XVII

I look up as he hits the brakes, clutching the dashboard instinctively as we slide a few feet and bump sideways against a curb. I turn to glare at him, but he's already opening his door, so I unbuckle my seatbelt and move to follow suit a bit more slowly. By the time I emerge from the car, he's circled around to my side, and he takes my elbow as I close the door, pulling at me impatiently.

"All right, hold your horses," I growl, but, as usual, he takes no notice of me, pulling me along the sidewalk. As our feet crunch through the accumulated snow, I look around fast, trying to figure out where we are. As in my neighborhood, no one is out, but this isn't a residential area—it looks like more of a business district, albeit one under some construction. Buildings in various stages of completion line the block, though the one we're headed towards looks fairly polished—it's only the sign on the door with the name of the business and the expected opening date (a date several weeks from now) that tells me it's unoccupied. The glass entry door has been broken, though I see no signs of anyone who might have done it.

He edges through the door, pulling me through, and I manage to get through with no more damage than a slight tear to my sleeve from one of the remaining glass fragments. He paces across the empty, dark lobby, taking long strides, and I complain: "Are you really in that much of a hurry? Some of us are, you know—short."

"Timing is important, Em," he mutters, pushing open the door to a stairwell and jerking me in behind him. "As, uh… laid-back as I am, sometimes, ya gotta hustle."

I don't complain anymore, because it strikes me that the stairwell is particularly dark and his grip might be the only thing keeping me upright (of course, I'd have an easier time keeping my balance if a certain someone wasn't practically yanking me off my feet, but it seems petty to point that out now). I lose count of how many flights we ascend before he pushes open a door and pulls me into what looks like an unfinished office floor—there's no electricity, but the street lamps reflecting off the snow outside send plentiful light in through the floor-length windows lining the walls.

Someone's waiting for us—a single man, dressed in street clothes but wearing a clown mask. He turns as we enter, and starts towards us, but the Joker cuts him off with a sharp, decisive hand motion, hissing, "Get the ties."

"You're kidding," I mutter as the henchman turns to a work bench set up nearby. The Joker ignores me, pulling me over towards the window and then letting me go as he peers out. Annoyed but curious, I follow his gaze across the street to a parking garage—also under construction, judging by the scaffolding lining the outside and the lack of finished walls, though in contrast to this building, the interior seems well lit.

The henchman approaches me, holding several plastic utility strips. I glance at him, and then look at the Joker indignantly. "Really?"

"Don't make a fuss," he advises, still scoping out the garage. "If you do, Sneezy here is gonna have to tie you even tighter."

I heave a heavy sigh just so they know how not-okay I am with this plan and turn around, putting my hands behind my back, placing the back of my right hand strategically over the slight bulge in my back pocket. As Sneezy locks one of the strips around my wrist and then winds the second strip through the first, I say, "I thought the shootout last night made you wary of your henchmen for the time being. You know, with the apparent betrayal and all." I wince as Sneezy pulls the second strip particularly tight and turn my head to glare at him.

"Yep, well—needs must," he says absently, and as the clown finishes tying me, he turns around to face us. Pointing at me but addressing Sneezy, he says, "You keep an eye on her."

He pauses, then advances a few steps until he's looking directly down into the eyes of Sneezy's mask. Bringing his hands up, palms parallel and fingers outstretched, he rests them gently against the clown's chest and says emphatically, "Don't—do—anything… until you hear from me. Understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Joker, sir," Sneezy answers immediately.

The Joker nods, clapping him on the side of the head and striding past. "Good boy."

He heads back to the doorway leading to the stairs. I turn to watch him, and once he's halfway across the room, I call after him: "What am I supposed to do?"

He swivels, walking backwards as he looks at me, flashing a grin. "You? You just sit there and look pretty."

I huff softly in annoyance as he spins around and pushes through the door to the stairs. I hear his footsteps retreating down again, and after a second, I turn to look at the henchman, jerking my chin at him. "How's it going."

He ignores me, just standing creepily still. I don't take it personally; in my experience, Joker henchmen either (ironically) have no sense of humor or are out of their minds. I return to the window, looking down on the street in time to see the Joker crossing over towards the parking garage. Through the snow, I can see two more figures standing by the entrance, and though it's difficult to make out detail, the white smudges of their heads make me think that they're also in clown masks.

That's his final stage, then.

I glance over at Sneezy, who's still watching me, like he was told. Slowly, I slide down to the floor, sitting down facing him, hoping that he'll let his guard down a little once he sees that I'm in a docile position, and I look him over quickly. There's a pistol holstered at his hip, and hanging from the opposite hip is a radio. My guess is that there's another radio—or several—in the parking garage across the street, allowing for communication.

I'm starting to get a bad feeling about this. What did he mean, don't do anything until he says?

