XI

The picture sputters to life with a few bursts of static, coming to focus on a boarded-up window that admits a faint trickle of dim gray, late-winter-afternoon light.

It rests on the window for only a second before flipping around to reveal the man holding the camera. The picture is too close to the Joker's face, showing in detail the puckered scars, yellowed teeth, and lines which have creased so often that the greasepaint worked into them is wearing thin. He tilts his face even closer, and a purple-gloved finger materializes in front of his mouth as he shushes his viewers.

"Quiet, now, Bats. She's sleeping."

The camera pans around to a couch, upon which lies a young woman wrapped in an oversized black hoodie, a cascade of red curls obscuring her face. "And believe me," the Joker continues breathily, drawing jerkily closer and dropping the camera down to face-level with the sleeping girl, "she needs the rest."

The camera crunches and rattles as the Joker sets it on a table directly across from the couch, and he appears in the picture, crouching low over the girl, who sleeps on despite his nearness. The camera's mic barely picks up the faint sound of his idle humming as he reaches down to gently roll up her sleeve, to clear the hair neatly away from her face and neck, revealing a pale, drawn creature marked with numerous scrapes and bruises. The most obvious one is a large purple bruise over her temple, clear even from the distance, but the Joker reaches for the camera and brings it in close again, traveling over the exposed skin to showcase the marks, his silence indicating a certain degree of smug pride in the sight he's presenting.

He starts at the roughly-bandaged forearm, dried brown blood showing through the gauze and marking the extent of the wound. From there, he pans up to the face, the brow furrowed as if pained even in sleep, the messy bruise on her temple marking where she was struck with something blunt and heavy, and the Joker releases a soft, mockingly-sympathetic "Oooh" at the sight of it.

The camera moves down to the throat, where purple finger-shaped marks stand out sharply against the pale of her skin, overlapping and bleeding into one another in a way that suggests she's been the victim of a stranglehold more than once in the past few days.

Finally, down at the junction of throat and shoulder, the camera captures a vivid mark, brighter and fresher than the others, the mark of individual teeth standing out against clean skin, outlining a suck mark in the center. The camera pauses and then flips around to the Joker, who licks his lips and jerks one corner of his mouth down in mocking faux-embarrassment before refocusing the picture on his hostage.

"Now, see," he begins again in hushed tones, extending an index finger to ever-so-lightly touch the bite mark ,drawing loose circles around it with his gloved fingertip, "this is just the start. Poor little Em, Bats—she needs help, she really does. I mean, uh, I'd like to tell you she'll be fine, that I'll get her home in one piece and at a reasonable hour, but, ah… I'm not sure I could keep that promise. So…"

The camera creaks against his glove as he twists the camera away from his captive and back onto his face. "Come get her, big guy. Oh, and, uh—" He winces into the camera—"I don't want this to get complicated, you know; three's a crowd already. So even though the news networks'll be airing this publicly, even though any number of you—"he twirls his hand absently—"hero cops or good Samaritans might be tempted to come rescue her…" He leans into the camera, focusing on his scarred mouth, and, his voice a scratchy octave lower, he says ominously, "Don't."

He leans back again, giving the camera a warning look, eyebrows raised pointedly. "You can do your part by playing this on the news for a couple'a days to get the message out to Batman, make sure it reaches whatever cave he's hiding in… but, uh, let's face it. He's the only one who stands a chance of getting sweet little Em out alive."

He glances past the camera towards the couch where the girl sleeps, and, distantly, as if speaking to himself, he murmurs, "Peace on earth."

His eyes flick back once more, and he leans in and adds, "Good will to men. Merry Christmas, everybody," and, as he starts chuckling wheezily, the static fuzzes and the video ends.

Bruce has viewed the video three times since it first aired on Gotham 3's six o'clock news a half hour ago, and as it concludes, he starts it over for the fourth time. He needs to be out there doing something, but he can't risk working blind, and until his scans find some match with which he can work, he won't know the most efficient place to start looking. So he keeps watching the video, because it holds the growing frustration at bay, makes him feel as if he's doing something.

