A/N: I had a vision…of a world without TDK…and it was…full of picture books? Bizarrely, yes. There is a picture book version of Dark Knight, and it is…well, you have to see it to believe it. It's about the most cracktastic thing ever to exist. The amazing Lauralot was kind enough to link me to some scans, which can be found here. Remember to take the spaces out.

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Joker needs to be going "RAWR!" in this last one. Seriously, he just needs to.

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I really need to stab something.

~ Dexter

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Harleen stepped back and admired herself in the mirror. It had taken several days to get everything she needed and put the outfit together, but she was very pleased with the effect. Dying only two-quarters of the spandex leotard had been a pain in the posterior, but it was worth it.

She looked like someone to be taken seriously. True, maybe the red and black jester's hat was a bit much, especially with the white pom-poms at the tips, but the suit made up for that. She'd done a good job on it.

It had turned out that getting a supervillain costume was a little more complicated than walking into a tailor's shop and filling out an order form, complete with information about who wanted it and where to ship it to once it was finished. And how exactly did you decide what it should look like and be made out of anyway? In the end, she'd just bought a red leotard from a local dance supplies shop and done the work herself. Which had been slow and painful. But totally worth it. OK, so maybe a few of the diamond shapes she'd painted on the right leg were a little uneven, but it looked fine. Those had been practice, and the rest had come out perfectly. Her left leg and right arm were a sulfurous, smoky black, while her right leg and left arm were red scattered with little black diamonds. A court jester with a femme fatale twist.

She turned to admire the dye job and grinned again; just another young woman who'd found the perfect outfit for a night on the town.

Using a dance leotard had definitely been the way to go. Just wearing it reminded her of her gymnastics days, and it was so easy to move in, she was tempted to turn a few handsprings just for the fun of it. She pushed that urge aside. Not without warming up first, and not in her shoebox-sized apartment. She'd probably punch through the wall by accident. Still, the feeling was nice. Not only did the clingy red and black fabric flow along with her every motion, it showed off her generous curves to perfection, accented by the white lace collar that stopped just short of the swell of her breasts. There were certain benefits to doing it yourself.

The costume was flawless. Now it was time for the makeup.

She'd given some thought to this. It had to be similar to Mister Jay's, but cleaner, more feminine. In the end, she'd settled on a white base like his, but a black latex mask around her eyes instead of the smeary raccoon rings. Her lipstick would be the same shade of ruby slippers red as his too, but she'd apply it a little more carefully than he did.

She pursed her lips and finished tracing the waxy tube along the edges, before drawing it away with a satisfied smack. Perfect. She looked rough, tough, and ready to have fun, and she felt utterly invincible, as though she could take on the world.

Just wait until her Puddin' saw her.

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Harleen Quinzel's residency at Arkham had been as uneventful as it was possible for any job that involved working with the criminally insane to be, until the terrorist known as the Joker was assigned to her care. Name unknown, age unknown, mental condition unknown, no previous records, nothing to work with. That was no problem to Harleen. She liked a challenge.

She'd come in top of her class, and had been an intern for almost two years, but this was still a very high-profile case, far above what your average student would be expected to handle. Except that she'd been on vacation in Metropolis for the duration of what were now called the Joker Attacks. As such, she'd been chosen as his therapist because she was the only qualified staff member who hadn't been directly affected by his actions, and thus would be relatively unbiased in evaluating him.

That was the idea, anyway. And while it made good sense, her superiors were still leery of handing the case over to a rookie, even an especially talented one. In the end, they'd had to relent. Harleen had been delighted. Whoever said slacking didn't pay? If this was what happened when she took time off, she ought to go on vacation more often! In practice, the theory hadn't worked so well.

Or, if you were to ask her, it had worked very well indeed. She's succeeded in establishing patient/counselor trust with him, after all, where no one had managed to before. Around her, he'd started talking, instead of clamming up or spitting taunts. So what if what he talked about was anarchy, and how the world would come crashing down if it lost sight of its pathetic rules? So what if it made sense? So what if she listened? The important thing was that he was actually talking, after all. They were making progress.

So much progress, in fact, that she hadn't seen the need for him to stay in Arkham. He clearly knew exactly what he was doing; he was no loony. Her superiors had disagreed. So she'd made the decision on her own.

There was no point keeping someone like that under lock and key. It was cruel, really, keeping him caged up like an animal all the time. He'd never improve that way. She was his psychiatrist; she knew what was best for him. That was her job. So she introduced a new kind of therapy to his daily schedule and helped him escape. It really was ridiculously easy. Even with the millions Wayne had poured into the security there, there were far too many blind spots and staff lapses to really expect the villains to stay where they were supposed to. Especially if they had a little help from someone who'd studied the system in detail.

Helping him escape had been thrilling. Slipping through the corridors, his lanky figure following obediently behind her, chest tight with excitement, with fear, wondering if anyone would figure it out… The sheer risk of it dazzled her, the exhilaration and rightness of her crusade leaving her blood tingling. She was restoring the city to the way it should be, its natural balance. If they weren't going to bother locking up the Batman, the real nut, they shouldn't lock up the sane ones either. This was right.

