Steady As She Goes

Rating: T (PG-13) for mental games and mentions of murder.

Summary: They always say that big things don't happen over night, but one night of carefree revelry may have changed Harleen Quinzel's life forever.

Quick Note: This may or may not be of interest to any of you, but I thought that I should mention it. I picture The Joker as a cross between Heath Ledger's disturbingly wonderful performance, and Mark Hamill's oddly sophisticated voice acting in the older Batman cartoons. Just sort of this weird mix up of deadly intent and inappropriate joviality. Accordingly, I'm following Nolan's The Dark Knight canon the closest, but there are elements from the cartoons as well.

"But no matter what you do, you'll always feel as though you tripped and fell."

Blue eyes peaked impishly out of a black mask or, rather, black face-paint that had been carefully shaped like a mask—she hadn't been able to find one that has suited her tastes; they had all been much too gaudy. Her lips had been done in simple shades too: her bottom lip was garnet red while her upper lip was coal black, both standing out against the unnatural paleness of her whitewashed face. The blonde tresses that were usually done up in a tight bun were a masterpiece of complexity, however. She'd let her hair down, let the wild curls finally do as they pleased; here and there she had woven together a small braid with strings of beads and tinkling little bells. Overall, it looked like a riot of color and motion, so very unlike her calm and controlled professional persona.

She was immensely pleased with her outfit, too. For a while she had worried that people would mistake her for a domino despite the fact that she wasn't wearing a cloak; after all, dominoes and harlequins weren't that far off. They were both masked, mysterious characters. The harlequin was more wicked though, more devious and, well… funny. This was finally her chance to show the world that beneath her prim exterior she did have a sense of humor.

Her black-and-red-checkered skirt was split up the front, revealing black and red tights that disappeared into a pair of worn leather boots. Her womanly curves were emphasized by a tight corset; it was, for the most part, ebony but splashes of scarlet jumped out from the dark color: red accents had been added to the boning, metallic red swirls and spirals dances over the back of it, and crimson ribbons hung seductively from the lacing. Under the corset she'd decided to go with a wide-eyed fishnet shirt. The black and red diamond-patterned mesh caressed her, molding to her like a second skin.

She was very proud of her appearance, though she had been bothered by using black paint instead of a mask, at first. But she was pleased with the end result, now that she was face to face with her reflection in the mirror. Tonight, she would be a trickster, and a trickster didn't need a gaudy mask to proclaim them wicked. All the proof anyone needed would be right there, hiding in her darkly ringed eyes.

Tonight, Harleen Quinzel was determined to be a harlequin: a madcap, mystery woman at the annual Gotham City Halloween Charity Event. Prim and constrained Doctor Quinzel could stay at home; the harlequin would have a blast at the party.

She would earn the right to have let her hair down. It wasn't enough to just dress up; putting on a pretty dress only made her look different. The real fun, the real change, came from acting different. This was the only part of her evening where she was going to allow Dr. Quinzel to intrude. Working at Arkham Asylum occasionally came in handy; Harleen would base tonight's eccentricities off of her patients. A small twinge of guilt gripped her heart—she treated some seriously disturbed people, and mocking them felt a bit mean-spirited—but she quickly suppressed it. Tonight was about having fun, about being someone she could never be while within the walls of Arkham—unless she wanted to become a patient instead of a doctor.

Strengthening her resolve to enjoy the night to its fullest, she smiled a Cheshire grin at her mirror. The twisted smile was almost disturbing in its intensity, so very unlike the gentle smile of Doctor Quinzel. Throwing a wink to her wickedly grinning reflection, the harlequin turned to leave.

Her first few steps into the ballroom had been disorienting and almost overwhelming. A chaotic sea of color writhed on the dance floor, every shade imaginable flashing under the smoky and shadowed spotlights. It had taken a few minutes to adjust, but she'd quickly straightened her spine and sauntered brazenly into Dis. Tonight was about being the scene, she'd reminded herself, not observing it.

Now—as she hovered by the punchbowl, making quirky chatter with a knot of dance-weary party-goers—she couldn't help but notice how many people were dressed like The Joker. Harleen couldn't help but feel that this was in bad taste, considering he had only been taken off the streets a few days ago—his crimes were still too fresh—but a part of her understood. The Joker was imposing, terrifying but, despite his infamous notoriety, it was a bit hard not to respect him. After all, it took a truly powerful man to submerge a city like Gotham into complete chaos, as he had. The fact that he was a ravening lunatic just added intrigue to his character.

