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Dark Humor	By : xxnadsxx Category: zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] > Batman (All Movies) > Batman (All Movies) Views: 2361 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Batman series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 7
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- 9
Dark Humor
Eight
�Justice is
Balance.�
--Ra�s Al Ghul

Wayne Manor had always been the safest place in Gotham. It
loomed before them, a striking constant in her mind despite everything else
that seemed to die away in body and spirit around her. Gotham was dying, its
very foundations rotting to the core�yet here was a building that seemed
timeless, immaculate, untouched. There was no evidence of age upon the
residence's huge frame, the columns and elegantly curved windows a Gothic
testament to timelessness rather than erosion. Even now, Rachel had to wonder
at Bruce's ability to completely restore his Manor, brick-by-brick, to the
exact prototype of how it appeared before the arson by Ra's Al Ghul not long
ago. It was as if he had torn open the fabric of Time and brought memories to
life; as if nothing could ever truly be damaged�
Or maybe only if Batman is involved.
She shifted in her seat as the car jolted to a halt. Alfred held the car
door opened for her, gesturing politely.
"If you'd please, Miss Dawes."
He had his hand out to her, using formality even when they had known each
other for so long, his softly wrinkling white face and the deeply carved lines
along his eyes as his lips curled into a smile the only indication of any
difference from the Alfred she had known as a child. It was comforting, if not
just as strange as the consistency of Wayne Manor�
How some things are still so constant amidst all the chaos. How some
things never change unless they're forced to change.
Despite herself, she reciprocated his smile, albeit with a weak half-grin
against her fatigued face, and grasped his hand with enough strength to pull herself
out of the limousine. Bruce was behind her with quick steps; she couldn't help
but flinch slightly at the feeling of his fingers against her back, his
still-gloved hands a wicked mirroring of more sadistic fingers from other
nights. They were moving quickly into the Manor, a bit too quickly for her
disoriented head, yet she knew why; Bruce was still wearing very
prominent articles of his Bat suit, and they couldn't risk having any passersby
happening to glimpse sight of the vigilante through their gates.
She was shuffling through the front doors, across the wide, gaping interior
of the entrance hall, the Manor suddenly spinning wildly about her small frame.
Everything seemed too big, too dizzying, as if somehow the ceiling had
risen to hundreds of feet above her head since her last time here. It was
strange, as if she were looking at the inside of Bruce's home through new eyes,
a home she had once been so accustomed to as a child. Things seemed�darker, the
locked doorways and thick shadows clustering unlit halls foreboding and
ominous, though she had traversed them all before, been painfully familiarized
with every corner and crack of the huge home. Maybe it was because her life had
become so unpredictable lately, an object of paranoia and rampant fear. Or
maybe since Harvey, the string connecting Gotham to any last semblance of order
and sanity, had been torn away�maybe it had changed her so much she hardly
recognized what had been stable before.
I'm the changed one. The outcast.
Yes�it made sense now, as Bruce walked beside her, casting a pained glance
in her direction. Rachel didn't belong here anymore. She had grown up in this
place as a child, sheltered and cradled cautiously in the lap of indulgence
and, above all else, innocence.
Ignorance.
Even while growing up, the manor had remained a home of constants,
never-changing, never-shifting despite how everything else changed around her.
Despite how much blood had been spilled, how many crimes had slipped through
her fingers as assistant D.A., she could return to this place, return to Bruce�to
Batman�and indulge in its promises of stability and that very same innocence
that was so rare in a place like Gotham, let alone the world itself.
But now that's gone. Now I'm no longer the na�ve one.
She felt Bruce's hand brush her own as they walked towards the end of a
long, narrow hall, and her thoughts inevitably swept towards him. The face of
her childhood friend filled her mind, worn with worry-lines and a seemingly
permanent frown against his strong features. Constant, despite the suit which
was bound to his limbs even now like a second skin, the lack of mask doing
nothing to hide what she knew still lay within him, from when they were
children in the manor.
Innocence.
Despite it all, Bruce Wayne was still innocent�as untouched and unmarred as
a newborn. The thought struck her as funny, for some strange reason�she found
herself biting back a sadistic giggle, as they neared the door she could only
deduce as one of the many guest rooms within the maze of a manor. Batman, who
pummeled away at countless criminals and watched as people were slaughtered and
killed, including his own parents, still held that constant of innocence
that she had so recently lost in the flames of Harvey's death. She wondered at
it, wondered how flawed it seemed to make him, how strangely vulnerable even
when dressed with the capability of killing at that very moment.
