Epilogue

The world was consisted of a heavy hazy mist, of a shadowy grey. There was no light she could find, no color she could see, everything was bleak, worse blank. Empty. As if there was no meaning left. Leaving the manor, she drove to the city center through the drizzle like in a lucid dream. She still felt calm, but she was no longer alarmed. Calmness was lethargic, but also soothing. Pain felt indifferent, as if it was happening to someone else.

She took another big sip from the bottle. The fierce amber liquid burned her throat. She'd missed it, not the burning, but the soothing feeling. God, why she'd given up drinking anyway? Such a fool she was, playing the good girl, trying to be someone else. This was what she had, what she'd always had. Taking another sip from the scotch, she started laughing, big maniac laughter coming out of her depths. It was funny, really funny; ironic, acerbic, cruel but still funny. She stopped and looked up at the building looming in front of her.

It was oddly familiar but it took her a few seconds to recognize it. When she did, she let out another loud laughter. How funny her feet had carried her to this place unconsciously. Her phone started squalled but even without looking at the screen, she took it out and threw it away over her shoulders. She didn't want to talk to her father, and who else could it be than Jason calling her now? Who else she had other than a father who had never wanted her at the first place… The thought made her laugh even harder, as she doubled down with the force of her laughter. Lifting her head, she took another big gulp from the bottle and staggered toward her office's door.

Her unconsciousness must be really playing games with her, she decided as she stepped inside. She straightened up, closing the door with her foot, looking around. Then it hit her, hard. Harder than she had thought, harder than she would have expected. Her laughter turned to stone in her stomach. Everything she had worked for was around her, gazing at her from every corner, from every inch. It wasn't important that she had barely used it, but she had built it with her own blood, sweat, and tears. Every inch of this room had her struggles, her trials, her strife. It was her effort that had made the place hers. She had earned it, clawed her way to reach her, to build this, to be part of something bigger—better than her. Tears broke down like a dam, spilling over her cheeks like a flood, and she was utterly helpless to stop them. She didn't even want to. The bottle slipped out of her fingers as her eyes caught her PI license at the wall.

She walked to it, and took it from the wall, recalling the way she felt hanging it there; the pride, the joy, she felt earning it, earning something the first time she had deserved. Her legs gave away and she crumbled down on the ground like how her life had crumbled down. The life she had built. Jason was right, he had been always right. Everything she had was tied to Bruce, everything. Yes, she had built a life for herself here, something real. It was no house of cards, it was no lie, but Bruce was her foundation, and when he took back, everything still fell down. How cruel was that!

How cruel he was! And how stupid she was!

She lifted her neck and looked at the license in her hands. Repulsion churned in her stomach as hatred fired through her veins like a fire. She hit the license on the ground until the frame broke and glass shattered around her, but she didn't stop there, she kept hitting it at the hard floor, each blow harder than before, howling wails pouring out of her chest, tears running over her face, she kept hitting it until there was nothing in the world but breaking that thing. It must be broken, like how her life had been broken, like how she was broken, that thing had to be broken, too. It was only fitting.

It was only then she did understand what he took away from her. It wasn't only his love. No, it was everything, everything she had worked for, everything she held dear to her heart. The life she had built was broken too, like the frame in her hands, shattered into million pieces. He hadn't only chosen Gotham over her, but stole Gotham from her, too. She couldn't stay here, and continued to live. No. She had to leave, stayed hidden in some remote places in the middle of nowhere so Gotham could be safe.

A heart wrenching scream erupted out of her as her hands tore apart the license to the little pieces. She threw them over the floor, then getting up on her feet, she started tearing apart the office. She tore apart the IKEA furniture she had once carefully assembled with Rory and her father, kicked down the couch at the corner, pulled down the shades at the windows, hit the stores at the walls. If her life was really broken, let her truly break it down.

