manofmyword | (no subject)

Entry tags:

threads that happened

(no subject)

Tonight, you're all gonna be a part of a social experiment.

Through the magic of diesel fuel and ammonium nitrate, I'm ready right now to blow you all sky-high. If anyone attempts to get off their boat, you all die. Each of you has a remote to blow up the other boat.

At midnight, I blow you all up. If, however, one of you presses the button, I'll let that boat live.

So, who's it gonna be? Harrvey Dent's most wanted scumbag collection – orrr... the sweet and innocent civilians? You choose!

Oh—and you might wanna decide quickly, because the people on the other boat may not be quite - so - noble.

"Oh, y'made it!" the Joker exclaims, turning away from the window overlooking the water. "I'm so—thrilled."

He doesn't sound it. He sounds pissed the fuck off, actually.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She has fought her way through an entire SWAT team and half a dozen of the Joker's thugs to get up here; she crashed her car today to save a blackmailer's life; she has failed too many times already, and she is not going to waste time on talking and fail yet again.

"Where's the detonator?"

He releases the three leashes in his hand.

"Go get 'er," he says, and the Chechen's dogs leap forward as a snarling pack.

Well, this is familiar.

She throws the first dog off to the side, but its two fellows hit her and take her down. Teeth punch through the material between the armor plates as she struggles to get out from under them.

The Joker can't hold himself back; he runs for her and starts beating her indiscriminately with the length of pipe in his hand, making noises not unlike those of the remaining dogs.

The Bat manages to get her hands up over her head, letting her gauntlets and arms take the brunt of the beating until she can get one foot up and kick him away.

With the Joker out of her face for the moment, she grabs the remaining dogs and sends them flying.

He scrambles to his feet and launches himself at her again, tackling her into a net hanging from the ceiling. While she is thusly encumbered, he manages to get on top of her.

"All the old familiar places," he says, pulling a knife.

Don't let him get at her mask or her throat--

She grabs for his hand, desperate to disarm him.

Whaddya know, it works. She even manages to throw him; he staggers back, shaking his head to clear it.

She scrambles to her feet, breathing hard, and--

The sonar shorts out. She's blind. One of those hits with the pipe must have disrupted the connection.

"Scanning," says Fox's voice in her ear.

The picture comes back just in time for her to get a good view of the Joker's wild grin as he slams into her, shoving her toward the unguarded edge of the half-constructed floor. She lands beneath a frame of light girders, the precursor to a wall; he follows and knocks away its support, bringing it crashing down like a huge blunt guillotine.

She gets one arm up under the girder, for all the good it does. The impact still knocks the wind out of her.

She lies there, dizzy and hurting from the blows to the head, and tries to come up with her next move. What time is it? How much time does she have left?

"We really should stop this fighting," the Joker pants, his words slurred with breathlessness from the struggle as he throws himself on top of her with the pipe clutched in his left hand. "Otherwise we'll miss the fireworks."

"There won't be any fireworks!" she snarls.

He ignores her, looking out at the splendid view of the two boats stopped dead in the water. His free hand lifts into the air like a conductor's baton.

"And here... we... go," he pronounces.

There is a silence.

She holds her breath.

Seconds tick by.

Nothing.

His lips twitch into the beginnings of an anticipatory smile, and then flatten again.

He glances at the clock.

He starts to frown.

The wave of relief makes all her aches and pains seem far away, momentarily.

"What were you trying to prove?" she rasps. "That deep down, everyone's as ugly as you?"

She remembers what he told her in the interrogation room, and spits the last two words:

"You're alone."

"Can't rely on anyone these days," he mutters to himself. "You gotta do everything yourself. Don't we? That's okay," he says, reaching into a pocket. "I came prepared. It's a funny world we live in. Speaking of which," he darts a glance down at her, detonator now firmly in hand, "y'know how I got these scars?"

Make him stop. Talking.

"No, but I know how you got these."

