VII

Ready to play?

No, I am decidedly not ready for whatever he plans to throw at me, but as the question's obviously rhetorical and since I obviously don't have a choice, I get up, shooting him a dirty look as I slip past him and jump out of the van.

We're in a residential area, some distance from the hub of the city—I can see the skyline in the background, not too far away but definitely not close. The van is parked under a conveniently-shattered streetlamp, and as my eyes adjust to the dim light provided by the city sky, I see the other car prowling past—patrolling to make sure the coast stays clear, I guess.

Another second and the Joker lands on the pavement beside me, taking a quick look around before jerking his head in command and stepping onto the sidewalk, heading straight for one of a line of identical brownstones populating the street. The henchmen follow immediately, but I linger, that feeling of foreboding in my stomach evolving to outright dread. That's someone's house. Of course I'm feeling relieved that we're not breaking into a bank or blowing up a building with a hundred people in it—not yet, anyway—but somehow, this residential setting almost seems worse.

I'm not left to drag my feet for long. The Joker glances over his shoulder, sees that I'm not part of his entourage, and stops and turns as his men continue past him, giving me a look that clearly tells me that if I don't keep up, then I'll live to regret it. Reluctantly, I move forward, heading slowly towards the house, and as I move to go past him, his hand comes down hard on my wrist, halting me abruptly.

I look up, startled, and he ducks down, cheek practically flush against mine as he hisses into my ear: "You need to behave. No dragging your feet, no heroics. Believe it or not, I don't wanna spill any more of your blood tonight than I have to."

He draws back, and I stare uncomprehendingly into his face. What the hell does that mean? He doesn't oblige my unspoken bemusement, just pulls a got it? expression before he throws my wrist down and steps away. Given the implication of what he just said—that I'm shedding blood tonight—it takes all of my strength to follow him, but since he's made it pretty clear that standing around will invite violence, I reluctantly go along.

I follow slowly to the stairs, where his men have already started to work on the locked front door. I wait, halfway up from the street and keeping as much distance as I feel I can get away with. I look around, wondering at the fact that none of them seems concerned by the prospect of being seen, but it was well after dark when we left, and we've been driving for an hour, maybe two—all the nine-to-fives are probably in bed by now, and the broken streetlamp gives them some shadow under which to work.

I look up at the house we're apparently breaking into. The windows are all dark, and I swallow hard. People are asleep in there. I slowly lift a hand to cover my mouth, afraid that a horrified whimper might make its way past my throat and certain that it wouldn't be well-received.

The lock clicks. The henchman who picked it stands and twists the knob, quietly pushing the door open, and then looks back at the Joker. At a nod from him, the masks go on, and I try to find comfort in that, thinking if they're hiding their faces, maybe they're not planning to kill.

The henchmen go inside, and the Joker glances back at me, flicking an impatient hand in a command to follow as he crosses the threshold. I swallow again, and then climb the rest of the stairs and enter the house.

It's quiet inside, save for the muffled footsteps of the guys as they check out the rooms. The Joker has stopped in the entryway, and I stand behind him—hiding a bit, to tell the truth, using his broad shoulders to obscure my view. I don't want to see inside this stranger's home, don't want to be a part of this invasion, whatever it is.

We wait there until the henchmen come back, and at some unspoken signal, they head up the staircase to the left, proceeding almost silently. After a beat, the Joker follows, and, hesitantly, I go after him.

We emerge in a stunted hallway. The henchmen have disappeared again, but a cracked doorway to the left marks where they've gone. The Joker pauses outside the door, waiting for something. After a moment, I hear the chilling sound of a shotgun cocking, followed almost immediately by a frightened gasp. The Joker looks over his shoulder at me and gives me a faint grin.

"Showtime," he says softly, and then pushes the door open and enters the room.

Despite his previous orders, I do drag my feet, reluctantly proceeding to the doorway and just peeking around the frame. I'm looking into the bedroom. The henchmen stand at the foot of a double bed, training their gun on its sole occupant—a man, young, clearly just roused from sleep, pushed up against the headboard in an attempt to get as far away from the guns as possible. His eyes, though, are fixed on the Joker, who stands just inside of the door, perfectly still, shoulders hunched as he takes in the scene. The room remains fixed in a grim tableau for a few seconds, and then, voice low, the Joker says, "Good evening."

