Chapter 15: Kiss-Off
Harley Quinn's left hand spasms with a mind of its own, biting deeply into human flesh with the scalpel it held. Two quick, impossibly fast strokes followed, spreading crimson chaos in their wake. In her life as the Joker's partner in crime Harley had been witness to many acts of insane inhumanity that would cause any decent soul to vomit in disgust, but this was the first that she executed completely on her own. Horrified by the blood on her hands she lets go of the now crimson blade, letting it fall to the sterile ground where it shatters on impact.
"This stuff," she gurgles as she tries to wipe off the blood, only smearing it more so across her flesh and gown, "this stuff is a bitch to clean. Oh well," she grins, "red is my colour." Turning towards her prey she casually asks, "So, how do you feel?"
Before her the target of her rage falls to his knees, both hands trying to stem the flow of blood. Calling upon his collective willpower he ignores the pain, managing to rise up and stumble to a mirror. His hands fumble for the handle, "What...what have you done?"
Harley produces a sly smile, "You gave me a choice, Brucie. I could've killed you and evened the score for Mr. J, or I could've spared your life and stopped the oh so spooky cycle of violence. I really didn't want to kill you. After all, you're a good guy; you helped save Red and sprung me from the hospital. Spilling your guts just didn't seem like a proper thank-you."
He manages to grab a hold of the mirror, but it slips through his bloodied fingers and falls on the table once more.
"Then it hit me," Harley giggles as she jumps off the gurney and walks towards a very frustrated Bruce Wayne, "I could kill two birds with one stone." She steps behind Bruce, placing one hand on his shoulder and with the other she lifts the mirror. Placing her head beside his she lifts the mirror so that the image contained both of their faces. "Mr. J gets his revenge, and I get a good man...that I can't resist," and she kisses him gently on his bloodied cheek.
Bruce Wayne could only stare into the mirror at the two gashes that formed a permanent garish grin on a face he hoped he'd never see again. At that moment it was the Joker glaring at him from beyond the looking glass, and he laughed.
"Feeling better already?" Harley mutters with a gleeful smile upon hearing the laughter.
Bruce could feel it all slipping away. What did he have after all his tortuous and maddening evening adventures? What did he really accomplish? The people he really cared for are all gone, alienated or dead. He wanted to help the city, to stop the criminals that killed his parents and their ilk, and now...now he's become one of them. Joker was right; he was insane to accept such a task, he was insane not to kill, he was...no...he IS insane. He DOES know what it is to take a life. And he has such a wonderful grin...
Then an anguished moan reaches his ears from behind and he turns to see Ivy's body writhing in agony as she sleeps, each movement setting off thousands of jolts of pain from her still fresh wound to her brain. Each moan from her is like a dagger to Bruce Wayne's mind, and he's forced to remember why he set out on his crusade in the first place. He's forced to remember his oath to Gordon to keep her safe, and the man who had harmed her...
"You've failed," Bruce spits out as he shoves Harley aside. She loses her balance and falls, skinning her hand on the cold ground. "You got your revenge," he continues, touching his burning face, "but I'm not the man you love."
Tears begin to pour down Harley's cheek as she takes the full weight of Bruce's words, "What...what are you going to do?"
"Do? I think that's pretty obvious. First I'm going to stop my face from bleeding, then maybe a long ocean voyage..." he answers in remarkably good humour, reaching for a nearby towel.
"To me!" Harley screams, still crying. She's in no mood for jokes.
"You're welcome to join me, if you'd like."
For a moment Harley feels as if the entire world, not only she, has gone insane, and she gives Bruce Wayne a bizarre glance and a flat-toned "What?"
"You're not hearing things, Harley," Bruce begins, dabbing his face from time to time with a towel, "I'm asking you, and Ivy, to join me. I made a promise to keep Ivy safe and sound, and I intend to honour it...whether she likes it or not, and you, Ms. Quinzel, are welcome to join me. You just had a chance to kill me and you didn't. It was a simple test, and you passed," he dabs his face again, "barely." He got much more from his simple test than he had bargained for, mentally and physically.
Harley simply gives Bruce a very perplexed look, "I was...am...a trained psychologist, you know, and this is really, really weird. I'm sorry, but I don't buy it."
Bruce's demeanour becomes much more sullen, "Maybe there's something more to it, but does it really matter? I'm offering you and Ivy the chance of your lives while I try to sort through my own. What do you say?"
Harley points her index finger to her chin and crosses her legs as she thinks for a moment before answering, "What the hell, I seem to have a track record with head cases. Besides, how could I say no to such an...enchanting smile..."
