This is my first Dark Knight fic, a little plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone. It takes place a bit pre, but mostly during TDK. Oh, and I live off of reviews, so please tell me what you think.

Disclaimer: Regretfully, I do not own the Joker. *sigh*

Prologue:

I sit, staring transfixed at my hands resting on my lap. Well, they don't rest; they twitch and shake uncontrollably, causing the chain of the handcuffs to rattle. One of my wrists is bound to the chair by the cuffs. I could easily free myself, but that would only make my predicament worse.

"Are you all right, Miss?" His voice is calm, warm. He wants me to be comfortable, but my mind is far from being at ease, and my insides twist painfully as I quiver. Perhaps I shiver with fear, but I doubt it. I don't fear this man, who gazes at me from across the table, for I know that he means me no harm.

"Miss?" I don't look at him. I don't want to see the way that he's looking at me, whether it be with pity or disgust. He must be staring at my lips. He sighs, surely weary from what has taken place only an hour ago. Has it really only been an hour since I last saw Him?

"Can you tell me your name?" He slides a pen and a pad of paper across the table. I allow my gaze to flicker up at him for a moment, and I see that he is eyeing me expectantly. I force my hands to cease their continuous twitching and grasp the pen. Slowly, I write my name on the paper, but my nerves get the best of me, and I find myself looking at illegible scribbles. I try again, concentrating on each letter as a separate piece of artwork, completing every line and curve in my unsteady hand. I drop the pen onto the table and the tiny clatter it creates resonates in my ears.

He squints at my small print and gains a thoughtful expression, as though he's just realized something very important. "Miss Victoire?" I nod my head solemnly. "French, I presume?" Again, I nod. I know that he's not interested in my name's origins; he only wishes to pacify my troubled mind.

"Now, Miss Victoire, we have reason to believe that you are connected to the Joker." My eyes widen and my tremors begin anew. "I know that it may be hard, but I need you to tell me everything that you know about him." I remain silent. I ignore the pad of paper that he sets before me again.

"Several officers say that you are responsible for his escape! Now talk!" He slams his hands onto the table, making me wince.

I attempt to part my lips, but the wave of pain that rips through them reminds me that I can't. A small whimper is all that I produce, along with a tear that rolls down my cheek. He's staring at my lips again. Their reddish color gives me away. His look is one of pity, but I don't want his pity.

"We know that you were a hostage in his schemes. If you give us what we want, we can protect you." I don't want his protection, as strange as it sounds. Do I need it? Perhaps. From Him? Of course not.

There's so much that I wish I could tell you, Commissioner Gordon...about Him. And it isn't the fact that my lips are sewn together that keeps me from doing so. You say that the fishing line can be removed, but I won't allow anyone near my mouth. It's not mine to be touched...and He never liked people touching His things. There's only one person who will ever grant me permission to speak again; until He does, my lips are sealed.

I know that I should speak, metaphorically, that is. The safety, and the sanity, of Gotham City could be resting in my hands at this moment. Yet, I can't bring myself to disclose what I know, what I've experienced. Are my reasons selfish? Yes. Are they noble? I'd like to think so.

"You're very good at twisting and con-torting things, my dear, but there's one thing you'll never be able to shape to your pretty little liking. Ya see, stone...it doesn't uh...mold very well."

I sigh through my nose as another tear escapes between my lashes. There is so much that I wish I could say, but even I am still wondering how everything managed to spiral out of control. I never had any control over the situation, but surely someone must have, right? Did He? I'd like to believe that He did. After all, what else can I possibly allow myself to believe?

I glance up at the clock. Six more minutes have passed in silence. It's been three weeks, two days, nine hours, twenty-seven minutes, and forty-eight seconds, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one...since this entire thing began.

My silence must frustrate him, but he's not giving up yet. He stands, pushes his chair in, and walks toward the door. Placing his hand on the doorknob, he opens the door and turns back to look at me. "Just think about it. I'll be back when you're ready to talk."

I ignore him, turning my face away from his disappointed gaze. Another sigh, and I hear the door close behind him. The ticking of the clock echoes throughout the room. Tick...tick...tick. It reminds me of a bomb.

"Well, what about ice?"

"Stone, ice, take your pick. Doesn't matter...to me."

I remember that I chose ice. Stone was hard, resolute. But ice...ice was cold, but beautiful. If you added the right amount of warmth, it could melt, change its shape. If you were careless, it could break, become irreparable. I wonder if I managed to melt it at all. Anyone else would declare such a feat to be impossible. Unconsciously, I move my free hand up to my mouth. Pulling it away, the pads of my fingers are red. The sight fills me with a dim light of hope; perhaps it proves those other people wrong.

The Commissioner told me to think...but about what? Surely he has figured out that I refuse to tell him anything. But, nonetheless, I do find myself reminiscing. Perhaps now I might be able to make sense of everything. Best start at the beginning....

Should I continue?