CHAPTER TWELVE

"I was all dressed up, awaiting my judgment by the devil; yet all the while a dark angel, a joker among lords, stood with his hand outstretched to me. Our fingertips were almost touching, but I was hesitant—there were tears in his eyes."

Speeding; both his heart and vehicle. He sped through the busy city streets with a deafening pulse. He was met with no lack of stares from the costumed children, the glamored adults. It was Halloween, and of course, the perfect night for the Riddler to strike once again.

This would be one of those nights that something happened in his days as Batman that Bruce Wayne would never forget. He had been feeding his son when Alfred had rushed in, announcing that the police commissioner was calling. The news the man soon after gave him was just the beginning of one of the most chaotic nights Bruce had had in three years. Later, when he glanced back on this event, he would see signs he should have seen before. He would understand the beginning and forever regret his failure to change the end—a blame it would take months to conquer fully.

On that night the Riddler had made his next move, a plot that at first seemed easily dealt with, but one in which the action taken had a consequence that would shape the future of all involved in the Riddler case and shatter the world of one individual in particular. Yet, Batman knew nothing of this, those consequences were to be the shrapnel of a bomb that was ticking away as he rushed through the streets. For the moment he was focusing on both the road and the information he had been afforded by Gordon.

It seemed a Pamela Lillian Isley, a professor at Gotham University and a close friend of Harleen Quinzel's, had been taken hostage in the darken halls of Arkham; again Arkham was the Riddler's chosen stage. Of course, Bruce reasoned, it was a place that Harleen felt was a part of her and it was the perfect playground to continue to shatter her hopes and attempt to do the same to her life.

And what a night to strike.

Batman's eyes were trained ahead of him and on the few number of cars, the stares he received from them. His attention was on the unusually empty highway. Few drove on Halloween night—in Gotham who could blame them? That would just be tempting the devil. Yet it appeared Harleen cared not for such chances. She'd learn the secret art of dealing with the whimsical circumstances of Gotham, and in such a way that Bruce was beginning to be unnerved by it. Harleen had undergone a drastic change since his first meeting with her. He knew the stress she was under, having been in her situation before. He knew the feeling of helplessness that followed being both threatened yourself and being the cause of harm brought to those close to you. Yet, she had never suffered his loss; he was determined to see to that, but he could understand the reason for her change. It nevertheless made him uneasy. There was something in her mannerism that was becoming distorted.

Harleen was an agent of disorder, but her practice had thus remained legal. He was determined to keep it that way, because this pressure was certainly getting to her. She could recover from it no matter what path her life from this point would take, but which way the recovery went was the concern Batman held. Like hell he would allowed her pushed off the precipice of sanity.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel and he grit his teeth, pressing his foot just a little more against the gas pedal. Arkham was close now. He had to get there before Harleen acted rashly. He was little comforted by the fact that she had kept her word. She had informed him beforehand, but if he was even slightly slower than she wished, she would more than likely act upon her own devices. He knew it and he glanced upward as he passed a sign, directing him to the exit he would have to take from the highway. His heart did nothing to calm in relief; she could be gone by now for all he knew.

He parked some distance from Arkham and stealthily made his way toward the dim building. From the outside he could see nothing amiss, but that was as bad a sign as any. To make the situation even more foreboding, silence permeated everything. That was a bad sign. He felt his gut clench as he aimed his grappling gun at a close building and used a device on his belt to pull up and onto the roof. From there he leaped to the to top of Arkham Asylum.

For a moment he made no further movements, listening closely over his strained breathing to make out any sound. He had no idea where Harleen was waiting. She could have already made her move, she could have been caught. He refused to think anymore upon it and took a couple of steps towards the door that opened from the asylum to the roof.

He didn't want to believe she was brash enough to just waltz into the place. His temper piqued minutely at such a thought. She hadn't—his pace quickened slightly. She wouldn't—his hand reached for the latch. He began to turn twist his wrist—Oh she-

"I don't think that's smart."

