A/N: Hello all! Hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoys writing it :)

8

The gun wavered as Isabelle's hands shook with nerves and adrenaline. She took another step forward, aiming the gun at the rapist's head.

'You take one more step,' he snarled, 'and I will cut her pretty throat.'

He shook his victim viciously. Isabelle blinked. She didn't know how to deal with this kind of situation. Why the fuck had the Joker thought that shecould handle this? Isabelle could feel perspiration trickling down her forehead, despite the cool weather.

'I will shoot you!' she repeated, almost hysterically.

The man laughed at her, showing his yellowing teeth and blackened gums.

'Darlin', if you were gon' shoot me you would'a done it already,' he cackled. 'Now if you excuse me, I'm gonna get back to my business, and you can wait right there until I'm ready for you.'

He stowed the knife back in his pocket and turned away from her. Isabelle was suddenly furious. How dare he just assume that he could do this and expect to get away with it? Criminals should fear the consequences of their actions! Here she was, a morally upstanding citizen with a gun, and this rapist didn't care one jot!

Anger clouded Isabelle's vision, and she fired the gun into the wall.

'I am not fucking around!' she yelled, and the man turned around, staring at the hole in the wall.

'You crazy fucking bitch!' he screamed, pulling his knife out of his pocket and advancing towards her.

Isabelle once more aimed the gun in his direction. He paused, looking, for the first time, slightly afraid of her.

And rightly so, Isabelle thought, a snarl ripping through of her teeth. The Joker was right – this was real power.

'You take one more step and I will blow your brains out,' she snarled. The gun was steady in her hand as self-righteous purpose flooded her body.

The man stopped, holding his knife up in surrender. The woman behind him appeared to have passed out from the shock of it all. Isabelle kept her gun trained on him cautiously, suspicious of him giving up so easily. She watched him throw the knife onto the ground, heard it clatter on the dirty concrete. She narrowed her eyes, watching the man's body language. His muscles tensed briefly, and a fraction of a second later he lunged at her, meaty hands going for the gun. Isabelle shrieked as the gun was almost wrenched from her grip, but she held on with a strength she didn't know she possessed. A frantic tug-of-war ensued, both parties grappling for their lives (and, perhaps, their dignity).

The man gave up the gun as a bad job and before Isabelle could react, he had moved behind her, tightening an arm around her throat. He pulled her hair back with his other hand, pulling her flush against him, almost off of the ground.

Isabelle dropped the gun and scrabbled uselessly at the large elbow around her neck. She gulped, trying to draw oxygen into her lungs. Her boots kicked uselessly at his legs. With dawning horror Isabelle realised that her attacker was turned on by her hopeless position – she could feel the bulge of his erection on her thighs. Her hands fell weakly to her side, and she gasped like a startled fish as her vision went spotty. Vaguely she wondered if anybody was coming to save her. Not Batman, certainly; he had proved to be less than useless as a rescuer insofar. Isabelle's vision was reduced to just a tiny circle of light in an otherwise grey field of blindness. Her lungs gave up trying. Her legs hung floppily. Her normally pretty complexion had taken on a remarkable likeness to an overripe blueberry. This was it. This was where her story ended.

A tragic loss, Isabelle thought dully as she attempted to hold onto her last vestiges of life.

A wet noise interrupted her oxygen-starved thoughts, and she was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Isabelle lay on the dirty concrete, wheezing like she had done after she'd climbed eleven flights of stairs only to realise that the elevators in her apartment building were, in fact, in perfect working order. Slowly her vision returned to her and she could make out a dark mannish-looking blob on the ground in front of her. Isabelle blinked a few times. The blob slowly morphed into a dead rapist with a knife in his back. Isabelle shrieked and skittered backwards into a pair of legs. She looked up cautiously; it was the Joker. He looked down amusedly at her, his peroxide green hair swinging over to veil his perpetually smiling face.

Isabelle couldn't help but realise that the Joker, as rescuers go, was actually pretty reliable. The first time she had been in danger when he was around, Batman had decided to jump out of a window rather than be in any way helpful to anyone else. Granted, she had been in danger because of the Joker, but the point still stood. Since then, the Joker had done nothing but save her life, while the Batman had been about as useful as the nipples on his breastplate. By this point Isabelle was somewhat disillusioned with the famed Batman. He didn't seem to be around when he was needed. The Joker, however, had been the one to save her from the more and more frequently occurring life-threatening situations that she was finding herself in lately (to her increasing displeasure).

Isabelle looked up at the Joker again, somewhat sheepishly. After all, she'd had a gun and had somehow still gotten herself into a position to be strangled.

The Joker crouched down in front of her.

'Every death has a purpose.'

'And what was his purpose?' she asked hoarsely, nodding towards the man.

The Joker ignored her, becoming distracted as he was by the sudden loud shrieking of the woman he had saved.

'What's the matter?' he asked her, grinning. 'It it the scars?'

The poor woman couldn't believe her horrible luck – being rescued from the rapist by the Joker. She suddenly couldn't decide who she'd less like to be with – her attacker, or the man responsible for the death and destruction in her city. She appeared to decide that the best course of action was to remove herself from the situation, and promptly lost consciousness once again.

