Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
Tuesday, August 27th
24:00 EST
Lawless Residence
Bedraggled. Barren. Bereft.
Hair hanging in sheenless clumps, sleek and dripping. Greying circles spreading from sagging sockets, thin lips, slash of mouth, lifeless, baleful eyes like shriveled spider's eggs.
That body could be twenty. Supple, svelte. Legs still hard and lean. Breasts high and firm. But ruined. White skin shot with scars. There is no abdomen left, only a twisted pit of a navel to reveal it for what it is: human.
I stand on Lawless' tile floor, staring at the monster in the mirror before me. I shudder. I reach for the thick towel on the bar, wrapping it quickly around me, covering every inch of scar and womanhood until only my shoulders and legs remain. I pull it tighter, shivering.
It is red. Deep, rich red.
Alluring. Seductive. Mocking. And for a melancholy moment, I am in Paris.
"HAWT DAMN!" Red calls, my face flushing laughing in embarrassment, blushing in his enthusiastic admiration. "Paltron, baby, why didn't you tell us you were a girl!" He takes my hand, spins me around in the small boutique. "Damn." He says again, taking me in from head to toe. "Now that's a dress."
I pull away. Turn to Bear. He is speechless. "Is it really that bad?" I tease.
"You…look…amazing." Bear grunts, struggling to string the words together.
I let out a shriek of laughter, earning the disapproving glare of every other customer, not caring flouncing again to the floor-length mirror, smoothing the crimson fabric against my waist, turning, watching my lithe body spinning from every angle, girly, giddy, giggling I stop suddenly, flipping my hair from my face-
750 Euros. I don't care. I know this is the one.
They wrap my street clothes in the tissue lined box, I sit on the counter as they scan my dress, the shop-keeper's disapproving huffs and rapid murmurs only adding to my giddiness. Red has my bag, Bear holds the door, the scent of fresh-baked bread and sweet sunshine spilling in-
I squint into the sunlight, lightheaded and drunk with life. I am twenty. Beautiful and whole. My hair is long, silken, unbound, pale against the bright crimson of this ridiculously sexy little red dress. Bare legs, bare shoulders, I feel flirty and feminine and I like it. My step is high and so are my spirits. I turn heads on the crowded Paris streets, even Red and Bear can't seem to take their eyes off me…
After sixteen months in God-forsaken Warizistan, cold showers, MRE's, hot, sweaty, miserable periods I am fresh and clean, Sweet Jesus legs shaved! I feel the cool air against my smooth skin, relishing in the freshness of every breeze.
I'm in Paris, and I am laughing laughing laughing until my face is sore-I'm on leave, with my friends, in fucking Paris!, and I'm about to see Jon for the first time in six long, lonely months…
Stuffing our faces with hearty, hearth-baked bread we turn the corner, and suddenly, there she is, stark and majestic against the sunny sky: The Eiffel Tower. Unoriginal, overused haunt of meeting lovers for over a century…sappy, story-book romantic but every girl wants to be that girl if even at least for a moment. Jon's face before mine I run faster, harder, my heart pounds, face flushed with excitement I take the stairs two, three at a time Red whistling at me from below I don't care legs gloriously sore sweat-soaked skin I feel so goddamned alive-!
I reach the first platform. They're calling for me to wait. I can't. The City of Light spreads breathless and beautiful in every direction but I have eyes only for the next flight of steps, the dizzying steel platform where Jon will be-
I see his eyes his shaven head feel the touch of his skin on mine-
The last steps. Legs burning, lungs aching, heart pounding in exertion and giddy excitement, a sudden, swooping shudder that has nothing to do with the whipping wind, I stand stock still: Jon.
Jon-!
He turns slowly I am running, running and in one glorious second I am in his strong arms, swung in the air, shrieking, his desperate lips against my neck, my face, my chest, his smooth shaven head under my fingertips, eyes closed, tearing, the pain of our separation a sudden, stabbing anguish-
Hands in my hair he holds me close. I press his face against mine, between each long, desperate kiss he pants my name as if we were making love-
I'm a Marine. A soldier. But I'm also a woman…and even without this damn tower, this little dress, the city of Paris or the country of France…when I'm with Jon I am a princess.
…And I don't mind being that girl. Don't mind it at all.
Tired. Exhausted. Mind playing tricks. I was never that girl. I was only Young. Naïve. Foolish. No longer. Naivety and innocence in Gotham will only get you killed…and bitterly do I know it. There are no princesses, no castles, no ogres and no heroes. There is no once upon a time, no happy endings. Life is pain. And remorse. No more. We live. Give birth. Die. That is our legacy.
