It felt like days before the Scarecrow's men came back for her, though it was probably only a few hours after the initial night she spent alone. The freezing numbness she'd been feeling before was wearing thin, and she was crying freely from her remaining eye when they showed up. Her bones and muscles were stiff, what felt like frostbite on her bloodied knuckles. Everything hurt. What was left of her shattered knee thrummed so solidly with pain that she could hardly take it. The cuts on her arms ached as though they had been re-applied. Her face was bruised from the blows, dark purple blooming on her sallow cheekbones and wasted jaw. All of that, though, paled in comparison to the mind-blowing, searing sensation in her eyebrow all the way down to her cheekbone.

The pain was so intense that it was spreading down the length of her slender neck and cross her bloody nose, split lips. Every time she moved her head the injury exploded in protest, and she was forced to stop immediately or pass out from the pain. Twice, she did. It felt like every slice the Joker had ever given her, every gunshot wound she'd received, every time she'd pricked her thumb or skinned her knee or bumped her head all combined into one viciously overwhelming wound that just would not stop hurting. Twelve or thirteen hours later and she still wouldn't open her eyes.

She heard them rather than saw them. The Scarecrow wasn't among them, either; his voice she would never forget. With cutting blades and cold, hard guns, they released her from her chair and prodded her to walk. They were surprisingly patient as she stumbled like an infant from the darkness of that room and into a much colder, much wider area. The light changed on the right side of her skull, and she turned her head briefly in that direction, watched the play of shadows over her eyelid. Hope welled in her chest. She could still see on that side! For a moment, she stopped dead in her tracks and tried to force her eyes to open. They wouldn't respond, and she received a sharp jab to the spine with the muzzle of a gun for her trouble.

Only once did she fall, a hard boot connecting with her sensitive ribs and knocking her flat on her back. Everything went pitch black, and she lost consciousness for a moment as the pain radiated through her entire being. She choked a sob as she came to, curling her fingers against what felt like cement. Someone was yelling at her. None of it mattered. She lay there for too short a time before someone gathered her limbs like a careful child would his favorite ragdoll and began carrying her.
She sagged in relief, muscles liquid, toes twitching. This new means of travel jarred her with each step, however, knocking the right side of her head against a bony, leather-clad shoulder. She endured the knocking out of necessity rather than choice; there was no way she could lift her head away and keep it upright. Her very mind was swimming. Consciousness was becoming harder and harder to maintain.

An eternity passed. Voices mumbled around her, incoherent and harsh. She nearly slept in the man's arms, but then she started to fall.

He set her on her jelly legs and steadied her while she wobbled. There were other bodies pressing in around them, but she was lost to blackness. She stayed put and kept quiet, hanging her head, fingers buried in her savior's jacket, holding on for support. Footsteps sounded off to her left, in her brand new blind spot. She cocked her head gently to the side and regretted it immediately, whimpering in pain.

They were heavy footsteps. Deliberate. "So this pale, pathetic excuse for a woman really interests you that much?" mused a voice she knew well. Scarecrow. She couldn't help the involuntary shiver that ran down her spine. Who was he talking to? "The Batman's combing the streets looking for you, and you risk yourself for this?" A hand came down hard on her behind, and she nearly toppled over. "Guess you're human after all."

"Not yours," a gruff voice replied, and she perked up immediately. She knew that voice, as well, had heard it whisper sweet threats into her ear when night falls. Desperately, she tried to open her eyes, but they seemed to be glued together with a bloody scab, heavier than two ton bricks. Reaching up with her forefingers, she managed to pry open the lids of her unharmed eye, the skin hot and feverish beneath her chilled fingertips. "She's not."

The Joker was standing there dressed in his customary colors of purple and green. They were a welcome sight, bright and vibrant against the grey background of the walls. In his hand a silver knife glinted. Both Alex Hicks and the blonde man stood at his side, sawn-off shotguns thrown over their shoulders, backs straight, expressions of idle boredom written on their faces. No doubt he had other minions outside lying in wait, perhaps in their favorite white van.

AJ involuntarily took a step forward, but she was pulled roughly back. The Scarecrow snickered slightly, and she turned her head slowly to look at him. His eyes gleamed, hair slicked back until it curled over his ears, the color of his clothing sterile like a hospital room. In his hands, he carried a large sledgehammer, the head battered and smoothed, the handle peeling and dark with mold. He kept smacking the heavy weight against his palm lightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

AJ swallowed convulsively, fear streaking through her. What, exactly, was the hammer for? Was he going to fight the Joker with it?

