Chapter Twenty-Three

Something inside of me has opened up its eyes
Why did you put it there? Did you not realize?
This thing inside of me it screams the loudest sound
Sometimes, I think I could…
I'm gonna burn this whole world down
-Nine Inch Nails, Burn

I didn't have much time to waste, I flipped down the passenger mirror and got to work on the final touches of my little ensemble.

I was almost hesitant applying greasepaint, as heretofore it had definitely been the Joker's thing, but I sucked it up and smeared some of the white makeup on my face. Carefully, I covered my face, rubbing the paint much thinner than J's, so that my flesh tone was just visible underneath, unlike his. I covered my face, then started on the black.

I applied the black in a thin oval around each eye, tracing the paint over my nose to connect them, attempting a harlequin mask look. I checked my reflection—it wasn't quite right, so I smeared some more paint out from the corners of my eyes at an angle, catlike. I looked again and smirked. Much better.

Tommy was parking. Quickly, I uncapped the black-red lipstick and applied it. I smudged it some in my hurry, but decided to leave it that way—I wasn't going for pristine here. Finished, I looked at my reflection and was pleased at what I saw.

I wasn't the Joker. It wasn't his style. It was mine, but any fool looking at me would be able to tell where my allegiance lay. The time for the subtle approach was long over. The moment I set foot in that asylum, anyone who knew me would know why I was there, makeup or not, so playing it safe was not an option.

I looked over at Tommy. He was staring at me, wide-eyed, as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. I ignored the stare, tossing the tins of paint and lipstick into my center console to lighten my pockets some. I now carried my wallet, a knife, a revolver, and a detonator. I figured I was pretty well-equipped.

"Tommy, keep a lookout," I told him firmly. "Something unexpected happens, if the cops start swarming in… pull the fire alarm and hide. Don't run, or I'm gonna hunt you down and gut you, I swear."

He glared at me, but I ignored it, stepping out of the car. "I'll be quick," I told him optimistically, and shut the door. I walked slowly to the entrance. This first test was the most important one—if my access card worked here, then it would work throughout most of Arkham.

Still doesn't help you with busting J out.

I shushed my inner voice. Okay, so I didn't know the code to J's cell—didn't know exactly where he was being kept, for that matter. I wasn't worried. I could find someone who did know, and Gotham's inhabitants were a cowardly lot—when faced with the point of a gun or a knife, they'd spill. Believe me, Arkham's employees were no more or less noble than the rest of Gotham City.

I dug out my access card as I walked. I could feel the tension crawling along my shoulders, sinking into the back of my neck, but even as I approached the door, I could feel a strange calm pooling in the back of my mind, a new sense of certainty. Even if I couldn't get through this way, I had options. Even if I had to take a hostage and blow the charges early, I was getting into Arkham tonight.

I needn't have worried. My key slid into the lock with practiced ease, and green lights blinked as the door buzzed.

Jackpot.

Moving fast, I shoved the door open. I was delighted with the unexpected success, tempted to laugh, but subtlety was key in this opening act. I couldn't bring down a horde of Arkham employees on myself—any one of them could call the police preemptively, and while that wouldn't exactly shoot this little operation in the foot… well, I'd prefer not having to work around it.

The employee's entrance had no metal detector, an oversight I believed would be remedied after tonight. I strolled down the hall, heading for the stairs.

Turning the corner, I collided with a very human body. I jumped back, reaching for my gun—and smiled. Oh, this is just too good.

I was face-to-face with Doctor Wilson, who looked more exhausted than I'd ever seen him, almost certainly on his way to his car to catch five hours of sleep before he would be dragged back to this hellhole. He stared at me uncomprehendingly for a second, then, I saw recognition flare in his eyes as I realized who was beneath the makeup and outfit. He opened his mouth.

I moved fast, ignoring the sudden flash of pain from my previously silent ribs. I'd forgotten about that injury—but then, I hadn't exactly been straining myself, and it had been more than forty-eight hours since I'd gotten hit. I figured they'd had some time to heal, even though sharp movements—obviously—caused a jolt of pain.