He's analyzing the video, both manually and by computer, in order to get a rough idea of which area of town the Joker filmed it in. He has some ideas, but old, abandoned shop space is plentiful in post-recession Gotham and he needs to narrow his options way down before he ventures out.

Alfred is nowhere to be found, a clear indication that he disapproves of Bruce's intent to give the clown exactly what he's angling for. Alfred is of the opinion that Bruce should let the police handle it.

Bruce listens to the ending of the video again, the Joker hissing "Three's a crowd already," and while he understands Alfred's concern, he knows he can't just sit in the cave and do nothing. Whether he wants to or not, he can read between the lines, and the unspoken threat is clear: if the police by some miracle manage to fumble their way to the Joker's current hideout in an effort to rescue his victim, then Emma Vane is dead.

No, this is a direct summons for Batman: the Joker made it explicitly clear that only he stands a chance of extracting her alive. Of course it's a trap and of course Emma is the bait, but what can he do? Even if he hadn't sworn to do his utmost to save the would-be victims from criminal street-scum, he feels particularly responsible for Emma. He's freed her from the Joker's clutches once, but he should have gone further with it, should have insisted that she leave the city—if not as Batman, then as Bruce Wayne. Surely he could have come up with something, could have approached her with the claim that her story had drawn attention, offered her security and a job in exchange for her willingness to share her story with profilers safely across the country, something like that.

But no. After the Joker escaped Arkham and showed no signs of renewed interest in her, Bruce had allowed himself to believe that she was marginally safe. He still checked on her regularly, but as time wore on he started to believe that the Joker had been encouraged by Batman's attention at the warehouse and was laying low, devising his next big scheme to draw him out.

Well, he was partially right. He just should have figured on Emma being a pawn in that plan. He suspected it when a spatter of unidentified female blood showed up randomly at the scene of a cop killing the night before, and a sweep of her apartment revealed a broken window and no Emma. This video just confirmed his suspicions, and the worst part is knowing that it's his fault. He should have tried harder to get her safe before the Joker got the chance to get his hands on her again.

His jaw tightens as he rewinds the video once again. He's been monitoring police response since the video first aired, and Gotham PD is putting in a halfhearted effort to decipher the location, but mostly they just seem relieved that Batman is the focus and that the Joker has no apparent plans to throw them into the crossfire. In a twisted way, he understands. Considering how large and catastrophic the scale on which the Joker usually works, a kidnapped girl and a disgraced vigilante seem like small targets in comparison.

Which makes him suspicious. Certainly the Joker's pet game is drawing out the Batman, but small-scale isn't his style, no matter how effective. He's shown the repeated capacity for running multiple schemes at once, and Bruce has a vague idea of where this is going. Alberto Falcone's intent to kill the clown has become public knowledge in Gotham's underground, and the project building explosion that took out a dozen of his men last night was a little too conveniently-timed to dismiss.

Like all good detectives, Bruce doesn't believe in coincidence, and his jaw tightens grimly as he watches the camera pan over the girl's injuries once more. The Joker's game is to make him choose—locate and rescue Emma before the clock runs out, or ignore her in favor of investigating and preventing the Joker's play against Falcone's outfit.

The Joker is using his one rule against him yet again, and he channels the sudden flare of hatred he feels into determination. He refuses to play this game, to weigh the value of one innocent life against the lives of dozens of criminals.

He has to find the Joker. It's the only way he can thwart both plots—if he catches the clown, he'll avert both Emma's murder and the deadly war against Falcone.

The computer beeps, and he instantly pulls himself from his thoughts, turning to the screen. The analyses are finished, and there are several possible matches, but the most likely one is an old shopping district near Tricorner Yards—the rough glimpses of the boarded windows lining the wall matches a pattern most commonly used in old store blueprints for that particular region.

