A/N: Whoops I said upload mid-November, but I meant I would start writing this chapter mid-November, and so here it is! Thank you everyone for the lovely reviews last chapter!

13

Planting bombs had been a strange experience for Bells. As a child she'd always enjoyed sneaking around, getting into dark spaces and hearing conversations she wasn't supposed to hear. There was a certain thrill to it. She recalled one particularly vivid memory when she overheard a conversation between her parents. They were discussing how Isabelle had been acting out more and more lately, and how 'It just isn't the thing for a young girl!' Seven year-old Isabelle had snorted, swept her half cut-off bangs away from her forehead, placed the scissors down next to the pile of hair at her foot, and continued to draw a small garden scene on the back of the cupboard door in black permanent marker. Bells had felt the same way at the hospital, where she had seen her face stuck onto various message boards, 'MISSING' spelt out in large letters above a photo of her at her high school prom. It was, she had to admit, an unfortunate photo. However, seeing that was nothing compared to the thrill that ran through her as they passed underneath a television, and it was obviously a slow news days as the headline read 'JOKER STILL AT LARGE', switching to 'POLICE CONTINUE TO SEARCH FOR KIDNAP VICTIM ISABELLE RICHARDS', and finally, 'BATMAN SPOTTED IN NARROWS'. Bells had given a snort at that. He was in the right area, sure, but he had no hope of finding her. Not when she didn't particularly want to be found.

Bells sighed and laid back on the moth-eaten couch, swinging her feet up to rest on the pitted wooden coffee-table. Sweeping her hair out of her eyes, she idly picked at a scab on her forearm, letting the sound and colour of the television wash over her. Specs sat next to her, typing furiously on a laptop, pausing every now and then to push his glasses further up his nose. Bells leant over to look, but she couldn't understand the green letters zipping across the screen anymore than she had understood her ninth grade biology teacher when he'd attempted to explain to her the function of the endoplasmic reticulum in a cell.

'What are you doing?' she asked casually, trying to look as though she had a background in hacking and computers, which was so far from the case that the case was residing a small life-raft in the middle of the ocean, spelling out 'HELP' with orange life-jackets.

Specs paused momentarily. 'It's a complicated algorithm, you wouldn't understand.'

Bells was completely ready to appear offended at this dismissal, but realised that there was no point in pretending to look as though she knew what an algorithm was.

'Ok, then,' she said impatiently, 'what's the aim of the… algorithm.'

Specs then when on to spout all sorts of complicated mathematical nonsense, of which Bells only picked up on the words 'matrix' and 'coding', and surprisingly, 'rocket.'

'Wait, wait, wait. Backtracking just a little,' interrupted Bells, 'Did you say rocket?'

'Yes, yes. Basically, this is to work out where in Gotham we can find another military grade Norinco Type 69 RPG, which fires this type of rocket. The algorithm is searching through military documents and any other relevant databases.'

'And why do we need another Nomanco - '

'Norinco.'

'…Norinco rocket launcher, when we already have one?' Bells asked.

Specs just looked at her. 'Why not?'

Bells conceded that he had a point. She laid back on the couch again, her eyes flicking to the television, trying to ignore the annoying clicking of the keyboard beside her. The news was broadcasting Harvey Dent speaking at a press conference, gesturing and effusing and generally looking like an important person who knew what he was talking about. She frowned and turned up the volume.

'- called this press conference for two reasons,' Dent's voice rang out across the room, as he gestured and effused importantly. 'Firstly, to assure the citizens of Gotham that everything that can be done over the Joker killings is being done.' (Bells let out a little chuckle. They were so in over their heads). 'Secondly, because the Batman has offered to turn himself in.'

Bells jumped, and Specs paused in his typing.

Wait, what?

She turned the television up some more.

'Let's consider the situation: should we give in to this terrorist's demands?'

Bells watched with rapt attention as Dent began to lose control of the crowd. 'You'd rather protect an outlaw vigilante than the lives of citizens?' demanded one reporter, making what Bells thought was a rather good point.

'The night is darkest just before the dawn. And I promise you, the dawn is coming.'