"Would you like anything, Rachel? Something to drink, perhaps?"
It took her a moment to realize they had halted in front of the door. Rachel
found herself twisting the side of her nightgown in a fist as she turned her
head up to meet Alfred's gaze, the kindly smile creased with an almost paternal
worry,
"No, Alfred, thank you. I'm fine."
Her words came blankly from her lips, monotonous and almost robotic. It was
drained, yet she knew there was no need to cover it with saccharine courtesy or
sweetness. Alfred and Bruce were like family, if a bit dysfunctional, and they
could read her better than the words that surfaced from her lips. Yet Alfred
merely nodded, kind enough to leave her in her state of discomposure. Bruce
pushed the door open silently, beckoning her to follow. His eyes hadn�t met
hers at all.
"Here," He began as she leaned against the doorframe within what she
presumed to be a relatively small guest room, "I know it's not much, but
feel free to fix things up to how you like them. This is your home for now,
Rachel, so I'll let you get comfortable in a bit when I'm through."
As he spoke, Bruce settled down upon what would now apparently be Rachel's
bed, the mattress creaking slightly beneath the weight of his suit. The room
was small enough to make her claustrophobic in her slowly fading state of
shock; shaped like a white-walled cube, with the barest necessities of a small
white bed, a closet, a desk and lamp. Bruce patted the side of the bed,
watching her expectantly, his gaze suddenly very serious and almost
uncomfortably penetrating. If Rachel didn't know him any better, she would
almost be intimidated by the fierceness of his gaze. She wondered numbly if it
wasn't too late to turn and walk stubbornly out of the Manor in a fit of
defiance against his wishes, yet she eyed his suit and his stern expression
warily before sighing and sitting on the other end after only a minute's
hesitation.
Bruce was staring at her, now, though words did not come to him immediately.
It was as if she could feel his mind working wildly within his skull, picking
out the perfect words to keep her here, to make her listen. Like reasoning with
a child, or someone equally rebellious�
Like a criminal.
Again, the dark laughter bubbled up within her, spontaneously and almost
uncontrollably. She bit her lip and lowered her head, staring down at the
bedside as the urge to giggle subsided. Why was it that she always had that
insane urge, now, whenever things seemed to spiral out of her control?
"Listen, Rachel." He pressed after a long, crackling pause.
She shifted against the white bed, her fingers smoothing the ripples their
still forms made against the fabric. She couldn�t help but wonder if this was
how the Batman spoke to flourishing criminals; calmly, carefully, like soothing
a kitten that had recently developed bloodthirsty incisors.
"I know this has been hard for you.�
No shit, the voice in her mind drawled sarcastically, and she was
biting her lip again, fighting the urge to vocalize her thoughts. Bruce
continued, possibly encouraged by her silence,
�It�s�been hard for everyone in Gotham, losing our White Knight, having to
rely on blind faith to get us through. And for you�I know you�ve been through
so much�Harvey, the funeral�everything. Even�"
His hand rose to touch his torso. Rachel knew the urge to be subconscious, tracing
the deep wound that was still healing beneath layers of armor,
��even I'm a little worse for wear from everything the Joker's
done. But you can't let it get to you, Rachel. You just�"
The vigilante�s dark eyes snapped shut, as if mentally debating on each
word, as if any lack of precision would make them fail to reach her,
"�You just need to endure. We're both suffering, and I'm not going to
tell you that I can comprehend what you're going through right now. But please.
Please."
He went to take her hand; she hesitated, for a moment, her gaze having been
adamantly glued to her own fingers as they worked blankly against the
bedspread. With a quiet sigh, she complied to his desperate touch, if only
because she was too tired to physically fight him.
�I just want to keep you safe, Rachel,� He said
quietly, his eyes creased in heavy, dark lines across his face, �And it�s not
for my own personal gain. It�s not guilt, it�s because I��
He froze, the words lingering on his lips. Rachel turned her
head at the feeling of his fingers squeezing her knuckles, as if his body were
desperate to express what words could never possibly admit. He cared
about her; she knew that�she knew that if she died, a part of him would die
away with her.
