Chapter Twenty-One

Seven times I went down
six times I walked back.
And I don't fear the dark anymore
'cause I'm become all that.
-Deb Talan, Rocks and Water

I drove for a long time, not really sure where I was going, and as I drove, I thought. I thought about the man I had just killed and I couldn't resist comparing it to the first kill. There were factors in common—the lack of sickness, for instance, a strange absence of remorse, but I was well aware that this one had been much different.

The first kill had been an accident. I saw someone making a move that might have put the Joker in harm's way and I acted to intervene. It was all a blur; I barely saw the man's face, let alone had any real contact with him, and the little breakdown afterwards was a result of fearsickness. I'd always heard that after you killed a human being, you were supposed to experience physical illness and crippling guilt, and the fact that I felt neither confused and frightened me.

The difference between that kill and this one was astounding, though I supposed I shouldn't have been surprised—I'd been under the Joker's tutelage for a month, after all, and the sight of a dead body no longer inspired much of a reaction from me aside from vague revulsion. The scars and the turmoil and the things the Joker whispered to me in the middle of the night—they had twisted me, slowly, gradually, until my former self seemed like little more than a shadow to me, and I hadn't even realized it.

I realized it now, though. I just didn't care. This time, I'd gotten up close and personal. This time, I'd planned it, and this time, I had felt his blood on my hands, looked into his face as he died. Remembering that face, I realized that instead of feeling sick with guilt like I would have only weeks ago, instead of imagining his family and the pain his death would cause others, I felt a burn in my heart, a fierce sense of validation. He had intended to make a victim out of me. He had almost certainly done so to others—victimization of the powerless by the powerful was not made up of isolated instances; it was a pattern of repeated instances that would just go on and on and on until somebody stopped it, until somebody punished the wicked.

Who better to punish the wicked than its own bastard child?

I knew my motivations as a killer were different from the Joker's—he never pretended to be a humanitarian and thought justice was a myth. However, even if his motives were not altruistic, the end result damn well would be. From the beginning, he saw those people, people like that cop, people who probably went home to their families every night and worked so very hard on ignoring their own vice and who hadn't felt guilt for so long that they were now immune to its sting—he saw these decent people and he sought to tear off their masks, to cut them open and expose the rot inside of them to their horrified eyes. He did this because it pleased him, not out of some desire to serve the greater good, but it was the result of this work that mattered, not the intentions fueling it.

The bottom line was that he was exposing the poison in the wound. It was up to the people of Gotham to decide what to do with it. If they chose to draw it out, to cut out the corruption, sweep out the filth, and make it impossible for us to operate, that was their choice. If they chose to ignore it… well, when they were writhing in pain and gasping for breath, they could only blame themselves. The Joker was an utterly indifferent harbinger, and I now fully embraced my role as his agent.

I drove aimlessly, succumbing to highway hypnosis as I thought—it wasn't as if I had anywhere to go right now anyway—but as dusk fell, I snapped out of it. A quick around proved that I was in Cathedral Square, almost all the way across Gotham from my former apartment outside of the Narrows and the Joker's place in Crime Alley. I wasn't sure how I'd ended up here.

After a second of checking my surroundings, I realized that streets and sidewalks were almost completely empty. This struck me as unusual, but then, considering that Halloween was the next day, maybe it made sense—people tended to stick to the indoors around this season; criminals just loved Halloween.

I drove until I spotted a small scuffle occurring outside of a building about a hundred yards in front of me, to the right of the street, and I slowed to a crawl, wondering if this had anything to do with the empty sidewalks. Two men were throwing a third out of the door. The third was screaming and sniveling, and the first two looked down dispassionately at him.

As I drew closer, I spotted another man, emerging from behind the first two. His stark frame, dark hair, and huge eyes were instantly recognizable to me. I almost ran into the curb, slammed on the brakes, and leaped out of the car. I didn't care that it was crazy, running up to an escaped mental patient who may or may not have a grudge against me for the months I spent trying to "treat" him. I was starved for a familiar face at this point. I needed something to take my mind off of my fight with the Joker, off of my current lack of direction, off of… everything.