The man's face is still frozen in horror, but the greeting loosens his tongue. "Pl—please—what do you—what do you want?"

The Joker cocks his head, but before he can answer, a soft sound cuts him off, and he cocks his head sharply. At the same time the man's eyes dart to the corner of the room, I place the noise, and my eyes go wide. There's a baby in here, I realize, and I step fully into the room, following the man's eyes to the crib nestled in the corner.

The Joker's already moving towards it, and the man is sputtering in terror: "No—no, please, leave her—leave her alone, stop!" It's all I can do not to join in.

The Joker takes no notice. He approaches the crib and peers into it for a moment, listening along with all of us to the fussing of the restless child. Then, with a brief glance at the man on the bed, he reaches down and lifts a small, blanket-wrapped bundle out. "Well, hello, angel," he says softly as he settles the baby into his arms, and underneath the horror of the moment, the sight of the innocent baby in the grip of the most dangerous man in the city, I realize something.

He's done this before. The way he shifts his elbow to support the baby's head, the aimless bouncing of his arms to distract the child from her fussing—it's not something people who have never been around babies (or are even uncomfortable around them) know to do, and I'm frozen to the spot, forehead furrowed, unsure of what to make of it.

I'm not the only one. The others in the room are staring, speechless, as he rocks her, shifting from one foot to the other and regarding her with an expression of faint curiosity. "Aww," he croons, still addressing her rather than her father, "you're a pretty li'l thing. Where's mommy, huh?"

This seems to jolt the man out of his shock. "My wife's dead," he says hesitantly, eyes still fixed on the pair. "Eclampsia. Could you please j—just put her down."

I glance at him, and then impulsively cross the room to where the Joker's standing, putting my hand on the crook of his elbow and looking down at the baby. She's a beautiful child, no older than six months, dark-skinned and tiny, and her big brown eyes are fixed on the painted face above her, her little mouth puckering in bemusement—you're not my daddy, her face seems to say, but the bright colors and soothing movement keeps her from crying for now. I look up at the Joker to find him staring at me, the corner of his mouth turned mockingly up, but to my relief, he shifts, holding the bundle out to me. I take her gratefully, whispering soothingly to her, and as soon as I have her, the Joker turns away, taking a few steps toward the bed.

"Eclampsia, huh?" he asks, resuming the conversation effortlessly. "Boy, that's rough. When did it happen?"

The man is staring at me, obviously fearing for his child more than himself, and he whispers, "Pl—please…"

I don't want to tempt fate by offering him verbal reassurances, don't worry, I won't let anything happen to her, but I try to convey through my stare that I have no intention of letting any harm come to this child, and I give him a short nod. Apparently soothed, at least as much as he can be, he drags his eyes away from us and fixes them on the more immediate threat of the Joker.

"Uh… five… five months. When she was born," he says, and then winces, obviously regretting drawing attention to his baby again.

The Joker doesn't seem to notice. He just nods his head, pulling an expression of sympathy. "Not easy being a single dad, I guess," he says, lowering himself into a chair just by the bed with a contented groan.

The man's eyes flick from him to me and then back again. "No… no, it's not. Listen, what—"

"Let me ask you something, ah, officer," the Joker interrupts, reaching out and toying with an object on the nightstand I'd failed to notice, a badge, making it glint in the light. "Do you believe in God?"

What the fuck? The man seems confused as I am by this unexpected turn, breathing heavily as he stares in bewilderment at his tormentor. "I—why do you—?"

"It's a simple question," the Joker replies, sounding a touch irritated, and the guy wisely chooses to answer.

"Yes—yeah, I do."

"Ah, good," the Joker enthuses. "And what about heaven—hell. Do you believe in those?"

"I… I guess so. Look, man, what the—"

"And if there's a heaven," the Joker exhales loudly, overriding the man's question, "do you think your wife is there?"

The man falls abruptly quiet, and then, eyes fixed on the Joker, he answers, without hesitation this time: "Yes."

