"Miriam Adina Kane, what did you do this time?" Mom asked as she walked into the principle's office.

I was sitting there, cheeks burning after being chewed out by Principle Fawkes, and I could tell Mom was furious with me.

"Miriam had a violent altercation this afternoon. The boy needed stitches. You're lucky we're doing this here and not the police station."

My head bowed further as Fawkes spoke. It was fear that made me look away, but above all that it was shame. I was ashamed of what I did, but there was no taking it back.

"I just—"

"It was unprovoked and, frankly, she's lucky she won't be expelled for this."

Anger of my own flooded in with what Fawkes said. I was thirteen and got caught hitting Marshall Greene after he called me a 'darkie whore.' It shouldn't have bothered me; I was used to other kids finding reasons to explain why I wouldn't interact with them. Being the only brown girl, aloof and anti-social, and almost completely disengaged from the world did not award me the goodwill of my peers.

Any of those things would have been a sign of a socially awkward kid in anyone else, but in me, it was paired with the apparent differences between us and the meaner, more entitled kids found plenty of opportunities to capitalize on it to lessen their own boredom. They were looking for a reaction, and as soon as they gave me a reason to give one, I never disappointed.

"Unprovoked? Miriam, is that true?" Mom asked.

I didn't look at her, thinking she wouldn't believe me. Why would she? I'd been acting out all year, escalating from mouthing off to outright violence. This wasn't the first time I sat in that office, waiting for Mom to get called down from work and lecture me about the importance of human connection. I gave up trying to make friends with my classmates a long time ago, and the frustration underlying that transformed into rage when Mom told me her diagnosis. It only took two weeks for confusion, denial, and grief to give way to unending anger.

"No, he… he called me a name—" Fawkes was quick to interrupt me, her anger rising above anything Mom would have mustered.

"That's no excuse. He's missing tomorrow's game because of you, and that on its own means a week's suspension."

Marshall was a good enough football player to be on Gotham Academy's junior varsity football team. He was old enough to be in high school but stuck in grade eight because he failed a year. He was bigger than me, and it's why he thought I wouldn't do anything.

They were always wrong about that, but he wasn't the only one.

Teachers forgot I was there, telling me to 'apply myself' and be 'present' in class, expressing their concern about my social skills. It wasn't that I didn't know how to interact with them, it was that I didn't think it was worth it. I was probably too young to feel so jaded, but I couldn't find anyone who just got the world the way I did—who saw it as a giant disappointment waiting to happen. People let you down, promises meant nothing, and no one really saw each other at all—just shadows that they took for an accurate likeness.

All of this worked to make it hard to control my emotions. They would be gone and buried until suddenly they weren't, manifesting in ways that were uglier than I ever intended. I hadn't learned the art of self-blame—self-denial and carving recompense on your own soul—and so I blamed the world and I wanted to punish someone for it. That day, the unlucky boy was Marshall.

I was taller than most of the girls, but there wasn't much to me—I was bone-thin and gawky. No one thought the placid exterior would give way to unrelenting anger. I kicked Marshall in the knee and then hard in the balls. When he was on the ground, I kept kicking him until the teachers pulled me off. I didn't believe he was hurt that bad—maybe scared and taken off guard, but I didn't have the physical power to do more than make him cry and leave bruises he wouldn't forget about quickly. His parents said they wouldn't press charges if I was suspended for two weeks and moved to another class. Everyone agreed, and my hate only grew.

When Mom dragged me out of school and into her red Audi, I thought she was going to lay into me like Fawkes. I remember so clearly staring out past the windshield as the falling snow trapped us in the car—caught in a bubble of our own world, one I couldn't get away from because things were hard.

She was tired, I know she was. They already started her on chemo, and one round was enough to entirely change how she was at home. Her energy was gone, the bright spark that kept the corners of her lips turned up disappeared, and the sheer will she exuded evaporated as the day waned. She was already becoming someone I didn't recognize, and I didn't know what my world would look like without her. There was no life I could conceptualize where I was so alone, and I didn't want to try.

I didn't have to think about it in my head. Soon enough, it would become my waking reality.

"Baby, why did you do that?" she asked after several minutes of us just listening to the cars passing by and watching the delicate flakes of white coat the car and swallow us. "Why would you want to hurt someone like that?"

She sounded so… so genuinely confused. Like she couldn't see the anger that was a near constant for much of my life. It wasn't even that I wanted to hurt Marshall—not in a way that was permanent. As much as my stubbornness told me he deserved it, I knew that what I did wouldn't help. It wouldn't do much of anything other than embed my status as a loner—the girl you could wonder about but were afraid of getting close to lest she bit you. Like a rabid dog.

I didn't want to be those things, but I didn't know how to change it—to make people understand. So, I didn't try.

Parker was the first person who made me want to.

