Author's Notes:Special thanks to Twilight Scribe for beta-ing this story. Reviews (Postive or Negative) are very much appreciated. If you could tell me what's wrong with my writing, I'd be more than happy to try and improve.

This is loosely based on the Dark Knight. Their are differences. Like the Joker having bleached skin. I tried to make Harley as close to the classic as possible.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel—that used to be her name. Now she was just Harley. After joining the Joker's circus, her old name didn't seem fitting anymore. It was a whole new experience, hanging out with criminals. She was just starting to get a feel for the exciting lifestyle. But ironically, she often found herself bored out of her mind.

She lay on the Joker's bed—as he had made clear it was his—moving her arms and legs as if making an imaginary snow angel. The Joker was slouched over his desk, as had been the norm as of late. Occasionally he would mumble out random words. Harley would hear him giggle and see a huge grin on his face. He's probably planning something, she thought. She figured he was the kind to plan things down to the last detail, then veer away whenever he felt like it. After all, he was known for his unpredictability.

"Mistah J?" She said. The Joker didn't pay attention. There were so many things running inside his head at once, it took a few seconds before he could process the question.

"Hmm?" He said. She sat up and turned towards him.

"Can we go out or somethin'? I'm starting to feel like a prisoner here." He stopped what he was doing and turned to her.

"Do you have any idea what we do to our prisoners?"

"N-Not really." She said, afraid to ask. She knew it was going to be something depraved. He turned back to the blueprints and newspaper clippings scattered across the desktop.

"We torture them, kill them, and if there's still some left that's salvageable, we sell them. Organs are surprisingly expensive for somethin' everybody's got." He said matter-of-factly.

"Some left? Eww..." Oddly, it wasn't as twisted as she had expected. "Why would you even have prisoners?"

"Interrogation, mostly. Sometimes the guys even forget to dispose of the hostages so we just keep 'em in the basement for a few weeks until I decide to gut them. Or until they die—whichever come's first."

"You just leave 'em there and…forget about 'em?"

"Can't really ignore them when their crying and screaming half of the time. But it's way better than listening to the radio. You ought'a try it sometime." He said. She couldn't help but chuckle at his answer. She seemed to be the only one in the hideout that laughed at his jokes.

"Well, I'm sick and tired of this place. Smells like smoke, beer, and gasoline. And apparently…dead people."

"As it turns out, kid, today's your lucky day." He took out a clown mask from his desk drawer and threw it at her. "We're making a withdrawal."

She snatched it off the bedspread and wrinkled her nose as yet another unpleasant smell wafted off it into her nostrils.

"What's that smell?"

"That's probably from my face."

"Why would you even need a mask? Your face is way scarier." She said frankly. He turned to her with a frown and she raised her hands defensively. "Ya' know, in a good way."

"I like to mess with the new guys when I take them out." He said.

"And you never wash it?" She said, pinching her nose.

"Why would I?" She looked at him, then at the mask.

"I don't even wanna know what that smell is."

"Better not ask. You have a suit?"

"A suit? No, why?"

"Standard uniform."

"Uniform?" She chuckled. The idea of him caring about uniform seemed highly unlikely—laughable, even—but the look he gave her assured her that he was not joking. "Oh...well, I don't have one." The Joker sighed.

"I suppose you could use one of mine." He said, pointing to his closet.

Harley was surprised upon opening it. There was a gallon of gasoline, a few handguns, a... Was that an RPG launcher? Across the bottom was a disheveled pile of clothes that looked as if they had been thrown in then stomped on. She took a few of the more promising-looking wads out and flattened them out on the bed. They were a few sizes too big for her. She bit her lip.

"Ya' have anything in my size?"

"Nope." He said, looking at his watch. "Hurry up. We're going in a few minutes." He sprung from his seat and headed for the bathroom to apply his makeup.

"And you just told me now?"

"It's short notice for me, too, kid." He called. Well, the Joker was also known for his spontaneity. She glared at the clothes on the bed.

"Ya' sure ya' dont have anything in my size?" She turned to watch him work in front of the sink. He dipped his fingers in black greasepaint and drew around his eyes, covering his natural bleached skin. Then, he painted a bloody red grin extending to his scars. After a check to make sure that everything was as haphazardly perfect as possible, he turned to give her a flat look.

"Why would I even have any other size besides mine?"

"Good point. But why does everything have to be in purple?"

"It's classy. I think I have a red one somewhere." He said, shrugging into his coat. He ran a gloved hand through his green hair, further dishevelling it.

She dug deeper in the closet pile and found a red long sleeved shirt, then paired it with a pair of black slacks.

"Do I need to wear a tie?"

