Welcome to…the last chapter. Oh yes, I promised I would take this to the very end and oh, am I ever doing it. Fret not, my dears! There's an Epilogue after this with good ol' Cleveland again. Who else is missing him? I am. Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who kept me going at writing this, all of you really were more than enough inspiration to continue on. You guys really are purely awesome, and I'm going to try to make this as meaningful as I can for all of you :D On with the show!

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"SURPRISE!"

When I notice Cleave, he smacks a gloved hand onto the Bat's shoulder, whirls him and sends him reeling with a sudden punch to the face. I keep staring from my horizontal, dizzy position. My head feels unhinged, throbbing, a senseless beat. I can't swallow because, if I do, the taste of the blood will gag me and I'll more than likely desperately have to puke. So really, all I can do is stare at it pool beneath me.

"Oh, Battsy, you've been a naughty little boy, haven't you!?"

Everyone's steps become a merry-go-round of pretty colors. I can see Cleave's weird, teathered brown shoes and his…decidedly repulsive purple-and-green argyle socks. It is only Cleveland's who would wear argyle; no one wears argyle. Ever.

Without warning, I'm whirled vertical by, thank gracious fucking God, Cleveland. He keeps his hands tensed at the back-board of the chair, the half-splintered back-board, and I can literally feel him rock against it.

Did I mention I hate it when he stands behind me?

Always. Fuckin'. Breathing.

"Exhibit…uh…A," He sneers casually, and I feel his fingers entangle with my hair, playing with it in mock affection. I can't believe this is the man I'm protecting, "Miss Haaaaarvey Tinkle. Now, Batty-bat-bat, do you think she deserves to be punished for the things that I so obviously did? Oh ho ho, bad boy, bad boy! You're beating the wrong clown, buck-o."

As he goads him, I can only stare, utterly helpless in my restraints and sickened confusion as the Batman becomes angrier and angrier. The look in his eyes is blind; Cleave's playing him like a matador waving some red cape at a bull.

"What is she, Joker? Your new pet?" he spits it, the word, like it's a venomous acid burrowing in his throat. His fists are shaking, and in a mildly concussed daze I really pray I won't be hit again.

"Matter uh fact, you win the grand prize, Battsy! She just so happens to be—uh..." He licks at his lips again, making that repulsive sound that makes me shudder. I have to see if his tongue is split down the middle, if I survive this.

His hand, cold in the plum, leather gloves caresses at my jaw and he purrs cheekily, "She's my new little toy. Isn't she pretty, Battsy? Maybe not what I…uh…eee­-xpected, but she does her job so well. Don'cha, girly?"

That's right. Play word-games with me when I have a mouthful of blood. That'll work out, stupid.

"Well, she doesn't seem to feel like buzzing in," He pats at my cheek, and then briskly wanders to the other side of the room. His expression is crazed, but his posture is collected, a childish swagger that's injected infinitely with pride only a man who fancies himself a God could feel, "Go on, Batman. Kill her."

His grin widens, those strange, yellow teeth bared. He looks more like an animal than a monster.

"Beat her…ah—little skull in. Come on! But, wait—"

A finger goes up. I feel myself break out into a cold sweat, because I'm beginning to get nervous, way in the pit of my stomach. Did I do this for nothing? Is he going to feed me to this guy?

I don't think I've ever felt this bad in my life. I've had the hell beaten out of me by a number of guys (see: I fail at relationships), but this, right here, tied to this chair is rock-bottom.

"—If you do that, oh, no, no, no, if you doooo that." His tongue whips across his lips again, lingering there in some underhanded taunt. His eyes glitter, I can practically see them, hell-fire from under sooty piles of black. "Oh, if you do that, what makes you better'n me, big bad bat?"

The Batman keeps watching, complacent, suddenly, to Mister Clown's words. Cleave just smirks and I swear I feel like he's a vampire about to ravage my throat. There are chills, ill feelings that desperately claw at my spine. I think I'm going to be getting this sensation a lot from now on.

His hands grip at my hair again, but suddenly, they lightly pull at the reddish roots. He tucks his chin there, humming, bouncing gleefully in a comical sway, "You gonna punish girly for having feelings, Battsy?"

I feel decidedly sick to my stomach by this point, and when I struggle against the bonds Cleave releases a low warning hiss that basically demands I not move, and grips at my hair a little tighter. I want to get out. I'm claustrophobic and he knows this, and the remembrance that I'm restrained is starting to settle into my warped brain. And if I don't get out, I'm going to panic.

"Something like that, something like what you've done to her, that is inexcusable—"

He claps loudly, parading calmly from left to right. His grin is effervescent, his painted lips twitching in merriment. It starts to come to light that I'm the piece of meat between two very big dogs, and just to prove a point they'll both tear me apart.

Three.

Two.

One.

Now is appropriate time for panic.

I rattle again, against the thick rope that winds around me, but no matter how hard I shove or force they don't even loosen. I'm starting to feel closed in. I'm starting to feel very, very closed in. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm going to be crushed by something very large. I'm in the middle of something very large.

"Oh, shh, shh, shh, Harvey-cakes, shhhhh…"

I want him to get his hand off my mouth, but I'm sure biting it would only trigger a bad reaction on my end of the line. I have no desire to bring myself more willing pain. The Bat stares in calm detachment, but I keep trying to get out.

My half-strangled sounds fall on my own deaf ears, but I feel the merciless leather press a little harder against me.

"What do you plan to do, anyway?"

"Ah hah…hah…ho…hee…I don't plan to do anything, but if an opportunity comes along—ah, weeeelllll…."

I wish I could manage to yell at him, but there's that feeling of my throat closing. I don't care how sore I am, but I need to get away. My own mind is clawing at the walls of my head.

"She's not a criminal, Joker. What makes you think she'd even make a good accomplice?"

"Because my little Haaaarvey learns so quickly. Every good villain needs a side-kick, after all, don't they? That's—uh…well, that's why Lex Luthor never beat ol' Super-boy. Lex didn't have anybody to back him up!"

That laugh rings loudly in my ears, and I flinch drastically at the feeling I get. It's a tingle in my chest, and I recognize that I'm damned forever. I've signed my soul away to the devil without a heed to anyone's word, I've openly given myself over to Satan himself.

And why have I done this?

Simply because I was lonely.

I was lonely, and I found the wrong person.

I found the wrong monster is more like it.

I fade away, so slowly, deprived of air and the ability to calm down, and the very last words float away on my ears. They sound so empty, so lost, like a faint yell above the crowd—

"Shh, shh, shh, girly…"

And my eyes roll back and, before I know it, I've lost the struggle.