Bells frowned as the fickle crowd grew quiet. She couldn't quite believe what was happening. She had felt similarly on the morning after the aforementioned wild party of Simon's, in which she had woken topless underneath the dining table, a pineapple tucked into the crook of her elbow and no memory of how it came to be there.

'So be it,' Dent turned to the police officers beside him. 'Take the Batman into custody.'

Bells stilled, watching with wide eyes. Dent turned, staring into the camera.

'I am the Batman.'

Bells' eyes widened. She flew up off of the couch, running across the room and flinging the door open.

Oh my god oh my god.

Dodging various confused cronies as she raced down the hallway, Bells came to a panting stop outside of the Joker's door. Breathlessly, she knocked. This seemed to her to be a rather good idea, when one considered that the last time she had barged in without knocking she had ended up with a hand-shaped bruise around her neck. Breathlessly, she waited.

A disgruntled 'Yes?' was heard, and Bells opened the door and hovered in the threshold, fidgeting. The Joker was hunched over his desk, looking through documents that she couldn't make out. Despite her pressing news, she hesitantly stepped forward into the room, and the Joker slowly looked up at her.

'What is it?' he asked shortly. Uh oh. Somebody was in a bad mood. How to phrase this?

'Harvey Dent is Batman,' Bells said, cutting straight to the point. 'He just announced it on TV and got arrested.'

The Joker paused. If Bells didn't know better she would say he was surprised.

'Now, that is interesting,' he drawled, drawing out the s. 'Harvey, Harvey, Harvey, what have you gotten yourself into.'

'Is it true?' Bells asked. The few times she had met Harvey hadn't really instilled the sense that he enjoyed dressing up as a bat and terrorising criminals on his nights out. Still, one never knew with these save-the-world types. The Joker let out a laugh.

'No, no, no. Harvey Dent. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.'

So it wasn't Harvey. Bells couldn't help but feel a little put out. There she was all excited about delivering important news and it wasn't even true. Bloody misleading, that's what it was. She looked at the Joker, who appeared to have sunk into a contemplative mood. His hands were steepled on the desk, bare fingers tapping against each other in an erratic rhythm. She looked at his hands, subconsciously rubbing her wrists upon which mild rope burn was still visible, remembering what those fingers had done just the day before. Her eyes darted to his mouth, covered once more in red greasepaint. Her cheeks flushed. Bells wasn't ashamed to admit that it had been a very good time, and that she hoped it wouldn't happen again. Several more times. Preferably in new and varied positions. Deciding that following that particular train of thought was not a great idea when in his presence, Bells sat on the arm of the sofa, waiting for the Joker to come to a decision.

After approximately ten seconds of waiting, Bells came to the realisation that she didn't like to wait.

'So what's the plan, boss?' she asked impatiently.

The Joker looked up, a quick grin sliding across his features, leaving as quickly as it came as if it didn't want to be on the face of a murderous psychopath one second longer than it needed to.

'They'll take Dent to county. Let's see if we can lure the Bat out of his cave for the chase,' the Joker said, a manic glee suddenly taking over his features. He got to his feet, striding purposefully over to Bells in her position on the arm of the sofa. She stilled, expectant.

The Joker paused in front of her, reaching out the grab her cheek and swiping a thumb harshly over her lips in an unusual and unexpected display of affection.

'Nice going, Bells,' he said, before leaning over and planting a wet kiss on her lips. Bells let her arms slide around his shoulders gripping the fabric of his purple trench-coat with fingers that trembled. She tilted her head to get a better angle, running her tongue over his teeth as his own assaulted her senses. Bells felt a slight tightening in her core, and swung her legs around the Joker's hips to increase the pleasant intensity of the feeling. All too soon, the Joker broke the kiss, and harshly nipped the shell of her ear as he pulled away. Disappointed, Bells let her legs swing to the ground.

'Get dressed,' the Joker gruffly intoned as he turned away from her, gathering knives from the table, 'we're going out.' Deftly slipping the knives into various hidden pockets on his person, the Joker flung open the door and stalked out into the hall. Bells got up slowly, and peered out of the door after him. He was rapping a tattoo on the walls as he walked, and in his path doors were thrown open as his men responded to the summons, pulling on coats and fishing masks out of the cupboards that lined the walls. She quickly darted down the hallway, pulling open the door to her room. Searching through the clothes strewn on the floor, she picked up her black leather bodysuit and combat boots, hurriedly pulling them on. She was almost out the door when she paused, her eyes going to the table in the corner upon which sat the gun she had killed the Italians with.

