Terra Firma

Jay

"You happy now? You brought this on us."

I stood stiffly in the doorway, sweating lightly as the people I'd worked so closely with now stared at me, hatred burning out of their eyelids and radiating to me like the heat in a baking oven.

I was more aware of my sexuality and heritage then, how alienated I was from those people. I know it's a bad thing to think, but hate and fear does that to people. Spreads. Like some sick awful bacteria--unseen to the naked eye, but horrifyingly widespread under a microscope.

One of the women cops I worked with was pressing a bandage to a bullet wound in her leg. She looked at me with an anger in her eyes I knew all too well, one I had to take from my mother as a child. A look that screamed:

"I hate you. I wish you were never born."

I flinched, turning away.

I took a deep breath, expecting to hear gunshots. To my shock, I heard none. I must've just missed the initial bout of chaos.

"He's in there. In the interregation room." One of my supposed comrades spat, his eyes slits in his head, his tone a large knife stabbing my back. I was thankful Joe wasn't here. If he was, I wouldn't be able to handle it. And Homer. Angel and I dropped him off at Gordon's apartment, the safest place we knew to keep him, before going our seperate ways.

Poor thing was probably scared out of his mind. Huddled in the corner or something.

Homer

I yawned loudly. Mr. Gordon's son looked up, I could feel the air around his head whoosh lightly as he did so. That's how I tell gestures. The tiny wind around people's bodies is a constant signal.

Gordon was nice. A little boring and set in his ways, but nice. Plus, his wife gave me candy. Her hands shook, I could feel it. She seemed very frightened of everything. Something very scary must've of happened to her, because she jumped at every little noise in the cozy apartment. I liked her though. Her son and daughter were quiet, so she understood my silence was not a sign for dumbness. She didn't treat me like a baby or a dumb animal.

"What are you playing?" I perked up, hearing fake gunshots blast around me, along with a constant thrum of buttons being pushed. Gordon's son was older than me, in that preteen stage I guess. He was rigid like his father, but inside I sensed a shaking fear like his Mom's.

"A video game."

"What kind?"

"The kind Mom doesn't like me to play."

I reached into my pocket, pulling out my plastic baby keys, dropping them nonchalantly to the floor, then picking them up.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

"Why do you do that?"

"I don't know. Why does anyone do anything?"

I could feel him shrug.

"Let's play cards or something. I'm tired of hearing guns."

"...But you can't see--"

"I can see. I have my own deck, with bumps on it! Jay gave it to me for my birthday last year..."

"Did he get it from a bar?"

"Shut up."

Another shrug.

I dealt the cards.

"What're we playing?"

"War."

"What's war?"

I explained to him the workings of the game, that every card had an authority, that one card always wiped out the other. If the cards were the same, you would lay down more, three face down, one face up. The stronger card took all six, including the played cards. The object was to get all the cards from the other player.

"They have a 'authority'? Geez, you know some big words for a five year old."

"Six."

"Yeah. Right."

I ignored him, moving on, "The cards go in numerical order... then it's Jack, Queen, King, Ace, and... Joker. Joker gets all the cards."

Gordon's son suddenly seemed frightened, "I don't want to play."

"Why?" I pushed my shades up the bridge of my nose.

"Jokers are bad..."

"It's just a card."

"But there's this story kids tell at school... if you deal a Joker in a deck of cards, he'll appear the next Friday at 1:32 a.m. and skin your dog in front of you! And then Poison Ivy will wrap you up..."

I laughed quietly, clapping my hands.

"You're a dummy."

I could feel the skin tighten around my friend's face.

"Dad says..."

"What, that the Joker's bad? No one's really bad, you know. Just... different. Have you ever met him, heard him talk?"

A shake of the head, "Have you?"

I smiled and the air around Gordon's son pulsed--a light shudder. Then he straightened,

"They should make a Batman card. He'd beat The Joker."

"Nuh-uh." I droned, "They'd just keep fighting. They can't kill each other. And The Joker doesn't care. He'd get right back up."

Up. Down. Up. Down.

The room was completely quiet again, until Gordy boy's Mom called us in the kitchen for lunch.

Jay

I turned into the little glass observation room facing into one of our interregation rooms, now much cleaner and more modern after having to build a new one, trying hard to block the hateful looks I got from those I passed, all gathered around the doorway of the room, but standing far against the wall, as if some unknown pestilence was breeding inside. For once in the little dim glass room, I was completely alone. Abandoned. That alienated feeling came up again and I shoved it, suddenly realizing how badly I needed a stiff drink. I gulped, wiping sweat from my face, staring through the two-way window, hardly believing what I saw.

He'd lain a gun on the white impersonal table, several knives...

(what the hell is that a potato peeler?)

I didn't even want to know what he used that for.

On Gordon's side of the table, there was a small Rubbermaid container, holding every riddle we'd had so far in seperate plastic evidence bags.

"He's actually cooperating?" I jumped, startled by a thoughtful voice, now standing next to me, peering through the window quizically. Ironically enough, he was small, chubby--with a combover and large aviator spectacles, the kind you see in the textbooks they make you read in high school--where everyone dresses like it's the 80s. Perhaps even more ironic? He looked as if he did office work. No action for this guy. And here he was--a man old enough to be my father, standing in a room the strong and able of Gotham's Finest had labeled, "cursed," and "untouchable". I didn't recall his name, or even his face for that matter. But in that moment, I clung to whatever soul would hear me out in its loneliness.

"Mmmm..." I mused, staring at The Joker's painted face, which was staring at Gordon's own dark features from across the table.