Bruce courteously bends before her and offers his hand. She takes hold and he gently raises her up, and together they step towards the slumbering Ivy...
...
Epilogue:
A bitterly cold wind accompanies the blanket of night as Commissioner James W. Gordon sits back in his chair. He looks out his window at the clean, freshly fallen snow and then turns towards his desk. His brownstone is completely engulfed in darkness save for a single, small lamp that illuminates a blank sheet of paper and pen on his desk. Even though his home is well heated, he could still feel the cold penetrate into his sore right arm, and the pain it carries. He sighs. Writing with his left hand is awkward, yet he can't risk using a computer, not even at home. He sets pen to paper and begins...
'Sometimes I need to do this, to reflect, to try and sort through the changes that have happened. If I don't...'
'Bruce Wayne was the Batman. A winged creature of the night that preyed on the wicked and aided the just would seem more fable than fact until Bruce made it come to life. In his life he'd seen triumph and tragedy, joy and sorrow, and through it all he didn't ask for anything in return, other than for the wound in his heart to heal. I doubt it ever will, even now when he's abandoned the mantle in exchange for the jet set life. What he's now up to I have no idea, although he continues to find the time to help Gotham through altruistic means, and I suppose that should be enough. In many of Gotham's society magazines pictures of Bruce do crop up from time to time. Most are from a distance and from poor angles, and to this day I don't think anyone has gotten a clean shot of his face. It's almost as if he was hiding something. Most folks are speculating he got burned in the manor fire, but I know better. Funny thing is that in almost all of the shots of a familiar female pairing could be seen in the background. Although you can't see their faces, it's hard to mistake the striking red locks of one and the blonde pig-tails of the other.'
'Strangely enough, Gotham's stayed relatively quiet in his absence, with Arkham Asylum an almost perfect model of peace and serenity. I think the inmates still believe Batman is coming to kill them.'
'By the time the Wayne Manor fire was put out there was nothing left. I don't know what Bruce used to fuel the blaze, but it did the job. Joker was ash, and only the suit he wore survived. This suit, a replica of the one Batman wore right down to its fireproof nature, was the final piece of evidence we needed to clear the real Batman of the vigilante slayings. The media turned me into a hero for finally ridding Gotham of the Joker's insanity, and for saving a shaken Bruce Wayne's life in the process, or so they believe. Bullock, on the other hand, has his own theories. He's an excellent and utterly trustworthy cop, and one man who could figure out, well, everything. If that happens, Bruce, I can't make any guarantees...'
'Bullock has already managed to find the Joker's lair near a rending plant. The Joker chose his spots well, since he had a badly decomposed and disfigured corpse with him, with an overwhelming smell. Fortunately Jeremiah Arkham keeps a supply of blood from each inmate, in case of emergencies, and we were able to perform a DNA check on the corpse to confirm our suspicions. It was Jervis Tetch, the Mad Hatter. The city buried him, and Bruce sprang for a tombstone with a depiction of the tea party scene from Alice in Wonderland. It really is quite beautiful, in a morbid sort of way. Rest in peace, I guess. I sometimes stop by his grave after visiting Barbara and Dick, and Tim, and even Helena. Bruce has fresh flowers delivered to them each day. Strangely, Helena's tomb bore a distinct mark that was absent on the others. It's vaguely familiar, something that dealt with motherhood? I'll have to look it up.'
'The Batsignal still shines every evening. I just couldn't stand seeing Gotham so dark and sinister at night. Besides, it may create enough doubt in some of the less hardened criminals to steer them onto the straight and narrow path. What I didn't expect was a response to the signal time and again. There are rumours on the street of a creature stalking the underworld...large, black with leathery wings and fangs. I can recall someone who may fit the bill...someone I thought had left Gotham behind her...'
Gordon sets down the pen and eases back. He looks at what he's just written and smirks. Removing a pipe from his pocket he lights it and takes several deep puffs. He then lifts up the paper he wrote on and sets his lit match to one corner. His right arm throbs as he holds onto the paper, but he manages to set the parchment ablaze. Tossing the spent match and paper into a metal waste basket he looks into the flames and sighs, "The more things change..."
END
If you're reading these words, then you've made it to the end of the tale, and I thank you for taking the time and effort to read it. Originally I intended this series to last 20 chapters, with Bruce taking the Joker's place for a time, but decided against it. Trying to write a chapter a week has taken its toll, and I really don't have the energy to continue, so better to end it now. Still, if someone out there actually wants this beast to continue (sequel?), let me know. Once more, thanks.