When I didn't answer, or even look at her, she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She was paler than before, her skin almost yellow. Her hair wasn't hers anymore—she'd pre-emptively shaved it to save going bald in patches and wore a wig. Every day she looked less like the person I knew, but now I know that's not true. She was always there; I just couldn't see it where it mattered.

"I need you to answer me, Miri."

Dragging my eyes from the soggy floormat to her face, I expected to see anger that matched what I felt before, but all I saw were her eyes welling up with tears.

"I… I wanted…" How could I finish the sentence without making her feel worse, without letting her down? Her face demanded the truth, and the shame I felt in Fawkes' office came back in a burning flush. "I wanted someone to feel like I did. He… he called me a—"

"I know what he called you, baby." A flash of anger came over her then, and hurt, but it wasn't directed at me. "You wanted someone to feel like what? What're you feeling that's causing this?"

I didn't bother making others understand, but it was always different with my family. If they didn't know who I was, if I couldn't tell them, then did I really exist at all?

"I feel—it's… why do things hurt all the time? It's… it's—I'm never enough, you know?" The words were rushing out, but the tears wouldn't. They were trapped in my throat, choking me as I shut out the world in order to force out the truth. "I just… I screw up and I don't get them, and they don't get me. So, sometimes… sometimes making someone else feel like me is like, for just a second, they understand. They know what it's like."

Mom sighed and managed to make it sound sad.

"You know that's not true, don't you, Miri?"

I did know it, but I didn't know what else to do. The wall was in place and I was hiding behind it. That's what people saw when they looked at me, and as much as I wanted to tear it down, I ended up building upon it instead.

"Yes…"

Mom's arm wrapped around my shoulders and we sat in silence, just like that night when Mom told me never to change for anyone. She wanted to help me, but she was running out of time. And, maybe, I didn't want to help myself. Not in a way that looked at my problems objectively. My sight was always clouded, even if I knew differently in my bones.

"Mistakes are OK, Miri. It's a part of being human—and we all are. Hurting is human, too." I don't know why that was what made me cry, but the tears started and there was no stopping them. "The world isn't fair, and that's not going to change. When we let our mistakes rule us, when we're paralyzed by the fear of pain, that's what causes the most damage. Do you understand what I mean?"

Her fingers worked through my hair, folding me into her as I thought about how goddamn true that was. Life wasn't fair. Not by a fucking longshot. I thought it then, but it feels like a truth that's carved into my soul now. It eclipsed the kernel of wisdom about the power of guilt and responsibility—how consuming it can be, and it made me fail to consider why it had to be that way at all.

"Your father never learned this, but strength doesn't come from your fists—how much damage you can deal out. You're smart. Wicked smart. You get it from me."

She laughed and leaned her head on mine. Mom even smelled differently, her perfume diluted by the smell of hospitals and sickness. I'd already learned to hate that, too.

"We don't know what the future looks like, but that doesn't mean we give up and die—we don't let the time we have to be consumed by something that only seeks to tear apart what we have while it's resting in our hands."

I thought this was just like before, when she imparted truths that didn't make sense outside the pages of a book. Maybe I wasn't in a place to understand that then, either. I may not have learned self-blame yet, but I was well-versed in the art of denial.

"Hurting others won't take away what you feel—you can't beat empathy into someone. That's not where it comes from, Miri."

I always liked listening to Mom talk, even when I didn't totally understand. Upset and convinced that the mistakes I'd already made would follow me for the rest of my life, I wanted to latch onto what she said. If what I'd done wouldn't help me, what else could? What would take away what was already drowning me?

"Where then, Mom?" I whispered after a long time.

I thought she was going to leave it in silence, like maybe she forgot or didn't know herself. The tumors hadn't started to affect her memory yet, but she told me to expect it. I didn't want this to be the start of when I'd lost that part of her, too.

"It comes from the heart, and sometimes you have to hurt a little more until you find someone who can help ease the burden. That doesn't mean you stop trying, baby."

That was something I always kept with me—the idea of someone coming along to take the load that made my knees buckle. For a long time, I thought that person could be Bruce. When he let me down and disappeared, Parker was the next person in my life to make me believe in that again, but even now I see that was another mistake.

The Joker told me to let go, and maybe I should. Maybe I should let go of the idea that someone will come along to find me in a life raft, that they'll keep me from tearing myself apart. Maybe I just need to swim until my body refuses to draw in air; until I burst or my muscles give out. But I've been treading water and taking it in my lungs when the shore was through the mist. No one else is going to take me there. Only I can do that. If I die never knowing the touch of dry land again, I can know I fought for it, that my body will eventually drift ashore.

If I'm going to drown, then it won't be because I let myself be dragged into the dark. It'll be on my own terms, when my body decides its had enough. And I'm not there, I'm not done fighting. Not yet.

Something comes over me when Mayor Garcia speaks into the camera, the sweat dripping off him with the small trails of blood that fall from his fingers to the floor. His face is like it's ever been from what I can remember of his campaign commercials, but his body is another story. Patches of blood have soaked through his suit and it's ripped in several places.