He glances back at the video in time to catch the most disturbing part again—the clear shot of the bite mark, followed immediately by the Joker's faux-guilty face. The implications of sexual victimization are new, and even though Bruce isn't necessarily surprised by them, they still make him feel vaguely sick. The public nature of it, focusing on the mark in a video that all of Gotham will see… he can't help but read it as a direct taunt, a show of territorialism—she's mine, Bats, just try taking her away from me now.

It strengthens his resolve. Wasting no more time, he shuts down the computers and rises to suit up for the night. He has to find the Joker, and soon. He refuses to dwell on what could happen if he fails.

"Em… Em." The quiet singsong draws me out of sleep, but I'm still tired, and my body aches something fierce, so I stubbornly refuse to open my eyes.

Predictably, he doesn't let up, jabbing a sharp finger into my shoulder as he croons, "Aw, come on, Em. 'S time to get up. Unless you want me to carry you?"

"Yeah, right," I mutter to the couch cushion. "You'd drop me on my head." He snorts softly and jabs me again, and I reach up to grab his hand, opening my eyes and glaring at him. "All right, already! Jeez." He extracts his hand from my grip and settles patiently on the couch next to me as I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes, asking sourly, "What do you want?"

"I told you, it's time to move."

"I thought this was a safe house."

He snorts. "No such thing, Em."

"Well, doesn't that make me feel all warm and fuzzy." I stretch my arms over my head and start to yawn, but the bastard pokes me right in the center of my tongue, throwing off the yawn and freaking me the hell out in the process (because, come on, who does that?). As he cackles, clearly pleased with himself, I scoot a few inches further away from him and pointedly ask, "So where are we headed?"

"Uh, it's a surprise."

A surprise. Great. I lift my eyebrows. "Can I at least pee?"

He looks startled and glances around before leaning in close, asking furtively, "What, right here?"

Oh, for fuck's—he's in a mood today. It's fortunate that there are no pillows in reach save for the heavy couch cushions, because I am sorely tempted to throw something at his face. I opt instead for chilly dignity as he laughs at his own cleverness, and I rise and stalk into the back room in search of a toilet.

I find a bathroom, and after taking care of business I check the latest damage in the mirror. Wincing at the ugly bite mark—which incidentally brings back memories of last night's… unpleasantness—I zip my hoodie up, thankful that the bruising is low so I can conceal it. My hair is a tangled mess, and I finger-comb it the best I can, but it doesn't do much good. There are bags under my eyes despite the sleep, and my skin is even paler than usual, making my freckles stand out starkly. I look sick—or crazy.

That's okay, I think, splashing some water onto my face and then ducking under the faucet to drink deep. Looking ugly can only keep me out of trouble.

A sharp bang on the door makes me jump. "Hurry up with the primping, Em," he says from just outside. "We gotta move."

"Far be it from me to screw up your schedule," I say, taking care to speak quietly so he doesn't actually hear me, and I grab a hand towel and dry my face before unlocking the door and stepping out.

He's waiting right outside, and I force myself not to recoil away from him, instead looking defiantly up into his face. "What's the rush?"

He doesn't answer, just wraps a hand around my elbow and turns, pulling me along with him. I hurry to keep up, suddenly worried. In my experience, the Joker on a timetable is not good news. "Seriously, what's going on?" I ask as he drags me out through the back of the shop, towards a waiting van in the alleyway. The sky is growing dark, but I can still see some of the relentless gray of winter daytime, so I place the time as being around five o'clock—or earlier; we are drawing close to the solstice.

Or did we pass it already? I think vaguely, before reminding myself fiercely that it doesn't matter. Wake up, I scold myself as the Joker pushes me into the back of the van. It's a different vehicle from before; there's no barrier between the back and the front, so at least this time I have enough light that I can see him. A pair of henchmen is in the front. There are no seats in the back this time, so I quickly settle down on the floor as the Joker follows me in, unwilling to get knocked off my feet by a rapid takeoff.

