Terra Firma

Angel

Hiding away, I was completely detached, comfortably numb.

In that moment I did not hear the smooth 'henchman's' words, did not pay any attention to Two-Face's tone of bewilderment at the revealing of that little snake's plan. I did not pay attention to anything, hiding away in that bathroom, staring at a bowl of potpourri now void of any hint of smell, glancing at the small scrawlings on the door of a bathroom stall, eyes settling on some dried up ashtrays, once the centerpeice for conversation for a group of underground prostitutes. Now nothing more than an empty shell of glistening glass in dim light, dust collecting in the tiny nooks and crannies of the design.

That's all I was. A tiny glass ashtray--clean but burnt out. Neglected, rejected, left with the dying ashes and burdens from the cigarettes of others. But I could not have my own. My own worries were not brought to light. They were hidden away in the soft flourescent glow of a dead bathroom, a ghost town, rolling along like a thick tangle of tumbleweed.

Collecting dust, yet holding all the knowledge, worries and fears of those with heavily made up faces.

"Just paint your face!"

"Where's Homer?..." was the only thing I could mutter. I repeated my mantra, staring into the ashtrays, until I smelled flowers.

Cosette

"What happened out there?"

"Nothing, nothing. Two Face got all hot and bothered. Nothing GNN needs to report."

I was surprised to see him holding a plate as he entered. No wonder it'd taken him so long to calm the angry one down.

"Here you go, old friend."

I stared. Two perfectly shaped eggs stared back, along with two prim slices of bacon laid carefully to the side. They seemed to have been cut and measured to size, and were arranged in the shape of an equal sign rather than a smile. No eggshell floating in the egg white goop, no broken yolk bleeding onto the plate.

I felt sick.

"Something wrong?"

"...No. Nothing's wrong. That's exactly what's wrong."

He twitched, "I'm afraid.. I don't understand."

I shook my head. Ivy always said men didn't change. But he had. His hair and eyes used to be lighter, his frame skinny and like a weed. He was skinny, but in a different way. His voice had darkened, and I don't recall him being concerned about the order of things or the neatness of his wardrobe. Long gone were the days of us reading books and arguing over an educational documentary. This was the day of murder and treachery and obsession. Of keeping me in his little room and threatening to kill me if I stepped out for some air.

Oh, what had I done? Giving myself away in my niave and hopeful state?

I stared at him. He'd left me again, pacing across the room in calculative, even steps. His lips were moving. I think he was counting them. He went over to the door of what I presumed was a closet, I sat in disbelief when my eyes met about ten different canes, all uniquely designed, hanging neatly. Some I presumed were used in daytime--they were old and ratty and neutral, inconspicuous colors. But the others... they looked as if they could be torture devices. I twitched. He hung the gold one (must've been his favorite) up with a quick and easy flourish. This made me cringe even more, for I remembered how heavy it was when I used it. He turned at my watching, smiling that odd little smile.

"Friends from the carnival brought these for me, when I first began planning this bit out. Of course... they're gone now... thanks to you."

I flinched, remembering that night.

More teeth shown, if that was possible, and I watched as he hobbled over to the bed, wincing slightly. Perhaps from phantom pain, perhaps it was because without that golden friend at his side he felt vurnerable.

I made a face like a pirate, "Arrrgh."

He laughed, but it was fake, "Your jokes are worse than his."

"I learned from the best."

"Oh well, at least you don't stutter and "uhhhh" all the time. The man needs a public speaking class."

"The Joker needs a public speaking class like The Batman needs his own translator."

"Really? I've never spoken to him up close. But I will. Very soon."

Inwardly, my gut tightened.

He sat down next to me, taking off his coat. In the days past I'd grow comforted by this fact--it was usually a way to signal he would stay there to talk to me. But today it made me worry.

"What do you mean?"

Joker

You know that moment in all the crappy superhero movies where the hero's being held back by two lousy assistants or dangling from a cauldron bubbling fresh kryptonite? And the villian with the comic book hair and underwear-over-the-pants and cape combo is laughing:

MWUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Twirling the mustache in the fingertips, moving his caterpillar eyebrows all around. And then he reveals everything. Every little stupid detail about his plan, from the time it bit him in the brain to how many bathroom breaks he took in between drawing it up. Something really convenient happens. You know. And Mr. Macho escapes, knowing exactly how things can be stopped.

You know don't you?

Yeah, well.

That's really stupid.

What you gotta do is keep everything with you, yourself, and Ivy. What you gotta do is come up with a plan as you go along and spell out simple things these Gothamites can understand. So they get scared and think you know what's going to happen next.

That, or have no plan at all.

And if all else fails say:

Cosette

"You'll find out soon enough."

I cringed inside but stayed silent outwardly. He was too smart nowadays too. But that was okay. I knew enough not to mention Bruce or Batman now. It was a lucky moment, for after sitting like a teen from the 1950s on his first date, he cleared his throat:

"I would like an explanation, you could say... I mean I've always wondered... Everyday I found a newspaper... I mean...

Where have you been?"

Jay

Where had he been?

I frowned, drinking water from a paper cup. Some four year old kid's cartoon character was displayed on the front ironically as I sipped in the dark room, staring off into the television.

(water just doesn't do it it doesn't do the trick god I'm so irritable)

Where was Bruce? Bruce was an upstanding man. A rich man. He'd taken care of Cosette for four years. The Joker and Poison Ivy, probably no more than a couple of weeks. But I wasn't knocking The Joker--he was helping my cause, although I hadn't told him Cosette was gone. He wouldn't know from Mike Engel. Grumpy, I'd figured out quickly, was a sharp man, and as soon as he'd heard them broadcasting her--he'd blocked the channels. The Joker wasn't too interested in the tv up here anyways, lately. Goofy babbled that he usually stayed alone during his 'moods'.

But where was Bruce? The guy with the money and the fame and the nice face. Why wasn't he organizing some huge search party for his 'adopted' 'great neice'. Did he have time to crawl down from the tippy top of Wayne Industries and join me in the hellhouse of fun with no cold beer in sight?

Where have you been?

This thought sent me up, caused my fingers to curl and the tiny cup to be crushed. I was hardly aware of the anger as it built, as I marched down rickety stairs, hearing my steps pound in my ears in rhythm to the blood in my brain as I rushed and twisted down the halls to the poor door.

I heard myself hit the ground. Felt my fists pound on rocks and pavement until they were red and raw. All the little rocks and bits of glass leaving imprinted, shallow marks in my black skin. I threw, I kicked, I cried, I bled. I took frustrations out for hours, until the day twisted into dusk and night swallowed it whole.

It was when I began screaming,

"WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? DAMMIT YOU, WHERE'D YOU GO?"

I picked up an old glass bottle, hurling it at the nearby brick wall. I growled when I felt a pair of hands grasp my arms, tackling me to the ground and shaking me with unforgiving roughness. Despite the anger in the movements, I heard:

"Oh, sh, sh, sh, shush."

I shut up, but my breathing remained that of a raging bull's. The figure rose. It wasn't pretty or heroic.

It was slouching, scarred, and clumsy. It's clothes were ironic--that of a white collar worker, but it's eyes as mad as the moon above.

I blinked.

The Joker was looking up at the moon.

I heard him laugh. But for once it wasn't that crazy laugh you always hear on the tapes they play on GNN. It was meek. Like what he was before he cut up his face, according to my best friend.

"Don't expect an answer. He won't tell you. He'll just sit and watch and shake his head. I know. I-I know. I've been asking for 30 some years."

He watched the sky for several more minutes. Then he left.

He had no idea what I'd been talking about, I guessed.

But that didn't matter, because I knew exactly what he meant.