I am no longer young nor naïve. I am thirty-nine. Wretched and ruined. Betrayed, abandoned and abused. The towel is crimson, like my hands, stained a sanguine scarlet.
It is blood. And it will not be washed away.
24:03 EST
Lawless Residence
There are voices from the hallway. Lawless. Apologetic, gentle, mild. Her crying ceases. Footsteps then silence…
My hair hangs dripping in my face, cool drops like freezing tears fall from clumping tendrils like an eerie Gorgon's head. I will shear them. Will wear my mourning openly. Will no longer bear the mark of a woman…
My weight is on my left leg as my aching fingers search the drawers for scissors. Yet here they stumble over a strange enigma. Electric razor. Mouthwash. Men's deodorant and shampoo. I uncap them, bring their dark forms to my face, drink their familiar scent…they are light. Mild. Subdued and adolescent. My eyes frown shut, clouded in pain and exhaustion. I know this scent…but it is not Lawless'…not his wife's…
Sedated. Satiated. Wafting waves of nostalgia and sleepiness rise in the steamy mist. I open my eyes. Dark, rich blue hues stretch across the walls. Marble counter, stone floor. Simple. Satisfied. Youthful yet Strong. To whom does this room belong-?
But my reverie is cut short. Shrill, sharp cry. Woman's voice. I drop the plastic bottle and it bumps along the floor, soap spilling heedless and slick like blood on the tile below…
The intrigue of that strange scent, my exhaustion, illness…Was it hallucination? Regression?
…Lawless' wife?
Doubt grows sinister in the silence. I resist the urge to call out. Question. I tense, wait for running footsteps, Lawless' assertive voice…but deep in my heart I know he would never keep his woman waiting…then another voice speaks in the silence.
"Commme out come out where ever you are!"
…Joker-!
Heart racing adrenaline pumping rational thought tumbles away I have never hated so strongly-
My wounds have cost me my revenge once…I will not be so weak again. My hand reaches achingly to Art's berretta, and its steel strength seeps down the stock into my fingers. I raise the gun to my death-white face, shift it over my left shoulder, slide serpentine along the wall. I can wait. Wait here. Wait for footsteps along the dark hall, the crunch of Ian's toy cars under unwitting feet…
But he will not let me wait. Hide. I must go to him…and I must be ready. Silently I slink into the hall, eyes scanning up, down, left, right. The midnight air is still, stagnant. The Night listens with me, waiting for his hiss of breath in the silence…
I loosen my fingers. Shift my grip.
A bullet is not satisfactory. It is too quick. Too clean…but I can dam back my fury no longer. Every second that bastard is loose another child may die. I have sent my Angel to his death…I will have no more innocent blood on my hands. But a murderer's? I will lick, lap, savor it like a starving cur…
I'm here, motherfucker. You ready to die?
…He has taken my son. I will take his life.
23:08 EST
Lawless Residence
I am Death. I am a Hunter. I stalk my prey slowly. He will not escape again.
My feet are noiseless, my breath lusty, the burning ache of adrenaline and anticipation eating through me. Bastard. Motherfucker. Niddingsvark. A valkyrie is loosed, yet no Valhalla waits, no whispering wings come for reward and glory…just the fiery torments of Hel. A week ago, an Angel died in Gotham City. My son was taken from me, and blood only will I have as a weregild for his death…
The hall is empty, silent, and dark. I listen, but there are no sounds. No life. There is a portrait, dim in the darkness: Lawless, his wife, his young son…ohfuckohnofuckfuckFUCK! that short, strangled scream-!
Gotham Memorial. His wife lies snoring in the hospital bed, hair disheveled and dark against the pillows. Lawless is tired, haggard, has not slept in 48 hours but still radiating a palpable, parental joy. I have broken my rule for him, have begrudgingly come to the neonatal ward of Gotham Memorial, Gotham Memorial where nine years ago I lost my only son…and now another child lays sleeping before me. Ian Anthony Lawless. Five pounds, seven ounces, 18 inches long…swaddled and cuddled in a Gotham Knights blanket.
Baby boy, I whisper. Lawless is staring expectantly at me, glowing in paternal pride. I am numbed. Sickened. I do not know what to say…
"He's…he's um, he's fucking small." I state.
He grins in the darkness, staring down at the sleeping child. "Yeah. He's pretty damn small. Be a few more years before he's catching footballs…but he'll grow. He'll grow." Lawless smiles up at me, hunched over the bassinet. His next three words wound me deeply:
"Wanna hold him?" For nine years my empty arms have yearned for my child…but I am no longer a mother. I am a monster. Do I wish to hold him-?
Yes.
…and no.