All three men turned and looked sharply at me as I came running up. "Doctor Crane!" I called, and he strode quickly towards me, as though coming to meet me.

The second I got in range, his arm shot up, and I slid to a quick halt. He was holding some sort of mechanism—my mind instantly told me that it was his fear gas, waiting to be deployed. I moved my eyes down his arm, sweeping up to his face, uncertainly meeting his stare.

He stared hazily at me for a second, and then recognition struck. For a second, I thought I was safe.

Then, there was a choking, blinding haze of mist, and despite the fact that I knew I shouldn't breathe, I gasped out of fear, getting two lungs full of the stuff.

And then…

Terror.

I opened my eyes.

I was immediately aware of the headache raging inside my skull. No, headache is too mild a word—this was a brain-melting, skull-splitting, eye-vaporizing, cephalalgic monster running about, wreaking havoc inside of my head. It was bad enough to make my previous injuries feel like mere stubbed toes in comparison, and I whimpered and screwed my eyes shut again.

Mere seconds later, though, I heard movement. My sense of self-preservation forced me to open my eyes once more and take a quick inventory of the room.

Room was a generous term. It was more like a hole in the wall—dark, windowless, about six-by-six and stuffy. I was lying on a pile of mussed-up blankets shoved into the corner, and I was not alone.

I gasped and shot up, further irritating the monster inside of my head. An unnatural feeling of deep fear rippled just beneath my skin, and I had to consciously tell myself, settle down, Harley. You've spent the last few weeks having knife duels with the most dangerous man in Gotham City and you're still alive; you can hold your own.

Still, the sight of Dr. Jonathan Crane wasn't exactly welcome, considering the way our last meeting had gone—and I remembered it now, the split second of hope before the fear. He stood there, totally still, a ragged suit hanging off of his skinny frame and a burlap mask covering his face. I found the mask even more unsettling than his unnatural stillness.

"Jonathan," I said, my voice trembling as I addressed him informally for perhaps the first time in our acquaintance, "take the mask off. Please."

He spoke from behind the mask, his voice pleasant. "Why, certainly." He reached up with a bony hand and drew the mask over his head. A brief flash of terror—the cop's dead eyes, a gaping hole in the throat, squirting blood as he crawled across the floor to confront me—and then my eyes focused and it was Jonathan's face again, pale in the dark room, cool and collected.

I groaned and leaned back against the wall. "You gassed me."

"I did," he admitted, sounding far from remorseful.

"I oughta kick your ass for that."

He smiled, a tiny, humorless bend of the lips. "Well, you're welcome to try. But then I wouldn't be able to offer you the medicine that might ease the headache you're no doubt fighting right about now." He raised an inviting eyebrow, and I would have glared at his insufferable cockiness if the headache wasn't so genuinely horrible.

I raised my eyes to his warily. "Truce?"

He fished in his jacket pocket, pulled out—a knife, a severed finger—a pair of glasses, which he put on calmly. That done, he offered a sarcastic smile. "Of course." Making an uncharacteristic chivalrous move, he stepped forward and offered me a hand. I eyed it mistrustfully, but yielded in seconds—if he wanted to hurt me, he could have done so while I was helpless to fight him off—and he drew me to my feet.

I stumbled as soon as he let go of me—the headache screamed in fury at the new elevation and worked itself up to a frenzy behind my eyes. I winced and forced my eyes closed, and to my shame, I felt tears forming behind them.

Is it just me, or have I been crying way too much lately? …I'm not pregnant, am I?

I considered the option, and after a half-second, dismissed the notion. I was militant about my birth control, and somehow I figured that J and I would have to be having a lot more sex for it to slip up. A malfunction was possible, but… it was usually around two months when the first symptoms started showing, yeah?

My period was due next week. It was probably just PMS.