Harley Quinn's left hand spasms with a mind of its own, biting deeply into human flesh with the scalpel it held. Two quick, impossibly fast strokes followed, spreading crimson chaos in their wake. In her life as the Joker's partner in crime Harley had been witness to many acts of insane inhumanity that would cause any decent soul to vomit in disgust, but this was the first that she executed completely on her own. Horrified by the blood on her hands she lets go of the now crimson blade, letting it fall to the sterile ground where it shatters on impact.
"This stuff," she gurgles as she tries to wipe off the blood, only smearing it more so across her flesh and gown, "this stuff is a bitch to clean. Oh well," she grins, "red is my colour." Turning towards her prey she casually asks, "So, how do you feel?"
Before her the target of her rage falls to his knees, both hands trying to stem the flow of blood. Calling upon his collective willpower he ignores the pain, managing to rise up and stumble to a mirror. His hands fumble for the handle, "What...what have you done?"
Harley produces a sly smile, "You gave me a choice, Brucie. I could've killed you and evened the score for Mr. J, or I could've spared your life and stopped the oh so spooky cycle of violence. I really didn't want to kill you. After all, you're a good guy; you helped save Red and sprung me from the hospital. Spilling your guts just didn't seem like a proper thank-you."
He manages to grab a hold of the mirror, but it slips through his bloodied fingers and falls on the table once more.
"Then it hit me," Harley giggles as she jumps off the gurney and walks towards a very frustrated Bruce Wayne, "I could kill two birds with one stone." She steps behind Bruce, placing one hand on his shoulder and with the other she lifts the mirror. Placing her head beside his she lifts the mirror so that the image contained both of their faces. "Mr. J gets his revenge, and I get a good man...that I can't resist," and she kisses him gently on his bloodied cheek.
Bruce Wayne could only stare into the mirror at the two gashes that formed a permanent garish grin on a face he hoped he'd never see again. At that moment it was the Joker glaring at him from beyond the looking glass, and he laughed.
"Feeling better already?" Harley mutters with a gleeful smile upon hearing the laughter.
Bruce could feel it all slipping away. What did he have after all his tortuous and maddening evening adventures? What did he really accomplish? The people he really cared for are all gone, alienated or dead. He wanted to help the city, to stop the criminals that killed his parents and their ilk, and now...now he's become one of them. Joker was right; he was insane to accept such a task, he was insane not to kill, he was...no...he IS insane. He DOES know what it is to take a life. And he has such a wonderful grin...
Then an anguished moan reaches his ears from behind and he turns to see Ivy's body writhing in agony as she sleeps, each movement setting off thousands of jolts of pain from her still fresh wound to her brain. Each moan from her is like a dagger to Bruce Wayne's mind, and he's forced to remember why he set out on his crusade in the first place. He's forced to remember his oath to Gordon to keep her safe, and the man who had harmed her...
"You've failed," Bruce spits out as he shoves Harley aside. She loses her balance and falls, skinning her hand on the cold ground. "You got your revenge," he continues, touching his burning face, "but I'm not the man you love."
Tears begin to pour down Harley's cheek as she takes the full weight of Bruce's words, "What...what are you going to do?"
"Do? I think that's pretty obvious. First I'm going to stop my face from bleeding, then maybe a long ocean voyage..." he answers in remarkably good humour, reaching for a nearby towel.
"To me!" Harley screams, still crying. She's in no mood for jokes.
"You're welcome to join me, if you'd like."
For a moment Harley feels as if the entire world, not only she, has gone insane, and she gives Bruce Wayne a bizarre glance and a flat-toned "What?"
"You're not hearing things, Harley," Bruce begins, dabbing his face from time to time with a towel, "I'm asking you, and Ivy, to join me. I made a promise to keep Ivy safe and sound, and I intend to honour it...whether she likes it or not, and you, Ms. Quinzel, are welcome to join me. You just had a chance to kill me and you didn't. It was a simple test, and you passed," he dabs his face again, "barely." He got much more from his simple test than he had bargained for, mentally and physically.
Harley simply gives Bruce a very perplexed look, "I was...am...a trained psychologist, you know, and this is really, really weird. I'm sorry, but I don't buy it."
Bruce's demeanour becomes much more sullen, "Maybe there's something more to it, but does it really matter? I'm offering you and Ivy the chance of your lives while I try to sort through my own. What do you say?"
Harley points her index finger to her chin and crosses her legs as she thinks for a moment before answering, "What the hell, I seem to have a track record with head cases. Besides, how could I say no to such an...enchanting smile..."