He whipped around, his heart leaping at the feminine voice that had invaded the silence. He almost gasped at the figure revealed in the moonlight. How did she get up there without attention? It was Harleen Quinzel, only she was dressed in a frighteningly familiar manner that with his knowledge never meant well.

Her face glowed paper white in the night, her eyes ringed in black and her mouth painted the same shade. Her blonde locks were teased into pig-tails and her attire was an ensemble of crimson and onyx.

She stuck her hands, decorated by black gloves with holes for her fingers, into the pockets of her jeans, which were compromised of an alternating red-black pattern in four segments.

"Aren't you a little too old for Halloween costumes?" His voice stated gruffly.

It was the style she was donning that caused him concern, not the fact that she was in a costume. She frowned, "What I'm wearing, man-bat, has no relevance to his situation whatsoever. I was getting ready for a party, but I believe even you can deduce what my interruption was, so are we going to do something productive or what? I'll be more than happy to go on with my plan myself." Her eyes were hard.

"What's the situation?" Having to ask ebbed at his nerves.

"I've not been inside, so I have no way to know where our hostages currently are, but I'd predict somewhere on the third, or ground floor. I'm expected to make an appearance so the place shouldn't be too hard to locate."

"Hostages?" More than just Ms. Isley?

"Yes," Harleen nodded, her eyes darting to the roof door and then back to Bruce's hidden face. "Dr. Isley is a hostage, but they've taken the Joker hostage as well. I was dealt the ultimatum of coming here within an hour of the Riddler's call or they both would be killed. It's been twenty minutes—you drive fast—so that gives us time to figure this out."

Bruce was very uncomfortable talking to this disguised Dr. Quinzel. Her disposition was filled with worry, but she was calm as well—she had to be. Her look was too similar to the Joker's, however. She was like the queen of the court to his jester. It was just a costume, though, she had a right to be inspired by her patient. It was suppose to be a chilling resemblance, at least he told himself that as he slightly inched away from the door. Just a costume prompted by life...

"Why hold the Joker hostage? What importance does he have?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I couldn't tell you, but I'm sure no matter their logic it's not comforting. The bulk of their forces will be situated on the floor I'm expected to appear on in order to rescue the two prisoners." She placed a hand beneath her chin.

"So what had you planned on doing?"

Harleen walked over to a gridded covering on the roof, that opened to blackness and without much trouble removed it. "First of I all, I don't plan on using the door there. You may if you like, but I'm going to find out where Pam and the Joker are being kept. This is the entrance to Arkham's air system."

"And then?" He was curious now, she might actually be onto something.

"I'm going to announce to all of Arkham that I have arrived. The Riddler's not in there; it's his accomplice. You've heard of her, right? Enigma?"

"Harleen, showing yourself is not a smart move."

"So says you, my friend's in there and I'm going to let everyone know just who they decided to mess with. Besides, I'm not as completely inept as you think. I don't have the means of taking out most of the Riddler's croonies. I need you to do that. They probably have a communication system so you're going to need to take them out quickly. I have a gun, wits, agility, and I'm good with thinking on my feet. The rest is up to you."

"You don't have a plan do you?"

She sat down on the edge of the vent and swung her feet over the side. "Does that bother you? I've a basic idea of what I want accomplished, but you must admit, we're going into this blind, don't you think? We have no way to know what they're doing or how many there are. Improvisation is sounding more and more like the best route of action."

"Fine, you do what you must, but I will be watching you. I'll take out as many of them as I can. Take this and contact me if you need any help or if you gain control of the situation." He wasn't optimistic of the latter as he threw her a small circular device with a black switch on its top. "And here, if you're taking the air vents, you may need this to have an escape." He tossed her another device. This one had a clock—it was blank now—and an adhesive strip on the back. It was a small explosive. She grinned.

"Thanks, Bat! I'll be calling ya." He nodded to her and she disappeared into the darkness of the air vent. "I'll be watching you," he called to her before breaking down the rooftop door. A part of him questioned his own rationality for giving her such faith.

Let the infiltration begin.