Crane touched me impersonally on the shoulder. "This way, if you don't mind." I opened my eyes and searched for any sign that he thought I was acting crazy, but his face was maddeningly blank, and I resigned myself to the fact that I simply could not read him.

I followed him into the next room—bigger, brighter, even if the light was from those horrible blue fluorescent bulbs. There was a sink and a set of cabinets, but it didn't look like a kitchen. In fact, this place didn't look like somewhere where people were meant to live. There was no one else around.

Crane went to a cabinet, opened it, and took out a rattling bottle of pills. He took a glass from the shelf below, filled it with tap water, and then offered both to me.

"Take just one of those," he instructed me. I took the bottle and the glass, and then looked up at him.

"How do I know I'm not just acting as a guinea pig for a new form of your toxin?" I asked, more for the sake of double-checking than any real doubt. If he had been any less dignified, I swear he would have rolled his eyes.

"You don't," he said bluntly.

I shrugged. "Fair enough." I popped off the cap, took one of the soft white tablets, and tossed it to the back of my tongue, washing it down with water. I drank the rest of the glass and then handed it back to him.

He set it in the sink and then crossed his arms, regarding me coolly, waiting for me to speak. So, I spoke. "I'm still getting flashes," I said, pressing a closed fist to my temple. "Like when you took off your mask… and again when you reached for your glasses."

"I am sorry about that," he said. His tone was tinged with perfectly insincere regret, and I wondered that I'd never noticed how much of a sarcastic bastard he was (I mean, bastard, yeah, but the sarcasm was far more potent than I remembered). "I don't have as many facilities at my disposal as when I was still reputable, therefore the toxin is imperfect—the antidote takes longer the to sweep the last of the cobwebs away. I'm working on a new strain, but my work keeps getting… interrupted." He peered at me from over his glasses. I showed him a palm defensively.

"Don't look at me like that," I said. "I just happened to work in the place where you were incarcerated. Happened to work. Note the past tense."

"Ah, yes," he said, the soft lips curling into something between a knowing smile and a smug sneer. "Rumor had it that you'd been… I think the word used was abducted by a certain former patient of yours. Or, less generously, slaughtered. However, judging by the fact that you seemed perfectly free and perfectly alive when you ran up to me, I imagine these rumors are… unsubstantiated."

"Well," I said, very carefully, "you know what they say. Where there's smoke, there's fire."

I was perhaps unduly gratified to see a look of actual surprise flit across his face, quickly pulled back, but thoroughly satisfying. He opened his mouth and then shut it, and I could tell he was dying to ask a quick succession of questions, but something held him back—the idea that a display of too much interest might give me the upper hand, perhaps. He'd always been one for powerplays, likely due to his unimposing stature (though I often thought if he truly understood how genuinely unsettling his stare could be, he'd never worry about it again).

Fortunately for him, I had very little interest in power—at least, power over him—and though I crossed my arms and smirked at him, I also told him what I knew he was dying to know. "I was told to take a leave of absence. I decided to make it permanent, and I went hunting for the Joker. I found him—well, he found me—and we've been together for… ah, we're going on a month now."

"I see," he said, sounding more than a little pleased by this news. "I suppose that explains the, uh…" He gestured vaguely at his face, and I smiled wryly.

"You should see him," I said, less because I felt the need to apologize for my battered face and more because I felt that what we did and how we fought wasn't anyone's business but ours. If they were going to pry, then they would get misdirection.

Crane pulled a wry face, acknowledging my implied message—drop it—even if he didn't buy the implication of the statement itself. "I can't say I'm surprised," he said, moving on with a shrug. "Word is that Dr. Wilson was fighting against your treatment of the Joker almost from the beginning. It seemed he thought your attachment was getting unhealthy."

I snorted unattractively. "Sure. Wilson was also the first of many therapists to walk out of a session with the Joker, so I'd appreciate if you didn't take his opinion seriously."

"Oh, I never have," Crane assured me, a note of suppressed laughter in his voice. I double-took and looked him over, realizing that last time I'd talked to him, he certainly hadn't seemed capable of holding a lucid conversation for this long.