"You ask a lot of questions, don't 'cha? Let's just put it this way, I'll stab you in the leg if you don't."

"I'll take that as a yes, then."

After she had dressed—and emptied out a bottle of perfume to make the mask bearable to wear—the Joker gathered those who would join the heist. None of them were the slightest bit intellectual, in her professional opinion. Carrying their own masks and guns, they followed inside one of the vans.

Everyone was quiet on the way. Harley sat facing the Joker. He took out a pack of cigarettes from under his coat, lit one, then offered the pack to her.

"Thanks, but I quit." She said, still tempted to take one. She remembered how she used to smoke out of stress before she became a psychologist. When she finally became one, her stress seemed to disappear during her sessions with the Joker. Lately, eating seemed to do the trick just fine. Though it did seem unhealthy in retrospect.

Every once in a while, she would catch one of the guys looking at her. During the few weeks she had been with the gang, she'd gathered that they didn't like her very much. Maybe not her, but the fact that she was there. She was the first girl to be in the gang and everyone seemed to think of her as the Joker's weak little whore. She was just dying to punch them in the jaw for the way their eyes lingered around her body. She haven't had the chance to get to know them, but a few had been rather unfriendly. A few of them couldn't handle the fact that there was a pretty face in the hideout. Good thing the Joker had given her on of his knives. She had been fending them off ever since. Their hideout really wasn't a safe place for women.

The van stopped and the guys got out. As Harley was just about to follow, the Joker grabbed her arm.

"We're not there yet." He said. She looked around and noticed that they had left their masks behind. As she sat down, the doors slammed shut and they were left alone. A few minutes went by before Harley decided to break the uncomfortable silence.

"What exactly do I have to do?"

The Joker seemed to be in another world. He stared at the wall, not acknowledging the question. He seemed lost. Harley would often think that he was hallucinating during these times. Then he chuckled as if remembering an old joke.

"What's so funny?" She asked nervously.

"Ever shot a gun, kid?" He said.

"No." He faced her.

"That knife I gave you, you have it?"

"Yeah." She took it out, a large folding pocketknife with an old wooden handle, and handed it to him. He turned it over in his hands, stopping when he saw the faded smear of blood left by her rushed wiping.

"I was sure I cleaned this before I gave it to you." He held it close to his nose and the smell of metal and blood filled his nostrils.

"I used it."

"Mmm. Do tell." He said, genuinely interested.

"Uh...one of the...um..." She stammered. "One of the guys tried ta'—"

"Who?" He interrupted, knowing exactly what she was about to say. Harley noticed a slight change in his eyes. She couldn't explain it, but somehow, they seemed darker.

"Uh, Mike, I think his name was."

"Mike." He repeated, as if tasting the name. "And when did this happen?"

Harley's body started to tense up. She felt like she was being interrogated. Like she was back in Arkham except she was the one lying on the couch. And somehow, she knew something bad was going to come out of it.

"Last week." She said.

"Where did you stab him?" He said, staring at the knife.

"The leg."

"Just the leg? You didn't finish him?" Her heartbeat grew faster.

"No, I didn't. I, uh, thought I—"

"What did I tell you?" His eyes darted to stare at hers.

"I didn't think you'd like it if I offed one of yours." He grabbed her knee.

"What did I tell you?" He repeated, his voice growing louder.

"Kill, don't hesitate." She recited.

"And did you?"

"No." She whispered.

"What?" He tightened his grip.

"No." she said in a louder voice.

"Why not?"

"Like I said, he was one of yours."

"Is that really the reason? Or maybe you didn't have it in ya' to do it."

"I..." She felt her eyes getting watery. "I didn't." He released his grip on her knee.

"Harley," he cooed, leaning forward. "Look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you. I took a chance when I let you in the gang. You're not gonna let me down, now, are you?" She took a deep breath, and got herself together.

"I won't." She said, forcing out a smile.

As if on cue, the doors opened and the guys came rushing in. Harley wiped the tears forming in her eyes as the Joker gave her knife back. She noticed that they were munching on burgers. Once everyone had sat down and the van started, the Joker frowned.

"And I don't suppose you plan on giving her one." He leaned back in his seat, an I'll-gut-you-and-enjoy-it smile starting to form under his smeared lipstick.

Everyone stopped and stared, even Harley. One of them passed a paper bag to her, afraid of what the Joker might say next. Or what other kinds of smiles he might have.

"Thanks." She said.

The Joker prodded the guy next to him to get his attention.

"Give her your gun."

"But, boss, it's my only one." Billie said.

"It's okay, Mistah J." Harley said. The Joker ignored her.

"Give it to her."

