A.N: This is definitely based heavily on NolanVerse- I liked the gritty feel of the movies. But I have my own little pieces of canon, including a different background for Harley, and a different take on the people that follow the Joker. This is as much a study of them as it is of her.

None of them knew what to make of it the first time the petite girl had stepped onto the scene, in clothes that looked like they'd been stripped from a dead bratty teenager- they had- and popping bubble gum so loudly that some of the touchier guys ducked for cover whenever they saw a pink bubble. She'd been in the warehouse, on the little platform that their Boss erected so he could speak to them all without raising his voice. It was rickety and rusted, creaking every time a booted foot stepped on the metal, but it served their purposes well enough. Like most of the men who followed the Joker, it was in a state of disrepair, but managed to serve its function. It was like heaven to the gutter rats who gazed up at it, waiting for inspiring words from their God, wringing their hands and wondering how many of them would die today, how many would water the asphalt with their blood.

Some of the ones who muttered from the corners of their mouth and moved in quick, sharp, jerky motions, had taken to calling him Jesus. And in a way, he was- as much as any other religious figure could be called Jesus. He brought them together and gave them a purpose. He filled their heads with his whispered words, rewarded loyalty sparingly but often enough so that they continued to wait for the few scraps of kindness like well-trained dogs. His gospel was the howling of the wind through the warehouse they slept in, roaring so loudly through the little space that the screams of the more disturbed faded into white noise. They slept when the wind roared, Mother Nature's screams easier to drown out than those of their fellow man.

Down here they were in hell, in filth and squalor, waiting for the fallen angels, those few scraps of kindness, to come tumbling down from above, shedding feathers and blood and regret. And if he was Jesus, she was Mary, and the name was shouted at her when she stood at his side, screamed from individual throats that had meant the word to be a lonely prayer. She'd popped her gum one last time, gazing down at the unwashed masses from her rusty cloud on high, before she strolled forward to address them with a giggle and a half wave.

"Aw man, so much pressure!" The blonde girl threw over her shoulder to the silent clown, pigtails bobbing. Without waiting for a response, she looked back down to the rabble and plopped herself down on the edge of the platform, legs kicking back and forth. Glittering blue eyes surveyed the crowd, watching every twitch, catching every mutter, and meeting the gaze of those who would look her in the eye.

"I'm Harlequin." She introduced herself, giggling at the foreign feel of the name on her tongue. It was the first time she'd used it, first time she'd applied the label to herself, and she had to admit- it felt just right. Mister J hadn't been wrong when he'd picked it. "But ya can call me Harley for short." Thick accent dribbled off her tongue, drowning the ones below her with gobs of cotton candy and dried blood. They basked in the glow of it, for they treasured all words that came down from Heaven; and if their God had let her address them from on high, then she must be holy too.

He moved up beside her, towering over the petite form in the red, shredded t-shirt and black pants, flicking a switchblade in and out without being aware of the action. Harley leaned her head on his leg, sighing a little with happiness, but he spared not a glance for the girl- his eyes studied the crowd. Where hers had been probing, questioning, seeking the nuances of this new place she found herself in, his were all-knowing. He did not need to look hard, for he knew what was there: he'd orchestrated it, built in, lovingly tended the fanatical determination this street trash held for him. The delusional ones thought he was Jesus reborn. The paranoid ones were convinced he was the only thing that could protect him from their fears. Those who couldn't make ends meet or found themselves shoved into the garbage dump of humanity found purpose in his simple words, his little expressions.

Charismatic leaders found audiences and followers anywhere they looked, simply by being themselves.

"I want anyone who's feeling brave tonight to come outside with me." He called, and there was an anticipatory rustling as everyone looked around at each other. Not all of them would come home, not all of them would see the light of the next morning; but that was fine. To die in God's service made them martyrs, venerated and holy, the closest they'd ever get to that creaking platform and those green eyes. And now those blue ones too.

A group of twenty were selected from the riff-raff, nudged out of the crowd by the girl's quick, soft hands. She darted among them without fear, even when the more violent ones tried to grab the edge of her pigtail or the sleeve of her shirt, tried to crush her in their thick arms. It wasn't their fault: they didn't know their own strength, and they only wanted a look at their new Mary.

Mary, Mary, so contrary…

She giggled and spun through their ranks, dodging hands and limbs, offering brilliant grins to everyone in her path. It was a joke to her, it seemed- the choosing of the ones who would come, the ones who would be led like lambs to the slaughter. Like water she flowed, graceful and precise, stepping exactly where she meant to, limbs controlled. Someone thought he recognized her and the feeling nagged in the back of his head itched, until with a start he remembered: she was Harleen Quinzel. The Olympic medalist who'd brought home gold from the games in London a few years back. The bobbing pigtails were definitely new- her hair had been shorter then, or at least kept tucked into a tidy bun at all times- but there could be no mistaking the grace in her motion. Unconsciously, the man breathed out her name, and those baby-blues snapped up to meet his gaze. She poured herself through the crowd to stand in front of him, the sweetest smile he'd ever seen clapped onto her face. Harlequin nudged him out of line and numbly, he went to stand with the other chosen few, wondering if he'd done something wrong in speaking her former name. But no. This was a reward, a gift.

A bus waited for them, and they were seen off by the adoring cheers of the unchosen crowd, who held out their hands to the departing vehicle, alternating between begging to go and screaming the names of the selected. They gained new holy figures, new angels, every time the yellow bus rolled out of the parking lot, and they envied them. The names turned into whispers when they could no longer see the speeding form and they were spread like a fever. Repeated over and over until the people they spoke of were not human anymore but divine beings, chosen to be sanctified, chosen to be special and holy. A school bus full of newly appointed saints hurtled down the road, shredding its tires on the asphalt.