Ian Anthony Lawless. His toy car lies shattered and broken with finality on the forgotten floor. And I feel guilt, guilt and bile and insatiable rage…
Lawless. His wife. Young son. I was a fool to come here. Accept Lawless' help. Put him and his family recklessly in danger. I am a curse. Whatever I love I lose, my womb barren and bitter, bringing forth only destruction and death…
Unwittingly, unwillingly, I have killed again.
A gentle drip, tear explodes on the muzzle of the gun, broken and bloody on the cold hard metal. Bitter, bitter bile rising thick and fast in my burning throat. Then that Bastard's voice, lyrical and taunting. "…Where are you? What are you waiting for, hmmm? Why don't you just…come out-tuh? You don't disappoint, do ya? Ya just sit there and let people, hmm, die…"
Trembling. Chest heaving. A week ago, an Angel died in Gotham City. The Devil is yet loose and good men fall like weeds before his scythe. Lawless. His wife. Young son…
Enraged. Lusting. Yearning. Beserk for the bitter taste of blood. And this terrible thirst cannot be quenched nor assuaged. I will wash away the stains of these innocents in the scarlet of the Joker's blood yet it will not be enough….
…It will never be enough.
24:09
Lawless Residence
Movement. Breath. I spin, raise Art's Berretta, blind in the sudden light-
"Paltron, what the hell-?"
...shock. Speechless. Blinking stupidly...
"Lawless!" And suddenly my arms are around him, the scratchy stubble of his beard raising gooseflesh on my naked neck, my chin nestled on his shoulder. I close my eyes. Hold him tightly. Whisper JesusfuckingChrist.
His hands hanging awkwardly finally move to my shoulders. Hold me at arm's length. He laughs uncertainly, says you look like you've seen a ghost…
"The stakes haven't changed. I want the um, Batman." Joker!
I am pale, trembling. But now that voice is tinny. Mechanic. A recording broadcasted over television. Stupid, stupid bitch. I shake my head, icy adrenaline turning numb inside me.
Sopping wet. Standing in his hallway wearing nothing but a towel, holding nothing but a retired service pistol. I must look utterly deranged. "I heard him, Lawless." I whisper. "Joker. Thought he was here."
He tries to laugh. "Why would the Joker be here?" But it isn't funny. Not a question of if. Only when. He is a cop in a corrupt city, flailing in her final moments of rabies, where the best men like him can do is wipe random flecks of foam from her gaping maw until her gnashing teeth finally consume their courage.
I shrug, bare shoulders shivering. Adrenaline let down. Pain, exhaustion catching up..."Saw him today…Saw him at TV 18…"
But my words, like my eyes, have trailed away. TV 18. Angel's sobs. Imagined. I blink heavily, but the image on the wall is seared in my retinas: Jimmy Connolly. My Angel. Smiling in a goddamn photo frame...I blink. Shake my head, but the spectre will not go away…
My knees buckle. I lean against the wall, one palm flat against the cold paint, the other forearm resting against the doorway, Art's Berretta still clenched in my fist. Lawless' large hand envelops mine, and I relinquish the gun willingly. I am crazed. Hallucinating. Should not hold a weapon…
Angel. Ian. Laughing in a mess of autumn with leaves in their curly hair. Angel. Ian. Younger boy on his shoulders, wind-whipped cheeks stained pink standing beside a snowman now clad in his hat, scarf, gloves....
"Sorry," He mumbles, removing the magazine and opening the chamber to dump out the loaded round. He places it heavily in my palm. For the second time in three days I stare at this strange cylinder, feel its weight in my fingers. "I've got a kid, you know? I try to keep a strict no guns policy-"
Worry clouds his eyes. He misjudges me.
"Paltron...do you think my family's in danger-?"
I snort a laugh, cringe a sob. That face. It surrounds me, Eats me. I clutch my head, sniff in misery…in madness. Raise tear-streaked, bloodshot eyes, and whisper I don't know.
24: 12 EST
Lawless Residence
Harsh, gravelly tones. "You're not imagining things."
"W-what?" I whisper, eyes still drawn to that beautiful, smiling face...
Rough hand on the back of my arm. "It's there." He says simply. "Took that one last October. This was New Year's...this was the fourth of July cookout we just had-"
Angel. Ian. Jimmy Jr. and little BB Gordon. Anna Ramirez's three dark children. All piled on the sagging porch swing, laughing in the summer sun, hair dripping wet from swimming in the pool-
I turn. Our eyes meet. Hazel and crystal. And I know. I know. It passes in a look...
And I am speechless. Jealous. Torn between envy and gratitude...if only I hadn't been so hard. So callous. So blind. Had stayed in touch with Lawless. Made an effort to reach out, befriend his rookie partner. Perhaps I too would have shared this past year with a boy who was like a son to me...
