
The Joker looks slowly up from the paper, scanning the bustling throng that now moves around him. Any one of them could be the Batman, or a Bat-Impostor. Under the scarf, he smiles.
So, there's not just one anymore. Others have been inspired.
All at once, the clouds part, and his sky is crystal blue again. He has achieved clarity, he has regained his vision of a perfectly chaotic world, and once again, he owes it all to the Batman.
What was this city coming to? Where was the disorder, the chaos, the maddening fear? What good was it all now, being so safe and predictable? How many more masks did this city have to put on before somebody called shenanigans. And what was worse, they were ordinary people dressing up now. Putting on the masks. This wasn't as exciting as it was insulting. Supposing The Joker wound up with a bunch of doppelgängers when all was said and done. No, he decides. They needed reminding. He needed to help them see that – underneath it all – they were all as selfish and destructive as he was. It has been his purpose all along. How could he have been so blind to have lost it, even momentarily, when it was so obviously all around him?
In a peculiar move that strikes those around him as un-mentionably odd, The Joker hugs the paper to his chest, so happy he feels like crying (or stabbing, he hasn't the head to try and choose).
He returns to the delicatessen with a noticeable skip in his step, and at once begins making telephone calls. He calls five men in total (two on the roof, one bus driver, and two in the car, himself not included), all outsiders and none first-timers. He has done his research on those chosen, positive that these candidates are the right ones for the job, the only ones capable of helping him pull off this kind of heist exactly how he pictures it. Each man is given notice to wait for a package in the mail. Said package would contain specific equipment for their individually assigned job, and specific directions for that individual, as well as a mask to wear on the occasion. No one man would get the same directions or equipment. The package would also contain a small portion of a large payment, with the rest to be paid, in full, proceeding the success of the robbery (because no knowledgeable criminal would dare take on a job this risky without a little taste of cash first). None of them would ever see his face, or know who he was – even during the robbery. This is a key part of his strategy, and he reassures himself with each dialed number that everything will indeed go according to plan. As he hangs up the phone in the kitchen he begins to laugh, high-pitched and menacing, and his men come and gather around him like a flock to their calling shepherd. They stand around him in a semicircle, wordlessly awaiting direction. They receive it in abundance, and afterward, as they are filing out to begin their various chores, The Joker grabs one of the younger faced lads – some boy who had managed his way out of Arkham alongside The Joker – and tells him to acquire a pack of playing cards.
"Where from, boss?"
"Any place. Any deck. Just get them." Orders The Joker, voice darkly energetic.
Martha Aiken would receive the pack of playing cards within the same hour the boy returned with them.
"Eat up." The thug grumbles to her as she sits on the couch in the wine cellar, eying the blandly colored food on the tray that has just been dropped rather roughly down in front of her.
"Thanks," She replies flatly, and goes back to her reading.
The thug snorts and exits, and Martha Aiken has her head down when the next person enters, nose pointed to the pages of "Call of the Wild". Thinking it is the goon back to return the key and close the door, she pays him no notice whatsoever. It is not until she hears him clear his throat that she realizes who it is. Her head jerks up and their eyes lock. Her blood hums sickly sweet.
"They've replaced you," The Joker begins furtively, "With a blonde. Her name is Penny." He adds with a chuckle.
Upon hearing him speak she leaps to her feet, back strait and standing at full attention.
"Penny, at a bank. Get it? I daresay she's even better looking than you are."
His eyes roam over her and she shivers. She watches him fish something small out of his left side pocket.
"Happy birthday." He sings, tossing her the bicycle deck.
"It's not my birthday." She informs him absentmindedly after catching the deck. She turns it over in her hands several times before bringing it up to her nose to sniff at it, as if checking to see if it isn't somehow booby-trapped. Finally, she says "Oh, good. I was getting sick of books."
This mumbled sentence is not without a trace of scorn.
"I thought you might be." He replies, licking at the corner of his mouth. "Have a seat. I'd like to talk."