Billie knew better than to argue any further and handed the gun to Harley. She took it hesitantly. She had never held a gun in her entire life, much less, fired one. It was so heavy, so dangerous, so... Real.

"Good." The Joker said.

They spent the rest of the ride in silence. Harley gazed at the weapon in her hand as she ate a burger. A knife was one thing, a gun was a whole other. If she was lucky, she wouldn't have to use it. Then again, it wasn't like her Mr. J to let that happen. She knew that he would probably put her life—or even his—in danger just to see if she had the guts to do it. It would certainly amuse him.

The van stopped and the gang came rushing out. Harley's heart started to pound as she put on the mask.

"Showtime, pumpkin." The Joker said.

She followed suit after them. The guys shot the guards outside the bank, making her flinch at the sound. She stared mindlessly at the bloody men laying on the ground. One of them moved and one of the guys instantly shot him in the head. The sound still did not sit well with Harley.

A few of them stayed outside to stand guard. Screams of panic echoed through the room as the rest of them went inside. The guys worked fast. They duct taped the hostages together within seconds—which, from what she gathered, was their usual procedure. They made sure to leave the center of the room empty for the Joker to walk around. It was his stage.

"Well, well..." He purred. There was something different about his tone. Harley hadn't seen that side of him for a while. In front of an audience, everything seemed liked an act to him.

"Citizens of Gotham..." He announced. "You must feel very lucky. To think, of all the banks, I chose yours to visit today. Lucky, lucky, lucky..."

The guys started to take money from the tellers as well as from the hostages. Harley stood by the door, watching her Mr. J like he was the star of the show.

"Aren't you all tired? All this money being kept in this worthless building. Isn't this a waste? A product of human greed? You, each one of you, has so much money that you decide to keep it locked up in a safe.

"Well, not to worry. We'll find a better use for your hard earned cash. Uncle Joker will make sure of it. No problemo! Think of it this way, that's a few less dollars to worry about spending. And you'll be keeping your favorite homicidal clown in business. Now, ain't that a bargain?" He said with a grin. A clatter of shoes on marble flooring made him pause, then turn towards one of the hostages who was struggling to break free. He tilted his head.

"Feisty one, aren't ya'?" He murmured, sauntering over to stand in front of the group.

The struggling man stopped, looking up at him in disgust.

"Got something to say?"

The man panted, eyes still locked on the clown standing in front of him. He was quite old. His hair was white and he was obviously exhausted from struggling, but his courage didn't seem to deteriorate.

"M-men like you..." He said in a gruff voice. "...have no right to prey on the rest of us."

"Oh?" The Joker asked, intrigued.

"You...I know the kind of psycho you are. You think you're above everybody else. You laugh at the suffering of others. You and every criminal in this city...you're all the same."

"Shame on me then, huh?" The old man paused, then... Smiled. Actually smiled!

"You aren't the first, and you won't be the last. The day will come... You'll get what's yours."

The Joker crouched down towards the man.

"And what might that be?"

"Death." The man spat. "A stupid death, you bleeding out in the street and everyone will just laugh at you. The same way you laughed at them."

"Why not laugh at me now?" The Joker said. He stood up. "You wanna laugh?" He took a bullet out of his long barrel revolver, then closed and spun the cylinder. "Let's see..." He pointed the gun at his temple. Harley's heart pounded even harder as she realized what he was doing. Don't you dare leave me, she thought.

"One out of six chance I get the last laugh. Sounds fair." Everyone paid close attention, staring at him with anticipation. He flexed his finger as if practicing pulling the trigger. "Aaand..."

"Stop!" Harley shouted. All eyes darted towards her. It might not have been the wisest of decisions to interrupt the Joker like that. She thought she was in trouble when he approached her.

"Of course! How selfish of me. Why should I have all the fun?" He said. Her eyes widened when he handed her the gun. "Shoot me." Fuck, she thought. She didn't know how to react.

"What?"

"Right here." He pointed to his forehead. She looked at the people watching her, then back at the Joker.

"N-no...I can't."

"I seem to recall you saying that you could and you would. You wouldn't want to humiliate me and yourself in front of everyone here, now, do ya'? One outta six chance that gun won't even kill me."

"T-That's still five in six I do kill you! Are you nuts!?"

"All signs point to yes."

"I won't shoot you." She protested. He looked at her with disappointment. In a flash, he grabbed her other gun.

"If you don't," He aimed the weapon at her. "I'll shoot you. Both kneecaps. Painful, but not lethal. Wouldn't do that to ya, pumpkin. Then, we'll pay your parents a visit. You haven't introduced me to 'em yet! And maybe that brother of yours. Heard he just moved in to Gotham. It'll be a touching family reunion. Then, after that... Eh, maybe I'll throw you over a bridge."