"You look well," I said carefully. "When did you escape?"

"Recently," he said vaguely. "It was time I got back into the swing of things."

"Why did you gas me?" I asked directly.

He raised his eyebrows, but I didn't buy the bullshit innocence for a second. "Well, you came careening right up to a deal in progress. I have customers to satisfy, you know. I had to make a split-second decision."

"Even after you recognized me?" I asked, deciding not to point out that the line about satisfying customers made him sound like a whore, figuring he'd take offense to it no matter how complimentary I made it sound.

A trace of a smirk appeared, quickly controlled. "I had no way of knowing you weren't there to cart me away again."

I actually did smirk, feeling no need to hide my facial expressions to prove my control. "Oh, whatever. At worst, it was a powerplay, and at best, it was revenge. Most likely a little bit of both." He tilted his head vaguely questioningly, and I said, "Like you were totally okay with the fact that your former student was put over you in the Asylum you used to direct. That had to smart some, and I honestly can't say I blame you for wanting to even the field a little."

"If you choose to subscribe to that opinion, I doubt I could convince you otherwise—or would care to," he said, totally calm, his expression betraying nothing.

I shook my head, chuckling a little "At any rate, thank you."

Again, I jarred his smooth veneer of control, saw the little confused twitch of his eyebrows. "For what?"

"Bringing me back. I know you could have left me writhing and screaming, but you didn't, so thank you."

That seemed to throw him further out of his comfort zone, and he actually shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. I took mercy on him and changed the subject before he could say anything. "How long was I out?"

He checked his watch. "Forty-five hours. It is now one-thirteen PM, November the first."

My jaw clicked open. "What the—? I thought your toxin drove people crazy after like an hour!"

"Well, only the concentrated doses," he said innocuously.

"You're telling me I've been out for almost two full days?" I realized something and tensed up. "What happened last night?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know what I'm asking, Crane. Last night was Halloween. What happened?"

He watched me intently for a few seconds. I started to get scared again, but this was not the sharp, toxin-induced horror—this was a dull gnawing, a vague sickness in my belly that climbed higher every second I went without an answer. Finally, he nodded a little and spoke up. "Children frolicked," he recited. "Adults reveled. Batman made an appearance, and the Joker went back to Arkham."

"What?!"

He didn't blink at the volume or at the shrill pitch of my voice. He simply crossed his arms and looked down his nose at me. "Quinzel, really. Some self-control would be appropriate here, I think," he chided me lightly.

"Stop playing games with me, Crane!" I barked, swiftly closing the distance between us and seizing the lapels of his suit. He made no moves to gas me again; he probably knew I wouldn't hurt him because he knew what I needed to know. "What happened? Tell me, or I swear, I'm gonna—"

"Calm yourself," he ordered, removing my hands with a look of distaste. I allowed him to detach my grip even as I fought the temptation to curl my fists and beat the answers out of him. "All you had to do was ask."

"I'm asking," I said, trying desperately to swallow the fear that had by now climbed up into my throat. "Tell me what happened." He tilted his head at me, and I exhaled sharply, correctly interpreting the rules to this petty game he was playing. "Please."

He smiled, just a little. "That's more like it. Well, Quinzel, your… mentor had a big night planned last night. He's got style, that one; doesn't like to repeat himself. Very creative. What I wouldn't give to get him on my couch, though I imagine at this point you could provide some valuable insight to the nature of his character as well."

"Jonathan," I snarled.

"All right," he said with a touch of annoyance. "Be patient." He paused as if to make sure I could stand it, and when I gave no response other than a fruitless, violent gesture, signaling that I knew he had the power here and that I could do nothing, he nodded to himself in satisfaction and went on. "Apparently, he's been developing his own toxin. I forget what he called it—Smilax, SmileX, something of that sort. The effects of this toxin are fascinating—I've been quite busy, actually, acquiring a body to study—"

"A body?" I blurted. Crane looked at me over his glasses, giving me a stare that I recognized all-too-well from my student days.