Why the fuck not. You're a criminal now, you may as well act like it.

She grabbed the gun, sliding it into a conveniently placed thigh holster, putting an extra magazine into an adjacent pocket. Feeling kind of badass, what with the leather and the lethal weapon and the questionable state of mind, she left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

Bells stared at the truck, unable to stop a grin from sliding across her face.

'Slaughter is the best medicine,' she read out, giggling. She turned to the assorted goons. 'Witty.'

Striker coloured a little. 'Thanks.'

She clambered into the back of the truck, where the Joker was waiting on a wooden crate. The goons followed, sliding the door shut behind them. Sitting in the dark, Bells crouched tensely on the floor, her finger playing over the gun strapped to her thigh. The engine of the truck roared into life.

'Fuck' was heard several times by people falling over as the truck jolted onto the road, and then heard several times again as the truck haphazardly turned a corner. Bells amused herself by imagining several lucrative and complicated schemes in which the truck driver would meet a painful and prolonged death, which would be no less than he deserved. Someone turned on a torch, and Bells gratefully found and clung on to a piece of metal protruding from the scaffolding of the truck, bracing herself on the next turn. The Joker sat undisturbed on the wooden crate, his centre of gravity infuriatingly perfect as he somehow pre-empted and swayed with the turns. His fingers were tapping against his leg, and Bells could just hear a faint humming coming from his direction. He was in a good mood.

Bells felt the truck dip, and the sound of the engine became distorted, as if they had gone underground. The Joker leapt up, pushing his way to the front and peering into the cabin of the truck. Bells followed, tottering as the truck made a vague and illegal attempt to change lanes through several other cars. They were on lower Fifth Avenue, she realised. A SWAT van was just ahead, weaving erratically through confused motorists who were yet to realise that they were definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time. The truck barrelled through them, gaining on the van and eventually scraping the rear bumper, and then hitting harder, so hard that Bells bit her tongue and felt the taste of copper seep into her mouth. The van careered wildly, and Bells could just make out panicked screams of the unfortunate men inside before the van ploughed through the dividing concrete barrier and into the river. Spitting blood out of her mouth, Bells made her way back to the rear of the truck, siting dazedly on the wooden crate the Joker had just vacated. The truck lurched, and in a flurry of imaginative expletives Bells was thrown sideways, and only succeeded in not falling off by throwing one leg over the corner of the crate and one hand finding another conveniently protruding piece of metal to cling to.

Bells watched with interest as the sliding cargo door of the truck was heaved open, emitting a high-pitched squeal, and the Joker leant out precariously as they pulled up next to a second SWAT van. Someone, Major, she thought, a somewhat new recruit, handed the Joker a machine gun, which was rather exciting. The Joker braced the gun against his torso, and opened fire on the van, peppering the side with bullets. Bells flinched at the loud noise, assuming correctly that this van held Dent. The Joker stilled, and she tilted her head, curious. She got up and, bracing herself on the side of the truck, made her way over to him, peering out of the cargo door. The Tumbler roared into her line of site, dodging oncoming traffic with delicate precision that looked out of place on such an unwieldy vehicle.

Batman?

'Is that him - ?' she asked.

'Anybody could be driving that thing,' the Joker growled. He turned to his men, who were confusedly aiming their guns at the Tumbler. 'Stay on Dent.'

He turned to Bells. 'Get me the RPG.'

Knowing better than to ask questions (like 'Which one?', or 'What is that?', or even a simple 'Where?'), Bells turned and looked into the dim interior of the truck. Each of the wooden crates had a smudged label, and after searching through each of them, she found the correct crate tucked into the back corner of the truck. Hooking her nails under the lip of the lid and gaining several splinters, Bells heaved open the box, uncomfortably aware that the Joker was probably getting impatient. Picking up the large gun-type thing, Bells turned it over to look at the smudged paint that labelled it as a 'Norinco Type 69 RPG'. She could see why Specs was trying to find another. This thing was cool. She grabbed a second rocket in case it was needed.