But just how much?
Pain shot through her chest at the thought, lingered at the
broken nerves of her bandaged shoulder, the back of her undoubtedly bruised
head. She was so battered, physically and mentally, so weary�she wanted the
entire crumbling world around her to shut up and close in on itself like a
crushing fist, leaving nothing but a ball of empty gravity and air. She wanted
everything to stop, right at that moment, to cease and die away if it only
meant that things would start to make sense again, that some form of clarity
would seep back into the disjointed world through the nothingness.
Maybe then there would be some order in their lives again. Some
semblance of logic. Some sanity.
We�re all crazy, aren�t we? Bruce, the Joker, Gordon�
Her fist squeezed against Bruce�s, as if trying to assert
her own existence. Her own solid form, intact and still and whole, far from
being destroyed completely�as much as she may have willed it. She felt her
heartbeat in that single point of pressure, felt Bruce�s join with her own,
resonant against the quiet of his Manor. They were mourning something, mourning
the loss of their once-blissful past on these very same grounds, now nothing
but another fairytale to add to the pile. Nothing but gravity and air.
Myself.
�Bruce,� She sighed, staring down at their entwined fingers,
like a single embodiment of flesh, conjoined at the heart, �I know. I�I know.
And you know, if things had been different��
She shut her eyes, muting the lie before it could escape
her.
��But I can�t.� The sob twisted in her throat, and
she was biting her lip against the immense guilt that flooded through and
destroyed her world just a little more, �I can�t, and you know that. I
was�happy with Harvey. I was�complete. And now�now it�s not the same.
Now it can�t be replaced.�
Her words ended as strained whispers against the struggling
tears. She wasn�t even sure as to why she was crying; she just was, not in
free, wet tears across her cheeks, but in the straining of her throat, the
prickling of her eyes. She raised her head, her fingers practically digging
into his thick, warm hand, keeping the tears from betraying her and coursing
down her cheeks,
�Can�t you see, Bruce? This can�t stop. This can�t stop
until he�s dead. Until one of us��
Her words trailed; Bruce knew what she would say, knew by
the way his grip tightened so hard on her own hand they nearly broke her bones.
She couldn�t look at him; she couldn�t. She couldn�t look at the man she
had genuinely loved before having fallen for Harvey, the man she was
torturing by her own undoing, the man she would, even now, risk life and limb
for.
But why do I still feel the hate? The choking,
suffocating, terrible hate? Why do I still feel so bitter? So�empty?
Perhaps it was the thought that he wouldn�t do the same for
her�not completely. That Batman wouldn�t die for Rachel Dawes. Bruce Wayne
would�but not Batman.
This was why she couldn�t let him come to that point. She
would die, or the Joker would die, before she�d let him lay his life on the
line.
If you died for him, would he feel remorse for the loss
of your life�or for never even thinking of doing the same?
The sickening thoughts spiraled in her mind like freefall, seizing
her heart mercilessly with it.
�Rachel, you�re not risking your life for anyone, do
you hear me?�
He was holding onto her chin, gently turning her head in his
direction. She fought against it with straining muscles, but he was stronger. Like
always. She found herself staring at Bruce�s lips, pressed together in a
tight, thin line, his eyes examining her with the desperation of a mother
seeking out the affections of her rebellious, defiant child.
Like he�s losing me, somehow.
Like I�ve changed too much for him to recognize.
Like I�m some sort of freak.
�Rachel. Rachel.�
His tone sounded impatient, mottled with strained anxiety.
She had never heard him so unnerved before, his voice loud and�was he shaking
her? His arms were at her shoulders and he was pressing into her lightly, yet
it was strong enough to force her to stare at him. She wasn�t sure what he saw
in her gaze at that moment�emptiness, defiance, anger, blank assent?
Whatever it was, he met it with a look of shock in his wide
eyes. He brought a finger to stroke her hair, brush across her forehead. She
didn�t realize there were beads of sweat clinging to her skin until he wiped
them away, tenderly, like grooming some sort of doll. The thought sickened her,
and she willed some sort of consciousness to fill her stare, nodding silently.