I ignored it and grabbed Wilson's mouth with one hand, covering it forcefully with my palm as I fished the revolver out of my coat with the other. I quickly stuck the barrel of the gun into the bottom of his chin. "Not. A. Sound," I growled.

Wilson was a noble man, but he wasn't a stupid one, and he didn't struggle. I looked around to make sure our altercation hadn't been observed, but the halls were still empty. I spotted an open door further down the hall and dragged him that way.

It was a dark, empty office. I pushed him inside and flicked on the light, stepping in and shutting the door behind us, an excited hum starting along my skin as I realized just how perfect this all was. Wilson was my ticket to the Joker, and with that in mind, I kept the revolver pointed at him as he slowly straightened up and turned to look at me. I was pleased to note that my hands were as steady as a surgeon's despite the adrenaline pumping through my body.

"Harley," Wilson said shakily, "what did he do to you?"

I cocked my head. "Such an obvious question so early?" I asked brightly. "Come on, David, you're a professional. You know you've got to start with at least a little foreplay." He stared at me, his jaw tightening, and I sighed. "No sense of humor, I swear. I don't know, David, what do you think happened?"

I saw his eyes dart over me, seeing the marks on my throat and shoulders now that my hair was up and the skin was exposed, seeing the knotted scars on my arm and drawing a conclusion. "Look," he said softly, tensely, "whatever he's made you feel like you have to do, however he's threatened you, we can help. He's locked up, and I know it's difficult to believe, but you're safe again."

I cackled. There was no other word for it, and I struggled to keep the sound low, to keep this little confrontation as quiet as possible. "Ohh, oh no, Doctor," I told him, struggling to regain my composure. "That's not gonna fly. What are you thinking, Stockholm syndrome? A captive developing a bond to her keeper in a desperate subconscious bid to stay alive? I hate to burst your bubble, gorgeous, I really do, but I was never a captive. When you sent me away from Arkham last month, he didn't show up at my window in the middle of the night, like some sort of… spectral boogeyman. He didn't drag me screaming from my house. I went to him of my own free will. He gave me a place to sleep. He encouraged me to see things the way they really are, for once in my life, and when I chose to work with him, it was with my eyes wide open."

Wilson put his hands out, taking a tentative step towards me. "Harley, he's a killer."

I snorted. Tell me I wasn't once this naïve. "What do you think I am? And unless you want to have to pick your teeth up from the floor, stop moving."

He stopped, but I could see his eyes widening as he processed my words. He opened his mouth; I could see he wanted to ask but was reluctant to set me off. I smiled wryly and twisted the blade just a little bit. "Last kill was two days ago, since you're not asking. You'd be astonished how easy it is to get comfortable with it. You know," I added, widening my eyes and taking on a breathy tone, "it's almost like we're being lied to."

"He's toxic." The words forced their way out of his clearly unwilling mouth, and my eyebrows shot up.

"He's a liberator."

"He's a destructive force!" Oh, here it comes, I thought, rolling my eyes as he gestured violently. "You think he's freed you, Harley? He's broken your mind, he's beaten you and battered you and put a gun in your hand. How is that right? How is that healthy?"

I considered, and then pursed my lips and shrugged. "Bodies heal, and let me tell you, mental health is way overrated," I said flippantly.

His shoulders slumped. He looked… utterly weak. "I can help you," he said softly.

"You're damn right, you can," I said resolutely. "We've wasted enough time flirting. Now, I'd be greatly in your debt if you could tell me where he is and give me the code for his cell." I paused, and then, as an afterthought, I added, "Please."

He stiffened up. "You're going to have to kill me," he said softly, shaking his head. "I'd rather die than let that madman loose on this city again."

I sighed in frustration. Out of all the doctors in Arkham, I had to run into the one with integrity, the one who knew me enough to assume that I wouldn't actually kill him. What to do now? I could shoot him and leave, true, but I didn't know for a fact that I would run into anyone else who could help me—if there was anyone else that even could.

Hostage situation it is.

