"Need help with her?"
"Do I look like I need help?"
The hulking mass of a man said nothing and left the van with a certain sort of fire under his ass. The Joker smiled, pleased with himself for reasons beyond count; least of all, striking juvenile fear into subordinates.
Supporting little India with one hand, he slid up and off his seat. Something unintelligible spilled from her mouth and the urge to laugh was akin to a feather on the back of his throat.
Ah, she'd be easier to deal with like this, right?
He jumped out, the girl in his arms, and paused to look upon the skyline behind them, and the faint glow of those few strong stars that could push through the smog and light, and then at the abandoned building he found himself calling home. He walked on and into the sidelined monument, which appeared to have been a forge at some point in Gotham history. It smelled of metal and rust and decay. If he ever found himself in need of broken glass and jilted sheet metal, goddamn, would he be set.
The ground floor was designated as a storage site of sorts. Weapons, ammo, explosives, and men. Homeless men that'd been recruited, petty criminals that'd been enticed by considerable crime.
Four stories up, by way of coiled staircases and catwalks, was a row of offices that'd remained intact and halfway renovated to serve as living quarters. It wasn't the Hilton, but he had no real complaints.
India became significantly heavier after being carried up the stairs. His arms burned underneath her weight and irritation came soon after, but he kept a nonchalant pace to his room. Didn't need one of the men to notice him struggling.
Grunting and swearing under his breath, the Joker flung the girl atop one shoulder and opened the scrubbed glass door, slipping in quickly to finally let her body drop.
"Alright," he muttered, moving towards the large, angled bed. "Just…lay there." He dropped her unceremoniously onto the mattress. She bounced slightly, then curled in on her side. The clown waited for her to scream or cry or ramble on about Bruce, but she gave him nothing, and the disappointment was hard to ignore. He rubbed at the strained muscles of one shoulder and went to leave the room, but stopped and redirected himself to an adjoining bathroom, all the while obsessively dragging his tongue across his lips.
Makeup before the shoot.
"So, nobody goes in, yes?"
"Yes."
"She doesn't come out either, does she?"
"No, she doesn't." His gloved hand gave the hulking goon a playful pat on the back. He flinched.
"Good! Ah, lighten up, uh...whatever your name is. What is your name?" The man looked at him uneasily, visibly gulping down a bubble of air.
"Kurt."
"I have a fucking Kurt working for me?" The clown shook his head, pleasantly exasperated. "I mean, I want to kill you for walking around with that name for...how many years? Doesn't matter, and I won't. Just follow those two...simple...rules."
The voices outside the room went silent, and silence continued and finally, India felt it safe enough to cry.
It'd been so hard to hold back, when she'd abruptly woken up to the sounds of glass on porcelain, a faucet running gently, and a door that she couldn't see creak as it opened.
Keep still, keep quiet, please keep still…
Until footfalls went through her prison and then out.
Her hands were not bound. Her feet were free. But she hurt, and the strange door that her captor had locked behind him was not going to yield to 120 pounds. The mattress she'd been dumped on was soft and more than inviting. It begged her to stay tight against it.
Crying softly, she reached a hand down and without looking, gathered up the bottom half of a blanket, pulling it over her legs left bare by the thin hospital gown.
No matter how long it had been since she was taken, Bruce had to know. He probably had everyone looking for her, being who he was.
But so was a bat. That's what someone had said.
"The Bat isn't far behind…"
India pressed her face into the sheets and fought for rest, but found none.