"O-kay, good," the Joker replies. He looks around the room for a second, humming a few idle bars to himself, and then resumes. "Well, officer, I'm gonna do you a favor."

"A favor?" the man repeats, watching him mistrustfully.

"Uh-huh." The Joker stands abruptly, gesturing towards a minion and grimacing at the man as he moves. "Nobody enjoys the whole… struggling single parent on a Gotham cop salary thing. Oh, I expect you'll argue," he says, raising his voice as the man starts to sputter. "Survival instinct and all. Still, I'd be willing to bet that you've looked at your kid and wondered… hey, is keeping her as selfless an act as I'm telling myself it is?"

"I don't know what you mean," the cop says fearfully.

"Sure you do," the Joker responds glibly as his henchman joins him and hands him a pistol. "You've wondered if it wouldn't just be better for everyone if you… joined your wife, and, uh, she went to somebody who might be… able to look after her better. And seeing as it's Christmas… well. I'm gonna give you a gift. I'm gonna take that decision out of your hands."

The guy suddenly goes still. He doesn't plead or beg or make a last-ditch effort to fight. His eyes slide from the barrel of the gun to where I'm standing, frozen and mute with horror, holding his child. He looks me in the eye and says, "Please."

I understand, somehow, that he isn't laboring under the delusion that I'm under any control here, that he isn't asking me to save his life. As the Joker thumbs the hammer back, I put my hand to the baby's head, pressing her to my chest, and turn her away.

The gunshot isn't loud—there must be a suppressor on the barrel; I just hear a harsh pop and the thump of a body falling to the mattress. I screw my eyes shut as the baby starts fussing, startled by the sound, and I do what I can not to cry and disturb her further. "Shh, baby, it's okay," I whisper, knowing that it's a lie, knowing that her father is dead just a few feet away and that the only thing I can do is rock her and keep her out of the hands of the maniac who killed him.

I hear a few footsteps, register dimly that the henchmen have left the room, and then the Joker lets out a hissing breath. "Okay," he says cheerfully. "Em? Your turn."

I open my eyes and look at him. He's standing by the bed, watching me, and my brain can't quite piece everything together or process what he means. "I—my turn?"

"Put the kid down and come over here," he says patiently. When I don't move, his eyebrows shoot up. "That is, unless you wanna bring her along."

Strangely, the only thing I feel is relief that "your turn" apparently doesn't mean "your turn to kill someone," meaning that the child is safe for now. Slowly, I lean over and put the baby back in her crib, and then, feet feeling like lead, I move towards him.

It's all right, I find myself thinking dazedly. My turn? My turn to die? It's all right. At least this way, I'll finally be free of him.

I stop right in front of him, looking directly up into his face. He stares at me for a second, mouth crooked downward in a mocking frown, and then…

His hand is locked around my wrist, and I feel a burning sting lace down my forearm. He releases me as quickly as he grabbed me, and I recoil, hearing the blood spattering on the floor a second before I look down and see that he's cut me deeply, several inches down my arm.

I'm already bleeding heavily, and I stare, dumbfounded, for a second before lifting my eyes back to his. "Wh—what the hell—"

"Oh, settle down," he murmurs, putting the knife away as quickly as it came and digging in his jacket pocket. "It's not lethal." He procures a folded handkerchief, shakes it out, and snaps his fingers imperiously. "Come on, let me see."

"What the f—no, I'm not gonna—" I start, but he doesn't have the patience for arguing, just lashes out and seizes my hand the second it becomes apparent that I won't obey. He drags my arm out straight and then places the handkerchief over the cut, and then, shooting me a glance that says cooperate, he lets go of my hand. Too shocked to put up more than that token resistance, I hold still as he binds the handkerchief tightly over the cut. The blood starts seeping through immediately, but his object doesn't seem to be to stop the bleeding so much as contain it. After the makeshift bandage is in place, he gives a short, approving nod and then grabs my elbow.

"Time to go," he says, and then he's dragging me out of the room, away from the body on the bed and—thank God—the living infant in her crib.

As we leave the room, the baby starts to cry.