He leans towards the front, addressing the henchmen. "Everything going smoothly?"

"Gags just called," answers the driver. "All's clear, they're just waiting on us."

"Good, good," the Joker purrs, pulling back and leaning against the passenger wall. "Let's go."

The driver pulls out of the alleyway, and I move forward to look out of the windshield and see where we're going, but the Joker leans down and knocks me back again. I regain my balance and glare up at him. "What?"

"Stay back," he says simply, giving me a warning look. I start to argue, but think better of it just in time. He may find my bickering amusing in private, but somehow I think he won't take too kindly to being undermined in front of his goons.

The driver sets us on a languid path. I don't recognize him, but my view into the passenger seat reveals the guy from last night, the rocking, silent one. I wonder vaguely what use a catatonic henchmen could possibly be and eventually decide I don't want to know. I look up at the Joker again, but for once, his loquaciousness has dried up and he doesn't seem inclined to chat, so I lean back, cross my arms over my chest, and wait.

And wait. We drive for what feels like an hour, mostly trapped in Gotham's stop-and-go rush hour traffic (which is only exacerbated by the impending holiday), and I start to wonder if we're ever actually going to get anywhere. He wasn't kidding about patience. I spend most of the time leaning back against the wall with my eyes closed, trying not to think too hard about what he's got in store this time. I'll deal with it when it happens. In the meantime, I can't do anything about it. He won't even tell me what he's planning.

Finally, the van stops for good, the driver putting us in park. The Joker thrusts a gloved hand into the front seat, and the driver hands him a cell phone. Humming, the Joker keys in a number and puts the phone to his ear. After a beat, he asks briskly, "All set?"

He waits a moment before nodding. "Good, good. Clear the guys out of the area. We're sendin' him in."

He ends the call and tosses the phone carelessly on the floor near me, and I think about grabbing it for a moment before dismissing the idea. Who am I gonna call? The police? 'Yes, Commissioner, I'm with the Joker in a van… somewhere in the city. You've got about five seconds before he realizes what I'm doing and rapidly changes location.'

I focus instead on the Joker. Covered now by darkness, he leans into the front seat. Turning his face towards the mute passenger, he says simply, "Billy."

For the first time, the guy quits rocking and lifts his head. He doesn't look at his boss, but the Joker goes on regardless, his voice gentler and sweeter than I've ever heard it. "It's time to go, Billy. Look across the street for me—just there." He points toward the passenger window, and Billy slowly turns his head to look. The Joker places his hand on his shoulder and continues. "There, see? Raphael's Tavern. Falcone's guys are in there, and… they've been really naughty."

"But it's Christmas," Billy says slowly. His voice doesn't match him; he sounds younger than he looks, soft and bewildered.

"Yeah—yeah, I know," the Joker murmurs. "That's why you gotta go in. Go and tell 'em that if they don't be nice, they're all gonna get coal in their stockings this year."

"Everyone deserves a second chance," says Billy vaguely.

"That's right. Tell 'em that, too." The Joker claps him abruptly on the shoulder. "Go on. Do it for me, would you?"

"Yes, sir," Billy mumbles, unlocking his seatbelt and opening the door. He closes it behind him, and I climb to my knees to try and see around the Joker, out the window.

Billy's arms are wrapped tightly around himself, but he's walking steadily across the street. I flinch as a car zooms past, nearly clipping him, but he doesn't waver, heading directly for the door beneath the dull Raphael's Tavern sign.

I find myself clasping the Joker's wrist. He doesn't spare me a glance, but, trying to fight off the rising horror, I blurt, "You're sending him into a bar full of mafia guys? What's he supposed to do?"

Eyes still fixed on Billy, the Joker gestures impatiently at the driver, mumbling, "Guys like that, Em—you can't expect them to do all that much. No, I find it more effective to just pull the old point and shoot."