Unwilling to hypothesize an answer until I know a little more, I keep watching even as I pat the knife in my pocket just to ensure it's still there. I'm dying to cut myself free, but I can't help but remember—timing is important. If I make a bid for freedom too soon, especially with Sneezy watching me like a hawk, I could ruin everything, so I force myself to stay patient, looking out the window at the parking garage.

For a few minutes, I don't see anything of note except for shadows moving. They're on the fourth floor. After a while, though, headlights illuminate the street, and I quickly realize that the van approaching probably isn't a civilian vehicle, judging from the haphazard driving. It slides to a stop in front of the parking garage, and a man jumps out of the driver's side, circling around to the back. He opens the door, blocking my view (which isn't helped by the heavy snow), but after a second, he emerges on the sidewalk with a colleague, and between them—

I've never met the man, but judging by the fact that his hands appear to be tied behind his back and there's what looks like a bag over his head, I'm willing to guess that their captive is Alberto Falcone. He's tall and thin, and he struggles against the clowns, but his panic combined with the snowy sidewalk works against him—he can't get enough traction to put up a real fight.

I glance at Sneezy. He's looking intently out the window, and taking advantage of his moment of distraction, I shift to get to my knife, forcing myself to watch the scene below rather than staring at him—nothing says I'm trying to escape like watching your captor fearfully to see if he's looking.

I work the knife free from my pocket and clutch it securely in my hand. Now that I've got it, of course, the fear starts brewing—I've never actually used this; what if it's too dull—or worse, a trick knife? That'd be right up his alley.

I force myself to stay calm despite the doubts, and carefully, I feel for the switch to unlock the folded blade. Triggering it, I guide the blade out, clicking it into place as quietly as possible. It makes a tiny sound, though, and by reflex, I freeze and look at Sneezy.

He's staring right at me—at least, his mask is turned squarely in my direction. Immediately, I jerk my head towards the window, playing for a distraction. "That Alberto Falcone?"

He turns his head back to the window. Below, the clowns are wrestling their victim into the parking garage. I test the edge of the blade with a fingertip. Sharp. Good.

Despite Sneezy's reticence, I keep talking, realizing that it would be wise to cover any sounds that might result from my attempt to free myself. "Do you know where they got him? Because if I was Falcone, after his little shootout failed so spectacularly, I'd be getting my ass to a safe house." I turn the blade in my hand carefully, making sure my grip on it is secure before I press it against the tie on my left hand and start applying pressure. I go on: "I mean, bragging rights or not, he had to realize there was no way he was gonna hit the Joker before Christmas, and furthermore, that he'd put himself on the Joker's naughty list in a big way."

Sneezy speaks, startling me. "He was in-transit."

I frown. "They nabbed him while he was on the way to a hideout? I mean… Christmas Eve or not, that had to generate some heat."

He glances at me, then looks back out the window. I think hard as I saw at my binding as quietly as possible, the plastic digging into my wrist in protest to the pull of the blade.

Even if they shook the police, by all accounts Batman is a little harder to get rid of, especially if he's actively tracking Joker henchmen. I'd bet money that he shows up soon.

My eyes widen as everything clicks into place. That's why I'm in this building. Batman's going to follow the clowns to the parking garage—he may stop the Joker from killing Falcone, he may not. It doesn't matter, because I'm the ace up the Joker's sleeve.

The second Batman arrives and starts throwing a wrench in the Falcone business, the Joker's going to contact Sneezy on the radio, and Sneezy is going to put a bullet into my head. If Falcone and I both end up dead, Batman loses. If Falcone lives and I die, Batman loses twice over, because in the eyes of the media, he will have chosen to save the life of a crime boss over that of a supposedly innocent kidnapped girl—and they won't care if he knew he was making that choice or not. It doesn't take much to make everyone go for the throat of someone most of the city already hates, anyway.

My eyes narrow. Well. If I'm dying tonight, I might as well do it trying to thwart the Joker's master plan.

At this moment, two very distinctly important things happen.

First, the knife finally passes through the plastic with a fairly audible snap, but my fear that Sneezy will notice disappears as I spot Event Number Two: a large black shadow cutting through the snow and landing on the roof of the parking garage.

Sneezy immediately reaches for his radio, and as he keys it, he makes the mistake of turning his back to me. I struggle upright, and as he speaks urgently into the radio ("Boss, we have a bat sighting… he's on the roof, comin' atchya"), I take a sharp breath and charge at his back.

He's bigger than me, but not by much, and the element of surprise is on my side. I take him down to the floor, and as he scrabbles at his hip for his gun, I plant my knee in the center of his spine and jab the knife into his lower back several times—the blade isn't very long and I doubt I'm doing any lethal damage, but it's gotta hurt like hell.