Squinting in sunlight faces fingers stained bright with food coloring the boys just love 'em I've got a deep freeze full of nothing but goddamned red popsicles-
And I remember Angel running to Gerald, my heart breaking, hands holding him back, relenting, releasing...because the only thing a child longs for more than a mother is a loving father. I blink. A tear falls. The nightmares of his childhood, an adolescence alone, alienated, with no father-figure, no male mentors...and given the choice again, I know which one he would choose-
But I do not begrudge him. Angel wanted, needed a father...and I can think of no better man than the one who stands silent beside me.
"Lawless, I-" But I can't choke out the words.
..I don't need to. He holds me. Holds me tight against his chest like he would our son, like no one has held me in nineteen years. Facetwistedbrowsknotted clenching Angel's bullet tight in my quaking fist, wiping my streaming eyes nose againandagain across his shoulder...
Tracking Room. Women's restroom. Coughing my guts out.
Hot water rises from the tap, steam eases my aching lungs. I plunge my hands in, oblivious to the pain, wash that dust and grime away from my face, my arms, my chest-
The door opens. Lawless. My shirt is open down past my bra but I don't give a shit. "What up?" I choke.
"You okay?" He asks.
"Fucking fine."
"You sound like Hell." He says.
I wrench the faucet off. "I just had a fucking building dropped on me, Lawless. I think I can handle a little Vick's Vapor Rub."
He grins. Shakes his head tiredly. "You sure?"
"Yeah." I say, wiping my face with rough paper towel. I raise my eyes to his. "Yeah." He came for me. Saved my life. And that thanks falls heavily in the silence.
"Guess we're even now." He chuckles. Fear Night. Has it only been two years-?
Then another question. Inevitable. He shifts his weight, squints his eyes. Runs the fingers of his right hand through his greying hair. "You and...you and Connolly?"
Connolly. Goddamn Jimmy Connolly. My Angel. I feel the warmth of his flesh against my fingers, cold shock, fear, disbelief stabbing again through my heart. His dark eyes are dull with pain, yet he rolls his head instinctively to my touch...Jimmy Connolly. My hand lies on the face of a young man, but his eyes...his eyes are my Angel's eyes, tearing in pain, brows knit, tiny mouth open in agony...
My heart grows still in my breast. No more dreams. Nightmares. Bitter nights of black regret. I wake. And Angel's eyes are open. Staring into mine. Irislostinlashes they squint, widen...clear.
...And for one shrinking, silent second, the curtain is rent.
"Wherewereyou!" A voice cries in Eden chirping words fall shrieking and shrill, he sitsuppullsawayshoutsagainwherewereyou-!
Breathless. Choking. An ache in my heart that threatens to burst. Burning cold in the pit of my navel, dark eyes from plaster-coated pits accusingburningtearingstreaking glass dust debris turn to mud run in senseless splotches mar his flawless face-
"Wherewereyou!" He screams again "Wherewereyou!"
"Angel-" Thirteen years. Long lonely miserable years. Trembling. Wretched. Alone under the shrinking sky and his dark eyes are agony and accusation, and I cringe naked before the judgement seat. "Angel, Angel, I-"
I have looked for a boy. A child...yet he is now a man and my hands falter, fingertips stretching for his streaming face so boyishly beautiful-
"Yousaidyou'dcomebackforme! Iwaitedforyou! I waited for you and you never came younevernevercame!" He cries, desperate, panting, tiny teeth bared..."Where were you!" He sobs. "Where were you-!"
Slow, shuddering sigh. I shake my head, stare into his doe-wide eyes, their dew stained lashes. HeartburstingbreaststwingingeyespricklingdehydratednotearsleftocryheisbeautifulbreathtakingandIlefthimIlefthimIfuckinglefthim-
"I'm here now." I moan. "Angel...I'm here now."
...the only apology I can offer.
Silence. His pale lips part.
"Mamulya-" And my outstretched fingers brush his face he falls into me sobbing sobbing my Angel is sobbing I taste his tears salty blood sweetscentedsweat, feel the flash of his throat, the warmth of his breath cannot kiss him hard enough hold him close enough belching smoke falling ash roar of sirens dust dust everywhere armageddon yet it pales fades inconsequential insubstantial nothing, nothing compared to the boy now weeping against my breast-
I brush the curls from his eyes. Kiss his tears away caress the smooth skin of his cheeks, finger running down the soft skin of his nose he clings to me clings to me wipes his noseeyesblood against me againandagainandagain Angel looks into my eyes believes they are all he needs....
Yet a strange voice from another world, like a forlorn and forgotten past comes faint through this fog...Paltron, Paltron he's hurt bad...Paltron, Paltron look at me...