The man struggled, vainly, Bruce thought as he bound his hands before pushing him to the side with the rest of his thrashing crew. His eyes trailed to the entirety of the room. There were a few more nurses, doctors, and staff huddled against the far wall. They still hesitated to move, but it was obvious they were more at ease than before. They watched him intensively, as if that would gain them some insight as to what to do next.

This was the third room he had taken out. He glared down at the thugs, once again, glad they had had no time to contact anyone. His eyes trailed to the television that hung in the room as it flashed to life. Harleen had announced her arrival. He was amazed that the other lackeys hadn't rushed to find her.

Afterward, he'd heard little from her, despite the sound of an explosion. It sounded controlled and when he had used the device as a two-way communicator, he knew she had still been alive. She had been taunting Enigma. He grimaced and clenched the anxious tingle from his hands while turning his back to the scene of captors turned captured.

That was when his side spoke. It was Harley and without another word he was rushing from the room searching for her. In route he called the police.

His shock upon entering the room where she had been fighting was too much to conceal.

Four men all in various degrees of pain lay on the floor. One was unconscious, a nasty lump on his head; one was bleeding from the hand, whimpering. There was also another sporting a bump to the head, but he was awake yet too frightened to move. The last and youngest lie with bullet holes in his jeans—tears falling uncontrolled.

All of this—he felt his stomach roll—was done by one small woman. This was madness; the work of vindication, not logic. Shock so clouded his mind, the girl was gone from the room before he could reprimand her.

"Did she really do all of this?" He asked, his mind still more apt to believe otherwise. Harleen Quinzel wouldn't do this.

"You think the Joker did it?" He raised his eyes and saw the ginger-headed woman staring at him.

Her eyes had lost some luster. "She calls it an act. Batman, Harley's losing it. She needs off this case—off of work until this is taken care of. I told her to fight back, but I never thought she would be able to do this." She shook her head. "No I knew she would, but she was...having too much fun with it. She needs help." He walked over to her while she muttered this, sort of to herself in the final sentences. He worked at releasing her bounds.

When he offered her a hand, she took it, but her eyes fell to the shattered window. "She didn't lose Enigma." Batman halted. "What?"

"She let Enigma go. She wanted her to give the Riddler the message that she wasn't afraid. What have I done? I told her to be strong—I've done this; instigated stress into madness..."

"Pamela, right?"

The woman nodded. He shook his head. "She's the one acting, she chose this. I'll get her help. Now you go wait in the front lobby, the police will be arriving soon."

She moved away. "No, I knew she would act like this. I just—I'm sorry...so sorry...to her and you."

"You've done nothing wrong." He waved her away and within seconds he heard the door shut.

The Joker was being silent: no quips, arrogant remarks, he hadn't even appeared to have noticed his enemy's arrival. He had just released his binds when the man seemed to realize who was there. His eyes had carried a distant look, locked on the door where first Harley and then Pam had taken their leave.

"What have you done, Joker?" Batman accused once he saw he had the man's attention now.

"Me," a smile curved his lips, "I've not done a thing. Not a thing. I've been sitting here the entire time. My Harley gave quite the show, didn't she?"

He was pulled to his feet and faced forward. "This isn't something to enjoy, Joker. You've twisted her."

The man gave a snort at that, and something told Batman the indignation he heard it was genuine. "You think I could have twisted her? Now, why would I want to go and do a thing like that?"

"Because you enjoy those games. You like taking people who seem incorruptible and proving them wrong." Batman pushed him forward towards the door. He lead him outside while the Joker still shook his head.

"You'd be comforted if I said I'd taken her down to my level just because I saw potential in her, wouldn't ya? You could fix her if I was the one to have done it. So you lie to yourself, convincing your mind that I'm the one who pushed her until she's almost completely snapped. You just couldn't see it, though, Bats. I could. I didn't think she would have progressed so quickly, but Harley's had this in her since the first time I saw her pretty little face. I know those of my own philosophy when I see them, and she's one."

Bruce stared at the Joker. He licked his lips, but though his voice carried its normal tenor it was less pronounced, more contemplative. The Joker almost seemed as lost as he was, and that did not sit well with Batman at all.