Standing in the middle of her furious storm, panting heavily, she looked at the wrecked thing satisfied. But still something was missing, it was satisfying seeing it like this, but she wasn't satisfied, not yet. She knew what was missing. She wanted Bruce to feel it, feel what she was feeling, the loss. Helplessly watching as the world you knew slipping through your grip and you couldn't do anything to hinder it. Being truly, utterly helpless about it. He thought he knew it, let's prove it. A sinister smile came over her lips. She would return the favor then. She knelt and took a piece of shattered glass from the floor.

She was right. He cannot. He was struck in the past, addicted to misery. His parents had died, and he blamed himself. The love of his life had died, and he blamed himself. This time she was going to give him something to blame himself for the rest of his life, make him truly a tragic hero, something he would never forget again.

Bowing her head, she raised her hand, turning her palm upside, then slowly, deeply breathing in, closed her eyes, bringing the sharp end of the glass nearer to her hand. As the tip entered in her flesh, and her blood started spilling, the landline suddenly squalled in the silence of the thrown-off office. Her eyes skidded to her left side at the floor, where she had thrown it down off the desk, half surprised to see it was still working, half surprised of the timing. No matter. She was done here. She moved her hand, cutting a bit deeper, a bit further. Blood started gushing out faster, her eyes tightly closed, the phone still ringing sullenly.

It stopped as sudden as it started, then voicemail picked up, Rory's voice encouraging to the caller to leave a message. When it finished, though, it was the same voice continued. "Valerie, where are you?" he talked fast, "I've been trying to reach you," he went on. Her hand stopping, her eyes jerked open. It was Rory who had called her before, not Jason as she had thought. But why Rory had called her? She knew the younger man had decided to stay after his part with Gordon in the City Hall as Gordon had offered him a job to be a consultant detective. She was glad for him, at least one of them had his happy ending. "If you're there, answer it. It's urgent."

She looked at the glass and blood over her wrist through the hazy mist of alcohol, and monstrous revengeful feelings she had in her mind started dissolving slowly. She threw off the glass away, and wrapped her other hand over her wrist tightly, and picked up the line, bringing it between her cheek and shoulder. Blood, there was blood everywhere, still sputtering out of the cut in her vein. "Rory—" she mumbled out, tightening her fingers, "What's it?"

"Open the news," he only said in return, as she slowly recognized the sirens outside. Her heart started beating fast, as a new dread gripped her. The last time she heard this much police sirens it had been that night. After that night, the disturbance at the streets each night, but it was different, she knew even before she opened TV.

Silently, she crawled on the floor to find the remote control at the TV at the wall, and turned it on, then at GNN she saw the breaking news. She stared at the screen stupidly, even the blood over her wrist forgotten. "At eleven past three a group of Unheards attacked at the Arkham Asylum," the host of the evening news broke the news, "The details are still unknown, but we have incoming reports from very trustworthy sources indicate that the Joker is escaped."

She gave out a shaking breath. "It's true," Rory said from the other side, "I'm with Gordon. They had it confirmed. I already talked to Bruce. He's dropped Caldwell into the pit of his. He's returning to the city. He wants you to in the cave. Stay put. I'm coming to take you."

She smiled bitterly. "I'm no one of importance," she snapped, trying to find a piece of clothing to wrap her damaged wrist, "I have no importance to the Joker." She really tried her voice sound indifferent but failed. She saw a cleaning patch at the floor and grabbed. It was shameful, what she almost had done. She was crazy, they'd finally driven her crazy. It wasn't the first time she had thought of it, during the time she was in the treatment, once a while, she had thought of killing herself, but each time she had never gathered enough courage to do it. Now, she almost did it to make Bruce feel bad about his decision, make him regret, make him suffer. Something he would never forget nor did forgive himself. She should leave, perhaps Bruce was right. Gotham hadn't come good to her. "I'm leaving tomorrow anyway," she said after a second, pushing the shame with indifference, "it isn't my problem."