But Angel's eyes are open. Staring into mine. I will not, cannot look away they are liguid and light, silence and sorrow. Those adoring dark eyes flit shut, tears dancing on lashes brush like butterflies against my bare skin.
Large hands under shoulders strong arms threaten to tear him away I struggle pull him closer those sleeping eyes flying open shouting NoNoN'et-!
I blink. Lawless. Paltron, he says. Paltron, he needs to go to the hospital-
"Paltron?" Lawless asks. I look up, jerked from memory. Angel's scent still lingers not two hours old, smooth skin still soft against mine...I bow my head. Button my shirt. Reach for Art's Berretta. I tuck it in my waist "You wouldn't understand."
I open my eyes over his shoulder. Another picture. Sepia tones, Old West Theme. One of those piece of crap costume places you find at the County Fair. Wanted, dead or alive for the crimes of smelly laundry and leaving the toilet seat up: Aaron Lawless and Jimmy 'The Kid' Connolly.
A week ago today I held my son and told Lawless he wouldn't understand.
...I was wrong.
24:18 EST
Lawless Residence
We break apart, an odd understanding heavy between us. "You okay?" He asks.
I nod. Sniff. Wipe my nose on the back of my arm. Raise my eyes to his. "I need some fucking sleep."
"What will it, uh, what will it take? What's gonna make you...understand? How long are ya gonna le-t this go on?" The Joker's voice. We flinch. Lawless grimaces, whispers motherfucker, shakes his head. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, you do." He slaps my back, and I am a man again. "Brought you this." He bends, hands me the mess of laundry now laying forgotten on the floor. Ratty old T-shirt. Gym shorts, sweat shirt. "Thought my wife might like it a little better than the towel." He tries to smile, but it dies in his eyes. "Get changed. Go sit in the living room. I'm gonna get you some tea."
I hear his heavy footfalls, shiver as cold, dripping water goes running down my back, forming a puddle at my feet. A single drop from my still-wet hair runs down, beads perfectly on the tip of my nose. I am alone in a hall of memories and might have beens-
"And tell Amy to turn the damn channel." He growls from the kitchen.
24:21 EST
Lawless Residence
"…Ya see, I'm a man of my word. One school, for every day. One down...and you, all of you, decide how many more to go."
I limp to the living room, right leg weak and sore. Amy Lawless sits on the edge of the couch, elbows on her knees, remote in her lap. The blue sheen of the television makes her worn face pale in the darkness. I stand behind her in the darkness, mesmerized, horrified yet enchanted by the Bastard's speech. He has...charisma. Hitler, resurrected. Exaggerated gestures, captivating passion...
"Ya see, the only uh, sensible way to live in a senseless world...is without rules. Oh, sure, you can try in-ven-ting some, try to make everyone play your game...religion, government...and ya all know how welllll those have tured out: the Crusades...Third Reich...and people get a lit-tle disheartened, sound...fam-i-li-ar? But a rule that has to be written...isn't a rule at all. Ya know I call myself the Joker, but you...you're all absurd! Ya make up this, uh, this big game of pretend...and it's all fun and games until someone gets...hurt."
Then it gets serious, motherfucker. Then the people you oppress rise up and sting you in the ass, I seethe.
"Because when it gets tough, when it gets...personal, ya start to ignore the rules. Ya drop ' ni-ice people get hur-t when someone ignores the rules. If you ignore them-when you ignore even one!-then society goes down the um, drain. A speed limit sign here, a red light there…and your well manicured perfect little world goes straight ta hell..."
He smiles, yellow eyes alive with malice. "Ya see folks, the truth is, a whole hell of a lot of innocent people-of little uh, kiddos-died today…but little old me didn't kill an-y-body-"
My heart falls. Stomach twists. Punch line to the worst joke I will ever hear. He set the bombs, yes. Set them off after the schools were emptied, cleared...had never intended to kill children himself...
Silence. Sinister smile. Arching brow. Knowing wag of that hideous head. "…you did."
...he let Gotham do the dirty work for him.
Amy Lawless raises her fragile fingers to her face. Presses her mouth. Horrified. She is not the only one. Parents are grieving all across Gotham...and there is a Great Cry in all of Egypt, such as there has not been heard before, and such as will never be again.
24:23 EST
Lawless Residence
I shift my weight from my throbbing right leg. The movement catches her eye, and she whips her head, dark hair fanning. She eyes me scathingly, chewing her tongue.
"Why the hall you watching this?" I ask.
"Because I have the right to know, okay?" She snaps. "If it bothers you, leave."
I am silent. Instead I sit. Shaking. Exhausted. The Bastard's leering face looms from the television, magnified and maleficent, a scab still visible under his scars and horrid death mask: Angel.