I remain too stunned to do anything more than keep my feet under me as he hauls me down the stairs. The henchmen are already out, the front door wide open in their wake, and I struggle to keep up with his long-legged strides as he exits the house and clambers his way down to the street. The henchmen have already started the van, just waiting for us, and swiftly, he shoves me into the back, following me in and pulling the doors shut as the van takes off.

I'm not sure quite how, but I'm sitting on the floor of the van in the dark. Over the sound of my sharp, rapid breathing, I can hear him settling on the bench a few feet away, and I want to scream, to ask him what the hell he was doing, what the fucking point of all that was, but I feel like I'm suffocating—I can't even breathe properly, so sparing the air to ream him out isn't really an option at this point.

That poor man. That poor child. The thought just cycles in my head, over and over and over, and between that, the hyperventilation, and the deep sting of my bleeding arm, I think I'm gonna pass out.

Then, he speaks, his voice carrying easily over the soft sound of my gasps for air. "You can put a stopper in the dramatics, Em. There's no one here to see."

Fuck you, jackass, I think, but when I open my mouth, all that comes out is "I c—can't breathe."

"Sure you can," he says encouragingly. "I can hear ya breathing right now. No, this little fit is just a show of the, ah, moral histrionics you think you need to put on, but there's really no need. It's just you and me here, Em. You can drop the act."

I'm on my feet before I quite know what I'm doing, and I bang my head against the low roof of the van. I take no notice, though, feeling a surge of icy anger push through my veins, and suddenly breathing doesn't seem so important. "How fucking dare you?"

"Ahh, and right on schedule, the righteous indignation," he purrs, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

"Righteous indig—I just watched you murder a man in the room where his child was sleeping—"

"Technically, you didn't watch," he points out.

"—you killed him in cold blood, and—"

"And you had nothing to do with it," he interrupts, his voice low and warning, "but here you are, making it all about you." I can't see him in the dark of the van, but I'm way too far gone to be intimidated.

"No," I deny hotly, "I didn't make it about me, you made it about me. You did this, so don't fucking shove it onto me. You abducted me out of my bed, you dragged me around the town while you kill people, and you had the gall to suggest that me being upset about it is just a fucking act!"

"Aaaaand now you're just scrambling for someone to blame," he says, sounding bored, as if he's reading from a list.

I cut myself off, stunned at the tone, and then, pulling in a sharp breath, I snarl, "Are you even listening to me?"

"Sure, Em. I'm all ears. I'm just not all that interested in what you're saying." I can tell from the sound of movement, from the shifting of his voice from somewhere around my hip to eye level, that he's stood up, and I step back reflexively, instinct getting a momentary upper hand over my anger and reminding me that him on his feet in a black, enclosed space is not a good thing for me. He keeps talking, his voice getting steadily closer as he goes on: "You see, denials—I mean, they're understandable, sure. I get that you're having a, uh, a difficult time with all of this. But it's so predictable, so… boring. Especially since we both know you're full of shit."

That's it. I think he's broken my brain. I can't even begin to try to piece together the line of reasoning that brought him to that conclusion, let alone open my mouth and yell at him about it. I just stand there in the dark, hand braced against the roof of the van, and after a shocked second, I open my mouth and say the only thing that might lead to some illumination—and if my tone is a little more sarcastic than is prudent, I don't think anyone could blame me: "Okay, then, would you care to share with the class? How am I full of shit?"

I'm honestly surprised he hasn't pounced on me, drawn a knife down the uninjured arm and given me a gash to match the other, but the blood is pumping hot and fast and I can't seem to calm myself down enough to concern myself with my safety. If anything, though, he seems to welcome the challenge. "Well, all I'm saying is that you gotta look at the factsss," he says, the horrible sibilant hissing filling the van, making it difficult to place him, which is a little unsettling, to say the least. "On the ride over—not one protest, not one question about where we were going, what we were doing."

"Well, yeah, your track record with answering questions isn't exactly—"

"And then," he cuts me off, his voice high and almost playful, "we get to the house… and when the, uh, when the guns came out? I didn't hear one measly argument from you."