Brief silence, something she recognized all too well. Then suddenly it hit her. If the Joker had escaped, neither Rory would have become this agitated, nor Bruce would want her back in the cave. It had passed three days since the day they had spoken in the cave and Bruce was adamant to see her away in a record time. Her secret flight had arranged for tomorrow, after his return from Bhutan, her documents prepared. And Cameron Reese officially declared dead, she was really no importance to the Joker. Why he would want her back in the cave now? For all she knew, if the Joker had escaped, Bruce would want her nowhere close to him. He couldn't tolerate any distraction like her surely. "What's wrong," she demanded tersely, "What happened?"

"We—we heard some reports," Rory started hesitantly, "Some says his therapist is involved too. A guard saw her leaving with the Joker."

She stopped breathing as if something clawed at her throat. "Jason—" she forced out, "Did you—did you reach him?" she asked, dread making her stomach turn cold, understanding slowly dawning on her. Jason—he had gone to see the doctor tonight to say goodbye before they left tomorrow.

Again silence. Her tears started falling again. "No…" she mumbled out.

"We don't know for sure—" Jason said hastily, "He might be somewhere else."

She stood up with trembling legs, pulling her hand away from her wrist. Blood poured out of her with a sudden gush. "No!" she barked out, "No! If you weren't sure, you wouldn't call me. What do you have? Tell me. Tell me now, goddammit!"

"The guard says there's a man gagged with them too," Rory said back, admitting the defeat, "His description is fitting to Jason's."

The phone dropped out of her hand. She stood in the middle of her mess for a second, cast off stone, as if someone just stabbed a knife into her heart. Jason was kidnapped by the Joker. Her father was taken by that psychopath. The thought swirled around in her mind, again and again, before she finally came to herself, and started running out of her office.

When she was back in the cave hours later, Bruce was already there. Both men turned and looked at her, surprised clear in their face. With her torn, bloody clothes and tear-stained face, she knew she was a sight, but she didn't care. Bruce started walking toward her, a deep scowl over his eyebrows. "What happened to you?" he asked, looking at her tightly, careful eyes taking her appearance in stride.

She didn't fucking care. She walked in on him, and looked at him back, her eyes firing, her blood burning. She was burning… with every second she didn't know of her father, she was burning. "Where is my father?" she cried out, "Where is he?"

"Valerie—" He tried to reach her, but she took a step back.

"Don't touch me!" she yelled, all the fury she had felt, enough to kill herself just to make him suffer coming back to her at once, like a monstrous wave washing over her, drowning her in, "This's your fault," she sneered with venom, her eyes riveted on his, and that moment she really hated him, for his self-righteousness, for his selfless sacrificing nature, for all the things he stood for. She raised her chin up. "If something happens to my father," she said, still staring at him, "I'll kill him," she swore, meaning it with all of her being. She'd tried to play it in his way, with his rule, but she understood now it would never work, it would never end. "Don't stay on my way, Bruce Wayne," she warned the last time before she turned and walked away.

This time she didn't look back.

To Be Continued

Hah, things always become worse for our heroes, don't they? But this was always the plan, too, Joker escaping, taking Jason captive, and driving a further wedge between Bruce and Valerie as she almost lost her shit and killed herself to get back at Bruce. Reports always indicate that most suicides have a punishment underneath and Valerie's vulnerability, as her life basically is an extension of Bruce's, shakes her foundations more than losing his love. It's rather sad when you think about it.

My first plan was to add also a scene in the future, but I decided to move it to the last book. So the next book will have two timelines, first one will start after Bruce escaped from the pit like in the last movie(I'll stay true to the canon as much as I could, but there will some changes) and another to explain how Bruce and Valerie come to the third movie's timeline. After I saw TDKR, like many of us, I wondered how Bruce returned to Gotham penniless after the pit, so the book will cover that part, too. Actually, the whole plot of the last book was directly inspired by it.

Now, I don't know exactly when I'll be able to start the last book, but I'll be at it as soon as I can. Hope you liked this book, and will be there with me at the last one.

Until then, be well.