A/N: Hello all, and look, I actually kept my promise! Another chapter out before New Years! Woo!

Warning: Semi-graphic non-consensual sex in this chapter.

7

Isabelle hissed at the knife once more found purchase in her flesh. She could have sworn that she'd told her feet to dodge that one, but apparently her legs had decided that they'd much rather move at the rate of a senile tortoise. The blood from the shallow cut quickly joined the stream that was already making its way down her arm. The knife she held in her hand felt heavy and unfamiliar. Cur had given it to her with a quick clap on the shoulder and a whisper of good luck that she wished she didn't need.

Being told to fight someone with a knife was one thing, Isabelle reflected, as she turned once more to face the Joker, actually doing it was another.

The Joker circled around her, and Isabelle spun on the spot to keep him in her sight. He jumped forward and Isabelle shrieked as she stumbled backward to escape him. The men who were standing around them, making up the edges of the ring, chuckled at Isabelle's ineptness.

'This isn't fair,' Isabelle ground out, her teeth gritted. 'You can't give someone a knife and expect them to know how to defend themselves!'

The Joker laughed at her, 'Just think of the learning curve. You have the incentive, don't you?'

Isabelle had to admit that he was right. This definitely wasn't the classroom experience she had been hoping for, but she supposed it was as good as she was going to get. She slashed out the Joker with the knife, painfully aware that her effort could be likened to a grandmother flapping a bingo wing to flag down a passing cab. Her attempt inconvenienced the Joker no more than a slight breeze would have. He leant back slightly to avoid the blade, and responded by cracking the hilt of his knife against Isabelle's temple.

Isabelle collapsed to her knees, her knife skittering across the floor. Her vision receded to just a dot of light surrounded by grey, and she groaned, grasping her head. The Joker seemed to think that this was an opportune moment to slash a line up her forearm. Isabelle barely felt it as she blinked in quick succession, trying to clear her head and regain her vision. Slowly, very slowly, her sight returned. With it returned the pain in her arms and chest. Kneeling still on the floor, Isabelle took a quick inventory. The tank top she had found herself in (she was given to understand that it was another gift from Peyton from beyond the grave) was drenched in the blood that was steadily trickling down from the numerous cuts that haphazardly criss-crossed their way over her collarbones and across her shoulders. Her arms, too, were crossed with slashes, an uneven pattern that made the OCD part of her brain wring its hands in consternation. She surveyed the newest cut on her forearm – the way it crossed perpendicular to the other cuts the Joker saw fit to bestow upon her made it look like a tally mark.

By her reckoning she and the Joker had been at it for an hour and a half or more, and at this point she couldn't even discern the pain of one cut from another. She was one big hurt, and was rapidly tiring – from the blood-loss or the exercise, she couldn't tell.

Isabelle felt the Joker prodding her with a gloved finger.

'I don't have all day, Bells.'

'Fuck off,' she spat, not looking at him and not caring how he might react. What more pain could he bring her that she wasn't already feeling?

'Rude,' she heard the Joker murmur. 'I don't like rude people, Bells.'

Isabelle finally snapped.

'My name isn't Bells!' she screamed, almost hysterically. The pain had cemented itself at the forefront of her mind, and it throbbed rhythmically with her heartbeat. The Joker started to laugh, and it pierced her mind like tiny daggers, her pain spiking with each panted laugh. Her hands scrabbled uselessly at her head, trying to drive the sound out, to banish it from her mind. She curled into a ball on the concrete floor, her arms and chest slick with blood as the Joker continued to laugh beside her.

Sly winced as he saw Isabelle curl up into herself, her bloody hands holding her head as the Joker's manic laughter permeated the room. The last two hours hadn't been pleasant for him, watching as the Joker cut Isabelle as she attempted in vain to defend herself from him and his 'teaching method'. He knew the men beside him were enjoying Isabelle's pain, and he could hear them chuckling as she cringed against the floor. The Joker finally stopped laughing at Isabelle's outburst, to Sly's relief, but she didn't move from her position. The Joker played with her hair, and Sly could hear a tiny whimper from Isabelle.

