The End

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"I can't believe we're going to die," he said, staring at the floor. His hands were across his chest, fingers red and raw and bloodied.

"Does it matter?," I asked. "We die, either way. Whether you believe it or not."

"We should have - I should have seen this coming. How could I not? Of course The Joker would leave us to die..."

"I would have done the same thing - had I been given the chance."

"I probably would've, too," he admitted. "But, I, at least, would have left some sort of clue for Batman to find my victims... That way, if you two had died, it would have been The Bat's fault!"

"Always shirking the blame to others, Edward... But, death won't care whose fault it was."

His eyes were red, too - like his hands. Red and stained and tainted and poisoned with worry and regret and hope and all those sins - everything but acceptance. What an insult to Death. "What do you mean?," he asked. Even his voice shook. Fear. Fear all over.

"Don't you read books sometimes? Intriguing, wonderful books? Don't you just drag your eyes across those pages, murdering each word in your mind, eating the story and the people alive, forging through it all until... 'The End'. And, then your mind stops working and you've killed everything, and, oh... Then you know that the book is gone forever. That there is nothing else left in it because you've slaughtered it. Slaughtered it all. You've killed the kids and burned the homes and stabbed the men and beheaded the women and mutilated the animals... And, all you've got left is 'The End'. It's an empty feeling, isn't it, Edward? But, that's where we are. 'The End.'"

"You're saying life is a book?" He was trying to sound condescending. It didn't work. He was breaking; I knew he was breaking. It was so very easy to see. He was never made for this sort of situation: he was too impatient. In his mind, he had no time to waste. Ever. Never a second to spare. No time to wait. Impatient. Even for his own death.

"Of course it is. We're born... Most books skip that part. That's why we never remember it. We only remember the bits that are written; that's all our author needs us to remember. We're introduced to the world, and our character develops. Pretty little bits of imagery are thrown in. Sometimes a purpose, sometimes none... Somewhere along the way, we discover a plot; but, then again, perhaps we don't. Not all stories have plots. All do have one thing in common, though: everyone dies in the end."

He shook his head. "That isn't true. Not everyone dies."

"No one lives forever. Any author who fails to mention that is a liar."

"I'm not ready to die, Crane," he whispered, pained. Finally, he was letting the weakness through.

"Few ever are. The fear of Death is too great. No one truly appreciates all that Death offers."

"Offers..?" A light. There, in his eyes.

"Death is freedom. Bliss. Everlasting. All that life is not. Death does not judge you based on acts, or looks, or thoughts... Just look around you, Edward. When all else has abandoned you, Death is still here."

His red eyes gleamed even as they darkened. The blood on his fingers dripped a trail along the vault's floor - a line of crimson from me to the door.

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Boom.