Dr. Harleen Frances Quinzel sat alone in the darkness of the sewers sobbing quietly. Around her were hundreds of pictures, wet and dirty from the sewage filth, of the man she had loved more than life itself. Nearby lay a manila folder with documents spilling out; it was Joker's original file that she had stolen while she still worked at Arkham Asylum. His grinning visage stared up at her from a thousand directions, boring into her, blaming her, shouting at her.
She did not feel the chill of the wind that blew through the tunnels even though she had discarded her costume along her run to this secret area. All remnants of Harley Quinn were scattered among the pictures, her costume now just an homage to a dead man. But he is my dead man, she thought to herself.
Three nights ago, Batman had swooped down and tossed away the one thing in her life that she loved, the one person she would die for. Instead, he had died for her. Tossed like a ragdoll onto those metal spikes, cackling as his lifeblood oozed out of him, comforted only by the man who put him there. She could not even hold him as he died because that brute was looming over her love.
Her love. What would she do without him? She looked down at her hand and noticed her skin shining in the dim light, so pale and smooth. Now she felt the wind brush against her, all around her, and smelled the stink of her surroundings. She looked down at her hand and saw the vial she had taken from Jonathan Crane's old office. Funny; though the doctor was locked in Arkham since his spree as the Scarecrow, his office remained untouched and bordered with police tape.
The vial she held was a small dose of a heart-stopping toxin that Crane had developed. Tasteless, colorless, odorless, and undetectable. The heart would stop almost immediately upon ingestion; the victim would be dead in an instant. She had taken this vial with the intention of ending her pain and misery.
As she stared at the poison, she felt her eyes burn with tears again. She gripped it in her palm, then threw it across the tunnel, her scream drowning out the sound of shattering glass. Harleen would not end her life so cowardly; she would end it in pain, just as he had. That's why she had come here, to this place of stench and darkness. She sought refuge with the monsters. She sought her death with the monsters.
"Solomon Grundy…" She heard a faint grumble and spun. Grundy was here; the immortal monstrosity created in a swamp decades ago now haunted the underbelly of Gotham's sewers. She jumped into the water, unfazed by the cold, dirty water engulfing her naked form. "Born on a Monday…"
She swam along the tunnel, racing to her goal, her slender body cutting through the current. "Solomon Grundy…" She heard footsteps nearby, along the cement walkway. She climbed onto the ledge, the rough cement scraping against her skin, but she paid no attention. She stood, listening again, "Born on a Monday…"
She turned the corner and paused for a moment, marveling at the creature's size. Solomon Grundy was easily seven feet tall and had the musculature of a body builder. His hands were enormous, his feet the same. He had pale gray skin and his hair was snow white, a contrast to the tattered remains of his black suit, the only clothing that remained from before. He turned towards her, his face a mixture of mild interest and irritation. Wrinkles lined his face and his eyes were dark and menacing. "Solomon Grundy…" His speech was dark and rumbling.
Harley charged at the beast, leaping up to strike him in the face. The monster grabbed her easily and tossed her aside. She hit the ground on her back and winced, her bare skin tearing against the jagged cement bricks. The pain was a blessing. The pain reminded her of how he died. She had let the masked vigilante murder him, the least she could do was endure the same amount of pain that he had before she followed him into the abyss.
Grundy began to turn away from her, "Born on a Monday…" He muttered, shambling back down the tunnel. Harley leapt to her feet and shouted at him.
"Hit me, you big, dumb beast!" She leaned against the wall, rubbing her back. She looked at her hand; she was bleeding.
"Solomon Grundy…" The monster stopped and turned around, now thoroughly annoyed.
Harley raced at him, dodging his first attempt to grab her, and landed a blow on his nose, staggering him for a moment. "Is that the best you can do?" She shouted at him. She punched him again in his solar plexus, and then drew her hand back, feeling the pain from striking his solid frame.
