Things happened quickly. Too fast for her to retain or understand.

Being dragged by him through the hospital, a distant alarm, gunfire from the lobby.

From what she could tell, the Joker had led them to a maintenance hall of sorts, and down an elevator that opened up in the parking garage. It was dark and cold. The cement did her shoeless feet nothing good. Her back hurt more than words could convey.

His grip on India's arm ceased as he opted to hold her hand instead. She trailed behind like a flightless kite. Despite her fear, she found his gait to be funny and strange, and clothes utterly mismatched. Was it an attempt at looking ordinary?

Her lips pursed.

This man clearly did not fail at anything. If he looked such a way, it was purposeful.

"Where is Bruce?"

She felt her knuckles crack in his hand. "I suppose he's off someplace, uh, not giving a shit about you."

"You're hurting me."

"Ah! Imagine that!" He tugged her forwards, and she fell to the ground with a good thump. The stitches in her back pulled and puckered the healing skin. Blood pooled under one knee from new scrapes. The Joker giggled like a schoolboy, hoisting her up none too gently.

A screech and the smell of burnt rubber, then a black van, barreling down from the level above them, sending sparks and smoke into the air. India felt her stomach drop.

He really was taking her away.

The vehicle came to a loud halt before them, a door sliding open almost ceremoniously. She could smell cigarettes and booze. A hulking man in a mask jumped out, large gun hanging from his beefy shoulder.

"The Bat isn't far behind," the henchman hissed. India caught the odd glance he tossed in her direction. "We should move."

The Bat?

"Well, here is the thing about we."

India saw the gun appear in the Joker's hand. Heard the shot. Felt the recoil.

It was another moment that she seemed to miss, it's speed no match for her understanding, despite reacting. When she looked down to see her free hand clutching the clown's wrist, gun hanging from his fingers, it was too late to take it back. The bullet had gone off somewhere far away, past the garage and into the night.

Breathing erratically, shaking, she looked to her captor. He stared, eyes reflective and dark and more dangerous than anything she'd ever seen.

Her hand fell, and she swallowed hard.

"I-I didn't-"

"You did, India," he hissed slowly, tongue rolling across his scars. He turned to the goon, who stood hunched in the doorway of the van. Sweat trickled down his neck.

"Lucky man." His laugh was just as excessive as the rest of him. India felt his hand lightly curl against her back before giving her a hard shove forward. She tumbled into the van with a cry of pain, elbows falling onto rough, smelly carpet. Her stomach begged for release, but she held it down for fear of what he'd do with a sick girl.

The vehicle jostled as he jumped in behind her and shut the door. Tires skidded and then everything was in motion. India's body slammed against the backseats, and then everything began to slowly fade. There were voices, but none she recognized. Hands picking her up, and somebody yelling about her stitches.

The passing of time was distorted and sluggish. She felt herself being cradled.

Maybe Bruce was there. Maybe he saved her.

Fingers drifted across her forehead, moving through her hair rhythmically.

She hoped to God it was her brother because resigning herself to any other reality would surely drive her mad.


He didn't want her to die. Not at all. Dead bait was no good. Broken toys didn't bring in the kids.

So he put her on his lap and pet her like a kitten. No big deal. The men didn't even dare a quick glance their way.

Bait. Tie her to the end of a string and watch the city writhe in agony. Didn't need any more thought put into it than that, really. The flightless Bat was already sniffing around. It was going to make for a lot of fun, despite him playing babysitter.

Below, face nestled against his leg, India murmured something. If he was a bargaining man, which of course he was, he'd guess she was whimpering about her impotent brother.

One could argue that man was worse than him. One could go further and say the games that asshole played were far more deviously than any of his own imaginings.

He saw the way he looked at her firsthand. No betraying a stare like that. Couldn't exactly blame him, but simpering little India had no idea.

The Joker sat back and sighed, resting a hand idly on her fleshy thigh.

She did smell nice.