What I'm feeling now is like when I watched Bruce at the press conference. A sense of clarity that comes with detachment. The pain is fading, but my mind is sharp, cutting through the haze. My body might be useless right now, but the rest of me can't be.

I'm remembering and, for the first time in years, I'm welcoming it.

"It should be clear now that the Gotham City Police Department and the—the ruling government bodies have become ineffective. They will not be able to stop the riots or protect you or your loved ones from—from harm."

This entire thing's a farce—a play at revolution while espousing the opposite. The Joker's standing next to me, his hand on my neck, giggling as Garcia struggles through his lines. His family's here somewhere, it's the only reason he'd be doing this. He's like me, trapped by the ties we hold to others and one man's ability to exploit them.

Garcia's lip shakes, but his voice steadies, looking at the camera with a type of intensity that would be entirely convincing to someone none the wiser. But I know. I know this is a lie meant to hurt and unleash pandemonium.

"Come nightfall, this city will be lost. Those who are unwilling to… to play by the new rules can get out now. Those who remain will find no refuge from—from the new world, free of the forces that keep you in the dark. Look out for yourselves and do all that is necessary, all within your means, to make it out alive and usurp all that seeks to keep you subdued."

Garcia takes a deep breath, wincing as his surely bruised ribs suck in large bouts of air. His mouth opens once, the hesitation coming out in a small gasp before spilling out in a warning: "Beware the tunnels and the bridges and keep your eye on the sky."

The Joker's going to set the entire city on fire.

And I agreed to help him.

Does it matter anymore?

Lucius is still in the room, staring at me. He hasn't stopped since the Joker made us march in here. He must have guessed at something, or maybe Titan Industries was on top of things more than I gave them credit for. I blocked them out of their own systems, but I didn't stop them from seeing where the drones were heading. They could still get people out in time.

Seeing Lucius—seeing all the people in this building riding on the whims of a madman—did more than I ever could on my own. The fog is lifting, and something else is fighting to come through. It's hard, wading through quicksand, but I keep going—pushing myself farther.

I might not deserve to save myself, but they deserve to have someone help save them.

You ruin people.

That's what the Joker told me, and it's true. I do that. I'm alone and my presence is a blight. He was right about all of that—but I've been so consumed by my own pain that it's held me back, made me latch onto others who could show me the way. I don't know if that realization matters anymore, what exactly it'll accomplish. It'll only hurt me, just like everything else does.

Fight, Miri.

Why is that voice coming back? I don't think I have anything left.

'You're all alone, aren't you?'

He was right about that, too. What else is there that's left for me? There is nothing. Nothing at all.

Don't stop fighting.

When the camera lowers, the Joker skips over to where Davie's holding his cell phone, humming with giddy joy. I stay rooted where I am, and I try hard not to make eye contact with Lucius. He's worried, I know he is, but acknowledging what he means to me would only serve to do him harm. The Joker would make sure of that.

Fight.

"I-I did what you wanted, let my children go—" Garcia starts before the Joker raises his gun without even looking. His finger's on the trigger, not pulling it back yet, and Garcia crumbles to the ground.

"No one, ah, said you could speak." The Joker jerks his chin to one of the many men in the room, motioning to a now weeping Garcia. "Take him back with the others. He'll get what's comin' soon enough."

Garcia's dragged from the room; no sound other than choked groans following him out into the hallway. When the door shuts again, the fear I managed to push away finds me again. I know what's coming next and I don't know what to do. What I saw on the ship—how all those men just died and I was helpless to make it stop—comes rushing back. Exhaustion makes my thoughts rotate between the desire for mental escape and pouring everything that's left in me into resistance.

'Never give in because it's easy.'

Mom's voice creeps back in. I can see her now in my mind's eye, too. She's standing next to Parker, imbuing me with the desire to try. They're urging me on, ghostly specters that never leave entirely.

The feeling of potential bravery dies when the Joker turns to me and smacks his lips, eyebrows doing a pump to show his excitement. My skin crawls, and my eyes stay fixed on him, just like he wants.

"You ready to go, sweet peach? Need to get things prepared for an, ah… extra special visit. Who knows, you might see your bestie in black," he teases, standing in front of me and planting his hands on my shoulders. His touch starts the war again with my thoughts battling my instincts.

There's only one answer I can give without this getting bloody.

Think, Miri. C'mon, think.

I don't want to answer him or drift into the pull of mindless obedience of relying on another, but it would be so much easier. The pain would go away, I'd never have to feel it again.

No, Miri. Don't you dare.

Why is it so important now that I'm trying to fight back? Why bother when I already know what he said was true, that I'm everything he said and more?

Because this isn't about you anymore. You know what will happen.

I don't want to do this, but I have to. I know too well what will happen if I don't.

"Yes, J."

