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This World is Not a Conclusion	By : JaneKrahe Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 3439 -:- 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
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A warning to my readers: It gets pretty graphic here, folks. I don't want to go into specifics, but there are things here that I don't think I posted warnings for, mostly because I didn't know I'd go this way until I actually did. My story has taken quite a dark turn, almost without my realizing it. Once I read this back, I was like, "Jane, you are one sick girly." So, if you have a weak sensibility, don't read any further. And if, like me, you can handle pretty much anything, then venture forth, and hopefully, you'll like what you find. PLEASE REVIEW!

P.S. A special thanks to FloydianC for your review. It was exactly the push I needed to get me out of my writers block. Thanks so much, hon! :D

*************

Harvey Dent stood in the small room adjacent to the interrogation room, the same one where he’d come fact-to-face with the Joker just a year before. He liked this interrogation room; the broken window made certain that the perps knew he was there, knew he was onto them.

He was watching Barbara Gordon interview Mr. Zsasz’s sister, Emily. She was a small, mousy woman, thin, pallid, her hair hanging limply around her face. She sat in the chair across from the fiery Barbara, seeming to shrink with every question.

“Are your parents alive?” Barbara asked.

Emily looked around, then replied, her voice creaking like an un-oiled hinge. “No,” she said.

“When did they die?”

“My senior year.”

“And how did it happen?”

Emily Zsasz blinked at her, silent for several seconds. Then, she replied, “In a car accident. Both of them. Together.”

“Hmm…” Barbara made a note in her spiral notebook. Harvey sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. All the psycho-babble made him impatient; angry. It was useless when compared to real, honest detective work.

“And… what sort of relationship did Victor have with your father?” Barbara asked.

“I…” Emily’s voice cracked. She shook her head, stringy hair flopping about her ears, which stuck out slightly. “I don’t see what that matters - “

“It matters a great deal, Ms. Zsasz,” Barbara said in that voice she had, half an octave deeper than usual, the voice filled with warning, the voice that sent most Gotham City cops scurrying for the exit.

“I - “ the woman sighed. “Look, Ms. Gordon, our father was sadistic bastard. His favorite past time was locking us in a closet together and saying…” Emily gulped, looking down at her thin hands. Tears filled her large, hang-dog eyes. “Saying that if we didn’t… if we didn’t… he wouldn’t let us out.” She looked up at Barbara as the first fat tear rolled down her sallow cheek “He liked watching us fuck each other,” she spat out, her voice suddenly cold and sharp. “Thought it was funny to make a brother and sister… he thought it was funny. And our mother was so piss-drunk all the time that she barely noticed. And when she did, she’d tell us to stop being sinful. Then she’d hold our heads under the water in the bathtub and order us to ask God’s forgiveness for our filth.” Emily Zsasz crossed her arms. “Look, Ms. Gordon, I understand that someone is copying my brother’s crimes. But I assure you, my brother is dead. He’s *dead*, for God’s sake, can’t you let him rest in peace? It’s the only peace he’s ever had.”

“I have one more question, if you’ll indulge me, Ms. Zsasz,” Barbara said, her voice steady, though she’d gone pale. “How old were you the first time your father forced you… forced you into a closet together?”

Emily closed her eyes. Tears rolled freely from under her lids. “Victor was eleven,” she said. “And I seven.”

Barbara sighed heavily as she entered the room where Harvey stood. Harvey could sense that she was horrified by what she’d heard, but it was a resigned sort of horror. The sort of weak disgust that one gets when they think they’ve seen all the filth humanity has to offer, until someone comes along and shows them a whole new layer of it. Harvey himself had been more than surprised that she’d pushed the issue so far. What good did it do to make that poor woman relive her traumatic past? Harvey had a feeling that Barbara’s madman lover was rubbing off on her. He sneered at her and said, “Did you have fun, Gordon?”

Barbara gave him a look of acid, aided by her poisonous green eyes. “Sorry, Harvey, we can’t all be like you, getting your kicks out of hurting women.”

Harvey’s temper flared. He knew she should throttle the little bitch for her insolence; how dare she speak to him like that! His hands flexed as a strong desire to wrap them around her pale throat welled up in him like bile. God how he wanted to wipe that superior look from her face, wanted to see fear and uncertainty in those big, green eyes.

Dent took a deep breath, the red fading from his vision. He knew he’d get his chance eventually. Until then… “And what do you call all those scars and bruises your sociopath lover gives you?”