As if to underscore his words, the driver passes him a device that looks suspiciously familiar, and as I recall that he used one much like it to detonate the building last night, the awful realization sinks in. I look swiftly back at Billy, taking in the much-too-large coat concealing his torso just before he disappears through the doors of the bar and I lose sight of him.

My reaction is immediate and unthinking. I lunge forward, snatching at the detonator, and my hand brushes cool metal for just an instant before the Joker grips my shoulder hard and thrusts me back, holding me at arm's length. "Ah, ah, ah," he says as the driver puts the car and gear and pulls away, starting to put distance between us and the bar. "I understand you're excited to see the fireworks," he adds, giving my shoulder a painful wrench as I try to pull free, "but this one I gotta do myself."

"No—" I shriek just before he clocks me across the face with the detonator. I go sprawling across the floor of the van, face on fire, and before I can struggle upright, I hear a click. Then—

BOOM.

I imagine I can feel the van lurching forwards a few feet, propelled by the explosion. The tires peel out as the driver accelerates rapidly, but I doubt anyone's going to take much notice in the wake of yet another demolition. The Joker is whooping joyfully, craning to look back out of the window and view his handiwork, and I slowly sit up, pressing a cold hand lightly against my burning cheek, trying to ease the searing pain.

As the driver takes a sharp turn, removing what used to be the bar from his line of sight, the Joker falls back, still chortling. I feel dampness creeping across my palm, but I ignore it, channeling my focus into hatred. Maybe if I glare hard enough, he'll burst into flames.

He notices the look I'm giving him soon enough, and as he gasps for breath, he demands, "What's… what's wrong, Em?"

"You know damn well what's wrong," I shoot back, voice low and shaking.

"I didn't think you'd take it personally. Demolitions are kind of my thing."

Enough of this bullshit. I feel almost angry enough to attack, but my stinging face is a reminder that it would be a terrible idea, so I settle instead for yelling, all thoughts of refraining from undermining him far away by now. "If I'd gotten my hands on that fucking thing I'd have thrown it out the back and you know it!"

"That's not very responsible," he says patronizingly. "What if a kid found it?"

"Responsible? You just strapped dynamite to a mental patient and told him to go talk about Santa while you blew him up!"

"Uh, it was C4," he interjects.

"I don't give a shit!" I screech. "Since when do you use suicide bombers?"

"Since I could find a use for them," he says, sounding vaguely perturbed by my anger. Street lights flash into the back of the van for a moment, illuminating his face—he's squinting bemusedly at me, playing dumb. "I thought you'd've been happy."

"Happy? Oh, yeah, super-happy about you sending a vegetable to his death."

He tilts his head at me. "Vegetable?" he asks intently, his tone loaded.

"I didn't—" I falter, realizing my mistake too late, but he just plows right over me.

"So even by your, uh, rigid standards, little Billy was barely alive. And, uh, when he died right now? He took out a bunch of killers. Those guys in that bar, they could've gone on to kill dozens, maybe even hundreds of people. One life sacrificed for hundreds—and you have a problem with that?"

"You didn't send him in there to save lives," I say, becoming aware that I'm shaking with anger.

"What do you care about my intent?"

I stare at him as the street lights flash across his face again, drawing in a trembling breath. "You didn't give him a choice."

"Ahh… you heard me ask him, didn't you?"

"You know what I mean—he wasn't capable of knowing what he was doing, you just—"

"Again—I took out a pack of murderers."

"That is not the point!"

"Oh, I think it is, Emma," he says lowly. Thrown by his use of my name, I hesitate, and he seizes his advantage. "The point is that clearly, you couldn't care less about people getting killed—unless it happens in front of you."

"The fact that Falcone's men may possibly have committed murders in the future does not justify—"

"More than just a possibility, Em," he continues, still with that unnerving calm. "They're mafiosos. It's what they do."

