eclecticmuses December: How do you handle stress?
The detective knew it had been a stupid thing to do, even as he was doing it. Approaching the crazed clown in the interrogation room, rolling up his sleeves like he was somebody - if the Batman could take a few shots at him, why couldn’t he? He should have known - perhaps internally he did know - that the Joker would have something else up his sleeve.
Of course the Joker did. They were all pawns in his sick little game, after all.
Maybe that’s why Stephens did it - maybe the mix of anger and defeat both working at once sent him to his breaking point.
“How many of your friends did I kill?”
“Six.”
“Six?”
The mocking tone in the clown’s voice had been enough to do just what the Joker intended. In an instant, the police officer was striding over, getting ready to throw a punch. In just as little time, the madman grabbed a broken piece of mirror and had it at Stephens’ throat, holding him in a headlock. The detective was surprised, but careful not to move one way or the other.
Six, the Joker thought to himself again. Well that was a few. The Joker leaned in, wondering about a technical point. “Do you like yourself, Detective? Do you count as friend Seven?”
Stephens glared over at the Joker. "There's a difference between me and those other guys you killed." He thought briefly of his ex-wife and son. "I've got nothing to lose."
"That's really insightful of you,” the clown said. “Neither do I. You think the other cops know that? I hope not - I really, really want my phone call."
"That's special," Stephens said. "Who're you gonna call? Your lawyer? I don't think so."
"Now, now. That's privileged information. We're not friends -yet." The Joker took an experimental sniff of the cop. "We could be - but phone call first."
"I was given orders," Stephens said. "They don't include a phone call. There's nothing in the law that says we have to give you your call immediately."
"Let's not hide behind technicalities, detective," the clown dragged Stephen's resisting body out towards the main squad room, glass digging into the man's throat. Disturbingly, his other hand, the one clutching Stephens' shirtfront, was rubbing at him. "I need to reach out and touch someone."
Stephens winced with pain as the piece of glass pierced his throat. He knew better than to turn his neck away, but he obviously wasn't happy about being held hostage by this lunatic. When the clown started to touch the front of his shirt, he began to twitch.
The Joker pushed the jagged glass into the soft tissues of Stephen's throat. "Easy now - this is going to hurt you a lot more than it'll hurt me. See, if we pull the glass out now, it's like uncorking a champagne bottle.” He mouthed the word, “Pop!”
Stephens involuntarily shuddered, less at the thought of blood and more at the smell of the Joker's breath, so close to his face.
"So, let's go out there, nice and slowly,” the Joker went on. “I'd say don't be a hero, but that could be fun. I LIKE heroes." Noticing the flinch, the clown licked Stephens' face, once, long and slow like an overgrown dog, then grinned like one.
Stephens steadied his breath and didn't move until prompted. A moment later, the Joker pushed the cop ahead of him, embedding the glass even harder into Stephens' throat. If the other cops did something stupid - he almost wished they would - there'd be no saving him.
"Niiiiice and easy." The clown giggled.
And then he ushered Stephens into the fray of already over-excited cops. At the sight of their colleague being held hostage by the Joker, several of Stephens’ MCU teammates put their hands up, indicating that the Joker should be careful.
“I just want my phone call.”
An instant later, an explosion rocked the holding pen that was only across the room from them. At that, the Joker dropped his hold on Stephens at the same time that Stephens, trained to duck and cover, hit the floor.
It was only as the cop fell to the ground that he remembered the piece of glass in his throat. The Joker hadn’t pulled it out, but when he reached the ground, it nearly fell out. With a slight wheeze, Stephens held it in place.
“Don’t move,” Flores, one of the cops who’d hit the floor the same time that he did, told him.
“I’m not,” Stephens managed, looking up at the ceiling as smoke began curling up around the ceiling.
By the time the initial force of the blast was felt, and the extent of the explosion realized, the Joker was gone. A team of Gordon’s most trusted men was sent out, though his most trusted, senior detective was being sent to the Sacred Heart Hospital via ambulance instead.
Of course the Joker did. They were all pawns in his sick little game, after all.
Maybe that’s why Stephens did it - maybe the mix of anger and defeat both working at once sent him to his breaking point.
“How many of your friends did I kill?”
“Six.”
“Six?”
The mocking tone in the clown’s voice had been enough to do just what the Joker intended. In an instant, the police officer was striding over, getting ready to throw a punch. In just as little time, the madman grabbed a broken piece of mirror and had it at Stephens’ throat, holding him in a headlock. The detective was surprised, but careful not to move one way or the other.
Six, the Joker thought to himself again. Well that was a few. The Joker leaned in, wondering about a technical point. “Do you like yourself, Detective? Do you count as friend Seven?”
Stephens glared over at the Joker. "There's a difference between me and those other guys you killed." He thought briefly of his ex-wife and son. "I've got nothing to lose."
"That's really insightful of you,” the clown said. “Neither do I. You think the other cops know that? I hope not - I really, really want my phone call."
"That's special," Stephens said. "Who're you gonna call? Your lawyer? I don't think so."
"Now, now. That's privileged information. We're not friends -yet." The Joker took an experimental sniff of the cop. "We could be - but phone call first."
"I was given orders," Stephens said. "They don't include a phone call. There's nothing in the law that says we have to give you your call immediately."
"Let's not hide behind technicalities, detective," the clown dragged Stephen's resisting body out towards the main squad room, glass digging into the man's throat. Disturbingly, his other hand, the one clutching Stephens' shirtfront, was rubbing at him. "I need to reach out and touch someone."
Stephens winced with pain as the piece of glass pierced his throat. He knew better than to turn his neck away, but he obviously wasn't happy about being held hostage by this lunatic. When the clown started to touch the front of his shirt, he began to twitch.
The Joker pushed the jagged glass into the soft tissues of Stephen's throat. "Easy now - this is going to hurt you a lot more than it'll hurt me. See, if we pull the glass out now, it's like uncorking a champagne bottle.” He mouthed the word, “Pop!”
Stephens involuntarily shuddered, less at the thought of blood and more at the smell of the Joker's breath, so close to his face.
"So, let's go out there, nice and slowly,” the Joker went on. “I'd say don't be a hero, but that could be fun. I LIKE heroes." Noticing the flinch, the clown licked Stephens' face, once, long and slow like an overgrown dog, then grinned like one.
Stephens steadied his breath and didn't move until prompted. A moment later, the Joker pushed the cop ahead of him, embedding the glass even harder into Stephens' throat. If the other cops did something stupid - he almost wished they would - there'd be no saving him.
"Niiiiice and easy." The clown giggled.
And then he ushered Stephens into the fray of already over-excited cops. At the sight of their colleague being held hostage by the Joker, several of Stephens’ MCU teammates put their hands up, indicating that the Joker should be careful.
“I just want my phone call.”
An instant later, an explosion rocked the holding pen that was only across the room from them. At that, the Joker dropped his hold on Stephens at the same time that Stephens, trained to duck and cover, hit the floor.
It was only as the cop fell to the ground that he remembered the piece of glass in his throat. The Joker hadn’t pulled it out, but when he reached the ground, it nearly fell out. With a slight wheeze, Stephens held it in place.
“Don’t move,” Flores, one of the cops who’d hit the floor the same time that he did, told him.
“I’m not,” Stephens managed, looking up at the ceiling as smoke began curling up around the ceiling.
By the time the initial force of the blast was felt, and the extent of the explosion realized, the Joker was gone. A team of Gordon’s most trusted men was sent out, though his most trusted, senior detective was being sent to the Sacred Heart Hospital via ambulance instead.