She triggers the spring-loaded blades on the gauntlet trapped under the beam (thank you, Fox, prepared for anything and everything); they slash into the Joker's face and torso with an unpleasant noise.

Perhaps even less pleasant, at least to her, is the noise that escapes his parted lips as he drops the detonator and flinches back.

Surprises are wonderful. Surprises that hurt are better. And a whole new set of scars? It's almost like she cares, really it is.

She reaches up, grabs him by the lapels, and yanks him forward and over her head. Over the edge.

Only seconds to get him -- she shoves the beam off her chest, rolls over, and fires her grappling hook towards the falling figure, helpfully illuminated by the GCPD's spotlight.

He's laughing as he falls. It's everything he hoped it would be. He can't think of a better way to die.

And then his fall jerks to an early stop.

With what she's snatching away from him, even the delicious bite of the grappling hook clutching his ankle isn't enough. His laughter becomes a snarling groan. Does she have to ruin everything?

It's hard to get the cable up over the scaffolding to act as a pulley, but she manages. Hauling the Joker up is even harder.

Once he's level with her, she ties off the cable and drops to one knee to catch her breath.

The Joker is groaning almost continuously all the way back up, but when she fastens him in place, he finally groans his way to an intelligible word.

"Ohhhhh, you."

He draws a quick breath.

"You just couldn't let me go, could you? This is what happens," he pants, "when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. You truly are... incorruptible, aren't you. Huh? You won't kill me, out of some misplaced sense of – self-righteousness. And I won't kill you because you're just too much fun! I think you and I are destined to do this forever," he concludes, smiling now. He loves her; he can't stay mad at her.

She is perfect just the way she is.

"You'll be in a padded cell forever," she shoots back tiredly.

"Maybe we could share one," he says without missing a beat. "You know they'll be doubling up, the rate this city's inhabitants are losing their minds."

"This city just showed you that it's full of people ready to believe in good."

"Until their spirit breaks completely," the Joker suggests, entirely too cheerful for someone who is hanging upside-down from a hook. "Until they get a good look at the real Harvey Dent. Huh? And all the heroic things he's done."

A giggle that is really more of a wheeze trickles out of his mouth.

"You didn't think I'd... risk losing the battle for Gotham's soul in a fistfight with you? Noooo. You need – an ace in the hole. Mine's Hhharvey."

"... What did you do?" she breathes.

"I took Gotham's white knight and I brought him down to our level," he pronounces with glee, arms windmilling as he twists in the air. "It wasn't hard. See, madness, as you know, is like – gravity. All it takes is a little," he shoves the empty air towards her in a grand gesture that sets him swinging on his hook, "push."

And then he starts to laugh.

She goes cold.

Harvey Dent, pushed over the edge. There's one obvious place where he would go.

The place where he thinks Rachel died.

The Joker is neutralized for now, and there are enough SWAT teams in and around the building that even they can deal with him. The police won't be looking for Harvey; it's up to her.

She rises, ignoring the bites and bruises, and turns in a swirl of fabric. 250 52nd Street is close.

This is going to be beautiful. He only wishes he could be there to see it.

But oh, well. There's something to be said for staying, too. The inverted posture and his slow spin are making him dizzy; he hurts everywhere she has pierced him with sharp things and there is blood running down his leg, his neck, his jaw. He keeps laughing, with all the breath he has left and then some.

A couple of SWAT members see the Bat rush past them, but given what happened to the last team that tangled with her, they give her a wide berth. She doesn't seem interested in them, anyway.

It's the clown left hanging for them that they focus on.

. . . Nobody can quite believe that he's actually neutralized, though. Especially with the laughing.

The sight of armed and armoured law enforcement personnel creeping nervously toward him does not exactly do anything to halt his hysterical giggles.

As it turns out, hanging upside-down for extended periods isn't very good for you, and laughing until you can barely breathe doesn't help. It's not long before his cackles turn to wheezes, then to silence. Perhaps he will be less fearsome when he is unconscious.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only