The words are like literal glass in my throat, cutting my trachea so that I choke on the blood. His face lights up at the nickname, the same one I used in another lifetime on the ship.

"Stu-pen-dous," he says, clapping his hands together. Twisting my chair around, he pushes me against the terminal until my knees hit the lip of the metal desk. This is the terminal that will give me access to Titan Industry's flight servers. "Get crackin'."

No, Miri. Fight it.

"What the hell are you doing?"

No, no, no—why didn't he just stay quiet?

It's Lucius who spoke. Lucius just brought down the attention of the Joker. This won't end well.

What can I do?

There is nothing I can do. The apathy might be fazing through with streaks of someone I never thought I could be, but helplessness is a constant I can't shake. I don't have the power here, he does.

I see the Joker's expression before he turns. It's anger, but it's quickly covered up by a familiar expression of mocking. He's always looking to be entertained, for someone to think of a new form of sick fun. The Russian man. The poor stranger left to burn to death. That could be Lucius.

What can I do? How do I stop this?

"Got somethin' you wanna say, grandpa?" the Joker asks, traipsing over to where Lucius has been forced to stay on his knees.

To his credit, Lucius looks undaunted. Defiant and incredulous, he's already shown more bravery than I could ever hope for. He's looking past the Joker to me, begging me to stop with his eyes, to show the same resistance. Shame heats my cheeks and I stare at the ground. The Joker's greasepaint is still on my face, the large cut on my chest visible. He'll see it all and know. I'm broken now.

Are you?

Why am I thinking about this, trying anymore? What has it brought me?

You can't sit here and take it.

But I already have.

"Do you even know what you're doing? Miriam, stop this. You know what those can do."

He's begging me, trying to make me see reason like it's so simple. It hurts because it should be that way, but it isn't. I know exactly what these will do, and I'm going to have to do it anyway.

You don't matter. You never did.

Heat burns and compels me to look up. I'm met with the Joker's glare. What I say will determine whether Lucius dies.

It doesn't matter. It's not real.

The shaking starts again and I can't stop it. The Joker's energy has changed, choking and stifling. Helplessness threatens to swallow everything else again and I can barely take it. His gloved hand grips the back of my neck possessively, sliding down to rest at my lower back. It's too intimate and it will tell Lucius all he needs to know. I'm not getting away from this. My mind retreats back to safety, welcoming the numbness.

Stop it, Miri. This is real.

"I-I'm sorry, Lucius."

I can't bear to face him anymore, feel the heavy weight of his disappointment. I've broken every promise I ever made, everything I thought I held sacred. The Joker was right about this, too: I am a liar.

Turning around, I start working through the Wayne Enterprises' systems, accessing the programs that control the HAVOC drones. I know what the Joker wants and doing it will save everyone I have left.

At what cost?

The Joker kisses the top of my head and I want to stop and cry, let the overwhelming dark take over everything like it wants to. I hear Lucius struggling, the men dragging him out as the Joker chuckles, and I want the floor to swallow me. Anything to get away from this.

Not real not real not real—

"Miri—don't—"

It's too late. Whatever Lucius was going to use to convince me won't reach me now. I want him to understand, but I know he never will. I make myself keep going, even as I want to curl up and die. The only person left for me is a monster. This is the ultimate betrayal. I turned my back on everything I thought I stood for.

What are you now?

"No, ah, mistakes, sweet peach. Gotta make sure the surprise stays that way."

Nothing.

He watches me program in the coordinates, his hand squeezing occasionally. My fingers are slow and shake, but the information I need is written on a torn piece of paper with a messy scrawl I can barely decipher. After each number's entered in, he hums with excitement. City Hall. The Gotham City Police Department. The downtown core of Gotham that holds all the consulates and embassies. The Joker wants to hit them all.

And he can because of me.

It doesn't matter. Doesn't matter doesn't matter doesn't matter—

The Joker leans over to watch the last of his demented plan come to life. A glint of gold catches my eye and I stare, my fingers freezing and mind coming to a slamming halt.

It's Mom's ring. He still has it, dangling on the chain Bruce gave me to hold it when it was too big on my fingers.

A sharp stab of pain makes my head spin, and I gasp out as my vision darkens. Everything—everything I wanted to leave comes rushing back. Going to the bank on a day that would alter the course of my life. Seeing Parker smile, him walking me to the station. My room becoming a place of fear and pain. Bruce when I thought maybe things would be alright. This never-ending nightmare that swirled with parts of my life I always wanted to leave behind.

I wanted all these things to be separate, to have a clear distinction between the "then" and the "now." But I realize that wasn't right. Not entirely. It's all connected, it always has been. I didn't want to be that angry, bitter, and reckless person anymore, but I changed into someone else I couldn't live with in the process. I'd forgotten the things that mattered because they hurt, not realizing that they would be what will save me.

Mom's ring isn't just a reminder of her, but also what she'd always tell me.