Her stomach twisted. She thought she could do it, but she couldn't pull the trigger. Especially if the one to be shot was her Mr. J. She couldn't bear losing him. One out of six chance be damned, she couldn't take the risk. He wasn't going to die. Not by her hands or by anybody else's. Not as long as she was still breathing.

"Well...I'm waiting." He said impatiently. She couldn't think clearly. Maybe that was the reason why she said what she did.

"Fine! You want me to shoot you?" She cried out, her voice cracking.

"Yes! Shoot me!" He said, grinning.

"I'm gonna do it!" She couldn't hold the gun straight. He grabbed her wrist to stop her from shaking.

"Do it!" He growled, squeezing her wrist tighter. She saw the look on his eyes. The same feral look that always scared her. The one that meant he was serious.

"I'm not kidding! I'll really do it"

"Shoot me! Do it now, Harley! Now!"

She closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. She was sweating so much, everyone could see it. But what they couldn't see was that, behind the mask, she was crying.

She pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening. It ran through her body. The vibration was enough to make her heart stop. His grip on her wrist dropped and she felt the splutter of blood on her arms. She didn't want to open her eyes. She couldn't. She knew she could never unsee what she was about to set eyes on, but she had to see.

To her surprise he was still there, not a drop of blood on him. Her hands were still gripping heavily on the gun. There was something extending from it. A flag emerged from the muzzle of the gun. "Bang!" It read.

She couldn't believe it. It was a gag. A sick joke. The Joker squeezed the flower on his lapel and shot fake blood on Harley, then began to laugh hysterically.

"Hahahahah! Hee hee hooo! Ahahahahaha!"

"It's not funny!" Harley protested, her hands balled tight in a fist.

"You should have seen your face. Hahaha—well, it was fun to imagine what your face looked like behind that mask."

"You're a real sick bastard, you know that, boss?"

"Mmhmm." He said. He stopped laughing and turned to the guys. "All done? Let's go."

They went out first. Then he followed.

"I can't believe you did that." She hissed. He slid up next to her.

"Take it easy, kid." He patted her on the back. "I didn't even think you'd take the shot. Easy to pull the trigger, right?"

"Not really. I didn't want ta' hurt ya'."

"Hmm. How about this? A little exercise. Point the gun at someone you do want to hurt." She thought for a while, then she pointed the gun at Mike, who had his back turned, aiming in between his shoulder blades as steadily as she could.

"What now?"

"You wanna hurt him, do ya'?"

"You know I do."

"Good. Now, imagine that's a real gun. It's dangerous, it's deadly. You want to hurt him. What do you do?"

"Shoot?"

"Then, do it."

Harley grinned behind her mask. She imagined it was real like he said. She took a deep breath, then she pulled the trigger. The flag shot out and skewered Mike. She dropped the gun.

"Oh my God!" He fell to the ground, the "Bang" flag sticking out of his back. The guys gathered around the body and stared at her.

"Shit! What the hell did you make me do?"

"Whoops..." the Joker said, suppressing a smile. "That gun actually shot...who knew?" He walked past Harley, then past the guys. "You coming or what?"

She stared at the body. She could not believe what she had just done.

I killed him, I killed him.

"You made me kill him!"

"You're welcome." He said, entering the van.

"This is even worse than your other sick joke!" She said as she followed. The guys avoided her as she walked past Mike's body.

Admittedly, she felt a sense pride. She finally made a kill, her Mr. J had told her before that it was something to be proud of. And she was. Despite the whole ordeal, she managed to smile. She felt powerful, she felt like someone. Though, she wouldn't be thanking the Joker anytime soon.

That night, they were back in their regular places. Harley was watching TV, the Joker was slouched over his desk, and the henchmen were downstairs doing God-knows-what. She'd had enough time to think about it; Her first kill wasn't really that bad. The guys would now think twice before messing with her. It felt good. She decided to take it a step further.

"Hey, puddin'? Ya' think I could have my own costume?"

"Hmm?"

"My own costume. Ya' know, you have your purple suit, the guys have their masks. I want my own."

"Why do you need your own?" He said. He sharpened his pencil and continued his hobby of writing comments on the daily newspaper. "You think your better than them?"

"Have any of them slept with ya'?" She said, chuckling. He stopped and turned towards her.

"What do you think?" He said, an eyebrow raised.

"Then that makes me their superior. Second in command. I could be like your sidekick or somethin'." She chirped, throwing a pillow at a picture of the Batman on the wall. "What with B-man gettin' that bird boy and all."

"Fair enough. We can go shopping for new clothes tomorrow." He turned back to his desk. "Oh, and, Harley?"

"What?"

"Don't call me puddin'."