She sits down quickly, making sure to position herself over the correct seat cushion. His visit is totally unexpected, and she has no idea what is going to happen. As he approaches she curls her legs up to her stomach in a feeble effort to appear polite, as well as take up as little room as possible for him. To her surprise, he takes a seat on the coffee table, swinging his legs around and resting back on his wrists to face her. He looks like some sort of bazaar high school guidance counselor ready for a heart-to-heart with a misbehaving student.
He has not yet painted his face for the day – this somehow makes it less difficult for her. Even though he is certainly more attractive this way (she failed to notice just how handsome he was the last time he took the makeup off), she associates the dinner date and kiss with his other face, his clown persona. She feels relieved to see the more normal looking side of him, something she hasn't seen in ages, and it's almost as if she's having a conversation with an ordinary person. She does her best to remind herself that, even with his lack of makeup, this is not the case.
"So," He breaths happily, "I think we need to clarify some things."
Martha holds her breath as he leans in close, sizing her up. The Joker waits patiently for the enviable barrage of questions from her; Why am I still here? Why didn't you let me go? Are you going to kill me? Do you want to kill me? Do you want to have me? Right here, right now, on the couch in the wine cellar? Yes, yes I do, Martha . . . But the questions never come. He goes ahead as planned.
"Our relationship, and let's face it, we have one – Our relationship has changed. Let's not try and overanalyze, figure out the hows or whys. No need for specifics." He says, waving his hand lackadaisically. "But the fact of the matter is, we did some things, Martha. And I've been thinking it over a bit, as I'm sure you have been too, we're both very cerebral creatures aren't we. I've been thinking it over and what we did, well, it wasn't unpleasant."
He smiles, warm, friendly, disturbing.
"Do you grant that?"
"I . . . don't think that's relevant." She says carefully.
"Oh?" Says The Joker, smile gone and sounding resentful. "Explain." He demands, eyes narrowing.
"Well, whether or not it was unpleasant doesn't change the fact that you're still, um, still keeping me here."
"And I'm going to continue keeping you here." He declares indignantly. "Might move you, what with the milk carton and all, but not until I've done Gotham 1st National. That takes precedence even over you, my dear sweet girly-girl."
He takes this opportunity to run his bare fingers lightly across her cheek, the touch sending a chill up her spine and melting her unintentionally under it.
"But yes, I'll move you and things should be find once I've done that and everything's settled. Of course, I'll always visit, and you'll still get the same entertaining treatment as you've gotten here."
She nods, uneasy.
"My point is, we should try and, you know, figure things out. Rules and regulations and all that." She suggests meekly.
He glares sharply and she quickly continues, saying "Nothing planned. Nothing planned, just maybe, if we were a bit more organized about it, there wouldn't be so much confusion. You're a fan of organization. You've told me so several times."
He whistles a tune while he contemplates. At last; "No contracts. Nothing written out, I don't have time for that. I'm a busy man."
"Understood." She tries to smile and finds it arduous. "I think a verbal contract should do just fine. Besides, I'm not . . . not entirely opposed to the idea of staying here. With you."
This last remark is somewhat forced. It resounds in her head and she grasps how true a statement it is, even though she's desperate to escape. His dark eyes hold her, causing her lips to part ever so slightly with want, and it registers that she's desperate for a lot of things.
"Is that so?" Says The Joker, smugly perking an eyebrow.
"Think about it. I'm totally safe here."
She backtracks a moment, decides to rephrase.
"What I mean is, you protect me. I like that. It's a nice feeling, to feel protected. To not to have to worry about everything. No job or bills to get me down. No family or friends to, um, annoy me. And I'll bet I have a very slim chance of catching the flu down here, or anything else for that matter. And even if I did, I'm sure you'd –"
Before she can complete this last bit he's on her, holding a steak knife to her nose and pinning her back against the couch, straddling her with his lean bulk.