Scarecrow's smile grew. "Whoever breaks it takes it," he sang, smacking the head against his palm and holding onto it with his fingers. He gestured vaguely at her. "See all the fun we've been having? And that was just one night. I think I can do even better."

The Joker's eyes gleamed momentarily at him before gliding over to her for the first time. There was no change in his expression as he took in the ragged state of her. No doubt she looked horrible; she felt it. Now that she could see through one eye, she took assessment of the damage. Her cast was chipped and collapsed, a twisted, ugly creature wrapped protectively around her irreparably broken knee. There was dried blood on her jeans and lower shirt, gules smeared and flaking on the olio of cuts across her forearms. The bruises pulsed ugly and purplish against her pale flesh. Her hair hung in stringy black tendrils around her ears, no doubt slicked with blood just like the rest of her.

Would he even save such a wretch? Surely not even he, who got his highs from murder and explosions, could find such a thing attractive. No one could.

Why did she think he was there to save her at all?

"Wasting time, always wasting time," Joker scowled, running his thumb lightly over the blade in his hand.

"Oh, do you have to be somewhere?" Scarecrow drawled. "Then allow me to speed things along." Without any other warning, he turned toward her, cocked back the sledgehammer and slammed it into her injured knee with so much force that her legs were literally swept out from under her.

She pitched forward and hit the ground hard before rolling over onto her back with an ear-shattering scream of pain as tears welled in her eye and streamed down her filthy face. Whether the fierce, splitting crack that echoed in the room came from the shattering of her weakened plaster cast finally giving way or the snap of her patella as it was crushed and forced backwards at an unnatural angle, she couldn't tell. Regardless, she writhed on the ground in pain, trying to twist and crawl away from her own leg, away from the white-hot hurt ripping through her.

Shots broke out as she squirmed, dragging the mangled limb across the ground. Blood bubbled from her knee, smeared across the concrete by her drenched pant leg. She could see splintered bone sticking out from the bloody mess, and the sight made her stomach turn so hard she gagged, spitting up bile and nothingness. As she was gagging, someone hooked their arms beneath her armpits and began dragging her out of the fray. The stench of gunpowder and blood was pungent. And was that gasoline? She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. There was only the grueling sensation radiating throughout her twitching muscles.

The man dragging her tucked her behind a crate, and she was vaguely aware of her head lying on something much softer than concrete. "Jesus Christ that's…Fuck!" It was Alex's voice. She was lingering on the edge of reality, wanting so badly to pass out and let the darkness take her. Gunfire exploded around them, and Alex ducked his head, nearly smacking her nose with his as he leaned over her. "Let me see."

Cold fingers prodded her knee, the pads slipping wetly on the exposed bone. His face turned green, and she shrieked at the odd feeling, trying to get away in a panic. "Sit still!" he shouted at her, and she obeyed when he stopped. He swiped a hand over his face, and it was streaked with blood. "Christ."

AJ was trembling, the tears streaming from her one good eye.

"Got to get you out of here," he decided suddenly. "Joker's gonna burn the whole fucking place down." Once again he lifted her by the arms and began dragging her. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and for a moment everything went black.

When she came to, it was because she was quite suddenly dropped on her back, head cracking against the pavement. She startled awake, sucking in a harsh breath to find Alex panting and bleeding on the ground, hand clapped over his shoulder. "Hey," she tried to call out to him, but the only sound that came out of her mouth was a strangle whimper. Her throat felt incredibly dry, and it was getting harder to breathe.

It took her a moment to realize the reason she couldn't breathe was that the entire warehouse was filling up with smoke and fire. Her skin was ablaze with orange, the heat baking her skin. Just as she felt panic start to rise again, a purple and green suit stepped from the shadows.

He shook his head, pulled out a gun, and loaded it. "Touching what's mine. He should have known better. You should have known better."

AJ was terribly confused and stared openly at him. But he wasn't looking on her, and his gun was trained on Alex. He fired once, twice, and three times into the good doctor's torso, and AJ choked on another scream. The Joker didn't respond but tucked the gun away and bent down to grab her.