"Harley's nothing like you. She's stressed and acting out. She'll never be like you, Jack."

The Joker grinned, "Oh, trying for a low blow? You know my secret identity while I'm still blind to yours, like a bat?" He laughed, the sound just as cold, angry, and smug as he remembered. "I'd figured out as much when my doctor discovered the clippings. Ya know, Harls and I went to the same high school? Just think...had I met her, she could have already been my Harley Quinn. So when you plan on having that revealed to the public, Batman? The true identity of the Joker— Jack Napier, an abused and troubled teenager whose home abuse pushed him over the edge. That makes me sound like I have a right to be insane."

"I'm getting your doctor moved. In her state she isn't well enough to treat you or anyone else for that matter."

"You do what you think will help society. And Bats, you were wrong—she's already like me."

Batman would not admit how true that was. He wouldn't because that wasn't the whole truth—it just wasn't. Right? Right! The man's cell was coming up. He tightened his grip and sped up the pace. The Joker chuckled.

"Aw, are visiting hours already over? And here I was enjoying our little time of catch up. Okay, lock me away, B-man, but know this. You've failed her once, the police have too. You've broken her expectations by allowing one girl to have her face carved. If you don't catch that Riddler guy soon, then I will have a perfect little partner. My red jester hasn't spread her wings yet—there's still a chance to stop the grand fireworks and theme music."

Bruce and the police had failed her again not long after the Joker had spoken his words.

The next day, Taylor Henderson, the first public victim of the Riddler was found dead in her hospitable bed. She had been given a drug overdose and on her hospitable gown was pinned an unmistakable, emerald question mark. With it was a note,

A deuce of days shall fall before you are given my next call. I have a plan, all shiny and new, and my, have I a riddle for you.

She makes you laugh, she makes you grin, but missing she has gone for her ultimate sin. I'll carve her up, I'll do her in, unless you can find her to defend.

Tell me Batman, can you save the blonde Harley Quinn?

Riddle me this...riddle that...I'm not afraid of you, you big black bat. Watch for my sign.

Confirmation, it was the best feeling Harleen could have asked for.

She stepped quietly from the hospital, relief and satisfaction floating about her in waves. Edward Nashton was the Riddler, and now he would be found. The games were almost over; part of her rejoiced in that—no more madness and unbidden fear—the other part was sad to be losing the excitement of a challenge. She shrugged, ignoring the feeling of loss she could already feel with the horizon.

She could go back to normal. Treating the Joker and that would be it. There wouldn't be anymore riddles to figure out. What would she do with all the new free time? She smiled to herself.

She would have to quit her job at Arkham eventually, take the necessary precautions, and gain visitation with the Joker. There would be no more treating him after she became too involved, and she was aware of how close that moment seemed—she knew, despite all the glares she would receive, how deep she really was.

She was in love with a psychopath. She shrugged and raised her eyes to stare ahead of her. Her skin still tingled from the minutes she had taken to scrub the paint off, and she could still taste the bitterness of her now absent lipstick. Home, food, bed; it all sounded heavenly at that point.

She would never make it home, though. She had just stepped out of sight of the building and any witnesses when a black van pulled up beside her, tires screeching. She gasped and raised her head to stare into the driver's window.

Her blood ran cold at the bright hazel eyes that seemed to glow in the streetlight. His smile stretched his mouth.

"Nice night, isn't Harley?"

Edward's smooth voice droned on pleasantly, but his sneer canceled out his casualness. "Too bad you won't be seeing it much longer."

He was fast. He had already come for her? She was speechless. Really what did one say when faced with their executioner? Yes, her harbinger of death; she could see the intent in his eyes. Her sapphire orbs caught on Elisa's jade ones for a moment before in a haze of gas—sleeping gas the Riddler had pulled out and pumped in her face—her eyes shut to the world.

Yet she still wasn't scared. Death, now that would be an adventure.

Only she could never just be allowed to die. That would have been too easy.

The first prickle of sense that returned to her was awareness, plain and simple knowing that she was still breathing. It was that instant when one is transported back to the world from the utter blackness of sleep. She was alive.