The copycats had all done rather well with the outfits, if only a bit too vibrantly; most of them managed to curl their hair into that messy green cloud the real-deal had always sported; and a select few of them had even managed to replicate his war paint—she could see so many perfectly painted smiles and delicately ringed eyes that she had to wonder if half of these copy-cats had even seen The Joker. None of the copies had perfected his chilling laughter, though; none of them, except for one lone gentleman. He stood off to the sides of the party, watching the anarchy of Halloween with a faintly amused smile.

She had noticed him after only a few minutes—it was hard not to when his costume looked so frighteningly realistic—and her eyes had wandered over to him more than a few times. He seemed content to watch the party unfold; he had moved once or twice, switching shadowy corners, but he hadn't talked to many people, as far as she knew. Perhaps he was watching only one person, pining for a dance with his sweetheart—but even as she thought that his head swiveled in her direction. Their eyes locked from across the room, his intense stare capturing her own. He cocked his head to the side, as though he saw something he couldn't quite believe, and his grin took on a sharp edge as he raised a hand and beckoned her over.

Harleen hesitated for a moment—she had promised herself that she wasn't going to spend the night hiding in the shadows like she usually did at big parties—but there was something about his heavy gaze that she couldn't deny. He had already held her attention for most of the night, what difference would a few more minutes make?

"Let me guess," she murmured after she had strolled up beside him, "you're normally a doer."

His painted lips quirked. "Now there's an interesting thought," he mused, and she couldn't help but shudder a bit at his voice—it was like broken glass tumbling down a flight of stairs: shattering, screeching, rumbling, but with the vaguest hint of a purr. His voice was off-putting and yet, at the same time, it was oddly compelling. "I am wont to do things; there's a certain amount of purity in taking action and then thinking, rather than the other way around." His smile widened a bit, and he chuckled. "I never know what I'm going to do next!"

She cocked her head to the side, almost mimicking him perfectly, but a small frown pulled at her lips. "What are you doing in a corner then?"

"Ah," he crooned gently, waving a single finger in the air, "tonight is an experiment. Loathe though I am to do it, tonight is about making plans, about—"

"Being something that you're not," Harleen interrupted with a small grin. "That's what I'm doing tonight, too."

"Well," he used a glove-clad hand to lift her chin, "I've certainly never met a cuter clown, Miss…?"

"Just a harlequin, tonight," she bit her lip, suddenly noticing how much this man, this complete stranger, towered over her. Still, he seemed harmless enough, if a bit too intimate.

He laughed then, a deep sound that shook his frame; she felt it all the way to her own toes, as though that simple hand on her chin had somehow put his rumbling laughter in her own ribcage. "A harlequin?" He dissolved into chuckling giggles. "That's perfect! Who better to keep a Joker company?"

"May I ask your name?" Harleen queried politely, then nearly growled. She was wicked tonight, she reminded herself forcefully, and there was no room for Doctor Quinzel in that wickedness!

His smile widened, nearly a full-blown grin by now. "No one before you but The Joker, my dear."

"A method actor, I see. Well, Mr.-" she faltered for a moment. It seemed wrong, somehow, to be using The Joker's name during such a nice conversation. "…Mr. J, you did very well on your outfit," she complimented, absently noting how cold her face felt once he let her go. "Almost too well, actually," a shudder ran up her spine. "These other fellas here are cheap copies, but you really bring the man to mind."

"I aim to please," he bowed mockingly. "Out of curiosity, what makes them so comparatively cheap?" His dark eyes gleamed expectantly, as though the curiosity was eating him alive.

"A lot of things, really," Harleen shrugged, the bells in her hair jingling merrily. "Some of them have the clothes right, some have the hair or the make-up, but none of them have the right combination of all three, aside from you. They've got his personality wrong, too," she added, turning a critical eye to the crowded dance floor. "They might have the right words and the right actions, but for all the wrong reasons."

"Example?" he asked, moving close beside her as she continued to study the crowd.

"The Joker's vain, and likes to talk." She jerked an open hand before her to indicate the many Jokers roaming around the room, "They don't really get it though; they seem to talk for the love of talking, but I think he talks merely because there's too much going on in his mind to keep it all confined."

"Oh?" he asked mockingly, and she could practically hear the smile in his strange voice. "And what makes you think that?"