�You don�t have to worry about me, Bruce.�
She said it in a choked whisper as his grip stiffened
against her arms, his face a blank slate for what seemed an uncomfortable
eternity. Sweat trickled across her spine, the sickening urge to laugh swelling
in her chest again. It seemed that whenever he gazed upon her with
anything but that once all-too familiar affection, that familial compassion she
would have readily reciprocated such a short time ago�it made her feel like
less of a person. Like more of some sort of irregularity in the eyes of Bruce
Wayne, eyes that were now wide and frantically searching through her blank,
defiant stare for something he could readily recognize.
Something of the weak, compliant Rachel. The one that
nods and agrees after any argument of her disapproval that he is the Batman,
that he is exacting justice in his own way, that he is risking himself. Because
in the end, I always agree, no matter how repulsive the thought is to me.
�What do you mean?�
Bruce finally posed the question she had been waiting for,
his fingers taut against her skin, skin that suddenly seemed so frail and cold
and disposable against his hot iron grip. For a sickening, deranged moment she
actually thought he was going to hit her, his stare was so fierce and
vicious, and she couldn�t distinguish whether that hostility was meant for her
or for the frustration he undoubtedly felt that he had to resort to talking his
childhood friend out of her suicidal plans.
�I mean�� She began quietly, her throat dry as she struggled
not to falter at Bruce�s hard stare, �I mean you don�t have to concern yourself
with me and what I do with my life, Bruce. Not anymore. Because that way, you
won�t have to get hurt, and I won�t stand in your way to keep you from the
Joker.�
Another pause, so long and seemingly endless Rachel could
have sworn she saw fire dancing in Bruce�s ember-black eyes. He was undoubtedly
trying to control the raging temper that had flared within him, that coupled
the frustration and the urge to shout at her. How had things ended up like
this, with Bruce resorting to clinging to her as if any slack in his grip would
make her gush from his hands like water, her life trickling from his grasp into
the sewage and scum of Gotham?
She didn�t know when, but it was true; she was beginning to
feel oddly weightless, her words carrying a substance of confession to her
thoughts that was almost wickedly freeing.
�God damn it, Rachel,� Bruce finally hissed, lowering
his head slightly and taking a deep, shaking breath, �You have no idea what
you�re saying. Of course I have to concern myself with you! Of course I
have to keep you from the Joker, from danger. You�re hysterical right now,
you�ve been since Harvey died�Gordon has been ranting about keeping you locked
up, if only to keep that sick bastard from toying with you again. And you�re not��
He grit his teeth, rows of white-knuckled fists to match the
painful pressure of his fingers digging into her skin,
��going to lose your life trying to avenge something
that�s gone, Rachel. It�s gone, it�s over, and there�s
nothing you can do about it! There�s no other option but to sit and endure.�
No.
That wasn�t true. He was lying through the air between his
teeth, lying in the almost-deadly threatening glint in his eye, lying in every
little way in which his body twitched, doing so out of the sick desperation to
keep her alive. There was another option. There was always another
option. It was just an option Bruce was too much of a coward to try and reach.
�That�s not true,� She murmured quietly, her words almost
mute against the harsh, pounding screams of Bruce�s growing agitation beneath
his skin.
He flinched sharply, and he pulled her forwards. For a
moment, Rachel thought he was actually going to push her, to hit her, he
was so forceful in the way he grabbed her. A gasp flew from her lips as he
crushed her against his armor, gripping her tightly in a fierce hold. It would
almost be a hug, if he wasn�t struggling not to unleash his agitation on her,
wasn�t trying to hold her in one place and keep her from escaping from him.
�No,� She whispered, continuing to speak even when her words
were muffled against the armor of his torso, even when he was still holding
adamantly onto her like some precious object he didn�t want to risk being pried
away from, �It has to be this way, Bruce. It has to. I can�t live with
myself if I don�t do anything, don�t you understand?! I have to do what
you can�t do, and that�s the only way Gotham can be saved
anymore. That�s the only way balance can be restored after Harvey�s death. And
we both know it!�
She was shouting against his crushing hold, twisting her
head upwards to glare straight into Bruce�s face. To her surprise, she could
see a million emotions dispersed within his black irises, tiny pinpricks of
stars that were hot and searing and pleading, yet too far, too detached to ever
reach her. It was the pain in those eyes that was the most prominent,
the pain and the fear, mingled inseparably with the threat of tearing through
his body and igniting him completely in flames.
