WARNING: A particularly violent chapter follows this note. For the weak-stomached, there is a torture scene from the end of this bold print until the change in POV that you may find disturbing.

"Are you familiar with the contents of the average toolbox, Mr. Elliot?"

Hush spat on the floor of the basement, watching the glob of thick liquid land among the coats of grit lining the concrete beneath his bare feet. If he wasn't tied down to the chair with goons on every side, he'd get up and kill that kid with his own bare hands. Choke him out, probably, or maybe just beat him. Hadn't that worked for the first Joker, anyway? "Can't say I build much," he snarled.

Tim's leather jacket was spread over the little table like a tablecloth, and the toolbox sat open in front of him. He pulled out the tools, one by one, placing them in perfect alignment next to one another on the jacket. Janet watched from the side, smiling a little at her son. "Just remember why we're here, Timmy," she said. "Don't let yourself have too much fun."

Tim rolled his eyes. "I know what I'm doing, Mom," he muttered, picking up the wrench to shine it on his shirt.

He turned back to Tommy with the barest hint of a wicked grin stretching at his lips. He smacked the wrench into the palm of his left hand, the crack of flesh meeting metal ringing out with each step he took. "We're gonna play a little game, Mr. Elliot. It's called 'The Question Game'. I ask, you answer. It's simple enough." He sauntered around to the back of the chair and slid Tommy's left thumb into the wrench, gripping the cool metal tightly in his bare hands. "First question: how much did Bruce Wayne used to mean to you?"

"Everything." And he most certainly was not about to choke on the word.

"No!" A sharp forward twist of the wrench brought the harsh sound of breaking bones to Tim's ears, and he moved the wrench to the next finger as he growled out his reply. "Bruce Wayne meant nothing to you." Another finger gave under the effort of the metal and the young hands working the tool. "You tried to kill him." Then he broke another. "You tried to dishonor him." And then another. "You tried to steal his fortune from him." And then another. "And you had the gall to call yourself his friend, for God's sake!" Tommy bit back a scream, morphing the noise into something resembling a grunt as the right thumb went. "But me, I cherished Bruce Wayne." He broke the next finger. "He meant everything to me." And the next. "They say he's dead, you know." And the next. "And that just broke"—the right pinky cracked under the pressure—"my heart."

Tears streaked Tommy's face, and he was biting his lip so hard that it drew blood. Tim placed the wrench back where it had been and picked up the hammer and nails. "Next question," he said. "How much pain do you think you can endure before you break?" He pulled a chair up next to Tommy's, sitting forward so that their faces were close, close enough that Tommy could smell the strange mixture of peppermints and alcohol on Tim's breath.

Tim twisted the first nail slowly, working the point under each layer of Tommy's skin until it hit muscle and vein in his shoulder. Tommy's groans grew louder with every turn of the half-rusted metal being driven into his body. The tips of Tim's fingers were sprinkled with crimson blood as he reached for the next nail.

"I used to ask myself that question. I used to think I was tough, too, but then I learned what heartbreak means."

The next nail found its way into the right side of Tommy's abdomen. That was when he decided it didn't matter anymore if the little bastard heard him scream.

"The pain you're going through right now, it's…sort of like heartbreak. Only, you know—ten times worse."

Nail after nail dug into flesh, and Tommy's throat hurt from screaming by the time it was over and Tim was reaching down with bloodstained hands to pick up the hammer from the floor. Tommy hung his head, breathing heavily, and when he raised it again, he was met with a hammerhead smashing into his jaw.

Bone cracked under the heavy metal as Tim swung and impacted. "Question number three: just how stupid do you think I am?"

The next blow sent blood spraying from Tommy's mouth. "You think I don't know that Batman's gonna come for me?" Tim demanded, smashing Tommy's nose. "You think I don't expect him to misunderstand? The hell I don't!" Tommy cringed, expecting another hit, but it never came. Tim flung the hammer away, into the shadows concealing the rest of the room. His voice took on a softer tone as he continued. "Nobody understands. That's why I have to get rid of him. He makes it so…damn…hard…for people to see."

He returned to the tools laid out on his jacket, choosing carefully. Sitting back down in front of the bloody, beaten rogue, he reached up to pry the man's mouth open roughly, forcing a pair of pliers inside to grip one of Tommy's teeth. "Next question: how do you beg for mercy when you don't have teeth to form the words?"

Ten teeth tumbled to the floor in fifteen agonizing minutes. Each time Tommy screamed, it seemed to make the pain worse. Tim's hands were now somehow thinly coated in the blood of his victim. He threw the pliers away to join the hammer and pulled a knife from his pocket, sliding it between Tommy's lips just as he'd done to the wannabe girl so many weeks ago. "Of course, having a mouth is kind of important, too."