She turned back to face the mysterious Mr. J. "I met him once—only once, but it was enough. You see, I work at the asylum he's just been taken to."

He quirked an eyebrow, "Do you now, Doctor Harlequin?"

"Well," she blushed, suddenly realizing how silly her character name sounded with her professional title, "it's really Doctor—"

"Shhh," he crooned, laying a finger against her lips. "Not tonight," he chided her gently. "The only woman in front of me is a harlequin, remember? No doctors here."

"Right," she nodded, mesmerized by the sudden seriousness in his eyes. After a moment she shook herself, finally remembering what she had been saying. "Anyway, it's policy that no one is allowed to be alone with him, and one of the doctors was running late, so I was asked to fill-in for one of his sessions." She could practically feel her eyes glazing over as she recalled that day. "It was amazing. He managed to talk for three hours straight, answering every question directed at him so artfully that none of us realized he hadn't actually said anything useful until we'd gone back to listen to the recordings." She shook her head, a sad smile tugging at her lips. "I've never met anyone who could think on his feet so quickly."

"That makes you sad," he stated, searching her eyes for something. "Why?"

"All that wasted intelligence," she shook her head, the bells ringing with every jerk. "The man is nothing short of a genius. Maybe that's what sparked his insanity in the first place." She sighed, "I just think it's a shame that he has such a vast intellect, but the only thing he turns it to is crime."

He drew closer to her, until they were only inches apart, one hand snaking out to rest on her shoulder while the other reclaimed her chin. "Come now," he chided once more, "tonight's not a night for frowning." His fingers crept up, tickling her jaw. "Besides, crime can be fun sometimes."

A little red flag raised up at the back of her mind—Mr. J sounded completely serious about his assertion—but Harleen brushed it off; he was just continuing to act his part. "How so?"

He paused, looking pleasantly surprised that she had asked. "Imagine, for a minute, that you're one of Gotham's many criminals, and you wanted to come sweeping into here," he gestured around them using his free hand, "to unleash a little mayhem. There are guards outside; how do you get past them?"

Role-playing? She used it on occasion when she worked with her patients, but never just for the fun of it. Still, something in her urged her to play along. "Use their blind-spots," she answered. "Sneaking past them would be easier and faster; an event like this has more cops partying on the inside than guarding the outside."

"And once you're in," he added, "everyone would just assume you're in costume."

"Exactly," she smiled.

His eyes began to glitter. "But let's assume that something went wrong: the guards have spotted you."

Harleen nibbled at her lower lip thoughtfully. "I suppose I'd have to bring something along with me then," she answered, really getting into character. "I don't want to kill them—too much mess and effort. Some tear-gas, maybe?"

The prosthetic scars at the corners of his lips seemed to impossibly widen his Cheshire grin. "You've got the desire for time on your side," he began to move them slowly, from side to side, "but if you're too hasty you'll find yourself locked out of the building, without any keys to let you in."

She mirrored his grin as he led them into a gentle dance. "Bombs open doors just as easily."

"True," he conceded, finally picking up the rhythm of the song, "but they're not exactly subtle."

She laughed, "Who needs subtle when you can have fun?"

"Ah," his eyes widened and he suddenly spun her away, only to whip her back again, so quickly that it left her head spinning as her back pressed against his front. One of his arms wound around her hips while the other banded her shoulders, trapping her against him as he lowered his lips to her ear. "A woman after my own heart!" he whispered gleefully.

The spinning had gone straight to her head, Harleen decided on a giggle. "I said fun, didn't I?" She laughed again, exhilarated with how free she suddenly felt. "You'll have to promise to keep that to yourself; I'd lose my job if anyone knew I could laugh at such matters."

"Your secret's safe with me, Doctor Quinzel," Mr. J murmured lowly, his breath tickling her ear.

Another red flag shot up. She hadn't given him her name, had she? There were so many bizarre things happening tonight, she decided. It should have been frightening how this stranger had managed to become so intimate with her, how he had brought out an equally strange and carefree darkness from within her with so little effort, but she was too busy enjoying the moment to be scared or concerned. "You're an enigma, Mr. J, but I think I like it." She titled her head back until it was resting against his shoulder. "I'm not a doer like you; I have to be a watcher for my job and, sometimes, I hate it. That's why I wanted to be a harlequin tonight; I wanted a chance to act out, to stand apart from those who have to have reasons for everything they do."