The Joker nudged her with his boot. She stayed firmly unconscious.

Isabelle massaged her throat and slowly picked herself up off the ground. She couldn't forget the way she'd felt holding the gun, before things had gone pear-shaped. She'd felt the power that the Joker had described. The intensity of the emotion frightened her. The only time she could think of when she'd felt the same way was when she'd told her crotchety next door neighbour, Frank, that no, he couldn't very well open a hole in their adjoining wall to make more space for his porcelain ashtray collection.

The Joker turned to Isabelle.

'You had a gun, Bells,' he said, almost curiously.

Isabelle suddenly felt self-conscious.

'Yes,' she said, nodding her head hesitantly.

'Why didn't you shoot him? I won't always be around to, uh, save the day.'

Isabelle realised that she was still nodding, and stopped. In all honesty, she had expected the man to yield to her higher class of weapon and come peacefully. Come peacefully where she hadn't had time to work out before she'd completely lost control of her already tenuous grasp on the situation.

The Joker looked at her, 'This is a lesson. In this world, it's kill or be killed. Remember that.'

She would.

It was almost a week later when she collapsed onto the mattress in what she supposed she could now call her bedroom. She rubbed her sore arms tiredly. Training with the Joker had recommenced, and unfortunately it hadn't gotten any easier. She was making progress though; she was starting to fill up Peyton's old suit. It definitely still wasn't what you could call flattering, but she was getting there muscle-wise. All of the cuts from her disastrous first session had become tiny scars littering her upper body - a constant reminder of the Joker and his teaching method.

She was just taking off her boots when she heard a knock at the door, and Sly poked his head in.

'Get ready to leave,' he muttered to her quickly, before taking his own advice and leaving himself.

Isabelle, mid-lace, let out a snort of annoyance and began to retie her boots, which were still frustratingly big on her (apparently her feet hadn't grown with the muscles in her arms and legs).

Standing up took some effort, as her muscles were insisting that no, they would very much like to stay relaxed on the mattress. Willing her rogue limbs into cooperation, she made it to the door, and took a look outside, wondering where on earth they were going that was causing all of this commotion. There were men running up and down the hall dressed, funnily enough, in military uniform. She grabbed hold of Striker as he hurried past carrying a rifle.

'What's going on? Where are we going?' she asked.

Striker was breathing hard from all of the running he had presumably been doing, so she could only make out a few phrases.

'Loeb… Honour Guard… Parade…' was all she understood before he dashed of down the corridor much faster than his burly frame suggested he was capable of doing.

Isabelle shook her head in confusion. Loeb. The Police Commissioner? Why did he have a parade? Then she remembered that they only got a parade when they died. It must have been recent, as she hadn't even heard of it happening. But why did she have to come?

'Bells!'

Isabelle turned and peered into the flurry of moving bodies. Cur came to a panting stop beside her, holding something small out in his hand. She took it curiously. It was a name badge.

'Rachel Dawes,' she murmured, looking at the name inscribed upon it and turning it over in her hand. Why was the name familiar?

'Joker said you have to wear it,' said Cur as he turned to leave. 'And make sure you're at the front!'

Isabelle was nonplussed. She looked at the pin in her hands, and then shrugged. If the Joker wanted her to wear it at this parade, then she would. She had more sense than to refuse him. It wasn't such a big ask, after all.

She pinned it onto the leather collar of her jacket. She made a mental note ask if she could get some shopping in – she was getting sick of wearing Peyton's cast-offs. She headed down the hall in the direction that everybody else seemed to be heading in.

The ride in the van was uncomfortable. Isabelle had been prepared to get into the back with the rest of the men, but the Joker had hauled her into the passenger seat. She sat there uncomfortably as the van pulled out of the warehouse in which they were holed up. She didn't know what you had to do to earn the passenger seat, but she definitely hadn't done it, and some of the men behind her were looking distinctly disgruntled.

The Joker slammed the door beside her, and she jumped, making him chuckle in his strange way.

The van pulled away from the curb, and Isabelle glanced around surreptitiously, trying to look as though she wasn't glancing around surreptitiously.

Warehouse Road. Well that seems straight forward enough.

Isabelle wasn't sure whether she'd have an opportunity to make a break for it, but if she did she wanted to be sure she knew where the Joker was staying, so maybe the Batman might actually do his job and pummel him for her. She didn't count on it though – Batman appeared to be more occupied with admiring the menacing shape of his cowl rather than lifting a finger to help her out of her current predicament.

This was, in actuality, staggeringly unfair to Batman, who was at that very moment tearing through the apartment buildings on either side of the parade, whilst simultaneously listing off possible locations that Isabelle could be alive in, or shallow graves that she could be dead in. There was no question though: his cowl was very menacing and he was quite proud of it, and he did spend an inordinate amount of time admiring his fine craftsmanship and excellent taste.