I clicked the hammer back into place, shoved the revolver into my pocket, and pulled out the knife, flicking the blade out impatiently. "Suit yourself, but we're on my timetable. You're coming with me." He laughed in disbelief. I narrowed my eyes and flung myself bodily at him before he had time to put up his defenses.

He put up a good struggle. He had half a foot on me, after all, and he definitely outweighed me. However, I'd been sparring with the Joker for close to a month. J was a tricky bastard in the ring and I'd never gotten even close to beating him, but I had learned a few tricks. It helped that Wilson still clung to the tenets of chivalry and was reluctant to hit a woman—lucky me—so he was reduced to shoves, trying to get away from me.

It didn't take long before I had a knife to his throat. After that, it was easy to step behind him and twist his arm behind his back, nicking the side of his neck to show him that I wasn't playing around. My reach was limited, so he was literally bending over backwards to distance himself from the knife. "And," I crooned teasingly into his ear, "upstairs we go!"

Maneuvering him out into the hall and up the steps was tricky. He kept struggling at the most inappropriate times, forcing me to give him fresh cuts on his throat each time. I was trying to avoid drawing close to the jugular, but I was starting to run out of space.

"David," I snarled into his ear as we reached the fourth floor, "you're making it really tough not to kill you. I can always find someone else to open the Joker's cell. Don't think I won't."

Those words accompanied by a particularly vicious cut to the junction of his neck and shoulder seemed to settle him down a bit. I got lucky—nobody else seemed to want to use the stairs at this time of night. Thank goodness for elevators and lazy employees.

We reached the top floor and I shoved him out into the hallway, returning the knife to my pocket and taking out the gun again. We were close enough that the sound of a gunshot wouldn't do much but cause an inconvenience and shave down the time I had to make a getaway.

"Keep moving," I said. He glared at me, his pride clearly wounded, but his eyes fell on the barrel of the gun and he seemed to decide it was a good idea to obey.

Behind him, I darted from one side of the hall to the other, looking in through the small plexiglass windows at the inmates. "No… no… no," I muttered, frustrated as my search proved useless time and time again.

Then, inside of the fourth cell on the left… I caught sight of him. His back was turned to the door, he was sitting on the floor, but I would recognize that matted green hair anywhere. "Yes," I breathed.

Wilson decided that this was the perfect time to make his escape. He broke into a run, heading for the opposite end of the hall, where the elevator awaited.

"Dammit!" I hissed. I fluidly thumbed the trigger back, took aim, and fired.

I'd been aiming for the back of his knee. I hit him a little lower down, in his calf, and he howled in pain as he fell to the floor. I was right behind him, grabbing him by the collar and hoisting him up through sheer adrenaline.

"Get back here!" I snarled, and dragged him towards the cell. My ribs were screaming in protest, but the high I was experiencing blotted out the pain, turned it into euphoria. He was groaning and generally being a noisy nuisance, so I stopped and jammed the hot barrel into the back of his neck. "Shut up!"

He grunted through clenched teeth, but quit making noises like a dying animal. I finished pulling him back to the cell and shoved him against the door. "Code. Now," I snapped, pointing the gun in his face.

"I haven't changed my mind," he hissed defiantly, looking up at me past the revolver. I had to admit, the man had guts. To soothe my frustration, I imagined what they would look like spilled out onto the pristine white floor.

Impatiently, I switched the gun out for the knife, and in a swift, sharp arc, I brought the blade down through his wrist. He screamed and writhed in pain as his blood began to pool rapidly out on the floor. We don't have time for this.

I dropped to a knee in front of him. "David," I said, breathing hard, "I don't have to kill you. There are any number of creative things I could do to you to change your mind. Put in the code. Don't try to be a hero. I bet you the Batman's right outside; leave the hero business to him."

It was bullshit, and I could see that he wasn't going for it. Drawing hissing, quick breaths in through tightly gritted teeth, he ground out, "You… don't have time to torture me."

"Want to bet?" I snarled, grabbing him by the throat, getting in his face, and twisting the knife in his wrist, and he screamed out for help. We can't have that, I thought, and pulled the knife out of his arm with a squelch, bringing the hilt hard across his face and shutting him up.