What to say? How to say it? I have never been comfortable around women. Even as a child preferred the company of men. Perhaps because my father left us. Perhaps because I was taller, faster, stronger, went through puberty young, the brunt of all feminine envy and spite…perhaps because then, even then, I had admiration for independence and strength, and little patience for the weak. I despise my weakness and womanhood…and Lawless' wife is both.
Yet here I am, in her house, enjoying her hospitality, and in the last six years, I've seen more of her husband than she has...and she-for however short a time-took Angel in...
"I'm…I'm not like you." I say. A strangled apology, a thanks...
"No." She retorts simply. '"No, you're not."
Laughter. Chit-chat. Light, girlish hor d'ourves….
My jaw is set. Lips pressed. I am surrounded by bright clouds of balloons, heaps of presents, talkative, giggling strangers. Amy Lawless' baby shower. And I know no face but hers…and even she seems shocked to see me.
"Uh, Gwen!" She says loudly, "I'm…I'm glad you could make it…sign in, help yourself to the food…"
All of her friends are here. Talking, giggling, discussing children and childbirth three of them are fucking pregnant. Spring dresses and flipflops flowery perfume I stand a head taller in street clothes look like a fucking dyke...I won't-can't-stay for long. Cursory glances. Questioning looks. I am avoided by all..all but a particularly chatty girl has had too much champagne. Tries to start a conversation...
"Do you-" She casts wildly about for a topic, "-have any kids?"
Bitter taste in my throat. Churning knot in my stomach. I set my glass down. Excuse myself. In the bathroom, headache. Anxiety. I've held up in the line of fire, taken a bullet for a friend, and I'm fucking vomiting at a baby shower? It is weakness. Jealousy. Sorrow.
But I will not be left alone. Voices. Laughter.
"Who the hell was that?"
"Gwen Palron. She works with my husband. I had no idea he invited her-"
"Is that weird? For you, I mean. That he spends all his time with her-"
A derisive laugh. "At first, yeah. But did you take a good look? No way he'd screw her over me."
Laughter. I am used to it. All my adolescence I was taller. Faster. Stronger. Teased, harassed mercilessly for starting my period, for my developing breasts by classmates who would hit puberty three or four years later…
"Doesn't seem to be having fun, does she?" Another voice interrupts them. That tipsy friend-
"To be honest, I have no idea why she even came." Lawless' wife says. "She hates kids."
"Okay, so you're pregnant. It doesn't give you an excuse to be a complete bitch."
"Pardon?" The other friend asks.
"Come on guys, give her some credit—what if she had a miscarriage or something?"
Silence. Sudden snort. Low whisper of but that would imply she's actually had sex-! Peals of laughter. Lawless' wife's loud guffaw. "Alright, girls, I've got guests to see-"
And she is gone. I want nothing better than to disappear. Wish I had never come. Fucking stupid. Why the hell did I even show up? The fuck was Lawless thinking, inviting me to come…but I'm a woman. And it's a goddamn baby shower…Social norm. Politeness. I know Lawless. Know him well. And I had to come, had to pay my respects…
Fuck it. I'm going home.
I wrench open the door, stalk to the sink, washing my hands with composure. They continue their chatting, oblivious as I yank paper towel from the dispenser…then I turn. And all laughter has suddenly ceased…
Her two friends stand nervous. Silent. Wondering. Mouths still open, their next sentences now dead upon their lips.
I stop only at the door. Smile. Say "Hell of a party, ain't it?"
The door swings open. Swishes shut. I leave. And to hell with the consequences.
I smile bitterly, that olive branch plucked from my beak and dashed to pieces. And that understanding, that compassion fades to mere pity. I shake my head, suddenly heavy and aching. Like my heart. "You honestly think I've always been this way, don't you." I whisper.
And she, like them, has nothing to say.
24:27 EST
Lawless Residence
"You shouldn't be watching this." Lawless says, setting a tray of mugs on the coffee table, squeezing in between us.
"I can watch whatever the fuck I want." She snaps.
He leans over, places a hesitant, scratchy kiss on her cheek. "I know babe...I just don't want you upset."
She rolls her tearstreaked eyes. Lifts the remote, changes the channel. Wordlessly Lawless hands me a hot mug, frothy and creamy with milk and sugar. I take it. He offers one to his wife-
"No thanks." She whispers. "I'm decaffeinating."
Lawless snorts. "Hell of a time."
"Might be the only time." She says, and his eyes squint, a sudden pang. He places one arm around her, pulls her closer. She nestles her head reluctantly against his shoulder, dull eyes widening as her face hits the wet stains from my dripping hair, tears, nose...
I take another deep draught of tea. Ignore her. Let them have this moment together...But it is not to be.