'If I were you, I'd appreciate my new name,' the Joker crooned at her, and she shuddered, trying to draw her arms tighter around her knees. Sly grimaced as her slight movement reopened the cuts on her arms, and her blood ran anew.

Without any preamble or sign of his intention, the Joker lifted her head by her hair, still held in its ponytail, and slammed it down against the concrete with a thwack that made Sly wince. Isabelle slumped against the floor, her blood starting to form a pool underneath her still body. The Joker stood swiftly, surprising Sly as usual with his deceptive grace. He motioned to the men that were still gathered around.

'Get her cleaned up,' he said, before exited the room with the kick of his foot against the door.

He seemed to reconsider his statement, as he poked his head through the door a moment later, 'And if any of you hurt her I will cut your hands off and hang them around your neck.'

He nodded at the silent room and left.

Sly decided to take charge of the situation.

'I'll get her washed,' he said curtly, not trusting any of the men not to try anything with her, despite the Joker's graphic threat.

The rest of the crew filed out of the room, and Sly sat back on his haunches as he surveyed his new charge.

When Isabelle came to, the first thing she noticed was the blinding pain in her head. It was worse than the hangover she'd had the morning after Simon threw her a spontaneous birthday party – and that had felt like someone had decided to use her head as a football and boot her across the pitch. The second thing she noticed, as she opened her eyes, were the bandages that were neatly wrapped around her arms and chest. She touched them cautiously. They were so white. It was almost blinding. Then she realised that what she had assumed were spots in her vision were actually spots of blood seeping through the bandages, and it all came back to her.

'Ah crap,' she moaned, closing her eyes and thinking out she must have looked in the ring with the Joker – like an ant trying to escape a boot, most likely.

'You… You ok?' Isabelle heard a tentative voice ask. Isabelle's eyes shot open, and she was surprised to see Sly sitting at the foot of the mattress she was stretched out on. Simultaneously, she realised that she was in the same room she had woken up in after that travesty of a fundraiser.

'Did… Did you do this?' she asked, gesturing at the bandages that covered her upper body. Sly nodded, and blushed. The response was at odd with Sly's less than savoury appearance, and it made Isabelle grin.

'I had to take off your shirt,' he said, going pink again, 'to, you know…'

He gestured at the bandages. Isabelle cringed slightly, wishing once again that she had a bra. She understood Sly's actions though; she wasn't going to hold something that had made it easier to fix her up against him. She knew he wouldn't have taken advantage of her either - he was the only one who really seemed to care for her wellbeing.

'It's ok,' she said, stretching out a hand and placing it on his. 'How bad was I?'

'You were pretty roughed up. You can't fight worth a damn.'

Isabelle sighed, 'I'm aware, believe me.'

Sly laughed a little, and made to reply, but was interrupted by the bang of the door as the Joker entered the room. He greasepaint was freshly applied, and Isabelle could see the evidence of it on his fingers. Sly ripped his hand out of hers so fast that it startled her, and he got to his feet.

'Sly,' the Joker said, rolling the name off his tongue like he rolled his knife around his fingers, 'You have been busy. You can leave now.'

At this rather abrupt dismissal, Sly left the room, and Isabelle stared after him. She would much rather be alone with Sly than alone with the Joker.

The man in question settled himself on the edge of the mattress, looking down at Isabelle with an interested expression. He continued to look at her. Isabelle stared right back with a look the she hoped conveyed her intense need to punch him in the face. They looked at each other for several minutes until Isabelle patience bid adieu and departed.

'What do you want?' she snapped irritably.

The Joker, looking pleased that he had won the staring contest, said, 'What did you feel when you held that knife?'

Isabelle was taken aback by the question.

'Uh… I felt like I really wanted to stick it in your eye.'

The Joker sniggered.

'And didn't that feel powerful?' he pressed.

Isabelle frowned, and sat up, 'I suppose it would have if I actually had a shot of sticking you with it.'

The Joker nodded as if she'd just spouted the most profound and intellectual thing he had ever heard in his entire life.

'It's real power. To hold someone's life in your hands, and then release them from their pathetic, meaningless existence. To watch their eyes thank you for helping them move on from their boring existence.'

His eyes gleamed as he spoke, and the knife in his hand played across his fingers.