'You are my light.'

I might not be that, but… but maybe I'm not entirely worthless either. I wanted to do good, to save Parker. I couldn't save him because I let inaction get in the way, because I lied to him for so long. In more ways than one, this is my fault, but I can help. I know I can.

"What? Your, ah, brain stop working?" the Joker asks, right close to my ear. This time I don't flinch, I don't back away. My body has never been this tired, but my mind's never been more awake.

"My… you still have my mother's ring," I finally reply.

Pulling back, he tugs on the chain and giggles. The ring rolls between his fingers before he tucks it back in his dress shirt, down inside so it touches his skin. I thought my fire was gone, that he managed to extinguish it—but I've found it again, discerning a path in front of me that might lead to some kind of salvation.

This is real and you can stop this.

"I'm keeping it safe for you, sweetheart. It's pretty, isn't it?"

There's nothing I can say without turning his ever-present wrath on me. He's mocking me, saying it because he wants a rise out of me when he believes I can do nothing to stop him. He's right—I can't right now. But something is stirring and coming back alive, something I thought I let him kill.

No. You just kept it buried like everything else.

It's rage. Blunt anger that used to strangle me but now feels like a tool I can grasp.

The air is coming in sparsely to my lungs, and I force myself to take in more, bringing my head back down as he strokes my hair. I want to break his wrist.

"One more thing left to do," he says, directing my head up to the screen by a firm grip on the back of my neck.

"What else could you possibly want?"

My response isn't one I thought about, and my eyes widen at the tone of it. I can't do what I need to if he catches on now. His grip tightens and I think he's going to slam my head against the table when he releases me, lowering his face in front of mine. What would have made me cower before makes me stay resolute now, even as his lips almost touch mine. Apathy has become my friend rather than an enemy. If I don't care about his response, it'll make the rest easier.

"There's a lot I could do, sweet peach, but this is about, ah… showing Gotham who they really are. All of 'em."

Confusion makes me furrow my brow involuntarily.

What the hell is he talking about?

He doesn't leave me wondering for long.

"You remember that app that Zsasz so unkindly asked you to, ah, break into? Parker managed to do some of the, ah, work for you. Just need you to execute it."

He's talking about Gotham Mingles. What the hell could he possibly still want with that? What could he hope to gain?

"W-What do you want me to do?" Playing along is important. He still has the advantage of physical strength and a willingness to be unrelentingly violent.

Wait for an opportunity. Don't give up yet.

It's hard because I want to. Being close to him does that, pulls me into the allure of his explanations, the assurance of having an identity even if it's one he's made and it's steeped in mud. Even looking in his eyes pulls me back in, kills the thoughts that give me strength. It's hypnotizing and effacing, and I can't let him win. I can't be swayed. Not on this.

He pulls out a flashdrive from his pocket and waves it in front of my face like I should know what it is. He smirks and sits on the desk, leaning towards me like he's a coworker. Staying still and seated is the new challenge I force myself to continue meeting. There are two other men in this room. Nothing I could do would take them all out, and I would be stupid to try.

Think, Miri. Think.

Leaning down, he plugs the drive inside the CPU. File folders appear immediately, showing worm files that haven't been launched yet. When I click on them and read their programming, the blood drains from my face and pools in my feet. It's incomplete, but it's malware on a scale that I can only understand in it's smallest form.

"Anyone who used my special hashtag. I want their, ah, names. Publish 'em on the 'net for all their friends to find. See what kind of people they're, ah… neighbours with."

The confusion doesn't leave, and I can't help the questions coming out of my mouth.

"What hashtag? I... I don't understand."

He laughs and rolls his eyes, tilting far to the side to place his face close to mine again.

"I was playing a little... a little game, of sorts. Call it a, uh, social experiment." He cackles, drawing back to bend over as he laughs. He makes a show of trying to control himself, but I can tell this is everything he wanted and more. "The good people of Gotham just showed themselves to be who they were all along, Miri. I just... helped."

His smile is one I can describe as evil without fear of embellishment. I think of the video he made on the ship, the one with Zsasz just hours ago. Criticizing a population for participating in an ugliness he facilitates. The mention of fifteen of Gotham's most wanted, filming a man die and saying he was getting the ball rolling.

No, he didn't... no, no, no...

But he would do that. He must have.

The Joker somehow got people in on his sick game, had them participate in some manner on these platforms. They likely thought they had the shield of anonymity to protect them from egging on a murderer, and the Joker wants to pull back the curtain. He wants to show everyone who exactly is just as willing to be as ugly as he is.

Now this... this is something I can agree with. Opening up the Gotham Mingles platform, it's easy to see what the Joker's done, how it's spread like wild fire. Thousands of people have used this—wished death on someone else. There are videos of people dying, killed by packs of mobs. Somehow, it makes me feel sicker than anything the Joker's done.

How could they do this willingly? Don't they realize what they've done?