The van had dropped her off at one of the alleyways off the main thoroughfare where the parade for the commissioner was taking place. Evidently, there was some time before the event would start, as there was barely a crowd, and only uniformed officials seemed to be milling about nervously like overzealous parents picking up their children from their first day of school. Isabelle spotted an official-looking podium, and assumed that this was the one she was meant to be in front of. She hadn't even considered disobeying the Joker – she assumed (correctly) that he would be keeping a close eye on her, and any move of hers to make a break for it was going to end in tears. Isabelle made her way to the railing in front of the stage and leant against it casually, trying to look like she wasn't part of an elaborate criminal scheme. It seemed to work, as no one paid much attention to her. They were probably too busy trying to stop an elaborate criminal scheme.

Isabelle cast an eye over the suited men standing on the stage next to her. The Mayor was, as always, looking like a man much too young to be in such a high-paying position, and as if he should leave the politics to the big boys who threw their weight around without accomplishing anything much. Standing next to him was a man Isabelle recognised, with some anger, as Harvey Dent. Where the hell was Dent when the Joker crashed his fundraiser? Honestly, he hadn't even come to his girlfriend's rescue! Another useless knight of Gotham. Next, Isabelle saw Gordon, the nice man who had interviewed her in the hospital.

She accidently caught his eye as he scanned the crowd, and she dropped her head, simultaneously hoping that he had and hadn't recognised her. It appeared he had, as she heard him say: 'My God! It's the girl the Joker took!', and then some hurried movements of the policemen around him.

Isabelle winced. She wasn't sure whether this was part of the plan or not. She supposed it was, or else why would the Joker want her up the front?

She allowed herself to be steered around the side of the stage by some flustered policemen who clearly had more important things to do than steering girls around the sides of stages. Dent and Gordon were waiting for her.

'Hello?' said Isabelle awkwardly.

'Miss Richards!' exclaimed Gordon, looking at her excitedly, but also nervously, as if he had just received an email telling him that he'd won ten million dollars and all he had to do was enter all of his credit card details.

Dent just looked stunned.

Isabelle realised she probably explain what was going on (even though she wasn't sure herself what the Jokers plan was). She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out she was cut off by Dent pointing at her chest and shrieking manfully.

'Rachel!' he gasped.

Isabelle looked at him indignantly and was about to tell him that her name was actually Isabelle, when she finally remembered who Rachel Dawes was – Dent's girlfriend. She looked down at the badge, unsure what it meant and how she should react.

'He's targeting Rachel next!' Dent said angrily to Gordon, shooting a glare in Isabelle's direction, who thought that it was a tad unfair. After all, she hadn't asked for this, had she? And it was at his bloody fundraiser that she'd gotten kidnapped! In all fairness, she should be the one glaring at him. She allowed herself one small glare at Dent before she decided she was being childish and stopped.

Gordon was looking at her in a fatherly sort of way.

'We will talk about how you came to be here when you're rested, alright Miss Richards?' he said kindly, reaching over to pat her on the shoulder.

Isabelle nodded, but still couldn't help but feel that there was going to be some sort of catch. The Joker knew this was going to happen. Therefore, anything that happened next was also by design. Isabelle sighed, and decided that she would just go with the tide. She allowed herself to be hurried to a police car, and was bundled into the back behind two officers.

'You are going to be taken to Gotham General for a check-up,' Gordon told her, before hurrying away. The policeman in the passenger turned around and grinned at her. Isabelle grinned back, aware of the way the scar on her cheek warped her smile. The officer didn't mind though. He continued to grin. It was starting to get a little weird, actually. Isabelle stopped grinning, and instead looked confused and slightly concerned.

The car pulled way from the gutter, and behind them Isabelle saw a second police car peel away from the curb to follow them. Four policemen. All to take her to hospital? Isabelle decided not to worry – it made sense that she was given an escort, seeing as the Joker was sure to be on the hunt for her. She closed her eyes, resolving not to open them again until they arrived at the hospital.

Isabelle felt the car roll to a stop. She sighed, opening her eyes slowly. She'd been having a delightful daydream where she hadn't spent the last month in the care of a homicidal psychopath and his merry band of goons. As she became fully aware of her surroundings, Isabelle looked around in confusion. This wasn't Gotham General.

Her door opened, and the grinning policeman pulled her roughly from the car, dumping her unceremoniously on the hard concrete of the sidewalk.

'What the fuck?' she said loudly, trying to get her bearings. To her dawning annoyance she realised that they had parked right outside the warehouse she thought she'd just escaped from.

'I should have known it was too good to be true,' she groaned, putting her head in her hands. Honestly, the ineptness of Gotham's so-called finest was astonishing. Could they not even hire men who weren't under the employ of the Joker? It was getting ridiculous how many times Isabelle had been let down by the good guys.

The policemen-who-weren't-policemen gathered around her. She looked up at them.

'Hi,' she said, getting up, 'I'm Bells.'

A/N: Well there it is, chapter 8. Hope you all enjoyed it. I think it's interesting how much my writing style has changed since chapter 1. Changed for the better I hope :)
Again, please please please review. It means the world to me, and I really would like some feedback. Do you like Isabelle's character? Am I doing the Joker right? Do you like where the story is going? These are questions I'd love to hear answered :)
Thanks!