"This is Rebecca James, reporting from Gotham Methodist where-as you can see-people are lined up outside for admittance to the ER facilities. Methodist alone is reporting an influx of 2,300 patients, many treated for serious to critical automobile related injuries. Hospital staff urge those with minor injuries to remain at home, and a hotline has been set up for treatment and consultation. With the Legacy and, and todays new atrocities, the hospital is operating at above its fullest capacity-"
Amy Lawless snorts. Tears streak her face, black blotches of mascera ugly and bitter. "You forgot the fucking hallways filled with bodies because there isn't enough room in the morgue." She whispers, raises her hand, changes the channel-
Familiar face. Jim Gordon. I tense. Lawless tightens his grip on her slender waist. Flashing light bulbs, shouts of reporters, jostling news crews, storming citizens. He stands in IA before the Shield emblem, about to make an official press statement. His hair is grey. Face careworn. He looks a decade older than even this afternoon...
"Ladies and gentlemen, residents of Gotham City, as per the request of Mayor Garcia, the National Guard will continue to take charge of the crisis in Gotham City. The GCPD is working with them in full cooperation, and we pledge to find those responsible and bring them to justice. I ask that you comply with their wishes, abide by their curfew, and offer no further provocations for unnecessary violence-"
CommissionerGordondoyoubelieve-
It'sanillegaloccupation-
FuckingterroristattackJokerloosenowthesearmyfucksbeshootin'ourkidsinthestreets-
"As far as Gotham City Public School Corporation, we are taking steps to ensure student safety-"
GCPDcan'tevenensuretheirownsafetyhowtheyhellyougonaprotectourkids-!
"-and the schools will remain open. I personally urge every parent to consider carefully the ramifications of pulling their child out-"
Yourkidsweren'tevenatschooltodayyoufagfuckingfagyouknewitwascomingyouknewthiswascoming-
Cold, hard fear. A riot is ensuing. Jim holds up his hands in protest, tries to regain control, attention...but the mob surges forward lusting for blood Renee Montoya and Crispus Allen drag him away shots are fired peoplescreamingpanicchaosmayhemthecameratopplesspinswhirlsallgoesblack...
...Static.
I choke on my tea. Close my eyes. Amy Lawless is whispering oh my GodohmyGodohmyGod-!
He is not a God. Just a man. A twisted, perverted man who delights in violence and terror. And closing the schools only shows us that he is a god, that he has the power on a whim to change everything we know about our lives. I know Gordon. He would have them remain open to combat this. But even the Joker knows that not mourning for our dead only shows us how accustomed and desensitized we are to violence. If we can ignore his atrocities, they cease to be atrocities…
The Joker knows this. He counts on this. Either way, the Joker wins.
He ignores the rules. He writes his own. We cannot win by following some disillusioned code of honor…we can only fight. We can only lose.
Can God forgive me for what I've done? For what I intend to do? For lives to be saved, lives must be lost…
There is an appointed time for everything—A time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build up. A time to weep and a time to laugh…A time to search-
Angel, I moan.
-and a time to give up as lost. A time to love and a time to hate; a time for war and a time for peace…
I am Hadassah. Perhaps I have lived for such a time as this.
I can do what others cannot. Gordon cannot bend the rules-he can never win...
"Why do people do that why do they do that why the fuck do people do that-!" Lawless' wife whimpers. I open my eyes.
...and like him, Lawless has a family. Much to lose. They cannot be asked to risk that.
But I am a Killer. An unusual Killer. With no family. No collateral. Nothing left to live for. Only a Killer can stop the Joker. Only someone willing to do whatever the fuck it takes to bring that Bastard down will be able to catch him. And I know now what I must do: I must accept his terms, must play his hand against him…
"I don't know, Ames. I just don't know," Lawless soothes.
I rise, tear-blinded, stagger drunkenly to the hall, slip on Ian's toy cars stumble against the wall back against the baseboard arms around m¥ aching knees. Redemption or damnation…in a world where Angels die, there is no longer any difference. Is my vengeance justice? Does it matter-as long as that Bastard dies? His death is justice, motivation be damned. For he who sheds man's blood, By man shall his blood be shed…That Bastard should've been killed last year after murdering Surillo, Loeb and Dawes and all those other countless hundreds. But even here, here in the vilest city in the world people refuse to believe in evil. Instead of criminal he was criminally insane. Instead of retribution they cried for rehabilitation.
...Instead of justice, they created a jest.
And now that Joke is haunting them: The Joker is back.
Serial killers establish patterns, even relationships with their investigators, leaving clues, messages, subtle taunts and threats behind for others to examine, catalogue, and nightmare over. Scum like Nabokov. But the Joker is no ordinary killer. He doesn't target based on age, race, gender, or any other objective variable. He kills solely for psychological impact. My Angel died because he was young and good, and believed in hope…he was chosen because his death would create the most chaos, instill the most terror, like the innocents who died today...