They might have, but I realize that there are many who must not care at all. Posts start popping up, saying the fifteen he named weren't criminals at all, just bystanders the Joker chose to help him make a point. At some point, my fingers stop moving and I just stare. The Joker was right about this, too. People are ugly, and they were just waiting for a chance to go feral. The Joker gave them one and they didn't even question it.

He doesn't have to prod me. I get into the servers of Gotham Mingles after twenty-five minutes, breaking through their encryption software easily because of the systems Wayne Enterprises has. I can see why the Joker wanted to come here; I wouldn't have been able to do this on my laptop.

At the end of it, uploading the worm and watching it do its work, infecting the computers of thousands and feeding me back the information, I can put a number on the number of people who made themselves third-party to murder. Twenty-three thousand people voted. They voted for people to die because they thought it was deserved. The Joker threw it in their face that they didn't know anything at all. They just wanted to watch someone hurt from a distance.

Were you any different?

Maybe I'm not. But it doesn't mitigate what I need to do. What I have to do.

The names come in large swaths, filling up the Joker's impromptu database. This is the only thing I won't stop him on. Let him expose who would do that, but I'll take him down for enacting it all in the first place. I can't stop the plague, but I can take down the main source of infection.

My eyes are taking in the names, involuntarily looking for anyone I know, when a warm kiss is planted on my cheek.

"There we go." He sounds smug. Validated. Gotham gave him everything he wanted and then some. And I helped. I don't know who I hate more, him or me. "I got the rest… figured out."

Taking me by the shoulder, he shoves me away from the terminal. The chair rolls until it smacks into something solid. He's still standing by the computer, his mind already occupied. I need to find out what he's doing. The plan in my head isn't solid, and it might work or I could have a bullet in my head soon.

That doesn't matter. You can't let him do what he wants. You don't want people to die, just think about what will happen if the police are entirely gone.

"What are you doing now?" I ask, keeping my voice quiet like it was before. Disinterestedly curious. Detached. He still looks at me with surprise. The Joker didn't expect this out of me, to be coherent at all. He did his job well, wearing me down, and he succeeded to a degree. I'm not who I was anymore; everything's falling away and leaving something else behind.

"Why, waiting for the, ah, fireworks to start," he says, the high, nasal pitch of his voice ascending with his excitement. Everything's been going so well for him, he doesn't have any reason to think that would stop now. "And if I'm a, ah—a real good boy, I might just get to watch 'em with my best friend—sorry, toots."

Best friend?

The answer dawns on me. He's talking about Batman. Of course he is. As much as he did this to upset the balance of power in Gotham, to totally rip her to pieces and bathe in the bloody aftermath, he also did this for Batman. Why does a man like the Joker exist? It's a response, an escalation to a force that upset the balance. Cause and effect. Action and reaction. He's doing this to demand a response equal to the attack—he wants Batman to hit him back for this. A battle for the ages. Why didn't I see that before?

If that's what he really wants, you can't let him have it.

"Lewis, be a dear and take Miri to the meeting room down the hall." He looks over my head but motions me to stand. Legs shaking, I obey. This isn't the time to resist, but I'm quickly running out of options. He doesn't look at me until his fingers run through my hair and he smiles. Something in my guy twists. "Don't worry, I won't leave ya for long, sweet peach. Then we'll… talk. Get some rest and we'll have some, ah, fun when I get back." He takes my face in his hands and kisses me quickly, and I don't even try to pull away.

He lied.

I don't know how or why I know, I just do. He's going to kill me. It shouldn't surprise me, but it does. I don't know what that will look like, and I don't want to know, but something solid takes shape when Lewis tugs on my arm. Staring back over my shoulder, I want to see if he'll meet my eye. The Joker's not paying attention to me anymore. He's typing away at the computer, prepping the files for uploading. He doesn't need me for that.

Then what does he need you for now? Killing you makes sense. You've given him everything.

Not yet I haven't. And I won't. I won't.

It doesn't matter what it costs. I won't let him win.

Lewis drags me away, leaving the Joker and two other men left in the terminal room. We're out in the hall, heading for the conference room. It's where I would give presentations on new projects and listen to Lucius' big plans for the year. It used to be a place of excitement, but now I know it's where the Joker plans on ending me.

He opens the door and throws me in, not looking back at me. I saw this at the shipyard: conflict. He doesn't want to do this either.

Then convince him.

Lewis is about to shut the door when I find a strength in my voice I didn't think I had anymore.

"Wait—Lewis, please."

The door stops just short of closing, but Lewis doesn't look back. He's hesitating, but he would have ignored me outright if he didn't want to hear what I had to say. His face is hard, the white bandage around his throat stark against the black of his skin. I try to find something in his eyes I can plead with.

"Lewis, you don't want this either, do you?" He doesn't reply or acknowledge my words, but he doesn't shut the door either. "You know just as well as I do that this is wrong."

