I have no concept of time. It could be broad daylight for all I know. There are no windows to speak of, and I've yet to happen upon a clock. I just keep on trucking, praying that no one has yet learned of my escape. And that no one will cross my path. Not yet. I need time. As much time as possible.

Before entering any room, I listen at the door. Then I listen a while longer before poking my head through the tiniest crack I can manage. If I determine the coast is clear, I flee to the nearest door. I do this for what feels like hours before I spot something hopeful. A door with a sign that bears the ever-recognizable 'warning: dangerous chemicals' symbol. Considering this is supposed to be a printing press, that sign is a bit out of place. It seems a bit too obvious, but were they really expecting me to escape?

Oh well, I think. It's the only thing I've got. And grappling onto any hope I can is what keeps me moving forward. The door is locked, I discover. I need a key card to swipe. My heart sinks because I know what I've got to do. There won't be a key card just lying around in a drawer. The owners of those cards keep them on lanyards around their necks. I saw them. So I've got to find someone with a card. And I've got to steal their card.

But how? This building is huge, and I haven't much time. I don't know where to start.

Unless...

Unless I make them come to me.

Retracing my steps, I find the door I skipped earlier, marked "Security Control Room." There's a PA system, along with security camera monitors. I try to smile, but my gag slices into the corners of my mouth and reminds me I've got work to do. I examine each monitor. There are empty rooms and rooms filled with people. The director is asleep on a couch in his study with officers standing guard. In a bathroom toward the entrance of a building, there is a man sitting on the john, reading a magazine. I squint and zoom in a bit.

There it is. My heart races and I thank whatever god there may be when I spot the telltale lanyard. I reach for the PA microphone and set it for that bathroom. (It's a good thing these guys are hi-tech. I mean, honestly. Who makes their PA system that specific? But hey, I'm not complaining.) I'm just about to hit the Speak button when I remember that I can't speak.

Reaching around to the back of my head, I gingerly finger the metal thing, finding some puzzling latches. It comes off rather easily, but I have to remove the thing carefully, as some of the severed skin has begun to scab around the sharp metal. Examining the gag, I now realize why it was so painful. Not only is it a band of sharp metal about 2 inches wide, but on the side facing me, there's another ridge of sharp metal, meant especially to cut my skin.

Tossing aside the contraption and ignoring my pain, I grab the microphone and start speaking to the defecating employee.

"You there, on the john," I say with as much cheer as I can muster. The man starts and drops his magazine to his lap. It slides to the floor. "Yes, you. I escaped. I got yer director up here at gunpoint. In the security room. I got my eye on every room in this place. Yer gonna come up here to me now or he gets shot. I might shoot 'im in the knee. I might shoot 'im in the head."

"Let me hear him so I know he's alive," the man said quietly.

"I ain't gonna do that," I say and laugh. "Yer jus' gonna hafta trust me. You got five minutes. No pit stops."

I click off the microphone and sit back, satisfied. He remains seated for a moment, and then covers himself with his magazine as he rights himself and stands up. He glances at the camera once more.

"Good boy," I say. "I'm waiting."

He sighs and leaves the room. I follow him with my eyes, moving from computer screen to computer screen, avoiding everyone he comes in contact with. Could this really be working? How is this so easy?

Minutes later, there's a knock on the door, and my heart leaps. I grab the heaviest thing I can find-an unplugged monitor-and stand next to the door, pressed against the wall.

"Come on in," I call. And the door opens slowly.

As soon as the man's head comes into view, I hurl the monitor. It comes in contact with his head, but it's only enough to knock him over. He's still conscious, and I pounce. Terror is in his eyes, and I smile, even though it hurts. I will find the Joker.

"I don't have the director," I tell him, pinching a fat cheek. "But you brought me just what I needed." After taking the lanyard off of the scared man, I cradle his face in my hands and plant a kiss on his mouth. Then I snap his neck.

There's blood on his face from my kiss.

Leaving him on the ground, I take his card in hand and run as fast as I can-which isn't that fast, given my condition-to the locked door. I swipe the card too enthusiastically and it buzzes negatively at me, flashing red. I frown and swipe again, more slowly this time, and a tiny ding tells me I've gained access. The door is heavy, but I manage to heave it open.

It's a hallway. The good news is, every door has a window on it, so I can eliminate most of the doors immediately.

There is a door at the end of the hallway-well, almost at the end-that makes me stop. I can't breathe. I swipe the card and enter, nearly falling to the ground. Because that's where he is. On the ground.

Dead.

Dead?

I can't really tell. He's bloody. And his eyes are closed. He doesn't seem to be breathing.

But then again, I'm not breathing either. How can I? How can I breathe when my puddin' is lying there, probably dead, and I'm alive?

I crawl to where he is, and I cup his face in my hand gently, feeling the tears that I thought had run dry come back to my eyes. I let out a choking sob and I feel joints all giving way as I collapse fully.

What a sight this must be. We were once the most fearsome duo in Gotham, causing chaos everywhere, finding amusement in all of it. Being constantly at war with Batman. Coming close to winning a few times. Coming close to losing sometimes, too. But it was always interesting. Always fun.

"We really built quite an empire, didn't we?" I say, lifting my head up a bit and staring at his stoic face. The physical pain I felt has gone, or at least I can't notice it anymore. I can't, because the pain of him being gone is far too great. It's consuming me. I'm drowning in it. I don't want to be alive if he's not. I lay my head back down, waiting for them to find me and kill me, too.

"Yeah, we sure did."

I don't believe I actually heard it. Not for a moment. I thought it was my own mind. I don't believe it until I feel a light tough on my back. His hand. His hand.

I push myself up once again to look at his face, expecting nothing but the lifelessness of a moment ago.

His eyes are open, and he's smiling at me faintly.