"She doesn't have to die at the end of this party," he purred suggestively. "Maybe The Joker wants to meet your harlequin."

She paused, tantalized by the thought of keeping the character around, like a fun little mask that she could slip on whenever the world got her down. "I think I might have met him on the streets once, Mr. J," she replied, "before he started making headlines."

His breath suddenly puffed against her throat. "And what did you think of him then?" he asked.

Harleen jerked, her hair giving a muffed jingle. Had he just pressed his lips to the side of her throat, or had she imagined that touch? "He was just a man, you know?" she responded shakily. Another touch ghosted under her jaw. "We were standing at the same crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. He seemed pretty normal; he wasn't wearing that purple suit and he didn't have his face-paint on, but the scars…" She reached a hand behind her to run over Mr. J's lips until her fingers found the rough patches of his fake scars. "I remember those scars. They didn't stand out so badly without the make-up; he just looked like he was smiling real big." Her hand continued to trail over his lips and, for a moment, she could have sworn that he nipped at her fingers.

"Maybe he was," the man behind her laughed.

"Do you think he'd like a harlequin, Mr. J?" she asked quietly. This was dangerous territory; it wasn't professional or sane to entertain thoughts of keeping around a deviant personality to introduce to a convicted criminal. Still, the thought was intriguing; would it really be fun to outsmart guards and blow up doors? It was a side of herself that she had never explored before, a wild and untamed corner of her mind that wanted nothing more than to cause trouble, to play a little after having to be calm and sweet little Doctor Quinzel for so long. What would it be like to wrap her hands around the throat of that guy at the bar that was always bugging her, and just squeeze until he turned blue? Or how about to collect the hands from the security guard at work who couldn't seem to keep them to himself? A world of dark possibilities opened below Harleen, tempting her to fall into their sweet irresponsibility.

"I think he'd love her," Mr. J purred into her ear. "But…"

"But?" she prompted. She knew she shouldn't care, that she was skating on dangerously thin ice, but she was in a thrall. Her mysterious new friend had cast some sort of spell over her, and she found it hard not to listen to him.

"A few changes are in order first," he answered as the hand around her shoulders crept up toward her face. "Adorable though your face is, it's too well made up." His fingers were suddenly playing around her eyes, trailing through the black paint that she had used to create her mask. "The Joker's gonna want something a little more off-putting to the general public." Now his fingers brushed over her lips, smearing her two-toned lipstick.

Harleen's head was spinning again. She could feel the warmth of the man behind her seeping into her back. He was all around her, wrapped around her physically and mentally. With each stroke of his fingers, with each change to her face, Harleen felt something within her shift, as though he were forcefully pulling strings that weren't meant to be pulled, all for his own amusement. Even his scent invaded her senses, a strange and heady combination of fireworks and sticky-sweet toffee.

"That's better," he rumbled once he had finished playing. "Now for a proper name," Mr. J mused. "Harlequin, harlequin," he sing-songed, putting the emphasis on different syllables each time he repeated the word.

Harleen felt the murmurs as though each were a blow to her mind, pushing Dr. Quinzel further and further away.

"Harliquin," he was crooning now, his voice following an odd melody. "That's it!" He jerked her tight against him, spinning the both of them around in little circles. "Harley Quinn," he stated importantly, once he had finally stopped moving. "That's your new name."

"Harley Quinn," she tasted the name, savoring it slowly. Absently, she noted how ironically close it was to her real name, but brushed the thought away. It was different enough. And it was for Mr. J alone; she knew he had come up with it for The Joker, but the chances of her actually introducing Harley to the infamous criminal were minuscule.

"I'm sensing a bit of doubt, here," Mr. J said suddenly, spinning her around to face him. His dark eyes searched her face, a smirk twisting his already twisted lips. "Don't let rules stand in your way, Harley," he told her firmly, his hand once more capturing her chin. "They're pointless. The only thing that matters is that The Joker wants to meet Harley Quinn." His free hand tugged on a braided strand of her hair. "Doesn't his little Harley Quinn want to meet him?"

She hesitated. "I dunno, Mr. J-"

His hands slipped behind her head, guiding her forward until their lips met in a small crash. He overpowered her, working his lips against hers until she opened her mouth for him. His kiss was overwhelming and forceful, like him, but there was something irresistible, something sweet and wicked about it. Harley soon found herself moaning low in her throat. Had she ever met a man that affected her even half as much as Mr. J?