"Gonna, uh, fix you up, doll," he told her, slinging his arm around her neck and hoisting her into his arms. "Fix you. Stitch you. Gonna have to take you to where the Batman'll find you. He'll take you out of here."

"No," she whispered, staring with her good eye beyond his shoulder toward the body of her only ally in all of this. Alex may have been one of the bad guys, but he was the only reason she was still alive. Joker didn't care whether she had warmth or medicine, didn't care if she was clothed or if her cuts were infected. "God."

"There are no gods here," Joker replied, stepping through the flames, for the first time ever being mindful of her shattered knee.

"Oh, god," she cried. "Oh, god." AJ began to struggle, shifting in his arms, fighting with what was left of her meager strength to get back to Alex, back to his body. Surely there was still some life there, clinging desperately in the heart of the flames. The fire couldn't have taken him already. It just couldn't have.

With a great shove, she broke Joker's grip on her, and she went sailing toward the ground at his feet. The hard concrete grazed her cheek, tearing away flesh and rubbing in the dirt. She didn't wait, though. Ignoring the pain as a surge of adrenaline overcame her, she started to hobble back to the fire. The first time she put any type of pressure on her leg, however, the entire thing snapped beneath it. She felt in a miserable pile, screaming as the renewed agony left her paralyzed with the intensity.

Joker grabbed her around the middle and hauled her away from the fire. "The boy's dead," he told her gruffly. "I killed him, stupid doll."

Still overcome, she let him take her. It seemed an eternity before she could suck in fresh air, and she hacked and coughed out the smoke particles when the sweet oxygen hit her lungs. Just as they exited the building, she felt the ground quake as an explosion rocked the entire area. Joker didn't stop to watch, but she could see over his shoulder. A grand mushroom cloud surged into the sky, debris falling heavy and solid onto the ground, smashing into smaller pieces upon impact with a series of mighty thuds. She watched it in despair until the white van doors shut, blocking her view.

They drove for what seemed like hours, and she whimpered quietly in a corner, keeping her good eye shut tightly, refusing to look at the mess of splintered, twisted bone that was her lower limb. Pieces of the broken plaster were still wrapped around the leg, heavy and awkward, but she didn't dare try to pull them off. The Joker left her alone to cry for the most part. Every once in a while he would reach out and touch the top of her head; there would be a slight tugging as if he were pulling bits of something from her hair.

Eventually they stopped, and he fixed his arms about her waist, hauling her up. She collapsed against his chest, an unresponsive mannequin; she was so tired. Joker swung her into his arms, carrying her again for the second time. He usually encouraged her to walk on the battered limb. Even he was recognizing the severity of her injury, and the thought frightened her terribly. For all that he realized she couldn't walk, it didn't stop him from setting her down roughly against a crumbling stone pillar in the middle of the street.

AJ turned her head, trying to see. It was dark already, and the smell of garbage was pungent in the air. Her other eye was swelling shut, and she was tired of trying to keep it open. Everything ached, and she was nauseated from the feeling. However, there was nothing left in her stomach to throw up, and she couldn't find the energy to even gag.

He propped her up against the pillar and pulled out his knife to trace the shape of her lips gently before he leaned forward to press his mouth to hers in what was probably the gentlest kiss he'd ever bestowed upon her. "The Batman will come," he told her softly. "You keep your mouth shut, doll, and you play crazy for me, got it?" His soft, gloved fingers touched her under her bruised chin, and she stared through glassy eyes. "Won't be much of an act, now, will it?" The Joker tilted his head and peered very closely at her as though trying to decipher something before giving a high-pitched cackle and drawing back.

Something plastic was pressed into her hand, and she glanced at it to see a cell phone. The glowing screen was blinding in the dark and made her reflexively close her eye. Before she did, though, she saw the bold black "911" numbers stark against the white background. There was a faint ringing. A metallic noise startled her, and she felt something heavy smack against her leg. She didn't bother with it, though. The van started up and pulled away, leaving her alone and wounded in a strange part of town.

She could have cried if she had the energy.

By the third ring, a woman picked up, voice urgent, "This is 911, what's your emergency?"

AJ took a ragged breath and gently closed the flip phone, effectively hanging up on the woman. Shifting slightly against the cold stone at her back—probably the only thing keeping her sitting upright—she tried to turn her head to see what had hit her. When she realized it was not only too dark but on her blind side, she fumbled for the item instead. She smacked her palm against hard concrete, rocks grazing her skin until she hit a metal object.

