Method Madness

Time dilated, then snapped. Barbara woke to a cold draft on her skin, a sticky ache radiating from her belly and thigh. She tried to move, but only her fingers twitched, useless as dead worms.

Her brain told her legs to bend, to kick, to do anything, but nothing below her ribs obeyed.

The room was dark now, city lights flickering through the blinds in a morse code of blue and orange. The blood had begun to crust, but every breath sent a new ripple of pain through her. She looked down, and saw the camera, still nestled against her wound, the lens smeared with her blood.

A slow clapping from the kitchen.

"Bravo, Babs. Not many people stay awake after that much blood loss."

Joker entered, holding a glass of orange juice. He took a sip, grimaced, then tossed the rest into the sink.

"Terrible. Needs more vodka."

He stepped over, crouched beside her, and wiped the lens on the tail of his shirt.

"You know, the camera adds ten pounds, but it takes away so much dignity. Let's fix that, shall we?"

He unbuttoned her pajama top with a surgeon's precision, one snap at a time, exposing the purple-black bruise where the bullet had ripped through her. He fanned the shirt open, admiring his work.

Barbara grit her teeth, forced the words out:

"Fuck you."

He laughed, delighted.

"That's the spirit! I always knew you had more backbone than your dad. Speaking of which—he'll be seeing these. Don't want to disappoint."

He slipped a hand beneath her, pulled her upright by the armpit, and arranged her against the couch so the wound faced the light.

The camera clicked, over and over, each flash a needle in her skull.

Joker talked while he worked, a constant stream of banter, some of it directed at her, most of it just for the joy of filling the air.

"You know, Babs, I used to think pain was a teacher. But humiliation—that's the real professor. Nothing teaches faster than losing everything you thought made you…you."

He tore open her shirt the rest of the way, exposing the pale skin beneath, then tugged her sweatpants down to her knees. The gesture was businesslike, indifferent, as if undressing a doll for a display case.

"Smile for the birdie," he sang.

She spat at him.

The fleck of blood caught his cheek.

He smiled wider.

"Perfect. The critics will love this one."

More photos. More arranging. He lifted one limp arm, draped it across her stomach, then propped her chin with a hand, forcing her eyes open for the next burst of light.

The whole time, Barbara's mind burned—not with shame, though there was plenty, but with a cold, hard rage. She memorized every detail: the sweat on his brow, the crack in his thumbnail, the scent of cheap aftershave and the faint whiff of gunpowder that clung to his hands.

He finished, dropped her back onto the floor, and thumbed through the camera's digital review, whistling low.

"You're a natural, Babs. Honestly, you should have done print work."

She closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe, tried not to let the tears come.

Joker zipped the camera into his bag, then patted her cheek.

"Sleep tight. Show's just getting started."

He left, his footsteps retreating down the hall, sandals squeaking against the old linoleum. Barbara stared at the ceiling, blood pooling under her back, shirt torn open to the cold air. She heard laughter echo off the stairwell, then a door slam, then nothing.

The city outside buzzed and blinked. The world kept going.

She lay in the ruin, exposed and gutted, but not dead.

Not yet.

.....

The Arcadia Grand's screening room was built for intimidation. Columns the color of congealed blood, velvet seats so plush they threatened to swallow you whole.

Even the air was staged: a blend of leather, ozone, and some high-grade popcorn oil with notes of butter and faint underlying rot. The lights were dimmed, but not so much you couldn't see the expectation on every face.

Nolan sat in the second row, dead center. He kept his hands folded in his lap, notebook unopened on the seat beside him. He'd meant to write, maybe even sketch out thoughts on the edit, but his muscles wouldn't move. Not since the moment the screen had gone dark, and the laughter began.

It started with the crash of a door—a sound designed to rip through the theater's sound system, but now, in this context, it felt like the crash had been inside his own skull. The screen went white, then color, and the entire room was in the Gordon apartment, every grain of dust, every stain on the mug. The violence, when it hit, was immediate and sickening.

Barbara answered the door.

Joker shot her. The sound hit Nolan first, a physical thing, followed by the collective gasp of hundreds of people breathing in and holding it, waiting for permission to exhale.

On screen, the bullet spun Barbara backwards, blood painting the walls and her own hands. She crashed through the glass table; every fragment caught the projector's light, turning the moment into a strobe-lit photograph.

A woman in the front row screamed, not a movie scream but a scream from the time before language. The man beside her grabbed her arm, but she pulled away, clutching at her own body as if the bullet had gone through her as well.

Nolan watched. He'd seen this cut fifty times, but never like this. In the room, with the audience, the scene felt different—like a live event, not a simulation.

On screen, Joker stepped through the door, sandals sticky with Barbara's blood, smiling.

The audience was silent, save for the whimpers. Even the critics, the ones Nolan had seen devastate a director with a shake of the head or a hissed "hack," were glued to the screen, pens dropped, eyes huge and wet.

Barbara tried to crawl. The Joker squatted beside her, lifted her chin, and told her to smile.

A man in the third row vomited into a popcorn tub.

Nolan gripped the arms of his chair. He couldn't blink. He couldn't even breathe.

The violence went on.

Joker's men stormed the apartment, hauled Gordon to the floor, zip-tied his wrists and ankles. They beat him, dragged him across the carpet. Every impact was amplified, not by the sound design, but by the absolute silence of the room—the way the audience had stopped even shifting in their seats, waiting for a break that never came.

A couple in the front row leapt to their feet, the woman's cheeks wet, the man shouting,

"Jesus Christ!"

as if the words could slow the reel. They stumbled toward the exit, but the usher—some poor kid—froze, unsure whether to open the doors or call an ambulance.

Two rows behind, another woman pressed her hand to her mouth, knuckles white, eyes never leaving the screen. Her breathing was fast, shallow, but she didn't look away.

Nolan wanted to move, to stand, to do anything but sit here and watch what he had made. He felt every beat of the scene as a blow, and yet, beneath the horror, a dull, perverse pride: they were seeing it. Not a movie, not an effect, but the thing itself.

He thought, This is unlike anything I've ever filmed.

On screen, Joker posed with Barbara, the camera flash echoing in the theater, blinding, over and over. Nolan saw a ripple through the room as if each person had been struck by the same pulse of light.

Someone whispered,

"This isn't a film, it's an autopsy."

Nolan wanted to argue, but found he agreed.

He looked at his notebook, untouched, then back at the screen.

Gordon was dragged away. Barbara left on the floor, body exposed, blood pooling beneath her. Joker finished his photos, zipped the camera away, and dusted off his hands as if cleaning up after a meal.

On screen, the violence was over, but in the room it still reverberated.

Nolan tried to remember how to exhale. He glanced around: every seat was filled, but no one moved. Not even the publicists, the ones trained to get up, clap, and spin the narrative before the film even ended. They just sat.

The next reel started. Joker's laugh rolled over the credits.

Nolan closed his eyes, then opened them again. The screen hadn't changed. The audience hadn't changed.

But he had.

He wondered, not for the first time, what would happen when they turned the lights back on.

.....

[Okay we are approaching the final part of this arc. We got there in the end! Let me know what you think worked, what didn't and what could be changed!

Now the next arc is Pirates of the Caribbean - CaptainJack - well we have an interlude arc in between but not far now ]

There you go! Free chapter for 400 power stones you menaces! 

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