"Like you said," I respond in disbelief, "there were guns out, and in case you don't remember, I had a baby in my arms. What, so if I don't drop the kid and lunge over to act as a human shield for the guy, I'm secretly thrilled by his murder?"

"Now, I never used the word thrilled."

"Big deal. You implied it. You've been implying it almost since we met, and I gotta say, I'm getting sick of it."

"Oh, you are," he says, his voice low, clearly warning, but as scared as that makes me, I can't seem to stop myself. The frustration has reached its boiling point, and the words are spilling out fast and angry now.

"Yeah, I am. This agenda of yours, this whole thing with me—look, correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems like your whole point as far as I'm concerned is to prove that I'm as fucked-up, twisted, and evil as you are—that I'm desperately trying to hide it, but that I secretly like all this slithering around, watching you kill and terrorize, never knowing when you might decide that you're bored and that it's time for me to die. And you know what? I'm starting to think that you're getting a little desperate, grasping at straws of so-called proof, because if you're wrong, if you really have no clue how I'm genuinely feeling about all this, then maybe you're wrong about everything. Maybe your staggeringly cynical view of human nature is completely false and you have no idea what anyone else is really thinking, and I think that scares you. If I'm not evil, then maybe no one else really is, and maybe that means you're alone."

Just like that, the tirade is over, and the van is silent except for the sound of my heavy breathing. I can't hear him at all, and the intense relief I feel at finally getting that off my chest is overshadowed suddenly by the realization that I've gone too far, that whether I'm right or wrong, no one gets to talk to him like that and make it out alive.

The strained silence stretches out for another few seconds, and then he exhales heavily, and I hear him shifting, sitting down with a soft thump. "Wow," he says quietly, and I can hear the blood rushing loudly in my ears for a few seconds—is that all? is he really just accepting it?—before he comments lightly, "Ya know, I thought I had some crazy ideas."

The fight drains out of me, leaving me feeling a little light-headed—or maybe that's the blood loss. I slip down to the floor of the van, landing with a bump and leaning back against the seat, pressing a hand to my head.

Is this it? I wonder dazedly. Is he just going to keep me around, driving me crazier and crazier until I finally snap? Certainly that outburst hadn't been fueled by rational thinking. Oh, the arguments were logical, sure, and I'll stand by them—but the expression of them wasn't the sanest decision I've ever made. Even if he doesn't cut my throat in the dark of the van here (and I somehow think he won't—he might think that I'll take it as validation of my guessing, the last resort of a man who has no real counter-argument, and he won't want to give me the satisfaction), I feel sure he'll find some way to make me pay for what I've said. The self-preserving, non-crazy course of action would have been to hold on to my self-control, to avoid lashing out at all costs.

Well, you're doing a bang-up job of that, Emma.

Since I'm already in the hole, I sigh softly, and on the exhale, I whisper, "Why do you hate me?" He's maddeningly silent, so I go on prodding. "What did I do to make you want to inflict all this on me?"

"I told you," he says, quietly and with eerie calm. "Last night."

"Last—?" I begin, flabbergasted—I'm pretty sure I'd remember if he'd explained to me why the hell he's doing this.

"I told you, Em. This isn't a riddle. There's no what, when, where, why—no pretty little package of an answer I can hand you to make sense of it all. And even if there was, I wouldn't give it to you, because that isn't how things work in the real world. But hey, if it makes you feel any better, I don't hate you. In fact, I kinda like you."

I laugh wearily, leaning my head back against the bench. "Sure, you do."

"You're still alive, aren'tchya?"

I'm quiet for a second, and then I say, "For now."

He laughs softly, and that's the last we say for a while.

A/N - If it's storming where you are half as bad as it is here right now, then you read this chapter in the perfect atmosphere. (Well, maybe not perfect- unforgiving cold and lots of black ice would probably be better, but hey, it's almost summer, we take what we can get.)

Next up: action and more action. The Joker wasn't lying when he said she should enjoy her peace while she still had it; the pace is gonna be pretty hectic from now on. In the meantime, finals are fast approaching, and I've got 700 pages to read, an essay to write, and two exams to study for over the next week. Leave me feedback on this latest chapter to prevent me from succumbing academic despair?