“You’re not actually gonna wear that,” he speaks of the thick gold Rolex around her wrist that clearly is not her taste nor did she pay for it. GCPD’s ninth precinct shrinks behind them as he leads her by the arm from its revolving doors, gun in-hand, across the street. She got to keep the watch, too.
Spring weather doesn’t suit Gotham. Steam lifting from sewer grates chokes his lungs more than the cigarette stuck between his fore and middle fingers. Leery of the concrete jungle and its trillion hungry eyes, he guides her around a sweltering black heap that’s been gashed and raided so they’re on the opposite sidewalk hidden behind parked cars and year-old garbage. A rat larger than his foot — which is quite small by Gotham’s standards — scampers alongside them.
Joker pays it no mind. His attention darts across vandalized shop windows and the silhouettes lurking behind them. Clown masks and spray paint mimicking his makeup decorate street signs and parked cars, too. “I know a guy who can comp you.”
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