Barbara gave him a smile that used to turn him on; now it just made him angry and disgusted. “I call it ‘foreplay’,” she said. Harvey found himself staring at her lips. He used to like her mouth, found it sexy and enticing. Now all he could think of was the idea of her full, red lips wrapped around the cock of the Joker, and it made Dent slightly nauseous. Nauseous and angry. He was profoundly glad when she turned and walked away without another word. It was all he could do not to take the back of his hand to her face, and just keep going.

Dent left then. He needed a release, and he knew just where to get it.

*************

Joker paced in his hideout, an old used bookstore underneath an abandoned free clinic on lower Fifth. He’d awoken that morning in a panic, remembering his moment of weakness the night before. Barbara had already left, so he’d flown from her apartment, running as fast as his legs would carry him. He paced the room now, shaking. He felt like the world was spinning on a different axis; nothing had edges anymore, or rather, the edges were fraying, coming undone. HE was coming undone.

The Joker was coming undone.

His body shook so badly it blurred his vision. He felt cold, bone-deep cold, like the blood in his veins had been replaced by shards of ice. Joker’s mind was going so fast that the moment he managed to capture a thought, it escaped the next instant, slipping through his fingers like oil. Oil. Fire. God, he wanted to start a fire.

Joker strode to the closet and pulled a half-filled gas can from it’s depths. He had to so something, had to do *something* to rid himself of this fear, this sense of closing doors, of impending doom. He had no idea why his admission of weakness to Barbara had caused such a reaction in him, but he prepared to rid himself of it the only way he knew how.

Violence.

Beautiful, sweet, ugly, satisfying violence.

And he knew exactly where to start.

*************

Barbara sat at her desk at the 13th Precinct, staring at a file in front of her, not really seeing it. She still hadn’t managed to wrap her mind around what Emily Zsasz had told her. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe her; it was just the sort of thing to turn a man into a serial killer. No, what was bothering her was the disgust she *didn’t* feel. It frightened Barbara, the idea that she’d become so jaded that even this horrifying tale of child abuse of the highest order left her feeling nothing. What was wrong with her? Was she a monster?

-Why not? -, argued a quiet, sly part of her. -You’re sleeping with a monster. Hell, you just confessed your undying love to one.-

-Joker’s not a monster-, her rational mind argued.

-He murders for fun-, the sly part of her whispered. -If you’re going to fuck him, you should at least be honest with yourself about what he is.-

Her so-called “rational” self had no response. None at all.

Barbara focused on the crime scene photos in front of her. She stared at the women, brutalized, raped, murdered, their bodies defiled. And felt nothing.

God, what the hell was wrong with her? Barbara felt disgusted with herself, then almost laughed at what it took to make her feel disgust. A lack of emotion causing emotion? Was she going crazy?

In a moment of frightening clarity, Barbara realized that the idea was a distinct possibility.

She *could* be having a mental break.

Barbara sat as cold, paralyzing fear filled her. Her vision swam, and she felt she might pass out.

And then, a voice shouted in her mind, -You’re a fool, Barbara Gordon!-

Her vision cleared, and she laughed aloud.

Of course she wasn’t having a mental break.

If she was, she would never have thought of it as a possibility.

Relief flooded her like warm water, comforting and soothing. As she calmed, she realized that she still had a problem. But at least it was a solvable one.

She was Barbara-fucking-Gordon. She could handle it. She could handle anything.

*************

Harvey Dent stared in the mirror across from the bed as he pounded into the woman on her hands and knees in front of him. She was a hooker, of course. No need to bother with real women; all he wanted was a warm pussy, not a real woman he had to woo for weeks before getting into bed. He thrust into her so hard he had to hold onto her hips to keep her from being shoved away by the force of it. He didn’t know this hooker’s name; why would he need to? She was just a hooker, wearing the red wig he’d thrown at her the minute she walked in the door of this seedy motel. He’d chosen one with green eyes, though hers were a dull grey-green. He watched himself in the mirror watched the looks of pain and discomfort on the whore’s face. And imagined that it was Barbara Gordon. Barbara he was pounding into, Barbara’s tight pussy around his swollen cock, Barbara’s face contorted in pain.

He wanted nothing more than to fuck the confidence out of her. To pound into her soft flesh until she cried.