He stopped making so much noise, but he still wasn't yielding. I rose impatiently to my feet, nervous energy pulsing through me, requiring an outlet, and I paced a tight loop in front of him, trying to think. I ran my hands through my hair, feeling the blade of the knife slide harmlessly against my temple, leaving a streak of blood behind, and then I turned sharply on my heavy heel and pointed the blade accusingly at him.

"Why do you have to be the exception?" I screeched at him. "Why are you the only one to decide to die for his morals? It figures! The only person between me and J and he's the best fucking guy in Gotham City!"

Wilson was breathing hard, maybe relieved that I'd backed off for now, maybe just starting to feel the blood loss. He was certainly in a copious amount of pain. I could sympathize.

The thought stopped me mid-pace.

Fine. If I couldn't appeal to his inner selfishness, the wicked nature he insisted on ignoring, then maybe I could take that indomitable sense of humanity he had and turn it against him.

I slowly turned my eyes to him. "David," I said calmly. He looked up at me, I could see the fear creeping into his eyes as he realized that something had changed. "You're a good man," I said softly. "Thank you. I had almost forgotten that people like you existed."

"Harley," he began. His tone was pleading, so I cut him off—I didn't want to hear him try to persuade me. You're better than this, Harley. Let me help you. Let me restore you. Have faith. Have faith.

"You've always looked out for me," I said, my tone still light as I walked towards him, kneeling down in front of him. "Always tried to help me."

"I care about you, Harley," he said gently, looking imploringly up at me.

I cocked my head and stared at him. "Well. Let's test your commitment, shall we?"

I pressed the naked blade against my bicep. "Harley, don't!" he said urgently, but before he could even fully voice his protest, I pressed the blade in hard and tore it through the skin, laying my skin open.

I watched as the blood welled up, and then looked at him with a teasing smile, biting my bottom lip mischievously. My adrenaline was pumping so hard that I barely felt the sting. "So, David, here's the new deal," I said. "You tell me the code to save me. If you don't… well, I'm just gonna have to keep cutting away, and it's going to get worse and worse. If the Joker's locked up and I have no chance of seeing him again… well, I don't see much of a point in living. If it looks like you're not going to give in, I'll cut my own throat. I'll drown in my own blood, choking and twitching right in front of you. You'll get to see the light leave my eyes, won't that be fun?"

His eyes were wide and panicked. "Don't," he said hoarsely.

I shrugged and put the blade to my shoulder. Wilson lunged at me, reaching out with his uninjured hand to try to pry the knife away, but I threw myself backwards, away from him, landing flat on my butt.

I was back on my feet in seconds. "Uh-uh!" I said vehemently. "You're not going to be able to stop this through force, sweetheart. The only way for you to save me is to tell me the code!"

"Harley," he groaned, falling hard back against the wall.

I pulled the sharp blade across my shoulder, tracing it over the skin, watching the thick red line welling up in its wake. It wasn't particularly deep, it probably wouldn't even scar, but all he would see was blood, all he would hear was my groan of pain. "Come on, David," I said, grimacing. "It hurts."

"Stop!" he screamed.

"I can't!" I shrieked in return as I dug into the skin over my clavicle. "I have to do this, David! Why don't you understand? You're supposed to be good at that!"

The elevator doors opened, way down the hall. It looked like someone had finally heard the commotion. A nurse and an orderly stepped out, saw the bizarre tableau in front of them, and froze.

I pointed the knife at them. "Call the cops!" I screeched. "NOW!"

They turned and bolted, and I snorted. People were always so willing to call on the authorities when it looks like someone's in pain; it saved them the trouble of having to actually do anything. I had just narrowed down my timeline, but it had been bound to happen sooner or later. I could work. I turned to Wilson.

"Listen, doll," I said, tracing the blade down my cheek. "We don't have much time left. You're thinking to yourself, 'I only have to deal with her until the cops get here.' That's not true." I reached down and cut open the back of my left thigh, through the black leggings. "The second I get wind that the police are inside the building, I will cut my throat."

The right thigh followed the left. "Stop," moaned Wilson, sounding as though he were the one in pain.

