The Schemer

She

PART TWO

BEYOND THE TIME

It matters not how strait the gate,

                                                            How charged with punishments the scroll,

                                                            I am the master of my fate:

                                                           I am the captain of my soul.

Invictus, 1875                                                            

 William Ernest Henley                                                            

When Joker pushed the button, he expected the explosion to be... A little more... Dramatic. With narrowed eyes, the clown turned around, staring at the half-happened act of destruction. That's it? Or could the bombs possibly be... Incomplete? Could they be low-quality? Badly constructed? Huh? He pressed the button a few more times. It had to be something wrong with the detonator, right? It had to be.

And it was. A few moments later, a larger, and then a huge explosion followed, startling the man in the most pleasurable way. Grinning, he turned around, getting into the waiting bus and taking the back seat. The assassin didn't disappoint Joker, presenting high-quality devices that could be trusted. With such an attitude of that strange woman, he wouldn't be surprised if she indeed would have somehow damaged the bombs on purpose, just to hinder his plan. That's what you get when working with the best people. They can't be fully trusted. Never. Give them the benefit of the doubt, but don't fully expose yourself. 

Still, the explosion happened. Dent was put under Joker's little finger. The seeds of revenge found their places within the fertile soil of his mind. It was all that was needed for the metaphorical plant of chaos to grow and thrive. 

Without anything else to do, the man stared through the front window, seeing the back of another vehicle. No one muttered a word, sitting quietly and rigid. Perhaps the act that they had just participated in, or maybe the clown himself sewed their mouths shut. Joker didn't complain. The silence was better than pointless babbling to fill in the void. It continued for fifteen minutes, according to the clock above the driver's head, and just as his impatience started to bloom, the stolen bus pulled out from the line of other similar buses, heading down another street. As if reading his mind, the driver chose this specific moment to change their direction, undisturbed.

Joker took an honest liking into using buses as a way to travel around. The yellow-coloured mean of transport was way too convenient to be ignored. Although slow and hard-to-manoeuvre, it didn't cause others to stare, easily blended together with the flow, was useful in general. Tons of space. 

The woman could have fitted inside, too. Yet, he knew she would have prefered her car being saved from destroying and also not confiscated by the cops, therefore he gave Ira the keys, so she could drive to his house herself. Always herself. After all, if you need something, gotta do it yourself.

"Pull over." His nasal voice tore through the frozen atmosphere, loud enough to reach the driver. These days, it was hard to find anyone from the asylum who could control a vehicle without drawing too much attention. Unrequired attention. Attention was good, but not the one that came when unprepared. Those who could drive at least reasonably were appreciated and valued.