The sound of howling, echoing laughter makes my stomach twist and churn; I can feel his eyes upon me. I struggle and shake, rustle and fight... but I can do nothing.

I'm trapped...

... I'm trapped...

No, Dick. You're never trapped—there is always a way out. Always. Remember what Bruce taught you. Whatever you do, keep that maniac talking.

"Is this your idea of some twisted little game?" I shout into the open air, not knowing if the clown is present; the maniac put that damned covering back over my head after I had witnessed his "astonishing" renovations. There is no answer, only a subtle creak that penetrates the atmosphere of the room—then comes a humming, which is slow and everlasting; it is a tune. He's here, that's for sure; he's just too preoccupied to answer me. I believe that it is time for me to attract his attention. "Heh, I guess that's what you should expect from a guy who can't even get his own hyenas to cackle. Don't you remember how you got those scars? From the time that they snapped at you?"

That seems to do the trick; the floor creaks and weight shifts from end-to-end as he motions toward me. He stops.

"That wasn't funny."

Then, I feel pain as the ball of his foot connects to my jaw and my head is sent spiralling towards the floor. My face bounces from the pavement—hard—and the covering over my head becomes damp as blood and saliva surely explode from my mouth and nostrils. The beating isn't over yet, however, as I feel his hands on me, digging into the whole of my scalp. Next, he tosses me across the room and I am sent colliding into the back of a wall, which causes me to cry out in response.

"Ugh, this was a bad idea," I breathe, trying to regain composure. Now I remember why I gave up the banter. I look up and see a faint visage hovering over me—lucky me.

"You've been a very bad boy," he coos, waggling his finger at me. He's holding something in his hand—I recognize immediately that it is a crowbar. "Seems that Uncle Joker is gonna have to teach you some respect. Prepare yourself for a severe spanking, young man.. heh heh hah hah ha... because this is going to hurt you a lot more than it will ever hurt me."

He cackles, raising the weapon above his head; in an instant, it is brought down upon me. Everything turns to black.

The First Bank of Jump City is a haze of drifting smoke. Scattered across the floor is a plethora of broken bullet shells, damaged currency, and unconscious bodies. All, except for one.

Frankie crawls along the floor, his face a pool of sweat. His eyes dart feverishly, his mind a jumbled mess of fear and uncertainty; he checks every dark crevice, every abandoned surface, every random area—it is gone, isn't it? Or is it here? Where was it! Up, down, beneath the floor, in the ceilings?! It was too much, too much at once... too much at once...

...everybody was down. Were they dead? Are they still breathing? Should he check to make sure? No, that would be too risky, for it could still be out there somewhere watching, listening, and hearing. If he did not check on the guys, what would be the best possible recourse? Should he stay like this—crawling like a baby that was barely nearing its first birthday—or should he make a run for it, towards the exit? It was only a few feet away and, with the help of adrenaline, he should get an extra burst of speed. If I get out, I'm home free, he thinks.

Thus, Frankie resolves to flee. The soles of his shoes tightly grip the porcelain tile of the floor, his hands lock into roughened fists, and finally he explodes from the floor in a burst of raw speed. He's close—this is a fact, as he can see the surroundings of the outside world through the blurry edges of vision that are his eyes—and can taste freedom at the base of his lips. He's going to live! He's going to...

WHIP!

... die. Suddenly, a line catches at the base of his feet and the resulting resistance sends Frankie slamming to the floor in response. Then, the line begins to retract, dragging the robber back toward the interior of the building, back towards the depths of Hell. He struggles, clawing the floor with all of his might in an attempt to push himself forward; the maneuver does not work. Fear engulfing him, Frankie resolves to pull out his sidearm and shoot into the darkness, hopefully destroying the creature that owned the depths of the shadows. Flash after flash of light illuminates the room as he fires, wasting each and every bullet in possession—there is nobody there, no presence to identify.

There is only a voice.

"Bullets don't harm me," the darkness says. The voice echoes across the whole of the building, sending chills down the spine of the lone bank robber. If bullets won't harm it, what will?

Frankie's thoughts are cut short, however, as pain reverberates throughout his entire body as overwhelming pressure is placed onto the whole of his right hand; the pressure is so great that the bones within his fingers break, resulting in the man releasing a blood-curdling shriek. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

As if the pain at hand wasn't enough, his entire body is now rising, being lifted from the floor by the neck. Frankie gurgles, attempting to breathe under the pressure of the towering behemoth that has consumed him in its grasp. His eyes shift, looking—into the endless slits of white that are the creature's eyes, into the endless pool of nothingness.

"Hello, Frankie," the Batman growls, face twisted into an terrifying gaze, "I believe it's time that you and I had a little talk."


A/N: Hello, everyone. I wanted to apologize for the inconsistent updates as of late. I've been trying, I really haveit is just that things have been catching up with me as of late. So, in the meantime, try to bear with me as I try to get things together/settled. Thanks for your patience and thanks for reading!

—TGS