Weapons were shoved into hands by a few men who had already been on the bus, waiting. These people did not sleep in the warehouse, under the roaring of the Heavens, and so they were angels- messengers and servants of their lord, but no more. He sat in the back of the bus with his arm thrown absently around the bubble-gum girl, watching the proceedings with a careful eye. The last few rows were empty, because everyone knew that if you got too close without him wanting you to, you were struck down with the flash of a blade and a sea of red. That was his right, as their God- only the chosen should approach.

She began to get restless after a while and fidgeted on the seat, twisting under his arm to stare out the back window. There were other cars on the road but they gave the school bus no second glances, too wrapped up in thinking about how late they were going to be for work or talking on the phone to their spouses about whatever dick move their boss had pulled. Such ordinary, humdrum activites- it made her giggle to think of what was coming for the city in just a few hours. The giggles turned into full-blown laughter and she turned back around to see the Joker's eyebrow raised, wondering what the joke was that had her in convulsions.

In between cackling, she jammed a thumb in the direction of the window and managed to convey that she'd once been "Just like them." He nodded and awarded her a grin that had those who saw it flinching away, gazing out the windows or at the ground. Sometimes The Joker was difficult to look directly at- like the sun, it burned your retinas to stare at his magnificence for too long, gave you spots across your vision and a pain in your head. Harleen Quinzel had already been blinded and she looked at him without fear.

Their destination was an airplane hangar at the Gotham Airport and the men stared in wonderment as they were waved through the access gate without any trouble. They thought their God must be very powerful indeed to arrange such a thing and nodded to themselves, secure in the knowledge they were following the right person. In reality, it was money that ruled all, and money was something that he never lacked for. The guards were all too happy to accept an early Christmas bonus.

Pulling into the cool shade of the hangar, they trooped off and milled around, peering at the vehicles parked there or inspecting the guns they'd been given. Instead of an airplane there were five cars, all inconspicuously brown, all a little beat-up and dingy. The men they'd taken for angels, the ones who were clean and mean looking, each went to a car and pulled a bag from the backseat. The acolytes peered curiously at them, wondering what they were doing as they pulled on purple coats and fingerless gloves, dressing themselves in clothes reminiscent of their God.

The Joker cleared his throat, calling their attention back to him easily.

"Split into five groups of four and pick a car." He waggled his fingers in a vague motion, indicating the people who were now rubbing on white greasepaint and chalking green through their hair.

The more lucid among them hastened to do as he asked, dragging a buddy who didn't understand with them. It was clear each vehicle was to have a different destination and they hoped they were choosing well; a martyr's death had to be symbolic, after all. But their God would have chosen appropriate places for all- he didn't discriminate- and so they didn't have too much to be worried about. Excitement itched down their backs, spreading through their limbs and pooling in their stomachs. This was all they'd wanted since they first heard his words; first found their Jesus, their Mary, their Gospel.

"Now, uh, this is the last time I'm gonna see any of you. And I'd like to say, uh, thanks for your sacrifice. Follow the orders of the guy who looks like yours truly and you'll get what you've been waiting for."

His words were cheered by twenty voices that reverberated around the space, multiplying through echoes until there were 200 people ready and willing to die for the Joker's cause. They packed into their chosen vehicles as the new "Jokers" got behind the wheel, one by one pulling out of the hanger. The occupants held their arms out to their god in prayer, roaring for his blessing one last time with all the fever of fanatics about to die for the religion they loved. He gave them a jaunty little wave and a huge grin, watching until the last of the cars was gone before turning back to Harley, sparing not another thought for those he'd sent to their deaths.

She lounged on the hood of a black escalade without a care in the world, peering at him from underneath stray strands of her hair and blowing a bubble as big as her head. He felt the urge to pop it as he walked towards her, but refrained, knowing she'd be squealing about gum in her hair for hours. Besides- she had to look her best for her debut. Her appearance was a direct reflection on him.

Some other time. Perhaps he'd get so much gum stuck in her hair that she'd have to cut off her pigtails. And he could offer to do it for her, and the scissors would slip, and he'd end up with a new ear to do something fun with…

They climbed into the car and she glanced back at the cargo they were carrying, lighting up with joy. Her favorite toy had been packed along with all the other supplies and she beamed at Mister J, happy he'd been thoughtful enough to bring it along for her.

"Thank ya puddin'!" She exclaimed. He didn't look at her as they pulled out onto the tarmac, heading back through the gate they'd come from. That rung a bell somewhere in her memory and she struggled to think why, looking around the car.

Wasn't there something she was supposed to be doing…?

It involved calling someone…

Right!

Harley dug in her pocket for a phone and tapped in the number for the police's anonymous tip line, adopting a southern accent when a bored voice answered the line.

"Yeah, I'd like ta report somethin' I saw. I think I saw tha' Joker fella you all are lookin' for."

The voice on the other line went quiet for a moment before calmly asking for details, clacking at keys on their computer with such urgency that the sound could be heard through the phone.

"He was in a school bus, I think he was headin' ta the airport, and he had a bunch of his goons, with guns n'stuff. A regular little army."

With a self-satisfied smirk, the girl cut the line off before the officer could ask any more questions and tossed the phone out the window. The police probably got tons of 'Joker' sightings, but they were obligated to check most of them out- and when the hangar with the bus was discovered, they'd realize something was up.

And if they were going to start looking for the Joker, then wasn't it only polite that he give them something to find?

Well, five somethings to find. The gutter rats were useful after all.

A/N: I'd be very interested to know if you think this is worth continuing. Please let me know.