Then again, he did have a bullet in the back of his leg and a hole in his wrist.

I flicked the knife up carelessly to my throat. "Then again, there's potential for failure that way. I might miss the jugular. So…"

I shoved the knife into my pocket and brought the revolver out again, whipping it up to my temple. "This is better, isn't it? Less of a chance that I'll screw up somehow. I can try not to get my brains all over you, but there's no guarantee. Are you okay with that?"

He screwed his eyes up and threw his head back against the wall. I shrugged. "I'll take that as a yes," I said, and thumbed back the hammer.

His eyes shot open. "Seven!" he said.

I froze.

He sucked in a pained breath through his teeth. "Three-nine-oh-one-seven," he added.

I sucked in a sudden, euphoric breath. Yes. "Looks like every man's got a price, after all," I said shakily. Quickly, ignoring the blood on the fingertips of my gloves, I coded in the series of numbers he'd given me: 739017.

For a second, I was terrified that he'd decided to lie for whatever reason. Then, the door chunked and unlocked. I pushed it tentatively. It creaked open.

Ecstatic, I dropped to my knees beside Wilson. "I always liked you, David!" I squealed exuberantly, and kissed him on the cheek, leaving a smudge of lipstick on his paling skin. Then, I hit him as hard as I could with the butt of the revolver. He slumped over, and I fished in his pocket for the ring that would hold the keys to the Joker's restraints before going into the cell.

He was sitting there calmly on the floor as I waltzed inside. He hadn't moved since I looked in, and I knew he had to have heard the commotion outside. A fleeting stroke of panic hit me—decoy?—before he finally turned his head and let me see him.

There was still some paint left over from his Halloween escapades, though it was smeared and spotty. I could see traces of his natural skin beneath, traces of the Joker that had essentially been the one to ensnare me. However, on a more infuriating note, his face was bruised; his jaw was swollen. Someone had done a number on him.

He looked up at me blankly, and I quickly moved over to him, hoping he wasn't drugged to the gills. "Give me your hands."

Responsively enough, he lifted his cuffed wrists. I grabbed his hands with one of mine and started trying keys with the other. "We don't have much time. Someone will have heard that gunshot. The people here are a bunch of cravens, so they're probably just going to try and muscle the biggest orderly to come up here, or just call the cops in from outside."

Bingo. The fourth key I tried fit his cuffs. I unlocked one wrist, then the other. Fluidly, he rose to his feet, and each of us unashamedly let our eyes sweep over the other, checking each other out.

I felt my mouth twist sardonically. "I've gotta say, babe, orange is not your color."

He finally smiled as well, putting my sarcastic smirk to shame. "Welll," he drawled. "Aren't you just a little doll."

I felt a quick pang of uncertainty. Was he still pissed at me over our fight? Did he not like the face paint, how it emulated his? I'd seen him explode over smaller things, and with far less warning.

He pounced on me. He knocked me back against the wall, and I barely had time to wonder if this was an attack or an embrace before he forced his mouth against mine, his hands creeping up the backs of my legs, brushing past the cuts, inching underneath my skirt to jerk my hips into his. It took a second for the shock to wear off, but the second it did, I responded with enthusiasm, locking my gloved hands around his neck and pulling him closer, pressing my body against his as close as it would go.

We shared another of those bruising, powerful kisses, and I was lost. When his mouth slipped from mine to work down my throat towards the cut on my collarbone, though, the fire alarm went off, and I remembered. "J," I gasped. "They're coming!"

He jerked back as if stung, grabbed my wrist with bruising force, and hauled me out of the room behind him, almost tripping over Wilson's unconscious form on the way. He looked down as if surprised to see the good doctor, though he had to have heard the gunshot, and I could see his mouth twisting in an unpleasant way as he spotted the lipstick stain on Wilson's cheek.

I distracted him, poking him in the arm with the revolver. "Here," I said. He glanced down, eyeballed it, and then looked up at me as if to ask really?

I just barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes and handed him the knife instead. He seemed content with that, taking my arm again and dragging me towards the stairs.

"Second floor!" I told him as we hit the stairs. "We're headed to the parking garage."