Rachel caught her breath, suddenly aware of how much she was
trembling. How much they were both shaking. If it wasn�t for the armor,
Bruce would have lacked the strength to keep her there, if only for the sheer
terror and dread that possessed him at that moment. He was losing her,
and he knew it�knew how fruitless his efforts were.
She was killing him with her defiance, because she
had once been one of the only constants of his past. The Manor, Alfred, the
inheritance�and herself. And yet here she was, in his grip like an enemy he was
trying to dissuade, fading away into herself, changing through force into
someone he could no longer recognize by memory alone. And if her body was lost
in the process, if she actually died�
There would be no one to keep Bruce Wayne from changing. To
keep Batman from falling from grace, whatever such a horrific thought entailed.
But the decision is already made. We both know it, which
is why he�s still trying�trying and failing. And he knows he can�t reach me
anymore. He knows it�s all pointless. So he�s holding me, because it
could be his last time doing it.
His last time embracing his childhood, before it, too,
collapses in the flame.
�You�re not going to do that, Rachel.� His voice was a command,
yet emptier, drained of all ferocity, �You�re going to stay here, and you�re
going to stop trying to chase the Joker and you�re going to stay alive.�
No. You�re too late, Bruce. You can�t save me if I�ve
already damned myself.
But she couldn�t torture him like this. She couldn�t drag
him down along with her, couldn�t corrupt him this way. And so, it was for him,
rather than for herself, that she smiled crookedly against his steel grip and
nodded shakily, the smile never reaching her blank eyes,
�Okay.�
Bruce�s wide-eyed anxiety seemed to dwindle down into a contentedness;
as content as he could manage to look with his broken spirit and weary face. He
unclamped his hands from her shoulders, his body weak and wrought with mental
exhaustion as she pulled away from him, slinking back towards the very edge of
the bed, her head lowered towards the carpet. His gaze was still plastered upon
her slight, curled frame, as if It would stay there forever�as if willing
himself to always fix his stare upon her, he could somehow save them all, could
somehow will themselves to travel backwards into the past and embrace the
stability they had all long ago been deprived of. She wished she could say
something to comfort him, to tell him that all wasn�t lost�that, somehow,
somewhere, she was still his.
But there was nothing for him to have anymore.
Not when it was slowly crumbling in on itself. Not when she
was allowing it to.
He hadn�t expected her to agree with him, anyway; but she
had. Part of it was that it wasn�t a lie; not really. She didn�t expect
herself to live, so what was she risking? She wasn�t just going after the Joker
for Bruce�s sake, wasn�t about to go and meet him and possibly get herself
slaughtered yet again just to keep him away from the manor.
No, she was still doing it for Harvey. And for herself.
Because a part of her was drawn to it. A part of her
wanted to make the bastard bleed.
As much as she hated to admit it, she was chasing him. She
was willingly playing into his game, and she would have nothing more than to
play it all the way through. So that she would guarantee that he would leave
Bruce out of this, of course�and so she could guarantee some semblance of
retribution for Harvey�s death. It had become the core of her life in these few
horrific days, it had consumed her, and she couldn�t sift through Time to
reclaim herself again.
She thought, somehow, that things would make more sense when
justice was achieved. When Harvey�s killers were gone, and some sort of
temporary peace lay in the wake of destruction. Maybe then, Gotham would be a
little more sane.
�Okay, then.�
Silence between them, lasting eons as she sat there, her
gaze drawn by the dark shadow of his heavily suited form against the wooden
floor. She didn�t want to look at him. She was a coward, unwilling to read the
emotions on Bruce�s face any longer, a part of her slighted by his aggression,
his mistrust. She heard him take a deep breath, felt him consider reaching
forward again, his warmth penetrating the air like nothing else could�
And then he dropped his hand into his lap, and raised his
head, and walked away.
Rachel heard the door shut closed like a booming finality in
her mind. She inclined her head to find he had left her a glass of green
liquid, a vial he drank for strength, chilled and inviting. She would need it.
As her mind slipped away, she needed the strength of her
body to compensate for it.
oOo
As daylight began to ebb into evening, Rachel wondered just
how low she had gone.
She would have liked to say her values still remained
intact; that justice still existed, somewhere far away and fanciful. Maybe if
Ramirez hadn�t died at her hands, she would have still believed it. But from
Harvey�s death, her high values had begun to crumble, and she knew at that
point it was when they had finally stood no chance of surviving on pure faith
alone.