He made it slow, dragging the blade with precision through the thick flesh. And then he went to work on the other side, carving a ghoulish, ghastly grin into the man's cheeks before getting up to go back to the table. He kept his back turned, listening to the soft sobs of agony emanating from the pitiful creature bound to the chair behind him. He felt the tiniest twinge of something like guilt—but he choked it out quickly and picked up the drill.

"So, Mr. Elliot, you've still got a chance to beg." Tim placed the drill against Tommy's left temple. "So go ahead. Give me a good reason to let you live."

"Please…" Tommy's voice was wet with the blood that dribbled down his chin, his chest, his arms, and his legs. "P-please…"

The whine of the drill drowned out his murmured entreaty.

Droplets of crimson blood stood out, bright and wet, against the stark white paint on Tim's face. "I'm sorry," he whispered with morbid joy. "I didn't quite hear you."

He stood, discarding the dead man and the drill, and turned to his men. "Contact Black Mask," he ordered. "Tell him…tell him that we're gonna need his guns for this one. Tonight, gentlemen, we watch the Bat fall."

~B~

I knew that, if I did anything really, truly out of line, Alfred would reel me back in with a prompt reprimand and a gentlemanly frown of disapproval. I got the frown when I brought Jason back to the bunker with me, but the reprimand didn't come, which made me think that I had it almost right. All I had to do was get a smile on his face, and the situation was golden.

But, it didn't come. All wise old Alfred did was walk over to us, stand before us with his hands clasped in front of him officially, and ask, "Will you be staying longer this time, Master Jason, or should I prepare a more temporary room?"

Jason guffawed as if the elderly butler had just told him the most hilarious joke he'd ever heard and clapped him on the back. "Good old Alfred," he crowed. "I didn't realize how much I missed you."

"And I you, Master Jason, though I must admit that my hopes of your remaining here are somewhat dashed."

Jason gave a dismissive wave. "I'll give it some thought. I can't make any promises, though." He jerked his head to indicate me. "Grayson over here gives me a headache."

"Jason," I snapped, heading over to the computer terminal. "Stop wasting time with chitchat and get over here to help."

I turned away so that I wouldn't have to see his flippant nonverbal response to that and waited for him to come over. By the time he got there, I was already opening windows, showing him pages of information I'd gathered. "This is what we know so far. Tim appears to be suffering from some sort of schizophrenia, or something very much like it. Delusions, paranoia, hallucinations, dangerous behavior…"

"Suffering, huh?" Jason sneered. "I think he's enjoying it."

I glared at him, but kept on going so that I wouldn't have to find a new partner-in-not-technically-crime if I killed him for it. "He's been on and off the map for quite some time now, and every disappearance falls just after a rogue turns up dead someplace."

"You think it's him."

"Who else would it be, Jay? They were gone from their frequent haunts, dumped exactly twelve blocks from each."

"Okay…"

I hit a key on the terminal a little harder than I needed to. "Tim's lucky number is twelve."

"That's not psycho or anything."

"Stop acting so superior. You're not much better in the mental department."

If he wouldn't have gotten anything out of it, Jason probably would've just asked me to take him back to prison.

"So what's the plan, then?" he demanded.

"We take the city by storm," I told him. "Search every one of Tim's favorite places, all of Joker's old hideouts, and we don't stop until we find him. And then we bring him in." Just like a good Batman is supposed to do, I thought bitterly.

Jason opened his mouth to say something else, but the ring of my cell phone stopped us both. Without thinking, I lifted it to my ear and answered, "Hello?"

"You know, Dick, I didn't want to have to make this difficult."

"It's Tim," I hissed to Jason. Then, I turned my attention back to Tim. "What do you mean?"

"If you'd just cooperated with me, you wouldn't have had to have been the enemy here. All it would've taken was a little sacrifice…your flying…your strength, maybe…but no. You just had to get in my way, didn't you? You just couldn't accept what I was trying to do. And now, Dick…now you have to die. And I'm so disappointed in you."

"Tim. Listen to me. I know about your condition. I know that you think it's all real, but it isn't, and it's scaring you. And I feel your pain, Tim. I really do."

"I don't want your sympathy. Would I do all this if I cared about sympathy?"

I ignored the dig as best I could, trying to convince myself that it didn't hurt. "You're not well, you're not thinking right, and I need you to back down and just do what I'm asking for once. Just—just let me end this for you, Tim. Let me end it."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a while before Tim finally spoke up again, and this time his voice was thoughtful. "You really want to make it all stop, Dick?"

I swallowed and nodded. "Yes, Tim. Yes, I do."

Tim's laughter rang out, loud and clear and wild, making me flinch away from the phone. "Then meet me at Park Row, the old theater, tonight at midnight. Let the best man live!"

I could feel my face settling into a scowl as Tim hung up. I pulled the cell phone away and looked up at Jason. "Change of plans," I reported.