Several times it slid from her bloodied, weakened fingers, but she seized it and turned it over in her hands, closing her eye at last and learning by touch. She knew the cold metal well, had felt it pressed against almost every part of her body in either a threatening manner or sensual one. The knife had a trigger button on the side, an illegal switchblade. It was probably his favorite. Left for her to finish what he started at last or for her to defend herself from potential predators? Most likely the former, she decided.

Gathering both into her lap, she leaned gingerly back against the pillar and tried to breathe shallowly against the pain. Sleep called. At least he'd left her on a fairly busy street, essentially out in the open. Once day came, there would be no way people couldn't see her. By then, though, it was highly possible she could be a corpse. She'd heard of people dying of shock, of trauma. Failing that, there was always blood loss. Of course, there was always the possibility that it felt worse than it looked, as well.

It certainly felt like she was dying, though.

Distantly she heard cars honking, and the nearby buzzing streetlights filled the dull silence. Water dripped somewhere inside the dilapidated building; she'd never realized before how many abandoned warehouses and buildings there were in Gotham. Of course, she spent most of her life in the basement of an orphanage just off the wealthy district, sheltered by nuns and holy people. Joker once said he was bringing her down to his level, exposing the maggoty underbelly that the media and police didn't want her to see. She'd mocked him, then, but perhaps he had been right. Perhaps he'd been right all along.

A sudden sharp pain shot through her side, and she squeaked, tensing up against the feeling, digging her torn nails into her thigh. The tremor passed quickly, though, and she relaxed again. The chill of the night was seeping into her bruised bones; she'd no doubt get frostbite if left unattended for the entire night. She considered the switchblade, but did she have the courage to cut her own wrists? Would it really come to that? So far she hadn't seen a single person walking along the street, not even a drunk ambling idly home from the bar.

Her muscles were seizing, stiffening. Breathing was becoming harder. She knew it was the cold. By closing the phone, she'd chosen death over salvation, over warmth and happiness and a chance at a normal life ever again. She'd made her choice. The pain was ebbing at the very least, a certain degree of numbness seeping in. AJ felt the pull of unconsciousness and gave in.

It was a little chilly when Bruce exited the car, a dozen roses in his hands, dressed in somber black as he made his way through the cemetery to Rachel's grave. Years had passed, and he still couldn't forget that night. Saving Harvey had been a fluke, and it hadn't even paid off. Harvey was just as dead as Rachel, the Joker was still on the loose, and somewhere in the southern part of the city there was a young girl trying desperately to regain the few pieces left of her shattered mind.

He hadn't seen AJ since she was committed. Gordon sent him updates on occasion given that he was covering the cost of her medical bills in return for using her as bait and causing Sister Augustine undue stress. The last report contained a picture, one that he kept on the bedside table in the room where she was abducted. In it, she was smiling shyly, dressed in soft blue hospital clothes, sitting in a chair in a white room. Someone's elbow was in the frame, as well, leading him to believe they were probably in some sort of group. Her scar was a fierce pink in the picture, but clean and fading. It was an image of hope, something that he sorely needed since Rachel's death.

Her gravestone was situated beneath an old tree, cast in shadow and obscure. It was the plot her family chose, and two of her family members were buried nearby. Bruce kneeled and placed the roses at the base, sweeping some of the leaves off the stone. There was another bunch of flowers already, wilted and dying, from his last visit; he grabbed them to throw away.

Rachel's name was embellished on polished stone, artfully swirling but legible, both birth date and death date written beneath. Bruce plucked off some of the moss growing on the side and smoothed his hand over the front to rid it of stray grass and dirt. He remembered standing beside it during the service while they lowered her into the ground, encased in a dark mahogany casket trimmed in gold—a coffin just as beautiful as she was.

"I don't know what to do, Rachel," he told her with a sigh, staring at the headstone. "Every time I think I have him, he just gets out again. I know he's going to go after AJ. I just know it, and I'm not sure I can keep her safe."

The headstone said nothing, and Bruce carded a hand through his carefully-combed hair. "I don't know what he's planning, but it's big. It has to be, and AJ's going to be stuck right in the middle of it. He cares about her, for some…reason. Jesus, it's so messed up."