'I've always thought real power was being able to walk in heels, but apparently I was wrong,' Isabelle quipped without thinking. There it was. Her fucking foot always lodged in her fucking mouth.

The Joker just grinned at her. Isabelle was sure that she would never get used to the way that his scars distorted what she was sure would otherwise be a pleasant smile. It wasn't as if he was bad looking – he had excellent bone structure, as far as Isabelle could tell under the greasepaint, and his eyes were a pretty shade of brown. Isabelle frowned to herself, realising what she was doing. She couldn't allow herself to humanise this man. In fact, she shouldn't even think of him as a man; he was a murderer, a psychopath, and Arkham Asylum was the best place for him.

'Were you born in Gotham?' he asked suddenly, throwing her out of her reverie.

Isabelle glared at him, 'I don't see how it's any of your fucking – '

She stopped as she felt the cold touch of the knife on her neck.

'You. Will. Answer. Me,' the Joker growled, reaching up with his other hand to grip her hair and expose her throat more fully to him. Isabelle looked up at him with wide eyes, her pulse thundering in her ears and her scalp spiking with pain. She would never get used to his mood swings; it scared her that he was so completely unpredictable.

'Yes! Yes, I was born in Gotham!' she choked out, careful not to move her neck.

'Why haven't your parents been on the news? Interviews about their poor, darling little Isabelle?'

Isabelle's eyes narrowed, 'They probably don't even know I'm gone.'

The knife disappeared from her neck, and the Joker drummed his fingers on the mattress.

'Interesting. That's interesting. What happened?'

Isabelle looked at him sharply. She couldn't understand why he cared about her or her family. She was just a way of passing the time for him.

'Well… I love Gotham. I love the atmosphere, and the business, and the danger. My parents didn't like it at all. They moved to Starling City, but I refused to go with them. I guess it started then…'

Isabelle trailed off and looked at her bandaged hands. She didn't want to go through this. Not again. She looked at the ugly knife in the Joker's gloved hand and sighed.

'We kept on good terms for a few years… But then the Scarecrow came along. My parents called me, told me to get out of the city, to come and live with them. I refused. I didn't think any of it would touch me.

'I was living in an apartment in the Narrows at the time – I couldn't afford anywhere else. The fear gas didn't get to me, but as soon as they knew I was alive, they dropped all contact. I don't really understand it, but… I'm sure they don't even know I'm missing.'

'Don't you have any friends Bells?' the Joker inquired with an amused tone to his voice.

'You killed my only friend,' Isabelle hissed.

'I didn't kill whatshisname, I released him. Tell me, what did he do? How did he contribute to Gotham?'

Isabelle frowned, 'Well he actually lived in Metropolis. He was the chair of a charity that provided funding for children's homes.'

'And now he's a martyr. Splashed all over the papers – the man who sacrificed himself to save others. With all that publicity, donations to his charity will be coming left, right, and centre. I did him a favour.'

'You didn't do him a favour, you murdered him! He's dead!'

'And think!' the Joker exclaimed, 'All of the kids with dead mummies and daddies who'll be fed for a year because of one measly little death.'

Isabelle, blinking back tears (of anger or sadness, she wasn't sure which), was finding it difficult to refute the Jokers logic. It was true that the publicity from Simon's death would have increased the amount of donations the charity received, but she just didn't think she was ready to accept that there might have been some good in Simon's death.

The Joker's hands were fluttering, twitching even, and his eyes were wide and staring.

'That's the great lie, you see. People say that everybody's life that has purpose, but they're wrong. It's your death that has purpose.'

Isabelle almost had to roll her eyes at the picture the Joker was painting for her. How like a super-villain to think that death was the only way to influence life.

The Joker checked his watch; Isabelle noticed uncomfortably that it, like most of his wardrobe, was spattered in blood.

'Let's go… for a walk,' he said, pulling Isabelle to her feet. She hissed as the cuts on her arms twinged at his rough handling. The Joker noticed her discomfort and smiled widely.