"Something to add?" he asked pointedly.

"No," I said, unable to keep from grinding my teeth a bit. "Please, continue."

"Hmm. As I was saying, it's fascinating. From what I can tell, the toxin hyper-stimulates the parts of the frontal and temporal lobe that control laughter. It essentially starts the victim laughing uncontrollably. The victim laughs so hard and so long, he eventually asphyxiates."

"You're telling me," I said slowly, "that J has developed a poison that makes people laugh themselves to death?"

"Oh, a little more than that, even," Crane said huskily. "After the victim's demise, the toxin infers a sort of instant rigor mortis in the face. In effect, the victim keeps the expression he had the second he died."

"So basically, there are bodies scattered around with wide eyes and big grins on their faces?" I asked. Crane nodded, pursing his lips and studying me, the shrink in him clearly wanting to see how I reacted to this news. I waved the slightly disturbing image aside. "Got it. How does the toxin fit into what happened last night?"

Crane merely blinked at my lack of response. Slowly, he said, "So… the Joker could have easily released this gas all over the city, I have no doubt, but I believe that to do so would have seemed… unsportsmanlike to him. Either that, or it would simply be too easy."

"Too easy," I repeated. "So?"

Crane looked a bit irritated at my constant pushing, but he had already reached the middle of his tale, and he kept going, probably figuring that dealing with my nagging wasn't worth the power games. "Around dusk, someone hijacked GCN and patched to a live feed. This feed showed a young woman tied to a chair, and your… colorful friend stepped in front of the camera wearing a doctor's mask. He didn't say anything, just showed off the bottle he was holding, then turned and approached the woman and sprayed her directly in the face. She was dead in minutes.

"He took off the mask, picked up the camera, and as he took it in for a closer look at the corpse's face, he wished the populace of Gotham a Happy Halloween and said that they'd be playing a little holiday game. He said that they had one hour to get to safe houses around the city before the toxin would be released in various, completely random places. He gave addresses to these safe houses, then turned the camera on himself and said that he was just so happy to be back. That's when the feed cut abruptly and control of GCN was restored to its operators."

I sighed, rubbing my nose. The headache had faded considerably, but after hearing Crane's account, I feared it was starting to return. "That man, I swear. Such a diva. What happened next?"

Crane looked at me from over the top of his glasses. "I must say, Quinzel—"

"Would you please call me Harley?" I snapped. "I'm not used to Quinzel anymore. It's getting on my nerves."

He blinked slowly, and then, a bit more coldly, he said, "You're reacting to all this news rather well."

"You're the one who predicted that I was as insane as you were," I said, forcing a lightness I didn't feel into my tone in hopes that it might soothe him. "Please, Dr. Crane. The rest of the story."

He shrugged and continued. "Well, you can imagine the chaos that followed. People were panicking. There was a large amount of uncertainty over these 'safe houses' that the Joker named—people didn't want to trust him, but neither did they want to take the risk of being in one of the places where gas was released. Many thought the safe houses would be the targeted zones. People were going in all sorts of directions. You could smell the fear on the air…"

He closed his eyes. I was patient for a few seconds, but after the first five, I raised my eyebrows and snapped my fingers loudly under his nose. "Um, focus, please?" I asked. "You were telling me a story?"

He gave me a nasty look. "Sixty minutes exactly from when the tape first aired, there were several different explosions," he said abruptly. "One on Vincefinkel Bridge, one around the Clocktower, and one in City Hall District.

"They estimate about forty fatalities—maybe more, maybe less. Just after the explosions of gas, the Batman—" he spoke the name with a note of disdain—"caught up with your friend. Now, I wasn't exactly on the scene, so I don't know all of what happened. All I know is that around midnight last night, news stations were reporting that the Joker was in Arkham Asylum once more under lock and key. There's been a public outcry against him being incarcerated in the same establishment he broke out of not a month ago, so I doubt he will remain there long."