"The Joker wants to meet his Harley Quinn," he repeated once he had broken away from her sweet lips.

Harley was about to nod her head, lost in his deep eyes and the lingering feel of his kiss, when a sudden crash sounded from behind them. She turned to the sound reflexively, a frown pulling at her lips. Commissioner Gordon was staring in their direction, shaking his head as though chasing away a bad dream and absently flicking his fingers from the drink he had dropped.

"Unfortunately," Mr. J whispered in her ear from behind, "that's my cue, sugar lips. Time for this Joker to move on."

Harley whipped around, catching his sleeve before he could go. "Will I see you again?" she asked in a rush, suddenly hating the idea of having to face the party without him.

Mr. J smiled widely, sinisterly. "I'll be looking back at you from every news report you watch and every paper you read, Harley." He pulled her hand from his sleeve, kissed her knuckles, and vanished into the crowd.

Harley didn't stay much longer after that. The party mood had fled with her baffling friend.

Harleen awoke the next morning with a headache. She had lumbered home from the party, feeling oddly deflated by the end of the evening, and had fallen straight into bed without undressing. Now, in the harsh morning light, she stared at her reflection in bewilderment and panic.

Her hair had come loose in places, leaving beads, ribbons, and bells to tangle into a mess of blonde curls and waves; it gave her a wild, almost crazed look. More disturbing, though, was her face. Before the party, she had made sure that her face was perfect: a brilliant canvass of white with dual-colored lips and a black-paint mask. What she saw now was… disconcerting, and familiar. Thin lines ran from her mask, trailing down her cheeks and temples in swirls and curves, and her lipstick had been smeared into a broad, twisted, arching smile. She looked, if she was completely honest with herself, like a female version of The Joker.

What had happened last night?

Her head throbbed as it dragged up the memory of Mr. J. Oh, god, Mr. J! What a strange and compelling man he'd been. She'd been so swept up in his world of fantasy, so taken by his thoughts that she hadn't even offered a protest when he kissed her. It wasn't like her at all to kiss a man she didn't know.

Then again, it was probably a good thing they hadn't exchanged their real names—or had they? She seemed to have a fuzzy memory of him calling her Doctor Quinzel, or maybe that had merely been a dream—because now, away from the excitement and experimentation of the party, away from the wild abandon of Halloween, Harleen had a feeling that Mr. J was a dangerous man to be around. Maybe not as dangerous as the real Joker, but… What had he done to her, she wondered, her head throbbing viciously as memories from the night before began to flood her. Mr. J had slipped inside her mind effortlessly, making her think and feel things that she had never encountered before. She had indulged in twisted games of fantasy, imagining that she was a criminal, and she had certainly thought a few violent things about people that annoyed her. Somehow, Mr. J had blasted through all the politeness and self-control that Harleen possessed, and had woken something dark and vicious within her, something he had named Harley Quinn.

With a shiver, Harleen backed away from the mirror and turned the shower on. She had wanted one night of wicked fun, but now that she was staring at the consequences all she wanted to do was wash it away. Harley Quinn might have been an interesting match for The Joker, she thought as she stepped into the shower, but Doctor Harleen Quinzel had no room for the warped character in her life.

An hour later found Harleen, freshly scrubbed and nursing a steaming cup of coffee in her pajamas, in front of the television, glued to the news. Her headache, which had eased slightly under the hot spray of water, was back with a vengeance as she stared at the madly grinning face that was splashed across the screen. The Joker had escaped from Arkham last night. She was lucky she'd only run into the mentally warping Mr. J at the party, Harleen decided with a shudder, rather than the violently homicidal Joker. She would have to be extra careful until he was recaptured; who knew what The Joker might do to retaliate against the employees of Arkham?

And with that sobering reality facing her, Harleen put all thoughts of Harley Quinn and the mysterious Mr. J from her thoughts.

It only took a handful of weeks before the Gotham police and Batman managed to get The Joker back into custody. They had brought him straight to Arkham, although Harleen had a feeling that this had less to do with the fact that he was clearly insane, and more to do with the fact that he had blown up their station the last time they'd had him locked up.

Normally, she would have breathed a little easier knowing that the madman was no longer at large, but… well, knowing he was in the same building she worked at wasn't exactly comforting. He'd only been back for a few days, and already The Joker was causing trouble. His case had been re-assigned so many time that they were running out of doctors who were able or willing to treat him.

