Hours passed before India felt confident enough to leave the sheets and slip into the bathroom, which was a disheveled wreck.

Old tracks of moisture stained each dark, chipped wall. The tiny clawfoot sink was covered in familiar paint, and the mirror above it was just clean enough for her to see a blurry figure looking back at her.

"You look like shit."

"I suppose I do," she whispered to herself and went to inspect the shower behind the fogged glass door.

Cleaner than her imaginings, despite the green-ridden grout between most tiles. Not mildew.

She wondered how many times he'd dyed his hair, or put on his gruesome stagewear. Where the scars came from. All the purple.

India leaned against the glass and grabbed the knob. Water gurgled, then surged from the vertical showerhead. Something close but far from excitement sent goosebumps down her arms, and she quickly slipped the gown down her body, ignoring the resistance her wounded back put up. One tentative foot over the edge of the tub, then the other.

The water was hot. Wisps of steam swiftly became whole clouds. Sweat and grime were jostled free from her hair. Caked blood from her knee became wet, sending cherry streams down the drain, and she bit her knuckles to keep her from crying.

"You took my advice?"

She was so frightened, she slipped and fell to the porcelain. Huddled beneath the water, India slid the glass over barely an inch and peeked out. He was leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets. Gasping, she pulled back.

"Please! I, uh, I'm in the shower!"

"Really? That's where you are?" he huffed. "You didn't lock the door."

"I didn't?"

"No, you didn't." She watched his silhouette move further in and waited, quaking and clutching her naked body.

"Found some clothes that'll work for now. Or, you can just prance around naked."

He was out the door before she could shoot back at him. Sniffling, India brought herself up on newborn legs and made quick work of scrubbing herself with a white bar of soap she'd found, glancing at the door every few seconds, then passively rinsed and stepped out. Sitting on the corner of the sink was a folded towel. Shivering, she grabbed it, and something underneath it tumbled to the floor.

A ratty pair of jeans and tee shirt. She scooped them up and hesitantly sniffed.

"Clean."

But not her underwear. She begrudgingly put them back on and pulled the jeans up her damp legs. They reached her waist, two sizes too big. The gray shirt was more of the same, short sleeves swallowing up her elbows. Still, she felt more comfortable and less like a mark.

She worked her fingers through her hair, freeing up knots as best she could, before taking a deep breath and opening the door just a crack. The room was dark. No sign of him.

Despite being alone, she walked lightly, studying the room she'd been thrown in for the first time. His room.

It was spartan at best, walls the same color as the adjoined bathroom. A crooked dresser against the far wall and above that, a window. She moved to it and looked out.

Gotham laid bare in the distance, the top of each tower lighted and reaching towards the dark sky.

Her hands tested it. Bolted shut, probably not meant to be opened in the first place, and she wasn't even on the ground floor.

Of course.

The bed was large, covered in thick black sheets and blankets. One pillow. The only light source was a dirty wall-mounted sconce, outdated and cobwebbed.

She sat down on the bed, intending to keep her eyes on the door, but with no concept of time and not a single thing to do, India soon curled up against the single pillow and drifted off.


"What do we have to eat around here?"

"Not much, boss. Uh, pantry shit, cans and stuff."

"That's what you guys work off of?" The lanky subordinate looked around him and shrugged.

"Yeah, but we're low. We have someone that goes out for stuff everything month."

The Joker leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed.

"What guy?"

"Kurt, I think."

"For fuck's sake."

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing, moron? It just figures, you know? Anything ever just figure to you?"

"Yeah, I mean...yeah." He paused and scratched at what he probably thought was a beard. "Are you hungry?"

"No, I'm not. Go and get some uh, fruit or something."

"Fruit?"

"Yes. Fruit."

"For the boys?"

I'm going to kill him.

"If you don't leave right now, I'm going to plant a knife in your forehead." He flicked his own for effect. Watching him half-run to the door was mildly entertaining.

India Wayne was much more stimulating, however, and he found himself wondering if she was in need of a visit. Probably not, and other things needed to be done. Dent's televised conference concerning the girl was apathetic at best, but Batman was roughing up the scum of Gotham left and right, pressing for any rumors pertaining to her whereabouts. Dull. Boring.

More bombs? Tie her to some railroad tracks? FedEx a finger to Bruce?

He stood up from a desk made of lumber boards and crates, stretching.

"No IKEA shit here."


The Joker made his way up to the catwalks, passing men sleeping on cots, cleaning guns, playing cards. It was late, and cool Autumn air moved right through the building as if there were no walls at all.

From what he could tell, Kurt hadn't moved an inch. Admirable dedication, to an extent.

He sauntered over and poked his arm.

"Still alive?"

"Yes sir, I am," he replied tiredly, rubbing at his small, reddened eyes.

"Have you heard anything from in there?"

"She's none of my business, sir."

"That's a good answer." He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, looking over the buffed-out Kurt with suspicion. "This is the only key to the room, correct?"

"Of course."

"Of course," he echoed, stepping inside. The goon closed it behind him.

India sat cross-legged on the bed, hands clasped together in her lap. The cloudy, titian light gave her an almost sultry look, casting shadows along her jawline and beneath her eyes.

He took off his jacket, tossing it on the bed. She jumped. He chuckled lightly.

"Off the bed, princess."

"Okay." India stood up, moving towards the wall he was farthest from. He watched, taking note of how ridiculously hopeless she looked in the clothes, then walked into the bathroom and rinsed his face with water from the sink. Watercolors dripped from his chin, then ran clear after another round. He avoided the mirror.

"Can I trust that you won't try anything, uh, naive while I get some shuteye?" He called out, drying his face with the towel she'd used and ambling back out. She stood by the window, looking at him wearily. "Well?"

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No questioning my questions, please. Yes or no?" Her lips trembled, no doubt fighting back some tears.

"Yes."

"Good." He went to the bed and plopped down face-first, feet working to push his shoes off. The sheets smelled nice. Kind of like her. He grabbed at the pillow and tossed it to the side. "You can use this. Turn off the light." The room went dark a moment later. He heard her feet padding across the room, and the pillow being dropped on the floor. The sounds of her settling against the cold wood, and the occasional sniffle, until he fell asleep.