A/N

Well, thanks to the great response of the last chapter, I had to upload this quickly!

(Thanks Demiqueen, for the constant support and my friend Carmolala, who hasn't yet reviewed ;D)

Lots of Irish slang in this, I'll put what the words mean at the end, but hopefully you'll understand.

I do love the slang, it's funny, some of it I do actually use or have heard said.

So enjoy!


"Right you muppets! Time to plant bombs! You, you and you," The Joker pointed to three clown-masked men, "I want you to rig the police department. Take as much time as you need, but get it done, or you'll be, eh, done. Understand?" He looked straight into each of their eyes, sneering and leaning forward as they all nodded erratically. They figured out what was meant by 'done'.

They knew he loved this part. They would call it bossing around and giving orders, he called it pyrotechnics and chemical messing. He believed this was one of his many talents; for causing trouble mostly, but his bombs were good too.

This Joker was scary. His sane side was gone; he wasn't in control. He went with the violence and fear he inspired, never planning what he where he would go or what he would do, but expecting every possibility.

No one really understood that; he never had a solid plan, but he had a way to get in and out of any situation.

"The rest of you, pair up and plant bombs, here, here and here." He pointed out three places out on a map on the wall. He gave them a smaller copy so they remembered, the gammy idiots.

"This will be deadly-"the clown prince murmured happily to himself, smiling at his double meaning, "oh look at the time. Well off you go!" He spun from his followers, walked to the warehouse door and kicked it open. It slammed on the outside wall and the Joker strode purposefully out into the night.

He had a darling dearest to track down.


"Oh! Oh...my... You gotta be taking the piss. Stall the freaking ball. This... is my scratcher?!" Andrea mumbled in awe, not even noticing she had fallen into slang, using terms she hadn't in years. She was looking on her new bed, a double queen sized, with puffed up pillows, large quilt and very fluffy looking blankets. Now was the moment for something she had always wanted to do, and she would do it.

She ran from the doorway and pounced, flopping on the soft bed without hurting herself, but wrecking the pillows and quilt. She lay there, face smooshed into the sweet-smelling fabric of the fur blankets and smiled. This was better than home. Better than a ramshackle, rundown cottage in the country. This was where she belonged, not in stupid rainy Ireland, with her paranoid parents.

Soon enough, with her face still buried in the blankets, she fell asleep.


Rain. Always raining. It soaked her skin and dripped from her hair, droplets hitting her eyes and blurring her vision. She slipped and landed on the saturated Derry green grass, getting mud on her hands and clothes. She struggled to pull herself up, slipping and sliding in the mud and began to growl in anger.

This should be easy work, but she was failing, flailing and flapping about like a headless chicken. Her voice wouldn't work right, she couldn't call out for help; people passed her by, like ghosts, not even sparing her a glance.

She tried calling again; she tried screaming for help in whatever language she knew, but none of it worked. It never worked. She was alone, always alone. No one would help her, no one could save her.

"I'm here love, I've got you." A manic voice called to her, hands grabbed her and hauled her from the sopping wet mud and into a van. She didn't know where she was now, or who had helped her, but she thanked them anyway.

"Who are ye?" She croaked, thanking the heavens and any god she knew for letting her voice work once more. It may have been a miracle it worked again, but what she had said would be a tragedy.

She had a knife pressed to her neck at once; the cold metal almost matching her skin temperature. It pressed on her pulse point, showing her this person was serious.

"D'ye mind? I'm tryn'e strike up a conversation." She snapped in her barely understandable accent.

She couldn't see in front of her, but she could feel around. She felt the floor of the van she knew she had been hauled into, she felt her sodden clothes and the still runny mud on her hands. She could tell water was dripping from her hair, running down her face. She could tell there were a few people in the van with her and whoever had the knife on her neck, but it was almost completely silent, even as the rain hit the windows with a fury and the wind howled and roared.

Her angry statement had made the blade falter and move, but it wasn't an accident. It moved to her lips, pressed tightly together in frustration.

"You might want to be quiet now, doll." The stupid voice whispered in her ear and she shivered. She tried to convince herself it was from the cold, not from fear or anything else. She was sopping wet after all.

"Aye, like tha'll happen ye spanner. Are ye plastered mate?"She retorted and almost laughed.

"No, but you will want to hush up, or else your daddy will only receive pieces of you, doll." The gravelly voice murmured in her ear, their breath tickling her cold skin and the threat raising goose bumps on her arms.

So they didn't help her out of kindness. They did it to get to her family. Not a smart move.


Well?

If you liked it review please :)

To those who read and don't review, or favourite or follow and don't review, I SEE YOU!

REVIEW PLEASE!

Slang-

muppet- idiot/fool

deadly- fantastic to irish people, but actually deadly to other people, that's what meant by double meaning! :)

taking the piss- joking

stall the ball- hold on a minute

scratcher- bed

spanner- idiot

plastered- drunk

mate- friend or a general term for someone, like a pronoun!

If you like the slang, please review and tell me, I might just include more! ;D

Also, the last part was obviously a dream, if you didn't catch that.

Okay, bye now!