Disclaimer: I'm sure by now you all realize what I do and do not own. If I were making any money off the DC 'verse, would I still be posting these stories for free on the internet?

Well, yes. But probably not so many of them.

CATverse timeline...oh, just look in my profile. This is (as of the posting) the sixth story in Arc Five, following "Stay Out of the Alley" and preceding Techie's "Uncle Squishy's Sunshine Hour." (I dare you to come up with a more intriguing title.) It takes place on April 1 of whatever year that is. Math bad.

Prank War

What?

He waited a solid three minutes and twenty-seven seconds before adding another word to the thought.

…happened?

Something had happened. Something big. Something that he was not supposed to be happy about. There had been a woman involved.

It had something to do with why he felt like he'd been run over by a truck.

He stumbled out of bed, landed on his hands and knees on the hardwood floor, and realized, after a few seconds of kneeling there, that his knees were going to be heavily bruised. He got up and staggered to the door.

This wasn't right. Why…why were his legs so weak? What had been happening that he couldn't remember? Why did he feel so off balance and strange?

The girls. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be those three. They might even be behind it.

He stumbled down the hallway, leaning heavily on the wall. He could hear the girls in the kitchen, carrying on some typically giddy conversation.

This wouldn't be so bad if he could just remember what had happened. He hadn't been drinking. He felt sore all over, but he didn't think he had gotten into a fight. And if there had been drugs involved, they had been ingested without his knowledge.

So what, then?

He hadn't intended to make quite such a dramatic entrance, but there was something off about his balance. He went crashing over a previously unregarded piece of furniture, fell against the doorframe, clung to it, and pulled himself up to meet their shocked gazes with as much dignity as he could muster.

They stared.

They really stared.

If this had been a staring contest, they would have won first prize.

That could not be a good sign.

"What?" he snapped in a tone that should have been gruff, but somehow came out sounding hoarse and pained instead.

Drip, drip, drip went the milk from Al's spoon, splashing back into her cereal.

The Captain, frozen in mid-chew, didn't notice when her granola bar slipped out of its wrapper and thunked against the tile floor.

Techie stared at him over the rim of a glass she had evidently forgotten she was holding to her lips.

He shifted position, not at all comfortable with this kind of scrutiny. What could possibly be so shockingly fascinating?

"Well?"

At that, they dropped everything and ran. He was blocking their way to their rooms or the safety (safety?) of the outside world. So it was to the lab they fled, slamming the door behind them. He heard all three locks click into place.

What brought that on? He stalked over to the door and pounded on it.

"What did you do?" he demanded.

"We didn't do it!"

"Then what do you know?"

There was nothing but very conspicuous silence from the other side of the door. He banged on it again.

"Squishy?" Al said hesitantly. "Don't get mad. We…um…we've been having a little contest with Harley and the Joker. I…we forgot to stipulate that you were off limits. If you have to kill someone over this…"

"Squishykins, look down," the Captain interrupted. He did.

He didn't look up again for quite some time. This…just didn't make any sense. He couldn't…it didn't…why was he…how did this…

"Why…" he said very slowly to the empty room, "am I wearing…a dress?"

"Harley did it," Techie was quick to point out. "Harley, Harley, Harley. Not us. Harley."

"And the Joker," the Captain added. "Don't forget the Joker."

He stared at the door. Then he looked down at himself and realized that he wasn't wearing a dress, after all. He was wearing a—

A—

A hot pink cheerleader's uniform.

He was wearing…

It was pink.

A pink miniskirt.

Why? How? Why?

"I'm…going to take a shower," he said with a calm he didn't feel. "When you get ready to unlock the door, I want you to make a large pot of coffee. And don't drink it all yourselves, this time."

There was another moment of silence.

"Does that mean you're not going to kill us?"

"Oh, someone is going to die today," he snapped.

"But not us?"

"No," he decided. "I still have a use for you."

Preferably something involving a suicidal charge that would take all five of the maniacs out in one big blaze of glory.