"So what?" I cry. "I don't give a shit that they're dead; I just object to the fact that you used a severely mentally ill man to do it, killing him in the process!"

"You've got a hell of a sense of entitlement, there. Making judgment calls on who gets to live and who needs to die?" He tsks briskly, and I'm sorely tempted to get up, go over, and punch him in the face. "How does it feel, living based on an ideology that makes no sense?"

"I don't know," I snap. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Ah, ah, ah. There's a difference between us."

"Let me guess—I'm not crazy?" I mutter.

A half-second's silence is the only warning I get that perhaps I spoke a little too loudly, and I instinctively fling myself backwards, but he's starting from his feet and I'm sitting, so I'm barely able to start trying to stand before he's on me, his fingers closed tightly around my throat as he knocks me to my back. One knee rests beside me as the other crashes into my stomach with a force that winds me instantly—not like I'd be able to breathe, anyway—and he leans over me, lips hitched back from his yellow teeth sneeringly. "What was that? I didn't quite catch it."

My ass, you didn't, I think, but I'm nowhere near capable of speech at the moment, my hands shooting up unbidden to claw at his eyes, to drive him back. He barely seems to notice, slapping my fingers away before they can do much damage and pinning my wrists together against my chest.

My air supply is dwindling rapidly with the combined challenges of his fingers digging into my throat and his knee shoved into my diaphragm, and the more I fight back, the more pressing my need for air becomes. Even so, I struggle against him, trying to twist my hands out of his grip, knowing he can see the panic in my eyes as he holds his face inches above mine.

"Thought not. See, Em, I've got the opportunity to teach you a very important lesson here." His leans forward close, and in a moment, his voice is rasping in my ear, his chin bumping against my cheek. "Save the mouthing off for when you have the upper hand."

My struggles are weakening as my lungs burn, and I know he can feel it, because he starts chuckling, hyena-like, as he draws back again, fingers digging deeper into my flesh. "Other-otherwise," he laughs, his eyes glazed over with something inhuman as he peers down at me, "it could just be the death of you."

This is it, I realize as I recognize the bloodlust for what it is. He's really going to kill me this time.

And, from somewhere in the awful depths of my mind, the part that I try not to acknowledge too often, something whispers good. At least you'll finally be free of him.

Rather than choking the thought back, I let it grow, and in seconds, it's consumed what's left of my consciousness. Good. Good. Good. I'm scarcely aware that I've stopped fighting him, blatantly defying that pull to survive that got me this deep in to begin with, and as black spots start swelling in my vision, I blink once, slowly, self-satisfied. Good.

It's hard to tell through the black, but I think I see him frown.

Then, the horrible, painful pressure disappears. Disoriented, I think at first, that's it, I'm gone—but my body takes over, and a sharp painful gasp brings a flood of air into my lungs. I choke on it, my bruised windpipe aching and scorched by the oxygen, and I twist over onto my side as I submit to a fit of sharp, painful coughs.

Faintly, I'm aware that he's crouching just behind me, and I hear his voice, low and composed. "Oh, no, Em. It's not gonna be that easy."

I don't have the strength or desire to reply, too busy navigating the struggle of breathing, curling up as tightly as I can, pulling away from him. It seems like a long time before I can breathe without coughing all the oxygen right back out again, and even when I get past the fits, it still hurts. I can't help but wonder if the damage is permanent, if I'll ever be able to breathe again without feeling this pain and remembering this moment, but for all that, I'm weirdly calm.

The incident has made something clear to me, something I probably should have realized a long time ago.

If I die, he loses. It's not a big loss, sure, and I'm sure if I twisted his arm even just a little, he'd kill me and get over it just fine, but… if I die, he's out a plaything. More importantly, though, I get my freedom. Sure, it won't be on my preferred terms, but at least I won't live in terror anymore.

I don't think that will keep him from killing me, but until he's found a way to make my continued existence valuable to someone so that he can enjoy their pain when he rips it away, I doubt he will actively try to kill me.

