We're running through the halls again, though I'm lagging behind considerably. We're both injured, but he's got longer legs and more endurance. I'd tried to grab onto his hand when we started, but he shook me off and kept going. I figure things are back to normal. Or at least they're headed in that direction.
By now, the "staff" should be realizing that their plan is faltering. They would have spotted their dead officer by the security room. They would have discovered that I've escaped my cell. And lastly, their worst fear would be realized; the Joker is alive and no longer in that sterile room.
For an evil genius, this guy didn't plan very well, that's for sure. They would've made it impossible for me to escape. Harder to get to Mr. J. There would've been someone in that security room, watching the both of us. My cell was on that monitor. There was no reason I should've been able to escape.
Unless their plan isn't faltering at all. Unless we're doing exactly what they planned us to do.
"Mistah J!" I cry, stopping in my tracks. The Joker runs a bit further and then turns around, looking impatient. "I think this is a trap. They knew we'd escape."
"Of course they knew, stupid girl!" He snaps. "But we're a step ahead of them. They anticipated me escaping. Not you. And they didn't think you'd 'save' me. They figured I'd get out and come save you."
The thought crosses my mind and I wonder whether he would have done that at all, but I decide that he would have and we keep running. I don't ask him what his plan is. He's got a plan. He must have a plan. If he doesn't have one, then I have to come up with one. I was feeling pretty good about my last plan until I realized it wasn't really my plan at all.
"But you were unconscious!" I shout in protest, running as fast as I can to keep up with him and his long legs.
"That was a fluke," he calls back. "I yanked out the wrong needle. I would've come to eventually."
Again I'm tempted to wonder whether he would have come to save me, and again I push the thought aside, assuring myself that he would have. We run a while longer and my legs feel weaker than ever. Searing pain afflicts my face and most of the rest of me, but I press onward. I know I can't go much longer, so I pray to nothing in particular that our destination is close.
"Not much further," he shouts, as if reading my mind. I smile for a moment, but pain restores my frown. He always seems to know what I'm thinking. Or perhaps it's the fact that I've been letting out a whimpering grunt every five or six unsteady steps.
We approach a door, and I slow to a stop, breathing heaving and clutching my side. The door has a glowing Exit sign above it. Is it really that easy? Certainly it's not this easy. The Joker looks around and then back at me. He's almost smiling.
"You're starting to look like me," he says. I'm confused for a moment, but then he opens the door. A draft swallows the room, stinging my skin and refreshing it at the same time.
"What a view, Harley."I take a step forward and look out. We're about six stories up, and there's no balcony. The view is certainly nice, I'll admit. It's dead silent, and the sun is rising or setting at the horizon, painting slashes of gold, red, pink and purple across the sky, extending above the building. I look down: water. A vast expanse of water glistens peacefully below, still as glass. It's beautiful. Who would have guessed that atrocities such as this could occur on such a beautiful night...or morning, whichever it is. I figure it's probably dusk.
What's your plan, Mistah J?" I ask, not looking back at him.
"Well..."
"Well?"
The Joker looks at me for a long moment, and I take one for myself to see just what they've done to him. His hair hasn't lost its color, but it's grown. I wonder how that's possible; we've only been here a few days.
Haven't we?
His face is washed of the makeup, and his scars are visible. Not glorified with red makeup. Real. Severed, healed, puckered scar tissue. He also looks thin. Well, thinner than normal. And he's in a hospital gown, like me.
"You really are starting to look like me, kid," he says, smiling a little.
I frown, confused. What could he possibly mean? I consider asking him, but the look on his face instructs me otherwise. He's always been peculiarly hard to read, but this time it's different. It's as though suddenly every emotion he could possibly feel had been simply hidden beneath the makeup, and now that it is gone, all is in plain sight. Sadness, regret, hope, terror, and yet genius. He has a plan. And a good one. But I have a feeling I'm not going to like it.
"I'm sorry, Harle," he says and grabs my hand. I take this chance and pull myself closer to him, gently wrapping my arms around him. I don't even know why. All I know is that I never want to let go, but I know I have to.
Arms around one another, we find ourselves standing close to the edge of the doorway, the distance between us and the water's surface seems like miles, and though I'm holding onto the Joker, I feel distant from him, too. What is it that has to happen? Is it what I think?
"Why are you sorry, Mistah J?" I ask, dreading the answer.
He plants a slow, soft kiss on the top of my head, half-smiles once more, and holds my arms firmly. Then, with one swift motion, he heaves me out the door.