Bruce courteously bends before her and offers his hand. She takes hold and he gently raises her up, and together they step towards the slumbering Ivy...
...
Epilogue:
A bitterly cold wind accompanies the blanket of night as Commissioner James W. Gordon sits back in his chair. He looks out his window at the clean, freshly fallen snow and then turns towards his desk. His brownstone is completely engulfed in darkness save for a single, small lamp that illuminates a blank sheet of paper and pen on his desk. Even though his home is well heated, he could still feel the cold penetrate into his sore right arm, and the pain it carries. He sighs. Writing with his left hand is awkward, yet he can't risk using a computer, not even at home. He sets pen to paper and begins...
'Sometimes I need to do this, to reflect, to try and sort through the changes that have happened. If I don't...'
'Bruce Wayne was the Batman. A winged creature of the night that preyed on the wicked and aided the just would seem more fable than fact until Bruce made it come to life. In his life he'd seen triumph and tragedy, joy and sorrow, and through it all he didn't ask for anything in return, other than for the wound in his heart to heal. I doubt it ever will, even now when he's abandoned the mantle in exchange for the jet set life. What he's now up to I have no idea, although he continues to find the time to help Gotham through altruistic means, and I suppose that should be enough. In many of Gotham's society magazines pictures of Bruce do crop up from time to time. Most are from a distance and from poor angles, and to this day I don't think anyone has gotten a clean shot of his face. It's almost as if he was hiding something. Most folks are speculating he got burned in the manor fire, but I know better. Funny thing is that in almost all of the shots of a familiar female pairing could be seen in the background. Although you can't see their faces, it's hard to mistake the striking red locks of one and the blonde pig-tails of the other.'
'Strangely enough, Gotham's stayed relatively quiet in his absence, with Arkham Asylum an almost perfect model of peace and serenity. I think the inmates still believe Batman is coming to kill them.'
'By the time the Wayne Manor fire was put out there was nothing left. I don't know what Bruce used to fuel the blaze, but it did the job. Joker was ash, and only the suit he wore survived. This suit, a replica of the one Batman wore right down to its fireproof nature, was the final piece of evidence we needed to clear the real Batman of the vigilante slayings. The media turned me into a hero for finally ridding Gotham of the Joker's insanity, and for saving a shaken Bruce Wayne's life in the process, or so they believe. Bullock, on the other hand, has his own theories. He's an excellent and utterly trustworthy cop, and one man who could figure out, well, everything. If that happens, Bruce, I can't make any guarantees...'
'Bullock has already managed to find the Joker's lair near a rending plant. The Joker chose his spots well, since he had a badly decomposed and disfigured corpse with him, with an overwhelming smell. Fortunately Jeremiah Arkham keeps a supply of blood from each inmate, in case of emergencies, and we were able to perform a DNA check on the corpse to confirm our suspicions. It was Jervis Tetch, the Mad Hatter. The city buried him, and Bruce sprang for a tombstone with a depiction of the tea party scene from Alice in Wonderland. It really is quite beautiful, in a morbid sort of way. Rest in peace, I guess. I sometimes stop by his grave after visiting Barbara and Dick, and Tim, and even Helena. Bruce has fresh flowers delivered to them each day. Strangely, Helena's tomb bore a distinct mark that was absent on the others. It's vaguely familiar, something that dealt with motherhood? I'll have to look it up.'
'The Batsignal still shines every evening. I just couldn't stand seeing Gotham so dark and sinister at night. Besides, it may create enough doubt in some of the less hardened criminals to steer them onto the straight and narrow path. What I didn't expect was a response to the signal time and again. There are rumours on the street of a creature stalking the underworld...large, black with leathery wings and fangs. I can recall someone who may fit the bill...someone I thought had left Gotham behind her...'
Gordon sets down the pen and eases back. He looks at what he's just written and smirks. Removing a pipe from his pocket he lights it and takes several deep puffs. He then lifts up the paper he wrote on and sets his lit match to one corner. His right arm throbs as he holds onto the paper, but he manages to set the parchment ablaze. Tossing the spent match and paper into a metal waste basket he looks into the flames and sighs, "The more things change..."
END
If you're reading these words, then you've made it to the end of the tale, and I thank you for taking the time and effort to read it. Originally I intended this series to last 20 chapters, with Bruce taking the Joker's place for a time, but decided against it. Trying to write a chapter a week has taken its toll, and I really don't have the energy to continue, so better to end it now. Still, if someone out there actually wants this beast to continue (sequel?), let me know. Once more, thanks.