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14 December 2008 @ 07:05 pm
The Fresh Hyaline Line (IV Lady Paramount)  
Title: The Fresh Hyaline Line (IV Lady Paramount)
Pairing: Joker x Rachel Dawes
Fandom: Batman The Dark Knight
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Joker has an interesting thing to tell: there is no real difference between civil obedience and disobedience. It comes down to the basic slaughter.

A/N: This story is turning very…AU. I’m making up almost all of the backstory. Chapter 3 || Chapter 5

The Fresh Hyaline Line

Lady is a lady is lovely
Lady is arching the bow and string-
ing the arrows through
and Lady takes her hands and
shoots the tip true
and straight.

Lady Paramount made the cut clean
won the challenge and herself a title.
Lady Paramount is entitled
to a special bliss
(how about a justified kiss?).

IV. Lady Paramount

...Rachel reflects her fine heart…

In his younger and less insane days, he went to school like any regular boy. And the teachers would ask (sniffing their noses haughtily and wrinkling the corners of their lips, oh really?) if he suffered a great deal at home.

The emphasis is stressed on Great Deal. As if he were flayed every night at home. Must have a drunken father and a whore-mother. Must be beaten and starved and—that explained the bruises and marks.

“Are you all right, sweetie? Would you like a cookie? You’re all skin and bones…”

He lifted his head and gave some pitiable sighs. “Yes, please. I’m always so…uh…um hungry. I never get enough.”

The teacher winced, retracting her claws into the exoskeleton (made of chalk-ashes and Shakespearian sonnets).

“Don’t worry. You can tell me. They won’t hurt you anymore.”

Cautiously he turns a little to the left, twists in the hard plastic seat and sighs and sighs.

“Do you want to tell me who they are?”

No response.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it. Is it your mom and dad?”

“Why—what—makes you, ha, think that?”

She eyed him suspiciously and leaves the subject alone.

A poor, poor little boy lost: he liked the ideal of that. And apparently, the rest of them did too.


The year he entered fifth grade is the year a new student arrived. Small and daintily made, the girl wears white dresses with a matching white lace ribbon stuck in her brown hair.

“Hello. What’s your name?”

“Rachel.” She smiled.

He did too. “Nice to meet you. Say, what grade are you in?”


“Ah. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, I have two.”

“Really now. Who’re they?”

“I don’t know. They went away.”


Rachel was absent from school for a week. Chickenpox, her parents announced with pauses and breaks and furtive blinks.


“Why’re you sad, Rachel?” he asked out of the blue.

“Huh? How’d you know?”

“Never mind that, so why’re you sad?”

“It’s my friend, Bruce, he left and no one knows where he is.”

“Do you miss him, Rachel?”


“Do you want to know where he is?”

“Tell me!”

“Are you sure? I don’t know if you’d be able to take it.”

“Hurry up and tell me!”

“Well, Rachel, he’s dead.”


He kept a constant watch over her (like a pesky shadow or irritating rash that never healed for good). Even when he vanished, he made sure she was still there—and aware.

But exteriorly, he was detached and dastardly amiable. There was nothing anyone could say to piss him off. And pissing him off became a goal for the entire class. Except for her: she simply avoided him.

Fine by me.

And fine with her.


He graduated and progressed to high school. She stayed behind to complete four more years. And every morning (when they stood to echo the Pledge) he wondered what she was doing, what she was thinking and—most of all—what she really said while responding to the patriot’s prayer.

“Pay attention, young man. I won’t have you dosing off again. Insomnia. Do you think I am stupid?”

“Yes I do.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, I think you’re very stupid, Miss—Ma’am—whatever slave-driver name you want me to call you by.”


“I don’t think so.”

He flashed out a gun (flushed the other students scampering and whimpering into emotional cacophony). He brandished the gun (in their faces, scaring them, engineering the panic & pandemonium he needed). And cocked the gun.

To fire.

Straight into the Missus’ forehead: dead center, right between the eyes.

“Frankly, I’ve had enough of this shit. And I’ve had more than enough of your idiocy. Let’s finish this, shall we?”

He aimed the gun, sending off a wave of watery fission into the ceiling—reverberating absolutes off walls and conducting symphonies of grandeur by memory.

Shanti, Shanti.

“What happens when your ab-so-lutes fail?”


The police informed his parents, two normal people with normal lives (how the hell did two normal adults produce a maniac?).

“Is he…crazy then?” the mother asked.

“We’re not sure. We’ve got him monitored at the hospital under surveillance, but all he’s been doing is ranting off nonsense. Something about ‘oms’ and being ‘the avant-garde saint’. Do you know what that might mean?”

“No, my husband and I, we’re both accountants. He seems perfectly normal at home. Maybe it’s that school and all those radical teachings,” she looked at her husband, “I told you we should have transferred him to that private academy.”

“Let’s not play the blame game, now. It’s not the school, Mrs. Napier. You son is a psycho.”

“Are you going to lock him away?”

“That or prison.”


They rose from their seats, shook hands, thanked one another (how kind, sorry for the inconvenience) and pranced out. The mother had her back rail-rod taut, and the father wiped his complexion eerily squeaky clean.

Bland, the cop grimaced in disgust at his vanilla coffee.


He whittled the infinite time away chipping at plastered brick and reading books. Copious upon mountains of books, wrenching his favorite lines free from the pages and quoting them back (abhorrently elegant and smooth) to the doctors and the nurses.

He devoured knowledge like drinking from the fountain at recess. Education, my dear, is wasted on the free! The elite, they know nothing about knowledge.

Such a lady killer.

The night nurses were his invariable companions, turning him into their confidants.

This one had an infidelity. Your husband is a liar and a cheat. You should divorce.

This one had a disease. It’s fatal, no use in blind hope. You might as well spend the next three months basking in hedonism. Sex would be a good start.

And this one was a mute. Shocking, I know. I’m a God-given gift to heathen virginal priests everywhere.


Are you injecting me with some abstruse viral cocktail?


“I must warn you, Miss Dawes. He’s…not right in the head.”

She laughed, “That’s why he’s here.”

“No I mean…even for an asylum inmate, he’s unusual. Are you sure you want to continue?”

“I didn’t come here for nothing, Doctor.”

The man sighed and led her in.

“Are you a graduate student, Miss Dawes?”

“Post. Working as an assistant at the DA’s office for the time being.”

“Why are you here at a hospital?”

“I have a degree in medicine.”

They walked down a dim hallway, and along the route (behind nailed-in doors) Rachel heard screeches. The doctor whistled a pleasant tune, mimicking the rhythms of strangled screams. And at the end, a piano played quietly.


In minuets and motets, he was an artist nonetheless.

And the circle became complete, one revolution—one stealing sidereal life past.

On the swing when the pendulum curved back, a conversation was born (in unison with the same old, wholesome stars bursting to die).

“Why hello, beautiful. Never thought I’d see you again.”

Larissa Faelarissafae on December 15th, 2008 03:48 pm (UTC)
Beautiful. Just beautiful! I found the line about Rachel having two boyfriends to be hilarious. ^_^ I love the backstory. Fabulous!