Of course, the police had always been useless, the bastards
of the mob from sheer fear. Holding her green concoction firmly in her hands,
she touched the glass to the tip of her tongue as she drank, reveling in the
sharp cold that clamped about the tip like a knife cutting at her nerves.
Rachel wondered if Gordon was the only officer that could be
trusted through and through.
She wondered if anyone could be trusted through and
through.
Her fingers curled about the glass, stroking its biting cold
edge as her thoughts lingered toward Bruce. He didn�t trust her; the fact had
been painfully drilled into her mind from their last exchange, when he had
chosen to keep her captive in the Manor in the first place.
But a part of it is for your protection. Your welfare.
He�s desperate to keep you alive.
She smirked bitterly at her own thoughts, slamming the glass
hard against the table. Sharp cracks burst like veins against the underside of
the cup, a broken shard cutting the tip of her finger. Rachel cursed and
brought her finger to her mouth, mulling over how easily distracted by her own
pain she could be. It made her do stupid things, things that only brought her
even more pain in the end.
Like getting Bruce involved in this beyond Batman. Like
encouraging him to put his life on the line again just to keep me here, against
my will.
Would the Joker pay her a visit in Bruce Manor�would he be
so ruthless, so relentless to try and kill Bruce again?
But he could never get past the security of the Manor. And
if he really made his way in here�
He would find out who Batman was. There would be no way she
could keep Bruce alive if the truth slipped.
And it would be all because of her.
Well, then�if that�s how it�s going to be, then there�s
obviously no other choice, is there?
No. Of course there wasn�t. There were other options, other
possibilities, yet she saw none in which the lives of others weren�t
compromised. None in which Bruce would stand a chance at not being tampered
with again, like the bait she had always been.
And so, as she sat there, her gaze flickered towards the
door of her room as she pushed the drained cup across the top of the desk,
pulling herself to her feet. There were no windows in her room, nothing to
truly signal what time of day it was, except for her own internal sense of time
and frantic count of minutes beneath her breath with every passing second.
Bruce had meant to keep her confined here, after all, leaving her in such a
small, suffocating space within closed doors.
But she knew getting out would be easy. Taking a deep breath
and cursing herself for her intentions, for having to hurt Bruce again,
Rachel stood near the doorway and twisted the knob just slightly, opening it
enough so that she could see across the long expanse of hall before her. There
was no one in sight. She pulled herself across the hall, her fingers against
the side of the wall, taking slow, padding steps towards the kitchen. The chill
of the Manor crept upon her skin as she was still in her nightgown from the
other night, yet when she finally turned the corner and reached the kitchen,
she didn�t really care.
Alfred was there, just as she had presumed. And Bruce was
nowhere to be seen; out on an early vigilante run, perhaps, or locked up in his
study. She watched Alfred as he dried cups and silverware along the countertop,
busily humming a tune she couldn�t quite make out beneath his breath. Clearing
her throat, she quietly knocked along the side of the wall, and when he lifted
his head slightly to acknowledge her she knew he had noticed her enter by his
lack of surprise,
�Yes, Rachel? Anything I can help you with?�
�Yes, actually, Alfred,� She began, willing a tight smile to
graze her features, �It�s kind of embarrassing, but�um, it�s been a while
since�well, since I changed out of my nightgown, and��
Comprehension dawned upon the butler in an instant, his
wizened features twisting into an almost sympathetic smile,
�Ah, yes. Of course! Master Wayne has laid out some of your
clothing for you in the bathroom, if you�re feeling in need of a shower.�
Relief coursed through her veins at the realization that
this would be easier than she had planned. That, and Bruce hadn�t been
completely the inconsiderate host; he had left her some of her personal
wardrobe from her apartment, at least. She smiled genuinely at him, before
resolving to rush to the bathroom as quickly as she could,
�Thank you, Alfred.�
As she walked off, her heart beat more and more rapidly with
each quick-paced step. Rachel rushed into the bathroom with a quick glance at
the grandfather clock perched against the corner of the hall, its ticking face
reading 4:15. She didn�t have much time, not much at all, especially
considering Wayne Manor was a considerable amount of time away from the docks.