"I assume," he purred, sounding for all accounts as though we weren't running down the stairs at dangerous, breakneck speed, "that you have an escape plan?"

"Well, I'm not completely incompetent," I said wryly. "You just worry about getting us to the garage."

We ran into trouble around the sixth floor in the shape of three orderlies charging up the steps. When they looked up and spotted us, the one in back bolted immediately. The other two, though, were tough guys.

The first one went charging, head down, at the Joker, who grabbed him by the shoulders and flung him backwards towards me. Gee, thanks, J, I thought as I faced him down. I mean, I was flattered that he thought I could handle myself, but really, this guy was about six foot four and built like a truck.

I shot him in the abdomen as he careened towards me, then grabbed his arm and flipped him over the railing, sending him to the ground. I looked to see that the Joker had grabbed the second orderly's head and was proceeding to repeatedly bash it into the wall.

"J. J, we don't have time!" I said urgently after the fourth or fifth strike—the guy was probably brain-damaged already, no need to keep going until he was a bloody pulp. Almost defiantly, my companion hit him one more time before tipping him over the railing to join his colleague, and then we resumed our flight.

The closer we got to the ground, the more of a racket we could hear. The cops were on their way—I wouldn't be surprised if SWAT showed up, and we needed to be well out of the building before that happened. Quickly, we surfaced on the second floor, and I took the lead then, running fast to the parking garage.

Tommy was nowhere in sight, and I careened to a stop, looking around sharply for him. Little bastard had done exactly what I told him not to. J nearly jerked my arm out of the socket, impatient with my brief pause, and I snarled "Ow!" before decided to forget about the kid for now and go to the car.

He'd left the keys in the ignition. J, once he saw my car, headed for the driver's side, but I caught his wrist and tugged. "Trust me on this one!" I said urgently. "I'm gonna need to drive!"

He gave me an insulted look, but it lasted only half a second and he darted around to the passenger seat. I climbed in and turned the ignition. "Seatbelts on!" I called, and threw the car in reverse. I clipped the bumper of a stationary car behind me before putting the car in drive and peeling out of the garage.

The cops were waiting for us. The gate was open to allow their cars through, but they saw us coming from a distance and quickly put up a makeshift roadblock with two cruisers.

"Hold on," I said, and floored it.

My car pounded into their bumpers, pushing them aside and scraping through. My tires squealed as I kept my foot heavy on the gas, and finally my car worked itself free of the wreckage and lurched forward, weaving to dodge various news vans.

"Uh, Harley."

I looked over at my passenger with a quick, predatory smile. "Yes, J?"

"I, uh. I hate to criticize such a…" He licked his lips—"heretofore effective escape plan, but… your car is smoking, and we're being followed." I checked the rearview mirror. He was right—the cop cars that had been brought in to surround the asylum were swerving around, turning to follow us.

"Under control." I fished in my pocket and pulled out the detonator, throwing it onto his lap before returning my attention to the road. "Have at it, sweetie."

He looked at the detonator, then at me, and a delighted grin split his scarred face. He caught up the little box and, almost reverently, he thumbed the button.

I swear the back of my car actually lifted a few inches off the ground, even though we were already a hundred yards away from the blast zone. The explosion ripped up from the sewers through the asphalt, blasting several unfortunate bodies into oblivion and throwing cop cruisers and news vans several feet into the air. So much for the road.

At the massive explosion, which was admittedly some work well done, the Joker completely lost it. He whooped and howled, laughing and giggling and holding his sides. He laughed until we had all but left the fire behind and the only visible evidence of the destruction was the huge black cloud curling up over the buildings into the clouded sky behind us. Then, gasping for air, he said, "I knew… I knew there was a reason I loved ya, Harley!"

I took my eyes off the road for a full ten seconds to stare at the man bent double in my passenger seat and laughing so hysterically that I wasn't quite sure he knew what he'd just said, and then returned my attention to the road.

As I swerved off of the main road and took us down to the underbelly, I realized that I was grinning fiercely, and frankly, I couldn't have pulled it off my face any more than the Joker could stop laughing.

This, then, was happiness.