And… that puts me in the unusual position of having the ball in my court.

I'm not sure what to do with this information, so for the time being, I lock it away in the back of my mind.

I'm feeling a little stronger now, so I roll over towards the opposite wall and drag myself upright. My throat aches deeply, the new injuries compounding the old ones, and I'm shaking uncontrollably, but a painful brush with death will do that. I dare to glance quickly at the Joker, and of course he's confronting the discomfort in the van head-on, sitting against the opposite wall, staring at me over an arm propped lazily atop his upright knee.

Now isn't the time for sass. I need a few minutes of peace and recovery, and so, in an effort to calm the waters a bit, I say, "I'm sorry"—and immediately regret it. Not the words—I am sorry I mouthed off, though not so much for what I actually said—but because speaking hurts like a bitch, and I barely recognize my own voice, hoarse and rasping, far from my usual level deadpan.

I'm not sure what I expect, exactly. The Joker blinks owlishly at me, tilting his head back and shaking his head in ostensible confusion. "Uh. For what?"

Always mercurial in his presence, I feel a flare of anger and think Oh, I don't think so. He's not going to pull that shit and pretend nothing happened. Fuck the pain, and I rasp out, "Oh, I don't know. Whichever part of it made you sling me to the ground and throttle me, I guess."

Surprisingly, this results in a flash of teeth, a brief snort-chuckle, and he lifts one hand to point genially at me. "Look at you. Half-dead and you're still talking back." I can't tell if the tone I'm hearing should be read as twisted admiration or a warning—stop before you go too far. Either way, I feel safest changing the subject.

"Before…" I start, then think it's probably wiser to skip ahead a bit. "You were saying. There's… a difference. Between us."

"Riiight," he purrs, looking faintly pleased at my focus. "Ah… right, before your little interruption, I was saying, yeah, there's a difference. I don't care that the world doesn't make sense. You do."

I'm silent, partially because it hurts like a bitch to talk and partly because I don't quite know what to say. My input doesn't seem to be required, though; he warms to the subject, stretching his legs out in front of him in an inverted v and clasping his hands together between them.

"You get angry when you can't offer, um, logic for what you want. Lots of—" he raises his hands to make air quotes—"bad people just died, Billy included. Oh, yes, Em," he says in response to my skeptically tilted eyebrows, "don't let the lost little boy act fool you—Billy's done some… awful things. But you don't care about that, do ya? You're just mad because you think his death was unfair. And that bothers you. You just lash out because you can't come up with a good reason why."

I stare at him, and I maintain my silence, because no one wants to admit that the Joker might have a point.

He stares back, looking increasingly smug as the seconds tick past. Finally, he clicks his tongue and winks, pointing at me. "We both know you're no hero, Em. Why don't you leave that to the guy in the cape?"

I don't have a response. I just tilt my head back and bring my hands up to cover my injured throat, suddenly wishing that this ride would end so I can get away from him, go somewhere relatively quiet so I can rearrange my head.

He falls silent, and in the ensuing quiet, I realize something. The lump in my pocket serves as a sudden reminder that I've had a knife on me the whole time, and yet in those moments I was trapped under him as he choked the life from me, I didn't even think about going for it, sticking it in his ribs.

If it didn't hurt so badly, I would laugh, because the twisted humor of it all is finally sinking in. Death is freedom.

And I think he's winning this game, because I think there's a part of me that's starting to want it.

A/N - Ahh-ahaha-ahahaha- fuck. Obviously, Emma's not doing so well as we move briskly towards Act III.

Response to the last chapter was phe-nomenal. Y'all are pretty cool, you know that? Shoutout to the guest reviewers, who I'd totally be responding to if this site didn't threaten to delete stories for in-chapter review replies. I see you and I bask in your analysis and kind words.

Next chapter marks the end of the second act, so expect some excitement. In the meantime, don't be a stranger—leave your feedback in the box below! :)