Harvey gripped the whore’s hips tighter, his nails digging into her skin. Blood began to seep from under his nails as he thrust into her. In his mind, it was Barbara. He was punishing her for her insolence, for her affair with the madman, for breaking up with Harvey Dent.

NO WOMAN LEAVES HARVEY DENT.

Harvey wrenched at the red wig, pulling at the hair underneath. He shoved the hooker’s face in the dirty mattress. She protested, and he pushed harder, angling her ass up so that he thrust deeper. He knew she was in pain. He wanted her to be in pain.

The whore was crying now, and the sound rushed from his ears to his cock, making him harder, spurring him on. He glanced down at the placed they were joined. His cock felt warm, and wet. Too wet. He realized that she was bleeding. Dark red liquid was staining her thighs, the front of his stomach, his cock.

And still, Harvey thrust harder, feeling more blood seep onto him, dripping down his thighs. He pulled the hooker’s head up suddenly, and she gasped for breath.

“Say it,” he growled. Tears and snot coursed down the woman’s face. She was sobbing to hard to speak. Harvey raised a hand and brought it down across her cheek with a loud CRACK! “Say it, cunt!” he ordered, his voice dry and hoarse. “You say it, whore, you say it, or I swear to God I will slit you from ear to ear and fuck your throat in the hole I make!”

The woman gasped, shuddering, sobs wracking her drug-ravaged frame. “I… I’m sorry, Mr. Dent,” she croaked. “I should n-never have left you, I…” she broke down in fresh tears. “Please, it hurts so bad - “

Dent hit her again, harder this time, and she passed out. He body went limp in his hands, but that didn’t matter. He looked again at the mirror. He saw himself fucking an unconscious redhead. And to him, it was Barbara Gordon.

He came, so hard he almost blacked out.

Afterward, he tossed, the hooker’s unconscious body on the floor, walking over to the window. Her blood dripped from his cock like it was a knife, down his thighs, smeared across his abdomen. He stared out the window, reveling in his release.

There was smoke on the horizon, and fire. It was from the East. He lived in the East.

Before he could process the thought, his cell rang. He strode to the bedside table, stepping on the hookers arm as if she wasn’t there. It was the Commissioner. “Dent,” he said, trying to sound normal.

“Dent, get home right the fuck now,” came the Commissioner’s sharp voice. “Your house is on fire.”

*************

Joker stood several blocks away, melting into the shadows, enjoying his handiwork. Dent’s house was in flames, in beautiful flames, that danced and smiled like the fire in sweet Lady Gordon’s eyes.

The fire made him fell better, calmer, more able to deal with his admission to Barbara. In for a penny, in for a pound. At least it had been the truth. He was in love with her, or at least thought he was. He wasn’t sure what love was, but if it wasn’t love, it was the closest he would ever get.

Joker watched as fire trucks arrived on the scene, followed swiftly by Barbara’s father. He saw James Gordon make a phone call, and Joker assumed it was to Dent.

Of course, Joker had known whose house he was burning down. He wasn’t going to set fire to the home of some innocent family. But Harvey Dent, he deserved it. Joker had never gotten back at him for hitting Barbara a year ago, and he knew the destruction of Dent’s vulgar nouveau riche house would be just the thing to wipe that smug smirk off the D.A.’s face.

-Speak of the white knight-, Joker thought with a smile as Dent pulled up in his Hummer. Dent got out, looking frantic. He ran up to Gordon, and the two of them spoke for several moments. Joker watched with amusement as Harvey ran his hands through his hair in obvious frustration. Dent turned and walked away from the scene, letting the firemen do their work. He came uncomfortably close to Joker’s hiding place, and he considered moving away. But Dent was no threat to him; there was no reason to run.

Dent paced several feet from where Joker hid in the shadows, his hands on his hips. Joker smirked, enjoying Dent’s misery. Dent stopped suddenly and began slowly looking around.

Joker tensed as Dent’s eyes rested on the spot where Joker stood. He didn’t see him; that much was plain. But when Joker looked into Dent’s eyes, he saw something in their depths that froze his blood.

There was a hollow, abyssal look in them that Joker recognized. It was look he was very familiar with. It was the same one he saw every time he looked in the mirror.

Joker realized with dawning fascination that Harvey Dent was a cold-blooded killer.

Not only that, but by the fire in those eyes, he had killed just moments before.

*************
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This World is Not a Conclusion