Ten minutes later, Isabelle was shrugging the leather jacket more snugly around her shivering shoulders as they walked silently through the deserted alleyways of the Narrows. The Joker was walking a little way ahead of her at an annoyingly inconsistent pace that caused her to speed up and slow down like a car in gridlock. It was chilly out on the streets, and now, more than ever, Isabelle really wished she had a bra. If the Joker turned around now he would be treated to quite a show. Luckily, he seemed focused on the path ahead, not even looking at his knife as he flipped over and around his gloved fingers.

Isabelle grimaced as her heel caught in her boot. She was wearing the pair that Peyton had died in, and as if that weren't enough, they were about two sizes too large, and no matter how tightly she tied the laces they weren't practical. Not to mention the fact that she wasn't wearing any socks – she had refused to wear the old socks of someone she had played a hand in killing.

You could do it. You could run.

Isabelle shook the thought out of her head. Even if the boots weren't going to trip her up, she doubted that she could run faster than the Joker could catch her. And when he did she knew she wouldn't enjoy the results. Still, she couldn't help but entertain the notion, before casting it aside. Rescue was her only hope.

Ok, where the fuck is Batman.

Isabelle almost ran into the Joker as he stopped suddenly, head tilted to the side as if he was listening for something. Isabelle followed his example, and her eyes widened, looking off down into a nearby alley for the source of the noise. She could faintly hear a panicked whimpering, and a rhythmic grunting, followed by a cry and a loud slap. Isabelle's eyes widened further as she realised what was happening.

She whirled around to look at the Joker, 'Do something!'

The Joker laughed at her, 'Who am I to tell him what to do?'

He paused.

'You, however…'

He reached into his purple coat, and pulled out a gun; the same gun, Isabelle realised, that he had used to hit her over the head with at the bank when they first met. He held it out to her, dangling it from his fingers. Hesitantly, Isabelle took it. The Joker bowed his head in a mock salute, and pushed her towards the entrance to the alleyway.

'Every death had purpose,' he reminded her.

Isabelle stepped around the corner cautiously. She eyed the gun in her hand distastefully. She knew her way around a gun – it was practically rite of passage among the people of Gotham – but had never really grew to like them like her gun-toting neighbours did when she'd lived in the Narrows. A scream brought her back to the issue at hand, and she made her way further into the shadows of the alley.

Isabelle felt sick as she looked at the scene in front of her. The woman had clearly been beaten; her face was a bleeding mess, and one of her eyes was swollen completely shut. Her pretty skirt was pushed up around her waist, and Isabelle could see, even from where she was standing, bruises around the woman's hips. She had clearly given up, and was just waiting for the ordeal to be over. The man on top of her looked as if he had been pulled from the greasiest of motel's in the Narrows; a gold chain glinted around his neck as he thrust, and his black trousers were down around his ankles. Isabelle could see his striped socks, and for some reason, this made her uncomfortable – as if it gave the man some humanity, a quirk that gave him some form of personality, of a life outside of this.

Nevertheless, Isabelle aimed the gun at his head.

'Stop.'

The man looked up, saw Isabelle, snorted, saw the gun, and snarled. He pulled out of the woman with a grunt, and looked faintly ridiculous as he grasped for his trousers to pull them up. Before Isabelle could react, however, he pulled a knife out of his pocket, and held it against the woman's throat, who choked with a frightened gasp.

'You put the gun down, little girl,' he snarled at he, grasping his victim by the hair, and pulling her half off of the ground.

Isabelle shook her head, her hands now shaking with the weight of the gun, 'No. Let her go.'

'Why would I do that? What a sweet little cunt she has.'

At the word 'cunt' her pulled her hair sharply, and the poor woman let out a little moan of terror.

'If you don't do it, I'll shoot you!' Isabelle said, hating the quiver in her voice.

'Or,' the man leered, 'you could wait you fucking turn.'

Isabelle advanced one step forward, cocking the gun.

'I will shoot you!' she cried.

Please, please, don't make me shoot you. I don't want to prove him right.

A/N: Bit of a cliffy for you there! Please, please, please review! My views for each chapter are going up, but the amount of reviews is decreasing. Reviews mean the world to me, and are extremely motivational! I will get chapters out faster if I think people want them sooner, and I can only tell that if people review. So really it's in your best interest to review! ;)