She worked quickly, then, peeling away her dirtied and blood-soaked nightgown
with quick hands and cleaning herself as best as she could of the blood that
would never, no matter how hard she scrubbed, disappear from within her. Rachel
bit back a whimper of pain as the water lightly coursed across her bandaged
shoulder, before hopping from the shower and changing rapidly into black pants,
a turtleneck and her overcoat.
But there�s no more gun in your coat, is there? You�ll be
going without anything to protect yourself.
Cursing at the thought, Rachel found herself scrabbling
across the hall toward other countless rooms that lined the halls. Would she
have to be a thief now, resorting to stealing from her childhood
friend�s home to protect herself?
The clock at the end was ticking, chiming to a harmonious
melody as its hands settled on 4:30.
Shit.
She only had a half hour left.
Rachel found herself searching quickly from unlocked door to
unlocked door, through drawers and cabinets of personal belongings and
occasionally empty contents. Finally, finally, after what she knew would
have taken at least ten minutes, she found a gun, hidden within a drawer of
neatly piled clothing. She checked that it was loaded before unlocking the
window in the room, and, with a second glance behind her and one outside at the
darkening sky, she leapt through to be greeted by fresh air.
She knew she only had fifteen minutes, at the most.
She was going to be late.
As Rachel processed this, she began to run towards the
street to the nearest taxi, as fast as her shaking legs could carry her.
oOo
Her phone was vibrating in her
pocket.
It was 5:10, traffic was finally coming to standstill, the Docks were nearing around the corner, and
Rachel�s phone registered a voicemail.
Harvey Dent.
God, what could he want now, when
she was so close to confronting him? Her fingers trembled on the keypad, and
Rachel uttered a trail of curses as she raised the phone to her ear.
�You all right back there?� Her
driver asked nervously, his round face peering at her from the rear view
mirror.
Rachel nodded, holding a hand up
to quiet him as they inched closer towards the rows of warehouses flanking the
Docks. The mechanical voice on the other end of the phone had finally finished
speaking, and in its place was a high-pitched, malicious whisper,
�Raaaaa-chel, my puh-retty
little Raaaa-chel!� The sing-song voice crooned on the other end, almost
affectionate if it weren�t for the snarl that followed, �Come out, come out,
wherever you areee!�
A pause, then a booming, whooping
laughter. Waves of fresh loathing rippled throughout her being as she held the
phone as close to her ear as she could, trying to block out the noise from
being heard by her driver. Then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the laughter
stopped, interrupted by a low, scathing hiss,
�Why did you have to stand
me up-puh? I came to collect you as a surprise for our scheduled
little�date, and you were no-where to be found! Love what
you�ve done with the puh-lace though,� He giggled, his voice
lowering almost conspiratorially, �All the blood on the walls, the car-pets�it
suits you much better, I think-kuh. Though I�d have to say, we
could have kept the body, used it as a loooove-seat!�
He could barely suppress his
giggles on the other line; his voice exploded into a fit of hysterics again,
the booming laugh seeming to last forever as it penetrated her throbbing ears
with pain,
��But, you know, I really do
hope you can make it. That no flying bats have you cooped up in their
little hi-dey holes. You wouldn�t want to miss out on to-night-tuh,
especially since if you get cold feet��
Silence. At first she thought the
message had ended, that the Joker had merely hung up in all his growing
excitement, had wanted to leave the sentence hanging. But another series of
giggles followed, her ears prickling with the vicious satisfaction in each chuckle,
as if he were immensely pleased with himself. As if he was quenching his thirst
for blood.
Then she heard it, something she
had thought to be simple static in the background; a scream. Someone was screaming
on the other line, someone the Joker had been evidently been entertaining. Her
grip tightened on the phone, her teeth chewing so hard into her lip she could
taste her own coppery blood. They were in the Dock area, now, the car beginning
to slow to a halt, but the laughing never seemed to stop, the remainder of the
message only made up of minutes of sadistic chuckling and howling amidst the
horrified, blood-curdling screams in the background, the pleas, the cries of
pain�
Rachel pushed her phone in her
overcoat without bothering to shut it, bolting from the taxi through the
cluster of identical warehouses. As she ran, her phone boomed with the
never-ending laughter in her pocket, the victim�s screams piercing the bloody
red of the evening sky.
- 7
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Dark Humor