The next was all her feeling and with it pain. Her body felt like a lead weight. She was lying in some strange angle, one that was straining her muscles. She had to move, should move, and her head was throbbing. She shifted and that's when she regained another sense.

Disuse, decay, dust. The smell of the place invaded her nose, her lungs and she coughed as she turned on her back, discovering her wrists and ankles were bound. Each made her skull feel more and more close to splitting. She gritted her teeth and opened her eyes. Immediately she hissed at the bright, new bulb that seared her irises with its yellow light.

"Is the light hurting your eyes?"

She had clenched her eyes shut after her run in with the bulb, but now they flew open and, averting her gaze she found the man who had crooned so sympathizingly. He was leaning against the wall on the far side of her, observing her with a little too much interest. She glared at Edward, steeling her wits immediately.

"Oh, how frightening." He smiled cruelly. "So tell me how are you feeling? Nauseous? Anything? You're in for a treat, Harley. You see unlike that girl, Taylor, I'm going to personally take care of you."

She stiffened. Taylor? Was she—the sick bastard! She bit her lip as Edward rolled up his sleeves. "Elisa, be a dear and turn on the video camera. You get to be a star, Harleen."

It was then she saw the woman on the other side of her, holding a small camcorder. She glared coldly up at her and into the camera. She shut her eyes when Edward merely crossed over her supine body to get to the woman.

"Well, hello Gotham. Some of you may know me, but most aren't aware of who I truly am. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. I am Edward Nashton, but many of you will know me as The Riddler. I decided it was finally time you saw the face of your terror. I couldn't let that little girl tell on me, so I hope you understand her predicament, but I wanted to have a rather eventful introduction so I brought someone along with me."

He moved out of the way and Harley felt the camera on her. She twisted her head away, not speaking when the Riddler rifled on.

"Give a bright greeting to Gotham, Dr. Quinzel." She shut her eyes and refused to look. She heard the Riddler sigh, "I think she's mad at me, but you see kiddies and mommies and daddies...she's going to be my example. You see Harleen here decided to go against me with the police. She's a smart one, but she has no sense. You play with fire and you'll get burned. Harley here decided to play with stakes out of her league. So let this be a lesson to all of you to watch yourselves."

Harleen curled into herself. Anger, fright, shock at the final thudding realization caused her blood to run cold, her heart to hammer, and words to utterly escape her. She was shaking, and she felt tears gather and seep from her eyes. She squeezed them tighter when she heard him move towards her. She tried to will her body to cease its reaction. She couldn't stop. Harleen was terrified, she knew she was going to die.

"Awww," his sickeningly sweet voice broke the silence, "Elisa, get over here! Look, Gotham." She heard him crouch down and his gloved hand ran along her cheek. "You finally regret it, Harleen? Do you finally understand just what your little mouth and stubbornness has earned you? Do you want to take back everything that you said and did, hm?" His hand stopped beneath her chin. "It's too late," she heard the smirk in his voice. "What's said and done cannot be reversed." His hand came to hover for a moment over her neck before he pressed now, firmly, gently, and very slowly. Her eyes flew open as he cut off her air supply. "You're about to learn what happens to those who don't stay in their place," he hissed, "those who try to become a queen in a world where they aren't needed. You're going to be a grand example." He released her throat and she gasped, her chest rising quickly.

Elisa giggled from behind the camera. Edward grinned to her and began to walk away. "My little Enigma will now take over for a moment while I go gather the necessary supplies. Don't go changing that dial, folks."

Harley watched him leave the dingy, dusty room in what appeared a condemned apartment building, or one that had been under construction but was now at a hiatus. She bit her lip.

"You going to continue crying? Are you finally scared? This is what you get with playing with the big boys. Where's the Harley that challenged me in the Asylum? Was that just an act? You're pathetic."

"You're the pathetic one," Harley whispered. Elisa growled and placed the camera on the ground. Harley craned her head. "Edward is just as pathetic, but he has a madness you don't. You have the potential, but all you do is follow his orders. You're not scary."