Tottering over to the Joker, he snatched the RPG out of her hands, lining up the van containing Dent in his cross-hairs. Bells watched as a SWAT member holding a shot-gun eyed the weapon, and shouted something indistinguishable at his colleague driving. Just as the Joker fired, the driver slammed on the brakes and crashed back into the garbage truck behind, which, Bells realised, had Specs at the wheel. With a near-miss that probably induced a heart attack in the SWAT driver, the RPG slammed into the unfortunate squad car in front of it, which exploded with a definitive bang that hurt her ears and threw Bells into the side of the truck. The SWAT van swerved through the fireball, and she could feel the intense heat of it as they passed. She shuddered with adrenalin.

'Do me up,' came the Joker's voice, and she turned and saw his hand out waiting impatiently. Fumbling clumsily with the rocket tucked under her arm, she handed it to him, disappointedly realising that his gloves were back on. He reloaded, and aimed again, this time at something that she couldn't see. She craned her head out of the door just as the Joker fired, and the rocket slammed into the back corner of the Tumbler, which had been steadily gaining on them. This time the force of the explosion threw her head into the side of the door, and the world went dark.

Bells' consciousness looked at her reluctantly, as if it would much rather make a run for it. She opened her eyes slowly with a groan. She was in the back corner of the truck, which was moving at a much more leisurely pace than it had been when she'd been knocked out. She groaned again for effect, and the Joker must have heard her because she heard his voice coming from the cabin of the truck:

'Bells, get over here.'

He sounded almost childishly excited. Bells got up slowly, putting a hand to her throbbing head. With difficulty, she climbed into the driver's cabin, wincing as she put her hand into a pool of fresh, sticky blood. She didn't want to know what had happened to Slim, the driver. Sliding herself into the passenger seat, she realised that they were now above ground, and simultaneously realised that there was a police helicopter coming down from the sky directly in front of them, silhouetted against the lights of the city.

'Uh, Joker,' she said tentatively, nodding in the helicopter's direction.

He ignored her, swinging the wheel of the truck as he reached into his coat pocket and fished out a walkie-talkie.

'Rack 'em up, rack 'em up!' he growled excitedly into it, and Bells' eyes widened as she suddenly spied two of his men on building on either side of them. They fired grappling hooks which grew taut as they connected to the opposite building, and Bells froze with expectation. With painful optimism, the helicopter dipped towards them, swinging guns around to aim at the truck. It flew straight into the metal cables. With grating, thwapping, metallic noise, the blades of the chopper were caught, flinging the body of the craft down towards the street. It hit with a crunch and rolled, once, twice, three times. Bells winced as it exploded in the biggest ball of fire she had seen yet, but she couldn't help but let out a small whoop of victory, making the Joker chuckle. The SWAT van swerved around the flaming wreckage of the chopper with a screech of abused tires.

Unexpectedly, the Joker grabbed her hand and put it on the wheel to take as he looked intently ahead.

'Boss?' she asked, struggling to keep the truck in line as the Joker reached behind her chair and pulled a machine gun onto his lap. She grinned as the Bat-pod dramatically emerged from an alley, speeding through the smoke and fire towards them, Batman hunched over the handle-bars.

The Joker shrugged resignedly. 'Guess it was him.'

The Bat-pod sped straight towards them, and Bells flinched as the Batman fired what appeared to be a harpoon at the truck. Flinching, she waited for the impact, but none came.

'He missed!' she crowed excitedly, but the grin slid off her face in much the same way as mud does in a mud-slide as lamp-posts were ripped down in their path by the cable, one after the other with an explosion of sparks.

'Shit' was all Bells had time to say before the truck lurched sickeningly as the cable caught the front wheels and suddenly the back of the truck decided it would much rather be the front of the truck and she was airborne. Time seemed to slow as she abandoned the wheel and threw her hands out in front of her, bracing herself against the wind-screen, but it wasn't enough and her head slammed into the glass as her legs came free of the seat and into the air and over her head and there was a sickening impact that elicited a sharp pain in her ribs and she could hear the Joker laughing and the glass smashed beneath her and she hit the street. For the second time that evening, everything went black.