Two old women hobbled down the path to his right, and Bruce's driver nodded to them as they passed. They both had canes and had to be in their late seventies, eyes sunken and cloudy as they shot him a strange look. He waved and stood, dusting off his dress pants.

"I have some things to take care of," he said softly. "I'll be back, though, to…change your flowers and get rid of the leaves." He placed his palm flat on the top of the stone, patting it awkwardly. "Bye, Rachel."

AJ woke later to the sound of a loud thump. She startled upright and nearly screamed in pain but managed to bite her lower lip to stifle the noise. Night still prevailed, not a glimpse of morning light leaking through the darkness. Her limbs had all turned to lead sometime during her brief nap, and her hair was frosted lightly to her face. She felt the shivering tremors rocking her and wondered how she could have possibly slept through them.

The initial noise that woke her sounded again, and she moaned a little in her attempt to move. It became continuous, a shuffling, scuffing noise. Through the haze in her mind, she couldn't quite decipher it, couldn't quite figure out that it was footsteps until they were within twenty feet of her. Then she began to panic.

A very large shape materialized out of the darkness, eluding the light pouring forth from the streetlamps. It crouched near her, and she tried to scramble away. Nothing happened. She couldn't move a single muscle and only managed to lazily roll her single eye up to stare at the figure. Something heavy grabbed hold of her hand, and she was startled to find that she could barely feel it through the cold. It passed quickly over her flesh, back and forth, as though trying to rub warmth into the dead flesh. After a moment, the friction yielded some results. She could feel the burn as the leather passed over her arm and whined low in her throat to make the figure stop.

It did.

She wondered vaguely if the entire situation was some sort of strange dream, a figment of her imagination, a product of the final, desperate firing of her synapses to comfort her in some way by simulating rescue at the last minute. Everything felt real, though, especially when he gripped her chin and turned her head to the side too hard. She flailed a little at that and mentally scowled at her synapses for making her final moments painful, however realistic.

After a moment, she realized that the figure had eyes. They were wide and brown, staring out of the darkness with concern and recognition. "Amethyst Danvers?" it rasped, and she couldn't even respond.

No one called her Amethyst. Her own mother called her Jade when she was still alive. The kids at the orphanage always called her AJ. Why would her brain make such a mistake?

"I'm getting you out of here," the figure told her, and she relaxed. Yes, that was better. She could forget the name mistake as long as the rest of the illusion happened as it was supposed to. She was going to be rescued. Maybe she'd get to see the Joker again. That was safety, wasn't it? That was contentment. That was home.

The figure shifted her away from the wall, arm braced against her back as he slipped the other underneath her knees, keeping them both straight. Of course, that didn't stop the process from being incredibly painful, and she cursed her own cruel mind once more as she was situated. The figure—man, she decided—was clad in a tough, black substance that made her frosted, wet skin stick. He was all hard angles and roughness, not like the Joker who was made of purple and green cotton, pliant skin, and greasepaint.

When he walked, though, she wasn't jarred quite as much as when she was in the Joker's arms. He was careful to keep his arms out evenly, but the walk seemed to take hours, and she dozed lightly with her forehead against his neck. Eventually, though, they stopped and slipped inside an area that was so much warmer than outside she woke up solely because of the difference. The lights were artificial and blinding, and she could smell coffee and freshly printed paper.

"Batman," she whispered in awe as she tilted her head back and at last made out the shape of the rubber cowl over his face.

"There's an interrogation room you can keep her in," a man was saying. "Commissioner Gordon just left on a donut run, but he'll be back soon."

"Show me," Batman growled, and she felt it vibrate through her body as the words came out. She swung like a marionette as he turned and followed the man through a few hallways into a metal room with a very heavy door. Batman set her down carefully in a chair, and she arranged her knee into a fairly comfortable position. She couldn't really feel it anymore, the cold taking most of the pain away. As she was thawing, the feeling was coming back, but it wasn't unbearable. She'd put up with standing on a broken knee for months.

Or had it been months? She didn't know.

Batman stared at her for a long time, and she started to rock slowly back and forth. Silence stretched on as he watched; she was sick of the quiet. She'd put up with it for long enough. So she broke it by singing quietly to herself. Eventually, the Batman became tired of staring blankly at her and disappeared beyond her field of vision.

AJ continued singing and didn't look for him.

College is demanding. Hope you're still reading. I'm still writing. Review if you want more. I'll oblige.