There's a special thanks in order to Sushi Bowl for this chapter, because that masquerade idea of yours is about to come up. Harvey's life has gotten very interesting very quickly, basically in a span of four days. But that's what happens when you're the target of what will soon be a psycho-murderer and have made acquaintance with 'The Batman'. I have excuses for her to dress up all slick-like, too. I've got it all planned out, and so, this is just the beginning. XD As usual, I own no one except Cleveland and Harvey. The Batman and the Joker both belong to DC Comics, but the Cleave is all mine. Here's to narrowly dodging clichés right about now! Also, special thanks to Harlequin Sequins for helping me out with plot discussion and character stuffs. I have some pretty awesome reviewers, to all of you, and it makes me so happy to know I'm doing good. Thanks so much! And, hopefully, this'll be a long chapter by my standards XD

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Within a span of two days I have managed to learn a number of things. One: Cleveland will not vacate my apartment. Two: The Bat breathes very loudly. Three: Cleveland lives up my rectum.

So far, I would say, my life has been pretty interesting. Not positive, not fun, but it's certainly gained a…flair that wasn't there before I moved into Gotham City. I mean, I appreciate the intrigue, but I guess I was expecting to make new friends, not to be harassed by a freak in make-up.

With the article submitted, I guess I feel a little calmer. Without a doubt, I can relax a little more. It's a comforting sensation to know that I've done the bidding of a transvestite with homicidal tendencies. At least, hopefully, I won't be accosted down dark alleys some more. Normally, I would have waved it off, but…something about him was undeniable. It was a feral feeling, like an inescapable panic. If I didn't do it, what would have happened?

I would be short a few organs and a life, that's what.

As strange as this sounds, in a matter of days, Cleveland and I have become clockwork. Of course, I know everything about him because….well, he talks about himself all the damn time. I'm not the talkative type, but if I sit there trying to write up something he'll wander the apartment, gesticulating wildly, flailing, explaining every over-passionate aspect of his stupid life. I've learned he loves strawberry mentos, the smell of gasoline, his blonde hair is natural and that his favorite dog species are Dobermans. I have learned all of these things because Cleveland Roger Punsworth (Oh, look at that, I learned that, too!) will not shut the fuck up.

You think I'm kidding? Never.

With a secure hundred and six bucks in my pocket and a rent of seventy, I can't help but feel confident for the first real time in my life. I've paid my first month of rent. How exciting is that? And for once, I'm not being sarcastic!

With what is, for once, an exuberant mood, I buy a little roll of strawberry mentos from the corner-guy-with-the-weird-Mario-mustache and wander my way back to my shit-hole. It's been upgraded from fuck-hole, but only while my mood lasts.

I wonder, if only for a moment, why it seems as though Cleveland and I are the only two people on this floor once the elevator doors screech open and I'm faced with the bony, angular form of what I consider my roommate. Cleveland, I have learned, waits for me like an excited puppy. I call him that, sometimes—god, listen to me, talking like I've known him for years. I feel ill.

"Good news. I'm not going to die today, and I got you some mints." I toss the roll at him and his reflexes fail utterly. They fall against his bare, pasty stomach and then roll to the floor. Huh? His hair is tied back into a messy excuse for a smaller ponytail, and his nose twitches like a thoughtful animal. Today is smiley-patterned-boxer day.

"How thoughtful, you shouldn't have, it was all I wanted for Christmas." I side-step the hair-ruffle and brush past him to make my way up the stairs. Physical contact will diminish my mellow mood. I want to keep this as long as I can. "Hey, where ya goin'? I was gonna order Chinese—"

"Write."

And I slam the door.

Shame of all shames, I don't lock it. What's wrong with me? I'm treating him like a friend.

I have two weeks, this time, to write an article. But, suddenly, I feel this anxious weight bearing down on me. I feel like that guy, the transvestite with a sense of humor, the Joker, is looming right over my shoulder, and I can't—

"You usually bolt like a stray cat, girly?" Cleveland's familiar giggle resounds from behind me, and when I turn to look there he is, his thumbs hooked at the waistband of his boxer shorts. He has the most unholy slouch. If I were his mother, I'd yell for hours.

"Working, Cleave." I note, with the half-snort of a sound, that the mentos package I've so graciously purchased is tucked behind his ear, like writers do with pens. He licks at his lips, and idly sways on his tippy-toes. I swear, sometimes, I imagine his tongue is forked.

"All work and no play makes Harvey an even duller girl than she usually is. Ah-yoink!" I hate it when he does that. He yanks the paper right out of my hands, whistling as I pretty much blindly grab for it. I'm too short, and his grin cracks into a big, obscene parade of an expression.

"Hey, Cleave?"

"Yeeeee-eh-sssssssss, Harvey?"

"Yoink!" I kick at his kneecap so suddenly and he makes this wheeze of a sound, doubling over halfway until the paper flutters from his fingers. I remember something—knees are the most sensitive parts of the body…well, unless you count the male anatomy, but it works out well enough to get a reaction. I stoop and pick up the paper. He wheezes again, but I swear it's a laugh. No, an outright giggle. "—Don't fuck with me while I'm working."

(Later on that evening, still no food from Cleveland, still writing, still living miserably)

The raving psychopath picked the wrong girl to sing his praises. I stare at the chicken-scratch on my trusty notepad, my head lolling, until the voice of the devil itself wakes me—

"I need you to do a favor for me."

No. Just the bat-mutant.