I let out a small, indignant huff. I was rather irritated that the Joker would go on with his plan without me (irritated, but not in the least bit surprised) and even more annoyed that he had gotten caught. However, within seconds, I was hatching a plot.

I had to get him out, that was certain. I felt a smile growing on my face as the idea took shape—yes. Yes. This might actually be good. If I managed it, it would prove to him that I wasn't weak, that I was perfectly capable of working independently of him, that I was with him because I wanted to be.

"Harley, I'm not particularly certain that I like the look on your face right now," Crane informed me warily after a few seconds had passed. I realized that I had been completely ignoring his presence, and snapped out of it abruptly.

"Perhaps you shouldn't," I said with a bright smile. "Thank you kindly for bringing me up to date, Doctor."

"What are you planning?" he demanded.

"Where in town are we?"

"Not… far from Cathedral Square; Harley, what are you planning?" he asked, entirely interested despite himself.

I looped my arms around his neck—he wasn't nearly as much of a reach as J, was thinner, less covered in sinew and muscle, I noticed as I leaned against him in order to peck him on the cheek. "I owe you one, Doctor," I told him, "though I'm not entirely sure that forty-five hours of pure terror doesn't cancel out that favor."

The kiss apparently took him by surprise. I was able to detach myself from him and spin away, going for the door before he managed to speak again: "Should I get out of town?"

I paused, and then turned back to him, still grinning. "No, Jonathan. Of course not. Just don't go anywhere near Arkham Asylum for a few days."

"I wasn't planning it," I heard him mutter as I pulled the door open and let myself out.

My car was where I left it, though it was now missing a window and a stereo. I rolled my eyes and managed to be grateful that they hadn't jacked my tires before pulling the door shut and peeling out, heading towards Crime Alley.

The city was ominously silent. There were only a handful of people out, aside from emergency vehicles cleaning up the aftermath of the night before.

I was impressed. I'd been living with J for several weeks and had never once caught wind of his final plans. I'd even gone with him on a few recon missions and had still failed to realize what was going on. He had developed this toxin in utmost secrecy, probably concerned that someone might ruin the punch line—and what a punch line it was. Forty dead was nothing to sneeze at. I had no doubt that he could have killed five times that amount if he wanted to, but his object was rarely the kill so much as the hurt. He wanted to make Batman's helplessness apparent to him, to wound him and hurt him and draw him painfully out of hiding.

He had succeeded, but something had obviously gone wrong. Perhaps he'd underestimated Batman's ferocity after the months spent apart; perhaps Batman had just proved too resourceful. Whatever the reason, the Joker was now back in Arkham, and I had to move fast.

I was starving, so hungry that I felt nauseous, but there was no time to eat. I had to go straight back to the place in Crime Alley to see if any of the boys were left. I had a hunch that said they would be. He knew how to pick henchmen, and the guys who followed him needed a leader like him. They would be lost without him.

I reached Crime Alley in half an hour—record time, but the speed wasn't particularly surprising, considering the almost complete lack of traffic. It was as though the city didn't quite believe that the Joker was locked up again, was afraid to resume its regular activities for fear that he'd break out instantly and be displeased with them for going about their everyday business.

Normally, the day after Halloween, Christmas decorations would have emerged, the advertising for toys and diamonds and décor would be everywhere you looked. Now, though, there was no such evidence of the season—everything was still. Ominous. I felt euphoric at the reminder of his power, and I snickered to myself as I reached the building that served as our headquarters and a thought struck me.

"The Joker's stealing Christmas," I giggled to myself, climbing out of my car and going inside.

I climbed the stairs slowing down and getting quieter in order to listen as I drew near to the apartment. I could hear slow movement and several hissing voices. Ah, good. They hadn't fled, after all.

I reached the fourth floor, found the hideout door, and twisted the handle. It was locked. Irritated, I kicked the door, unconsciously mirroring the Joker's impatience the first day he'd brought me here. Like then, all voices inside ceased. There was the sound of a quick shuffle, and the door cracked open.

Showtime.