As he howls, I jump off of him. He starts climbing to his hands and knees, but the mask has twisted around, eyeholes out of place, and he doesn't see my foot swinging hard at his face. I make solid contact, so hard that it stings my foot even through the boot, and he crumples. For good measure, I kick him in the side of his head again, and when he doesn't move or moan in pain, I stoop fast and grab at the gun. I have to wrestle it out of the holster, and then I'm up again, racing across the office floor, blood pounding in my ears.

I rush down the pitch black staircases as quickly as I'm reasonably able, aware that stumbling could mean misfire, and with the Joker's luck, a ricocheting bullet would find its way right between my eyes. Even taking my time, it feels like only seconds before there are no stairs left and I grope quickly for the exit.

The lobby is still empty. I run across it, tearing my sweater again on the edge of the broken door, and then I'm in the street. The wind of the snowstorm isn't loud enough to block out the sound of gunfire coming from the parking garage, and a quick glance at the fourth floor reveals abruptly-moving shadows.

I cross the street into the parking garage, which is considerably better-lit. The staircase is on my immediate right, not walled in, and I jog up as quickly as I can, my breath coming a bit faster now—but this time, I have the benefits of a good night's sleep and some food in my stomach. I don't have time to think or plan out my movements; I'm acting on blind instinct and the need to be there for the end.

In no time at all, I reach the fourth floor. It's scattered with working materials and work lights glare harshly from the rafters, but the floor seems solid enough—as I step out onto it, I notice two clowns, unconscious already. He works fast. As I go further, I spot a dark-haired man in a suit, eyes staring unseeingly towards the ceiling, a red stain blossoming on his shirt.

I don't spare any emotion for Alberto Falcone. I'm more concerned with the fact that I don't see the Joker or Batman… but the unconscious figures of Joker henchman are scattered along the upward ramp like so many breadcrumbs, giving me a pretty good idea of where to look.

I follow the ramp, circle a wall—and there they are, not five feet in front of me, near the unfinished edge of the ramp duking it out, the Joker using a combination of evasion tactics and dirty fighting to stay in the game. Batman's back is to me, and I come to a grinding halt as he lands a crushing blow to the Joker's ribs—but the clown appears unfazed, slithering away from Batman's grip and thrusting jerkily with a knife, which, judging by the Batman's muted roar, finds a home between the armor plates. He retaliates with a fist to the Joker's jaw, sending him reeling backwards.

So watching the Joker get beaten up isn't exactly unpleasant, but in the fire of the moment, hearing only the sound of their blows finding targets and the blood rushing in my ears, I only want one thing. I look around quickly for inspiration.

Batman corners the Joker against the edge of the ramp, where he has nowhere to go unless he wants to drop down fifteen feet to the next level, and starts drilling blows to his torso. A particularly vicious kick knocks his legs out from beneath him, and the Joker collapses to the ground—

And, with a two-by-four I picked up from a pile lying nearby, I swing at Batman's head with all my might. He's turning his head—he must have noticed me; he probably wants to check on me, and I ignore the pang of guilt that flashes through my chest at the thought—and catches half a face full of board, staggering one step before falling hard off the ledge.

I toss the board to the side, heart beating fast, knowing that Batman's not known for going down for long. I have minutes at best, possibly only seconds if the blow was more of a glancing one than I think, and after bending to pick up the gun I'd set temporarily on the ground, I rush towards the Joker, dropping to a crouch in front of him as he struggles to sit up.

"Shh. Shh. You listen to me now, okay? I only have a few seconds. This is important."

His eyes flick up and rest on my face, a little dazed, like he's not sure it's really me. He looks like he's about to try to stand, but he doesn't look so great—I reach out a hand and grasp his shoulder, partly to steady him, partly to keep him down here with me. He lifts his hand, covers mine with it, squeezes a little too hard. I don't pull away. I look steadily into his eyes and draw a sharp breath.

"I think you left that knife with me on purpose. You knew I'd get away, and I think that's because at this moment, you have no interest in killing me. Actually, I think when you adopt a new pet—and I have no idea how often this happens; it's not like I have a basis for comparison—but I think you're less likely to kill your playmates. I think you'd rather see what it takes to make us kill ourselves."

He's blinked away most of the disorientation now, and the black pinpoints of his pupils are fixed firmly on me. I get the feeling that I've got his absolute and rapt attention for the first time since the day we met, so now seems as good a time as any to lift the gun and place the icy barrel (which is about to heat up any minute now) against my temple.

His eyes stray to the gun and then snap back to mine. The bloody tip of his tongue comes out to wet his top lip.

My voice is shaking, but I force myself to get it out. "Believe me, I know I'm only giving you what you want. I don't like that idea, but I've thought it through. You heard what I said in the car; this is the only way I can ever get truly free of you. You won't do it for me; fair enough. I'll do it myself."