I've said something that doesn't matter to him. He looks away and starts shutting the door.

Don't give up. You can't.

Picking myself up, I rush to the door and ignore the pain twisting my muscles, the exhaustion that makes it hard to breathe.

"Wait! Please!"

I land my weight against the door. If he wants to close it, he'll have to shove me down again. He looks down the hall, his uncertainty becoming more apparent. He's staring at me and seeing what that officer saw at the MCU. A bad omen, someone the Joker's laid a claim on. That might be true, but I need Lewis to see beyond it. The craziness I saw in him back on the ship a lifetime ago is gone. There's only fear there.

"He almost killed you. He's killing dozens more. Let me stop him." Lewis loses the grip he had on the door. He tries to speak, but only wet rasps come out, the ghost of a syllable before he gives up. The doubt I see makes me draw in closer. "I can do it. You… you won't be here for it."

Now I'm the one trying to draw in people with words, and it seems to work. Lewis leaves the hallway and comes back in the boardroom, closing the door behind him.

You can do this. You know what needs to be done.

"I never wanted you to die, Lewis. If you get me back in that room, I'll get you and the hostages out, but I need your help." He raises an eyebrow at me. If he could talk, I'm sure he'd be asking me how the hell I planned on doing any of this. "Please, Lewis. You know it's only a matter of time. You know what he'll do. Is that really something you want?"

It wasn't long ago that Lewis punched me, called me a bitch. Looked on in excitement as the Joker tormented me. But he wasn't immune from the Joker's violence. He has the broken wrist and a destroyed voice box to prove it. I could see his face before, complying out of fear rather than thinking this was some revolution where he'd end up as a prince serving a king. There would be none of that. He's just as terrified of the Joker as I am, and I need him to move past it to help.

"I can do this. He won't leave here. I'll make sure."

Conviction: that's what I hear in my voice. A certainty I've never known before. There's only one way this ends, and I've found comfort in that. Bruce won't be here to save me, and I don't want him to. It won't be long now, but I'll see Parker and Mom again and, this time, I won't be ashamed to look at them. I won't let them down.

Lewis searches my eyes and I don't look away. He'll either think I've lost my mind or it's worth giving this a shot. Slowly, like he isn't quite convinced yet, he nods his head. Relief brings fresh tears that almost spill over.

"Thank you," I whisper.

What I saw of him before changes, but I don't have time to stop and stare. I need to move before it's too late. The drones were fifty-three minutes away from Gotham when I locked in the coordinates. That means I have just over ten to get this done. Motioning to a large vent ten feet up, Lewis follows me to the wall.

"Give me a boost. I'm small enough to fit and no one will know you helped. Just... stack chairs over here or something. Go with the rest of the hostages and leave with them, alright?"

He nods again and braces himself. Stepping into his clasped hands, he grunts as he lifts me up. Working quickly, I pries away the screws holding it in place and take off the cover entirely. The stitches tear and I can feel the blood flowing again, but that doesn't matter. My body reached its limits a long time ago but I can't let that get in the way. Crying out in effort, I pull myself up until my torso's in the vent. It's a tight fit, no room to wriggle much, but it'll work.

It has to.

"Be brave," I whisper to myself. This time, I feel like I can be. Like it's not something temporary I can hold onto.

I'm making too much noise as I force my way through the tight space, the metal hot with the pumping air and thick with dust. I've been in this building enough to know what direction I need to go in, and it isn't long before I find the terminal room. There's a slatted opening, and a mad smile breaks out when I see the Joker isn't here anymore. He's gone off somewhere to wait.

Now or never, Miri.

There is no going back. A man's directly underneath me, and I go off pure instinct alone. Putting my weight on the vent opening, it drops open and I fall, landing hard on the man. All the air rushes out of both of us and the other man in the room shouts, the dust rising up to add to the confusion. The man I landed on dropped his gun. Without thinking, I pick it up and aim, my head still spinning from the landing.

Think. Breathe. You can't lose. You can't.

"Get out," I growl, getting off the now limp man and keeping the gun steady. I have no idea how this one works, but I'm more than willing to find out. The man left standing keeps his gun pointed at me.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he shouts.

You don't have time for this.

Pointing the gun just off to the side of his head, I fire. An explosive ring deafens me, but I keep the gun high and my finger on the trigger to go again. Both men are on the ground, taking cover. I can only imagine how I must look.

You probably look insane.

I feel insane. A laugh bubbles up, short and hard like a bark, before my voice hardens.

"I said. Get. The. Fuck. Out."

The men look at me in absolute terror. When they see I won't move, that my will won't falter, they raise their hands and back up. When they reach the door, it's a mad scramble to get out and the laughter comes back and nearly topples me.

Think, Miri.