"Okay, so who are you and what have you done with the real Martha Aiken?"
"Sh-She's here." Squeaks Martha, utterly panicked.
It might be possible that she's strong enough to push him away. Her exercise regiment has not changed, but she remains still, paralyzed with fear.
"She's here. She's me!"
"Are you sure?"
She nods enthusiastically and the knife scrapes her nose.
"Are you absolutely certain? Your personality hasn't fractured in to a million tiny little pieces of severe psychosis, now, has it?"
"N-No. No, it hasn't. I can assure you that it hasn't."
"Oh." And just like that he's off of her and back sitting calmly on the table, knife snugly tucked in to the inside pocket of his vest. "Well, that's good."
She does her best to relax. It's a struggle.
"I-I figured that this set up, the one we have now, is a good foundation to build on. I mean the feeding and the clothes all are fine, and I have no quarrel with the environment. I'm used to it now, so there's no need to change it."
"I hate redecorating."
"So do I. But, to be perfectly frank, I'd like to know if my role in your, erm, in your family is going to be one of the kept pet, or the secret . . . uh . . . the secret mistress."
The Joker shuts his eyes and reflects. "Little of both. How's that sound?"
"So you're going to, um, use me?"
His eyes snap open and his posture becomes rigid.
"I just want to know. We have to be organized, remember? Maybe we should build up a schedule."
He leans in close and in a sinfully seductive tone whispers "I don't know, I prefer a bit of spontaneity."
Nodding, she replies "As do I, but we could do it this way; something weekly, for the purposes of stress eradication, and one or two spontaneous scenarios a month, to keep things interesting."
"You know, I could always force you. Have you ever been forced, Martha?"
"No."
"Does it sound like something you might enjoy?" He inquires, smirking devilishly.
"Does it look like something I would let you do?"
"You'd reject me, Martha?"
"I would try and rip it off, Mr. Joker." She counters with a face of stone. "I doubt my attempt would be successful. Still, I would try."
He chuckles.
"There's a bit of fight in you. I like that. When does this little schedule of ours start?"
"Whenever you like. You're the boss of this. You're in control."
"Super!" he laughs, practically giddy.
"However," She warns, "While I'm willing to do whatever you want, and have you do whatever you want to me in the consensual sense, in payment I want at least one trip outside every two weeks. One trip outside whenever I ask for it. That means you have to drop everything because I'm the number one priority. I think that's fair. You can choose the location, of course."
The Joker undoes his belt and holds it in front of her, "Oh sure, but I'll have to have you on a leash."
"Don't you trust me?"
"What can I say? I'm a paranoid guy."
"How about string?" She leans across and touches her hand gently to his scarf, still wrapped loosely around his neck from the walk before. She moves her fingers across his chest, down his arm, and to his hand, then back to her own.
"String." He repeats hoarsely.
"From my wrist to yours? Like in Little Red Riding Hood."
"You forget," Reminds The Joker, elated by the contact of her hand, "She ties it to a tree to trick the wolf."
"The wolf didn't carry a semi-automatic. I won't run because I know you'll be armed. Sound fair?"
With pursed lips he bows his head, once, for confirmation and takes her hand to shake.
"We have a deal."
He gets up to leave and as he reaches the door he turns around to remark "I've always liked your cooperative spirit, Martha Aiken. So many people aren't that willing to work with me the way you are."
"I look forward to your next visit, Mister Joker." She replies, and after a moment adds "What's your name?"
"You've got it in your hand. It's in that deck of cards, remember."
"No, I mean your real name."
He resembles a confused child, and she finds it touching.
"What would you have me call out? You know, in-between oh god and yes, harder." She asks, mimicking the wailing moans of a woman in the throws of passion. This sudden, acted example brings a moderate twinge of red to his cheeks, and both he and Martha are surprised by this.
"I don't know. Think one up for me." He suggests dejectedly before throwing the key on the floor and slamming the door behind him.