It wasn't long before the buck was passed to her. Harleen had been a bit shaken by the news at first—she was a fairly inexperienced doctor, and her patients thus far had all been relatively harmless—and she wasn't sure if she was ready to face such a large challenge. True, she had filled-in during one of his previous sessions, but there had been two other doctors present and Harleen hadn't been asked to do anything other than sit in the room and listen. Now she was being asked to run his sessions on her own, with only a few guards for security. Honestly, she had wanted to refuse his case—he was way out of her league—but the brass at the top of Arkham were obviously getting desperate. It was becoming painfully obvious that they didn't have the resources or the intelligence to handle someone like The Joker; they were just throwing fodder at him, hoping he would tire out. Refusing an order sent from that high up, when every one was so clearly panicked about the whole situation, would have cost Harleen her job, so she had held her tongue. Gotham was still too deep in its rotten economic situation for her to risk losing her only source of income.

So, instead, she was risking her life.

No, she shook her head forcefully. The Joker hadn't killed any of his doctor's yet, only his guards. With that less-than-comforting thought in mind, Harleen made her way to her first real meeting with the man who called himself The Joker.

The observation room that this first session was being held in was bleak. Sterile, white tiles spread over the floor and walls, broken only by misplaced motivational posters and two-way mirrors. A heavy, metal table sat in the middle of the room, bolted to the floor, along with a couple of chairs. Several surveillance cameras and tape recorders hid in the corners of the room, as well as four burly guards who did nothing to make her feel at ease. Harleen much preferred interacting with patients in her office, a familiar and comforting space, but that was out of the question with a case as extreme as The Joker's.

And there, sitting behind the table that she was so hesitantly approaching, was the very man that had everyone so on edge. The Joker looked exactly how she remembered him from last time: he seemed almost normal in his Arkham issued uniform, his dingy-green hair curled around his head chaotically, and his paint-free face was twisted into a smile, proudly showing off his scars. He lounged in his uncomfortable chair as he studied her with those darkly penetrating eyes. Harleen couldn't help but shudder under than intense focus.

"Scared of clowns, Doc?" The Joker asked, not missing a single gesture that she made.

Harleen set her briefcase beneath her chair and sat down. "Most people find a full-grown man in white make-up somewhat disturbing," she replied calmly, smoothing out her skirt. "But then, I imagine that's why you wear it."

"But I'm not right now," he pointed out, licking his lips. "It's the scars, isn't it? You find them hard to look at."

She sighed. "We're not starting this relationship out properly. If-"

"You're absolutely right," he replied, cutting her off. "You're being much too boring for this to go well." His dark gaze drilled into her, looking… expectant.

Something twitched at the back of her mind, and a sudden image of Mr. J flashed through her thoughts. The Joker didn't respond well to doctors, so maybe Mr. J had been right, maybe The Joker needed to meet Harley—NO! She shook her head violently. She hadn't thought of Mr. J or the party since the morning she had woken up in smeared face-paint. She couldn't afford to think of him now, when someone like The Joker could clearly take advantage of the peculiar thoughts Mr. J put in her mind.

She shook her head a final time, and looked back to The Joker. She ignored how familiar and intimate his gaze seemed to become. "Let's start over," she suggested, desperately clinging to her calm, professional voice. "My name is-"

"You can't keep me in here forever," he warned, cutting her off once more. "I'll take my freedom back eventually."

"I highly doubt that," she sighed, already beginning to feel weary from working with him, "seeing as you're in such an extensively guarded area. And, even if you did manage to get past the guards, you'd still need a set of keys to get out."

"Bombs open doors just as easily," he crooned lazily.

She started violently, protestations leaping to her lips as she heard the familiar words. Anything she thought to say died on her tongue though, and the only thing that came out was a strangled, "Mr. J?"

He smiled mockingly. "Harley Quinn?"

A/N: So… Happy Halloween? I figured I would sink my teeth into something new as a treat for the holiday. This has nothing to do with the fact that I've been re-watching Batman Beyond lately; nope, nothing whatsoever. I hope you all like it!

This story stands pretty well on its own, in my opinion, but I might write a continuation in the future.

Please Review!

Disclaimer: The line, "Joker's vain, and likes to talk," was taken straight out of the Batman Beyond: Return of the Joker movie. The title of the story was taken from the Raconteurs song of the same name. And, finally, I do not own anything recognizable as having come from any of the many incarnations of Batman.