We looked on for a while. The guy was a little weird, fumbling awkwardly with a large shirt he had on. I paid no attention, too absorbed in the scene before me.

Gordon was very numb, it seemed, and very worried, and judging by the way he was cleaning his glasses--at a loss for words. The Joker sat whistling, eyes bouncing around every corner of the room. He was making these weird little faces, scratching his hair and smoothing out his suit.

"This isn't good." I muttered.

"Oh I know. I come to work late to find blood and Gordon actually inviting a Madman to sit in the interregation room with him. You don't have to tell me twi--"

"It's not that. That's actually not that shocking. It's just that... that.. you know Angel Lune? The one that studied ...them in Arkham?"

"Yes, everyone knows."

"Well, from what she's seen... and told me... his mood swings are very 'unique'. Especially when they did seperate sessions."

"Seperate sessions?"

"When Ivy was not there."

"...Oh."

"He would vary from silent, then really 'happy'. Giddy, almost. Then he would space out for a couple of seconds and... and..."

"Blow up? Ha."

"Yes. Yes, blow up. And do you notice anything about who's not there right now? And the flower on the suit... it's dying, it looks like."

"Yes..."

From behind the glass, as if on cue, The Clown's eyes snapped into nothingness, fixated on something far off and nonexsistant.

Joker

In moments like that, I couldn't pull myself out.

There was a rat gnawing away into my brain, and in times like that it would short circuit.

snap....

Something like static... the grey matter you see on the television... would crackle in my mind. A high-pitched noise would whiiiiine whiiiiine whiiiiiine. Faster, and growing in intensity. Then there would be the final crackle, the tippy top of the scale. Set off by something totally innocent or unrelated to what I was thinking. A goon standing outside my doorway, a civilian looking at me with dumb eyes, a cop trying to stare me down bravely.

Gordon's voice was faraway, distorted in my madness, "I'm assuming you came here about Ivy..."

(ASSUME MAKES)

"You would be right in suspecting it... he seems to have a redhead fetish.."

(FETISH)

"Perhaps he... had some sort of sexual fascination with her..."

(SEXRETARY oh I shouldn't care shouldn't let it get to me SHE LEFT ME! but I do ...she's mine MINE MINE ME ME ME)

I could feel my eyes dialate. Every tiny little cell of muscle and bone tense, frozen. Making me very cold. Suddenly making my face very hot. So hot I felt as if the hairs on my neck were going to spark up and ignite. The blood in my head rushed.

(wanna make gordy's head spin yeah that's it like a merry-go-round all the colors like red and blood like christmas hahaha)

SNAP!

Jay

"He's gonna blow..."

I shoved my new-found and shocked looking buddy out of the way, barging into the unlocked (thankfully) door of the too-white room. Gordon sat frozen, shocked by his sudden movement for his favorite knife, a purple glove grasping his jaw. His eyes were completely black, burning like tar. He had the look of a mad dog on his face--lip curled back, disgusting teeth, scrunched up nose and feirce brow. Luckily for me, he was not paying any attention to the black shape coming towards him, didn't even look up as I balled up a fist and did the only thing I could think of as right in that moment.

My arm reared back, and I hit him squarely in the jaw, watching as he stumbled out of his chair, shaking himself off like a dog in the alley.

The force I hit him with was enough to knock a muscle-bound guy like Joe cold for a good, solid hour.

But he got up right away, chuckling slightly as he cracked his jaw back into place.

"Ugh... ohoohoohee.." He groaned, giggled. Gordon and I stood tense as he stumbled funnily, then, slowly--a smile crept over his frightening face.

"Nice hand you got there... uh... you use it on any of your boyfriends?"

He laughed wickedly as I lunged. Gordon held me back by the arms desperately. It felt something like deja vu, like I was experiencing a moment through someone else's eyes and in another time. I breathed through my nose, enraged as he backed away, making a mocking face.

"Just like your old man..." He sucked his awful teeth, straightening his coat. His fingers absentmindedly caressed the pitiful orange flower stuck to him. Marigolds, I think they're called. Something like pain glinted in his eyes. Only for a millisecond, but I caught it. Something I picked up from Angel.

"No matter how afraid you are of him... if you look into his eyes for longer than you would dare, things are there. You see things..."

I slackened then, realizing if I could grasp onto the microscopic bit of empathy in him, I could get him to really cooperate.

"Jack..." I began, "she's gone."

His head snapped up and his face suddenly became serious.

Gordon caught on to what I was doing, "We can help you..."

"NOBODY HELPED ME! NOBODY HELPED ME OUT! Nobody... helped.." He stumbled back, breathing hard. Gordon and I moved instinctively over to the table.

Emotion. We were cracking him.

Gordon suddenly smirked, "You created something bigger than yourself, boy."

He mumbled something and slouched again, licking his lips:

"And we're always responsible for the things we create."

"She's dying, Jack."

He flinched, twitching.

"And we... need you... but we've got all the clues."

His head snapped up once more and we couldn't help but jump as that terrible grin spread over his face,

"Alright. Uh. Alright. I'll catch this sonofabitch. I'll play your little, uh... game. But."

I realized in that moment exactly what my mystery "friend" had been doing there, standing in the room so close to us...

I had no time to think, no time to react. I could only stare in horror at the black window as it erupted, like slow motion, into tiny peices.

A loud explosion reverberated next to us, along with his joyous cackles as we jumped instinctively underneath the table.

Between muffled screams and the haze of smoke from fresh death, I could catch his words as he took our little box of riddles, skipping and humming off key as he did so.

A pause, a click of the tongue,

"We play by my rules... and uh, that means: no rules at all!"