My Angel was given a chance to fight, defend himself...but that's what the Joker intended. You can stand, Gotham. You can fight back. But you can never win…
It would be easier to submit. To bow and worship our new 'god'. He got to us last year, looking for the Batman, discord and unrest even against Harvey Dent... he allied this city against their savior.
Psychological impact. Terror. Chaos. For the year the Joker was in Arkham, the criminals of this city went back to fighting each other for dominancy. With him loosed, they will band together under him…or cower away in secrecy. I must re-ignite their hatred. Pit them against each other. Rouse them from their gutters and filth to strike against each other anew. I will create so much chaos and terror that they will weigh their options, and choose instead to live…
….This time, Gotham will surrender the Joker.
My road will be messy, but it has to be. For I am playing the Joker's game. The Board is set. The pieces moving. The rules? There are none. The objective? Annihilation. The Joker's weapons are violence and chaos, fear and terror…I will make them mine. He made me a part of his damn chess game when he took Angel. I intend to finish it.
Gotham is the board. The Joker's pieces black, Gordon's, white…
I am grey. And I refuse to be a pawn.
24: 40 EST
Lawless Residence
Connolly's bedroom. I lay in this shrine drifting off to sleep. That tea creamy and sugared-hiding the taste of the crushed pills. Tylenol PM. Or eszopictone. For depression. Psyche diagnosed him last year. Like hell he took any of it. When a there's a motherfucking bastard on the loose threatening everything you hold dear, a man has the right to be depressed, sleepless, restless...It's a symptom of humanity not illness. It's hitting hard. Fast. Lawless appears in the door, smiles grimly.
"You drugged me, you bastard." I mumble.
"Yeah, well, forgive me if I don't follow up on it. Wife's home, you know." Lawless throws the comforter over me. It is routine, Habitual. A father's instinct. It causes a sudden pang: it was our son he covered…and jealousy and gratitude grow choking in my heart. . "You've got Gatorade and water here on the nightstand if you need it. This-" he holds up a small speaker, "is Ian's baby monitor. The other one's in my room. You so much as sit up, I'll hear it."
"That's ridiculous." I whisper, eyes already closed, tearing, breathing deeply the lingering scent on the pillowcase. Angel. The faint, sweet smell of sweat, and I feel his soft hair against my palms, curled between my fingers I hold him close his breath on my skin he nuzzles me nestles closer…There are warm waves of sleep wafting slowly over me. I cannot remain conscious much longer. "I'll keep…keep you up…" I begin coughing again. Lightly, gently-
Hand under my head. Another pillow. His voice comes faintly, as though from a distance. "Better?"
"Mmmh." My eyes are shut, heart-rate plummeting, muscles relaxing into the downy mattress, dreams of Angel…but something holds me back. Something pressing. Urgent. Hidden…
I open my eyes. The clock reads forty minutes past midnight.
Midnight...
…Stalton's ex-general.
I sit up again, eyes wide. "Wait."
He turns at the door.
I am panicked. "Where are my pants?"
Lawless shakes his head bemused. "Are you just damn determined to make this the most awkward night of my life, or-"
"There's a reason, goddamnit. Where are they?"
Suspicion. Doubt. He tosses them slowly. My scrabbling fingers grope for my wallet-
And there it is. Stalton's list. And with it, my date with his supplier.
"250 fifty-second street." I read.
Lawless pales. The temperature drops. "What did you say,"
"250 fifty-second street. Midnight. Tomorrow. You've got to call it in-"
I look to his face, and primal fear is written there. He's a good cop. Has good instinct. Perhaps the sickly sweet smell of death still lingers….
"Palton," he whispers, "that's where…that was…that was Dawes. That was over a year ago-"
Dawes. Rachel Dawes. ADA. Both bitch and martyr. He is right. And right to be concerned. But I am not insane. Not hallucinating. This is the address.
"It's an arms drop. Military munitions. You'll need SWAT." I whisper. Wordlessly I rip the paper. Extend my hand. I am weak. Wounded. Drugged and fading fast. Much depends on this. I wait seconds. Heartbeats. Eternity…
...Our fingertips touch.
The paper is crumbled, stiff, flecked with blood. He takes it from my shaking hand, peruses it with a paling face. His hazel eyes are lowered to mine, hesitant and troubled. He crosses the floor, footsteps echoing eerily, and turns, only once, to ask me what did he mean to you?
"Nothing." I answer.
The lights flick off. Lawless stands silhouetted in the door frame.
"…Everything."