"Ah do fay-vor.." Oh, the classic just-waking tone. My vision swims, my glasses crooked on my face, until I can see his incredible stature (see: What they use to cover Connecticut when it rains) looming in the shadows. He slaps something down in front of me, and I slowly realize it's the Joker card given to me by that sick freak nights ago.

"There are very small numbers scrawled up the side. He's planning to meet you tonight, on this date." Clipped and to the point, absolutely, of course. "You need to attend a masquerade ball that the mayor is holding. It's imperative we catch this man before any more harm is done. He's already killed several civilians, you're the only one currently left alive, and with his own form of…souvenir. It's being held at city hall. When you're ready, there's a car waiting for you downstairs. Get into it, and be sure not to talk to anyone."

I wonder if that was a stale joke or not.

"Ah don' got nothin' to wear to a—" Huh? An object is thrown, suddenly, at me, a red and black object, accompanied by a plain black one. I have no idea what any of this is, but the material is heavy enough that I quirk an eyebrow, "Is this a fucking dress?"

Whoosh.

Jerk-off.

(Twenty minutes later, plus eye-liner, hair-curling and a dress about a size too big)

"All dressed up and nowhere to go, sweetheart?" Cleveland saunters into my apartment. I hear the idle thunk thunk thunk that is him toying so merrily with his paddle-ball. His eyes follow the little thing while it bounces.

"Don't wait up."

And without another glance, I'm gone.

(Maybe fifteen minutes later, plus eye-liner and cheap, cheesily made mask that covers only the top half of my face)

Batman has so graciously forgotten to provide me with shoes. Luckily, I own a pair of black Mary Jane's that work out half decent with the harlequin dress. The thing is red on the left side and black on the right, but to the middle of my waist it diverts to being black on the left and red on the right. The skirt is amusing, kind of frayed at the bottom for effect, and I'm so short that it reaches just below my knees. A black belt cinches it to my waist. Feeling this girly makes me squirmy.

I feel like the spotlight's on me.

This place is crawling with undercover cops.

Social anxiety much?

Bruce Wayne, the swanky, over-done billionaire attends. He floats charmingly from person to person with an air of condescension. He's done up in a valiant suit of armor with a black cape attached. I resist the urge to say 'show off'.

Within less than a week of living here, I have become the prime witness to a series of crimes. And I have gone from being that witness to becoming the decoy. I am the sitting duck in a sea of sharks. I am the spot of color on a white canvas. I am not fitting in with high society. I am—

Having a panic attack.

I'm thrust up, suddenly, from my safety-seat at the punch bowl. I'm not so happy anymore with the concept of making something of myself. A rough grip floats me from my comfort zone to the dance floor as an upbeat waltz commences. A rough, gloved hand squeezes my waist.

The man's hair, this funny shade of green-blonde (is that even possible? Ew…) is tied back into a ponytail, and his cheeks contain, each, a perfectly rounded pink circle at the dimples. His eyes are finely rimmed with black, and their coloring feels invisible behind the predatory glimmer. He clutches me to him, speaks until his breath falls hot on my ears. My heart pulsates like a fucking heroine addict's.

"We really must stop meeting like this."

My blood runs cold. I swear, for a split second, I feel a frigid shock of metal across my wrist. It's my imagination, but amid the cloud of dancers no one will ever see. I feel eyes on me, which doesn't help my apprehension situation.

"Are you being good, my little Harvey? Don't show a sign that you're doing a thing but dancing. There are mines under your feet, girly, just think of that. The wrong step and—boom! You're done for." He mutes a cackle beneath his breath, and I listen with discomfort for the purr with which he speaks.

There are black lines painted at his jaw. He's supposed to be a marionette.

"I like living, you know."

"As you well should, girly. I think we all like to live a little sometimes. Anyway, this isn't about you or me, tonight's fun-bash is all about our fair city. So you're gonna do me another fantastic favor."

I feel a chill dash up my spine. I'm less afraid than I am blatantly nervous. He sits right in my proximity, and I freeze like a deer in the headlights. My eyes stray for a moment, trying to lock with who I was earlier introduced to as Lieutenant Gordon, but I snap back on sight when I feel two strong fingers press against my wrist. Crack. That'll bruise by morning.

"You're not being a very obedient dog, girly. You haven't given me that yesssssss."

The 's' is malicious, a violent snake's hiss. His eyes are dark a moment, I swear, screened behind psychotic lenses of some transparent form. His lips break into a slight grin. The corners twitch uncontrollably. I can't help but ask myself if that expression is awarded because, shoved up against me, he can feel my heart rate.

"You're gonna write another nifty tale about me. Oh, and…uh…" his eyes roll back and he does that thing I've become oddly familiar with. It looks like he's in thought, but instead of licking a lip he chews at it, idly, smudging the red along his yellow teeth. Nicotine stains? Why am I worrying about these facts? "…inform Bat-shit that if he pulls another prank like this soiree, here, I'll blow up two private schools."

Why does he have to tell me these things? I'm not even extraordinary. I just want to be left alone. Damn it.

Bruce Wayne's eyes lock with mine for a moment, the fierce, crystal blue that they are. The transvestite with a sense of humor visibly seethes, and I feel his reptilian tongue flick along my ear teasingly for half a moment. My spine straightens immediately and my steps stumble. His hands are the only reason I stay on-foot, "That's my cue to blow this popsicle stand. Until we meet again, giiiiiiirly."

I stare, dumbfounded, my mouth hanging halfway open. Not only are we unsuccessful in catching the psychotic, but—

Did I just get sexually molested by a madman?

I demand therapy.