Elisa chuckled and walked over to her. She stared down at her with satisfaction and leaned over her. "Says the bound girl. The hostage is quite mouthy." She grabbed her by the collar of her blazer. "Maybe I should give a little piece of my mind." Harley cocked her eyebrow. "You do that, bitch. I mean you couldn't beat me when I was unrestrained, so you just have a may-day beating a person when they're down." She watched as Elisa's mouth firmed up and twitched. She raised her hand. "You just can't be docile can ya?"

"And you appear to be having fun, but, alas I must interrupt. Get back over to the camera."

Edward entered flanked on either side by a thug of his. He smirked at Harley and then bowed to the camera. "Ya ready folks?" He gestured to the two thugs who grabbed her away from Elisa, who scampered back to the camera, picking it up after a glance at Edward.

"I'm back, you must forgive my little Enigma for her excitement. Alright, boys, hold her down on her stomach." He reached in the pocket of his emerald pants. He pulled out a modest sized pocket knife and held it up. He calmly walked over to Harley who was then being held down. She wasn't struggling, but her eyes as before were closed.

"How I've waited for this," Edward muttered and ran the blade gently down her cheek. She shivered at the feeling of the cold steel. "All of Gotham is watching, Dr. Quinzel, so I have one request, be as expressive as you want. Give the audience what I'm hoping for. I know you won't disappoint me; that would be bad for you, dearie." He removed the knife from her skin and lifted her blazer and her crimson blouse as far up as it would go.

She was still shaking, now as a result of exposure to the cool air as well. She felt Edward trace her Joker Card tattoo on her back . "Well, well...you are a jester aren't you? An Agent of Chaos indeed. I bet your Joker loved it. I'll not corrupt this little thing, besides it would take away from my signature." She tensed as his leather encased fingers were replaced by something sharp and cold. This was it. She was determined not to give him any satisfaction. She remained stiffened as the blade was removed.

"Any words before I begin." She opened her eyes. "Go to hell." She spat, clenching her fists. Edward laughed cruelly, and then he plunged the knife into her upper back.

She had been determined not to scream, but at that she shrieked, the agony overriding her stalwartness. Tears poured down her eyes, but after the initial pain she only panted. She would not whimper, but he was satisfied enough.

She knew she wasn't to die then. No, first would come the torture—days and days, she figured. The warmth of blood bathed her back when instead of removing it he began to carve mercilessly. She tried to quieten her screams, but all she tasted was blood, all that stained her was blood. She whimpered, screamed, cried saline tears that mingled with the blood she had drawn from her lips.

It was all agony, as she felt his nimble fingers guide the knife. He had pulled out and stabbed her three times when she felt her vision become hazy, her brain overloading. She gave one last shriek as he stabbed her for the fourth time before she fell into an awaited blackness, her painful groans and his excited mutterings ringing in her ears.

Bruce had been cradling his son, flipping through channels when his eyes caught on the news. They widened and he shot up, startling Thomas, who had been asleep. His infantile cries then came as Bruce ran through the house calling Alfred's name. Selina had just walked in when Bruce ran past her, handing off their son as he went.

"Do you like my little signature? I think it's lovely, don't you? Batman, only you can save her...only you...I've already set my terms. They're on their way to Gotham PD now."

Selina swallowed the bile in her throat at the image. Harleen Quinzel, the unfortunate dear, was out cold—the woman knew from pain. Her face was haggard, but blood was drying and still oozing from the wounds he had inflicted on her back.

From the once creamy skin that lied above the tattoo on her lower back, four question marks were carved in angry, deep, lines. They all centered a single dot. The flesh had been cut off with the carefullest—and thus most excruciating—precision. Selina felt her stomach clench and she quickly left the room to tuck Thomas in, to hell with this. She was helping.

That sick bastard would pay, Harleen needed to be rescued.

Selina knew this out of the depths of her heart. She merely wanted to help, but Bruce's reasonings were even more complex as he dialed the Commissioner's home number. He wanted to help the girl, but he also knew that the more and more her psyche was tried the greater the risk for her sanity was.

She had to be rescued before she lost her mind.