Even more slowly and reluctantly, Bells' much-abused consciousness returned. She very, very cautiously opened her eyes, blinking at the obnoxious light from the lamp-post directly above her. Attempting to get her bearings, she lifted her head.

'Fuck!' she whimpered. The movement had produced a horrific pain, and she realised that she had probably broken some ribs. Probably had a concussion too, by the way her vision was spinning nauseatingly. She let her head hit the concrete of the street, unable to hold it up any longer. That, too, produced a painful throbbing sensation. She cautiously prodded herself, attempting to find further areas of pain. Everything seemed to be an area of pain and she spent some time freaking out before she realised that the hand she was prodding herself with was broken.

Dimly, through ringing ears, she could hear the irritating wail of several police sirens drawing nearer, and then the excited chuckle of the Joker, not too far away.

'Hit me. Come on. Hit me. Hit me.'

Please don't hit him. He's the most fun I've had in years.

An engine was roaring closer. Bells assumed it was the Bat-pod. With a screech of tires there was a loud slam and the cabin of the truck behind her rocked with the force of the impact. The Joker began to laugh manically and Bells relaxed, realising that he hadn't been injured and that Batman had hit the truck. There was a snick of a switch-blade being opened.

'Drop it.'

Bells frowned. The voice was somewhat familiar. It was Detective Gordon, she realised, and then frowned again. Hadn't Striker told her that he'd died?

'Just give me a second,' said the Joker, and he sounded not at all perturbed by his impending capture. Bells heard a gun being cocked and she closed her eyes, feeling oddly sad that her escapade into crime was coming to an end.

'We got you, you son of a bitch,' came Gordon's triumphant voice. 'Where is Isabelle Richards?'

Bells jerked a little, surprised at hearing her name.

'Who? Oh you mean Bells. She's had a grand old time.'

'Where is she?'

'Someplace you'll never get her back. She's mine, mine, mine!' the Joker's voice rose happily, and Bells realised he was referring to the state of her sanity. She huffed a little. She wasn't that far gone. But she winced when she heard the crack of a fist hitting a jaw, a small frown hovering on her forehead at the thought of the Joker being hurt by the noble Gotham police department.

Bunch of dicks.

Bells realised that they must have knocked the Joker out as she heard the sound of someone being dragged across the ground, and then the slam of a car door. She sighed. Her head was hurting. Hopefully they'd just let her sleep this out on the ground, which was beginning to feel remarkably comfortable in much the same way as concrete shouldn't be. Sadly, her pain-riddled snooze was interrupted just moments later by a sharp prod in her side, right in the broken ribs. She yelped.

'You motherfucker! That bloody hurt!' she spat at the surprised SWAT guy who had prodded her with his boot. His eyes widened.

'Gordon! Gordon I got her!'

He knelt down next to her. 'It's alright Miss Richards, he's gone, you're okay now.'

He tried to lay a soothing hand on her forehead which Bells weakly pushed away. Booted feet stepped into her line of sight, and she looked up at an incredulous Gordon. He dropped down next to her.

'There's an ambulance just pulling up,' he said worriedly, and she nodded.

'Don't worry, the Joker will never get near you again,' he continued.

Hold on. That didn't seem right.

'What?' Bells asked, trying to push herself up on her elbows. Gordon pushed her down gently.

'The Joker,' he explained patiently. 'He's going away, and you'll go into witness protection.'

'No!' cried out Bells, 'Let me see him!'

'I'm afraid that isn't a good idea.'

'You can't keep him away!' she exclaimed angrily, but Gordon misunderstood her.

'Yes we can,' he said gently. 'You'll be very safe.'

'I want to see him,' Bells spat up at him. Lot of hands were pushing her down now, and she fought against them, raging and biting.

'LET ME GO!' she screamed, kicking up at the people around her. Her fingers brushed the gun holstered on her thigh, and she manically pulled it out and aimed at Gordon. She watched vindictively as his eyes widened.

'You can't keep us apart,' she growled, but suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. Her muscles rapidly felt weak, and without her realising the gun tumbled from her hands as her vision went blurry. She glared accusingly at Gordon and then at the paramedic who had stuck a fucking needle in her, but suddenly she couldn't hold herself up and her head dropped back onto the concrete and she closed her eyes and then there was nothing.

A/N: Review please!