No, Harley didn't die, I wouldnt kill off a canon character unless they died, you know...canon-ly. I was joshin'.

This one is more as development than actual action, (that's next chapter), but I had fun writing it so...enjoy.

"I really don't feel good," I whined, hugging the tan trench coat tighter to myself. "I seriously may puke all over this table."

The policeman smiled sadly at me.

"Do you want another cup then?"

They had been giving me cups of ginger ale to settle my stomach, though it wasn't helping. They even went as far as to send some errand boy to fetch some REAL ginger ale, with the ginger still in it. It burned my tongue when I drank it. I found it actually really comforting and soothing. But my stomach still churned and growled uncomfortably.

"No," I said in a defeated voice, "I've had enough, thank you." I really, really wanted to just hurl and get it over with. I've had a few close calls where Id run into their bathroom and sat in front of the toilet on the floor, not even caring about the sanitation, or lack thereof, of the toilet itself. I just wanted to expel whatever was making my stomach want to die. I tired sticking my finger down my throat but all I did was gag. I never could make myself puke.

"Can we start from the beginning?" the cop asked me quietly, almost painfully. I had told them the story at least 30 times in the last 4 hours, yet they continued to ask me the same questions over and over, as if they thought they could glean some hidden, tiny but important detail from my story. I simply couldn't tell them anything new anymore. I could repeat my entire story word for word now each time. The pleading tone in his accented voice wasn't bringing up any latent information, if that's what he was after.

"Right." I sighed and sank deeper into the blanket the nice cop had given me some time before, when I complained about the cold. These guys weren't dumb. They were highly trained, and highly organized people who were genuinely concerned about doing a thorough job. I really understood what they were trying to do...but it didn't stop the whine of irritation that came into my voice when they asked me the same question I had heard a dozen times before.

"No," I said firmly, "there wasn't anything around me that gave me any clue whatsoever about my location. It looked like a party on the inside, with balloons, and no, I couldn't read the tanks, and yes, they were generic balloons with no logos. The jars of greasepaint had no labels either. It was a generic warehouse with broken glass windows, of which the patterns I can't remember in the slightest. They could have even been whole, for all I know. There was no indication of an address or anything. No numbers. No words written anywhere. Just piles of stuffed animals and a rack of costumes, again with no labels."

They took blood samples to pinpoint exactly which brand of pills I had taken. Apparently, the differing brands had slightly altered ratios of Joker gas and other psychedelic drugs. No kidding, I saw rainbows on everything I had laid my eyes on. Humorous rainbows.

The cop rubbed at the bridge of his nose wearily, either making a show of being as tired as me to gain some sympathy and likewise, any information I hadn't told them yet, or because he too, was genuinely exhausted. Though, I'd like to think that I had the more exhausting night, and I wasn't complaining about it yet. I was trying to be a trooper.

"So, he didn't hurt you? He didn't touch you in anyway?"

"Aside from breaking my face?"

He gave me a silent yet significant look. I felt another wave of nausea, this time from the implication. I shook my head in horror. Already, horrible images were invading my mind and I was so close to finally just tossing my lunch...

"And the girl clown you saw? Harley? Did she take off her mask at any point?"

"No."

"She didn't mention any places? Any names? Any...intent of action?"

"No, no and no."

This went on for another hour and a half, and finally, the cop, Leon as he asked me to call him, Detective Leon, stood up and stretched.

"Alright," he said in a final tone, "I think we have all the information you can give us then." I tipped my head back and heaved an obvious sigh. "if there's anything you remember later, any little, insignificant thing at all, please give us a c ---"

He didn't get to finish. The door to the "interrogation room" burst open, and a younger looking cop with blond hair and serious eyes swept in. He looked at me for a fraction of a second, then whispered something in Detective Leon's ear. Leon's face fell, though when the blond cop backed off, he had composed his face into an emotionless mask. My heart sank.

"Ah, it would appear that the uh...the suspect has...ah, been misplaced." He spoke carefully, and slowly, and delicately.

"Misplaced," I echoed tonelessly, "the suspect has been misplaced." He spoke of the Joker like he was the lost remote to the television.

"It would be advisable if, ah, you stay in our custody for the time being until we, ah, clear this situation up."

"The Joker is officially out of your control," I said, still deadpan, "and he's currently running through the streets." I gave Leon a hard look. "Are you kidding me? I demand to be put into the witness protection program."

000

I had a dream later. I dreamt that I was back in the Joker's car, only it wasn't just a car anymore; it was the Joker himself, he had just turned into the car. Inexplicable dream logic.

I was strapped into the front seat, and I couldn't undo my seatbelt. I tried, but the button kept moving to various parts of the buckle, and I couldn't pinpoint exactly where it was.

Batman was driving. Or, a weird, dream-logic Batman with a long green tongue. I turned to see him grinning like a crazed lunatic at me, with his tongue hanging out and slithering almost, like the snakes I thought I saw that were actually Joker's hair. He was driving psychotically, twisting and turning, sliding the car all over the streets and each turn, I thought the car would just drift off the road and into the walls or guardrails, where I somehow knew that it would explode into a fireball and I'd die.

The worst part was that the road we were on was kind of hilly, and he sped up every time he was going up the hill, and then the car would shoot up into the air and my stomach would drop like I was on a rollercoaster, dozens of feet over the night-time, yellow, glowing city. We would hang in the air for a second and I contemplated by impending doom. I thought each impact was going to kill me, but the car just landed and continued driving over more hills.

And I was getting sicker. In fact, just looking at dream-Batman made me more nauseous by the second. I knew that it was HIM who was somehow making me feel like this, and I had to get out of the car or I'd keep being sick.

I woke up when I had rolled off the bench I had dozed off on and hit the floor, hard. I saw the faces of concerned policemen behind their desks rise to help me, but I just got up and ran into the bathroom, where I puked up an old sandwich and a few cups of ginger ale.

0000

The next night I was on my own. Leon had offered to drive me home, which I excepted when I realized that I couldn't live at the station until the Joker was caught again.

"We'll, of course, be patrolling the area 24/7, and I'll even park in the driveway behind the complex for the next few nights. If you need help, we'll set up an alarm system, okay? You flicker the lights and I'll be the first one up there to get you. You understand?"

I nodded miserably.

Leon stopped the car in front of my apartments. As I slid out, he leaned back and whispered to me.

"Truth is," he said, "I'd expect that we're not the only one's who'll be watching for your safety. I'll bet my badge that you'll have the Bat hovering around your window for a while to come. If there's any one you'd want to be on the lookout, it'd be him." He winked at me and then backed into my driveway, while I stepped up into the cheerful hallway of my apartment.

I lived on the second floor, no too far off the ground that I could potentially jump from the fire escape, and if I tuck and roll, I may make it without shattering both kneecaps.

When I got inside my own kitchen, breathing in the faint smells of incense and plaster (from my new door), and the dust, and that particular scent you create just by living in the same place long enough, made me feel more vulnerable than before. My little niche in Gotham had been violated, violently (haha) and there was literally no place to go.

My only comfort was the police cruiser below, and then, when I passed my window, the dark, still silhouette on the building next door's fire escape that was unmistakably Batman himself. He was gone in a flash of course, even before I leaned out the window to get a better look, but I had no doubt at all that he'd let me see him, intentionally, just for peace of mind if nothing else.

I took a shower, and was in my jammies and asleep in just 15 minutes.