His fingertips with their jagged nails are biting hard into the back of my hand. I swallow, aware that I only have seconds. My eyes are dry as I wind up: "And I figure that since this is all your doing, anyway, you should at least get to watch."

Since I'm already on his level, I don't see the harm in leaning forward for one more fast kiss: I think I can feel him grinning against my mouth, but when I pull back a second later, he looks somber, a little pained, even. I look him in the eyes, and as he releases my hand, he nods, almost imperceptibly. I nod back.

"Goodbye," I say softly.

And then redirect the gun barrel from my temple to his kneecap and pull the trigger, my cry of "Psyche!" swallowed up by the sound of the gun firing.

The sound he makes is gratifyingly human, doubly so considering what he's put me through over the past few days—masochist or not, no one can get an unexpected bullet to the knee and play it cool. I throw myself backwards, out of his reach, lest he take it upon himself to go for revenge sooner rather than later, and as soon as I'm out of range, I start laughing.

Tone it down, I caution myself, he may still have a gun or several on him—but it's no good, I'm sick of biting my tongue, and as I sit up straight and grip my ankles, the words are spilling out, half-hysterical: "Oh, God, you believed me! No, no—no, it's not happening that easily." The tears that have sprung up in my eyes are, I hope, from the laughter, and they make me realize I need to get myself under control, quickly. Trying to catch my breath, still giggling sporadically, I add, "Fact is… after some food and sleep, I realized that escaping you forever—not really that high on my list. Temporarily, sure, but that little conversation we had in the car made me realize something—I can't have a normal life, so why stress about it, huh? If this is my life now, then fine—bring it on. Let's see how far we can go."

I climb abruptly to my feet and look over my shoulder, but there's no sign of Batman, henchmen, or police. It's just him and me, and I stare down at him without pity. He's hunched over, unresponsive, clutching his blown out kneecap, head down and matted hair concealing his face, shoulders shaking. "Just don't forget," I say gently, all laughter gone, impossibly, without a trace. "I know what your blood tastes like."

The words hang in the air between us. The city is full of noise, even on a relatively quiet Christmas night like this, but it's faded to white in the immediacy of this. After studying him for a few more seconds, I add, quietly, "But right now, it looks like you're going back to jail, and I'm going home for some rest. Further games are gonna have to wait, but look me up when that heals."

I turn and head towards the staircase in the back corner. Before I can make it three steps, I start to hear his cackle, which escalates rapidly to loud whoops of delight, necessitating frequent gasps for air. I pause and glance back at him.

His head is up, face creased in macabre amusement, and he stabs his pointer finger at me over and over. As soon as he can manage it, he howls, "You—you wanna think about that, Em? Challenging me—some people would say you've lost it!"

I pause, give that a moment's thought, and shrug. "I dunno. Maybe I have, I don't know, I'm not a shrink. I do know that the possibility scares me way less than it used to, so you may be right."

I wait, but his shrieks of laughter overwhelm him again. I figure I've lingered long enough. Stooping to set the gun on the garage floor, I then straighten and make a run for the stairs. As I half-run, half-tumble down staircase after staircase, I wonder what happened to Batman, but soon enough, I get some kind of answer—I can hear the sounds of police approaching over the howl of the wind (which, in turn, has become indistinguishable from the laughter of the madman above me).

I breathe in deep and run down, towards the sirens.

A/N - So, as my self-imposed deadline for updating came and went, I went ahead and faced facts- I simply didn't want the story to end. However, as I'm sure you've intuited, I couldn't delay it forever. This isn't the last update- I've got an epilogue, nothing special, just a few pages to give us all a bit of closure. I'll have that up in a couple of days, I promise; it's not something y'all should have to wait three weeks for.

Now, some quick housekeeping- the focus of that charming little frostbite story the Joker told Emma one chapter ago was, in fact, Warren White, probably better known as Great White Shark, main character of the Arkham Asylum: Living Hell arc. The story was tweaked for my purposes: in canon, Warren got locked into the freezer during a prison riot and kind of... smashed his own frozen nose off in a fit of madness. In this case, I found it a bit more fun to imply that the Joker was the one who locked him in there. A couple of you mentioned Victor Fries, which was also a totally valid guess (I didn't even think about the whole Fries/fries connection; you can either credit my subconscious or sheer dumb coincidence in that matter).

So, talk to me. Any reeling feelings you want to share? Deposit them in the box below. Did I get any of you worried that Emma might actually be about to do it? Think she was a little harsh on poor Bats? Any glaring plot holes that I totally missed? Do you hate me? (Shh, it's okay, I understand.) Shoot me a line, give me all of your thoughts and feelings. I'll be back in a few days with the epilogue and some final notes. Until then!