Giggling, I go back to the terminal I used to seal Gotham's fate and get to work. The first thing I do is bring up the CCTV cameras online. It doesn't take me long to find the other hostages stashed away in another meeting room. Two men armed with assault rifles stand over them, but I don't see the Joker yet. Lewis joins them and I breathe out. I won't have to break that promise now.

Just like when I used to mess with Wayne Enterprises' systems, manipulating the systems in the building is second nature to me. Locking the electrical doors leading to the terminal room, I sound the alarm in the building. Red lights go off and sirens blare.

The guards in the rooms swing their guns up, going to the doorway to peer into the hall. As soon as they cross the threshold, I activate the storm doors, cutting them off from the doctors and employees on the other side.

Perfect.

I block all the doors except for the ones that will lead the hostages to the exit. The laughter starts again and I hold it back as I activate the PA system.

"Attention civilians, please follow the marked path that leads to the exit. Go now and move quickly." My voice doesn't sound like I'm taking this seriously. I sound crazy.

You'd have to be to do what you are.

The hostages get up to leave immediately, following the emergency lights I switched on that leads outside. As soon as they're clear, I'll open the storm doors again and wait for what was always coming for me. I want no barriers between me and the end.

I'm about to switch cameras when I see one man hasn't left yet. It's Lucius. He's staring up at the camera, confusion and concern carving deep grooves on his face. Tears spill over as my face stretches into a smile I don't want to make. I'm suddenly grateful no one can see me.

"Go, Lucius," I say into the speaker.

It takes him a long time, long enough for me to think I need to scream at him, but he turns around and obeys. The laughter I was fighting turns into sobs as I open up the HAVOC program. I don't want to stop them, but I want to redirect them. The Joker needs to die and so do I. We both need to go, and I'm going to make sure it happens. The drones will hit us and fly into the river. Neither of us will be alone, and no one else will die, and... the Joker and me, we won't be able to hurt anyone ever again.

"Ah… Miri, whatchya doin'?"

As if my thoughts summoned him, I look and see the Joker staring at the other side of the glass wall. He's speaking through the intercom.

He can't hurt me anymore.

No, he really can't. I smile, but it isn't kind. I feel like a vengeful goddess seeking retribution. And I'll get what's mine.

"Making sure you never hurt anyone ever again," I reply simply, pushing down on the button that will let him hear me. He laughs and smiles, but something I've never seen before is on his face.

He's nervous.

That in itself is a victory.

"Looks like you're, ah, goin' kamikaze on us, sweet peach." He tries to laugh, but for once it doesn't sound genuine. "This isn't funny, Miri."

Yes, it is. For once, I'm the one in on the punchline.

The thing he worked so hard for me to help with, all the work he put in, it's going to turn into ash right along with him.

"Get ready to rot in hell."

I hit the execute button and watch as the coordinates change. The drones aren't going to the rest of Gotham anymore.

No, no. They're coming here. The Joker might have been right, he did own me, but not for much longer. There will be fire, but the only place it'll be is here, just for him and me.

"Miri—don't do something stupid."

Too late for that. Should have stopped me a long time ago.

I don't know where it comes from, but I start to laugh again. It's a giggle at first, but it builds until I'm cackling. The Joker looks at me, stunned, and it makes me laugh harder. There's a thick sheet of glass between us, yes—but I would have still laughed even if he was standing next to me. It becomes hysterical, rising to a crescendo of madness I'd only ever heard from him.

I finally understand. He had a grand plan of what this would look like, how he'd get there. He had a point to prove and an agenda to follow. I was part of that, but he wouldn't need me forever. He was doing this for the same reasons I did any of my hacking—what caused all my problems to begin with. He was bored and he wanted someone to understand—he wanted someone to see what he is. He found that in Batman, but I'd take his happy ending away from him just like he took mine.

He raises his gun and points it at the glass, shooting and making it spiderweb as the cracks spread. I'm not afraid anymore. We're going to die anyway, and there's nothing he can do.

I can hear his roar over my laughter, but I don't stop. I won't. Because I finally get the joke. He doesn't understand that yet, but I know. It makes me bend over at the waist as the force of it seizes my chest and the tears make me weep.

I'm going to die alright, but I'll be the one dragging him down with me. I found what mattered, what the point was, and I'm taking it away. And there's nothing he can do to stop any of it. The Joker lost all his laughter when the mocking cackles are directed at him. I'm the one getting the last laugh.

Me.

AN: Hello everyone! My deepest apologies for getting this out late for you. I had my graduation on Friday and I've been so burnt out that I've been struggling with my writing more than I would like. I wanted to make sure I got what I was going for before I published this, and I really hope it doesn't disappoint.

I want to say thank you again for everyone who's stuck around to read and comment. It's what's gotten me through the last few months and it means the world to me! And I want to give a big thank you to Boag whose helped me get through my slumps and give me her kind advice! There's only four chapters left, and I hope the ending is everything you hoped for and more. I can't wait to hear what you think, and I will have my next update on the weekend!