Grundy regained his balance and struck back, returning the face shot. Harley's head snapped back, her body stumbling backwards until her foot lost its grip, sending her down. The ground met her with no mercy, and her skull rang with the impact. Her nose was now bleeding profusely, broken apart from Grundy's well-aimed punch. The pain was beginning to spread throughout her body, baptizing her in a blaze of excruciating agony. Was this how you felt, my love? She wondered. Fearing for your life as the Bat came down upon you, ending your life in a flash?
Grundy came at her again, and punch for punch she could not match him; his strength was surprisingly matched by his speed, and she was losing the battle. She meant to. Her body was bruised and broken before Grundy turned away again, feeling he had dissuaded his attacker. Her blood flowed from her broken nose, a gash in her thigh, her torn scalp. She leapt at him, screaming, and Grundy grabbed her head in midair, swinging her into the wall. She heard her skull crack. She felt the darkness wash over her as Grundy tossed her body into the water. Cold swept her up, and filth carried her on. She floated down the river of sewage to her end.
Joker is dead. The thought echoed through Bruce Wayne's head while he swung between buildings through the Gotham night. The image of the Clown Prince of Crime, his body in spasm as he went into his dying throes, was burned into his mind. Four days had passed and the world kept turning, or at least for most it had. Yet Bruce was still haunted by the act he had committed.
Batman was a symbol of good, as he had been for years. He had brought many to justice during his crusade, but he always held onto one principle: Batman does not kill. No matter the situation, no matter the crime, no matter the criminal, killing was never an option. If he killed, what separated him from the scum he hunted? Two-Face had killed Carmine Falcone. Harvey had killed Falcone, and for that, he was hunted down by Batman and Gotham Police. As much as Bruce sought to end Falcone's hold on the city, murder not a part of his plans.
And yet, the Joker was dead.
As sick as it sounded, it felt as though a part of Bruce's life was gone. He doesn't deserve pity, he thought to himself. Yet, neither did he deserve murder. What was Batman without Joker? Whether he admitted it or not, Bruce Wayne could always count on the Joker to find a way free and keep him busy. What am I thinking? What kind of sick person mourns the death of a psychopath? He landed on the edge of the Gotham Police Department and sighed, A person with a guilty conscience, He admitted.
Police Commissioner James Gordon stood on the opposite ledge gazing off into the distance. He held a cup of steaming coffee and a thick cigar. The cigar was lit.
"Jim…" Bruce's voice drifted off. He was unsure of how to start this conversation.
Gordon exhaled a plume of cigar smoke and turned slowly, his face devoid of emotion. "I figured you would show up eventually." His voice was flat and cold; it did not sound like the normal warm and gruff voice of an old friend.
Bruce stepped forward slowly, his eyes meeting Gordon's. "I'm sorry, Jim. I-"
"Just let me say my piece, I don't want to…" He paused, starting his thought over, "You lost control." Gordon looked away, taking a sip from his mug.
Batman hung his head, "It was an accident. I thought, with him being paralyzed-"
"You broke a man's back before throwing him to his death!" Gordon spun, cutting him off.
Batman stepped forward, "I didn't throw him. Harley, she was hanging onto him too tightly when I tackled her."
"Tackled her off of a building, I might add. With a paraplegic hanging off the edge."
"I caught her. I caught myself."
"But you didn't catch him, did you?" Gordon shook his head. "I know I should be happy the bastard is dead. Hell, all of us should be. In fact, if he had died any other way, I would be. But he didn't. You killed him. You lost control."
"I don't need to be reprimanded by you-"
"And maybe that's the problem. You think you are above me, above this entire situation. You lost your grip, Batman." Gordon stepped towards Batman, his voice rising in anger. "If you were in control, Joker would be in a cell in Arkham. If you were in a control, he would be able to walk. If you were in control, you wouldn't have nearly murdered another criminal too! Suppose you hadn't caught Harley?" Gordon ran his hand through his disheveled gray hair and tilted back his head, "Oh, hell, and let's not forget about Harley! You killed her boyfriend! What do you think she's going to do? If you'll remember, you let her go while you ran off, rather than stay and meet me at the crime scene." He snarled at Batman, stepping close enough for Bruce to smell the mix of coffee and tobacco. "Every single one of those freaks now has an icon to rally around. You made a damn martyr out of him."
Batman stood still as Gordon fumed, but just under his expressionless face was a boiling mass of guilt and anger. Had he snapped? Was it all really his fault? Was he truly losing his grip on everything?
Gordon stepped back and took a few breaths. "Look, I know you have always meant well, and your help has been key in a number of investigations, but…" He paused, rubbing his eyes, "It's probably best if we part here. I can't… I can't be working with someone who… can't control himself."
The words hung in the air, wrapping into Bruce's mind, but not quite making sense. "So, you no longer are going to work with me?"
Gordon turned over back and gazed with empty eyes at Batman, "No, Batman. This office can no longer be working with a murderer. I was already on the hot seat for working with you before, and now that the Joker is dead… Well, an arrest warrant for manslaughter is a lot harder to work around than the usual 'interfering with an investigation' stuff." He began making his way back to the roof access door. "If this happens again, Bats," His eyes locked with Batman's, "I will have to take you in."
The door shut, leaving Batman alone with his thoughts. There were many that plagued him.
Police Commissioner James Gordon was a dedicated man. He worked long hours at a thankless job that many would cringe to take. His wife, Sarah, never complained about his schedule, not the sleep he lost while letting his mind dwell on the numerous cases that swarmed his desk, not to mention the number of phone calls in the twilight hours that woke both of them from their slumber. It was hardly a rewarding job, but Jim Gordon did it with pride.
He sat at his desk; pictures of the Joker murder sprawled across his desk, and puffed on his cigar. How had it come to this? He questioned, propping his feet up on the table. Years ago, before this, before Hang Man, before Holiday, we all made a pact: Harvey, myself, and the Bat. We made a pact that we swore to uphold.
Perhaps letting Batman go was too kind. Should he have taken him in? Is one murder all that he should expect? The Joker was dead, and Batman the killer; was it hard to imagine that this could occur again? He thought back to Harvey Dent's words, "Once you cross that line, it gets easier to justify crossing it again." Harvey did know; he had killed Carmine Falcone, countless thugs, even Sophia Falcone. Harvey's rehabilitation had given him a certain insight into the world of Gotham's crime world.
While Gordon did not approve with the court's decision to free Harvey Dent after his extensive amount of psychotherapy and reconstructive plastic surgery, he had to admit that his past life as Two-Face did make him somewhat of an authority in dealing with these madmen. That could be why Batman chose to take him under his wing and have him assist him in stopping and preventing crime these past few months. Dent had spent much time with the Dark Knight; he trained in combat, learned methods of stealth, and in return educated Batman on what he knew about the underground world the criminals thrived in. Gordon knew this because Batman passed the information on to him. Harvey's turn to the light was beneficial for everyone. Everyone except Two-Face.
Gordon shook the memories free and took one last glance at the pictures. That hideous smile. He placed them into the folder and slid it away from him. Noticing the clock now read 10:00 pm, he cursed to himself and grabbed his coat. Yet, as if the building itself was begging him not to leave, his phone rang from his desk.
Gordon stared at it as it rang a second time. If I don't answer they'll just call my cell phone. He rationalized, and picked up the phone. "This is Gordon."
A panicky voice responded, "Gordon? This is Officer Werck. We have a situation down in the sewers off of Holly and 25th street."
Damn it. What I wouldn't give to be in bed before midnight for once this week. "What's happened?"
"I'm not really sure, sir. Lots of blood, pictures of the Joker everywhere, and a costume that we think belongs to Harley Quinn."
The Commissioner's heart stopped for just a moment, "Harley Quinn?"
The officer sounded concerned, "Yes, sir. We're almost positive it's her costume. We're collecting blood samples now, but we can't find a body."
Gordon was already planning everything he would need to launch the investigation. Suddenly, his fatigue had ebbed away as a new panic took him. Had he done it again?
Somewhere outside, a metal Ping! sounded.