The thrill of success, and then…nothing. Not a card, not a note, not a phone call or messenger pigeon or semaphore signal or anything. She supposed it was a good sign – it meant he wasn't getting recaptured, after all – but she missed him. No one else was quite as exciting or fascinating as he was, none of her other cases made her heart jump into her throat in quite the same way. Even psychoanalyzing her former boss, Dr. Crane, lost its appeal after a while.

And then she'd seen him walking down the street like he was out on a Sunday stroll, walking not with her, but with someone she didn't know, some guy. He wasn't important. Her Mister Jay was the important one. He was hers and hers alone, he shouldn't be pretending to be one of masses who couldn't recognize his genius, couldn't see the amazing brilliance they had been gifted enough to witness in action. And he especially didn't belong with some bimbo who didn't even know who he really was, not when she was available to him.

That shouldn't be. And Harleen had never been one to sit around and mope, like some weepy fairytale brat. Nothing to do but take matters into her own very capable hands.

She was cheerful at the thought of seeing him again, almost humming as she stuffed various supervillainess essentials into a faded nylon backpack. This would be good. Work had been demanding more and more of her time lately, and she hadn't had a night off in ages. It was high time, she decided, slipping a long coat on over her jumpsuit, that she treated herself to a night on the town.

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The talk with Bruce had gone every bit as badly as Jack had thought. They were still speaking, at least, but to say both were pretty annoyed with each other was putting it lightly. It was almost certainly a good idea for them to get away from each other for a while, and Jack was more than happy to escape for a few hours and go back to his nice, straightforward plots to overthrow the city. He only had to make it to his latest hideout, this time in an old factory on the coastal edge of the Narrows, and he could kick back and relax a little, maybe set an explosion to blow off some steam. Just one more block.

Really, was it his fault if they happened to run into an acquaintance and she started getting clingy? No need for Batsy to get quite so mistrustful; he was allowed a social life too. Did Bats think that he was the only one permitted to have stalker exes? Even if he and Quinzel had never actually officially dated. She was convinced they had though, which was enough to convince Brucey. Apparently she counted therapy sessions, rec room brawls, and smuggling her patient out of the asylum as dates. On the slim to zero chance that he did actually do anything even vaguely romantic and date-like, would she consider it a marriage proposal? Even the thought made him wince.

Being between the two of them had been a bit like being back in the police interrogation room, where anything he said could, and probably would, be used against him. Except the stakes here were much higher than anything the cops could throw at him.

For being all noble and selfless and all that crap, Batboy could be surprisingly bitchy when he felt like it, and Jack was getting sick of trying to pound it through the Kevlar cowl that no, he and Harley were not an item and never would be, she was just overly clingy and couldn't take a hint. Rather like Brucey's little just-for-show broads…at which point they usually started quarreling again.

Being a supervillain was astonishingly simple by comparison. This relationship stuff was hard. How did two people ever manage to spend their lives together without blowing each other up?

Back to being the Joker though. That was easy. That was fun. No angry Brucey demanding to know who that girl was, no squeaky little psychotic psychiatrists, nothing to do but set fires, irritate the cops, and boss the henchclowns around…

"Bull, and shit," he heard someone say in a tone of great satisfaction. He froze. That voice was too high to be any of his henchclowns, unless one of them had had a very successful sex-change surgery. There was a woman in his headquarters.

When Joker recruited henchmen, he generally didn't get a lot of female volunteers. None, in fact. He didn't give much thought to it, and left anyone interested to make of that fact whatever the hell they wanted. As long as he could get the muscle he needed, he wasn't too concerned.

So why was there suddenly a creature of the feminine variety loitering around his lair? If one of the henchclowns had brought his girlfriend over…

Cautiously, he pushed the door open, and stopped dead. For some reason that eluded him, his ex-therapist was not only present, but wearing a volcano-red jumpsuit quartered with black, and a jester's hat to match. It even had fluffy puffballs on the tips.

"Hiya, Mister Jay," she said brightly, waving a fanned-out hand of cards at him. She was seated cross-legged on a rickety table, playing some sort of card game with a burly clown whose name he couldn't be bothered to learn and one of the longest surviving of the henchmen so far, a guy named Lewis. She seemed to be winning.

"Wha-tuh, exactly are you doing here?" Joker finally managed to choke out.

"I thought you could use a hand," she said cheerfully, hopping off the table in a way that had every male eye in the room fixed directly on her, "so I made a costume an' came to help you. Now I'm Harley Quinn, your henchwench."

"…excuse me?"

"I made cookies too," she said, pointing proudly to a garishly colored tray full of lightly burned blobs.

"The Dark Side really does have cookies," Lewis piped up with a wry grin. He caught sight of the look Joker was giving him, and hastily bent over his oatmeal raisin pastry again.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, DAMN IT. The newly christened Harley Quinn might actually have made a good sidekick, or at least an attractive toy, in the right circumstances, but these were not the right circumstances. She'd be just a little more interested than the rest of the clowns in just where the boss vanished off to every night, and he could not let her know about his ongoing fling with Batbrat. This had to be dealt with.

Joker's only consolation was that most of the henchclowns need never know of this. Thank whatever divinity you chose to lavish attention on – he kind of liked the Flying Spaghetti Monster, although he supposed the Invisible Pink Unicorn had its benefits too – that he didn't keep all the clowns on hand at all times. Lewis and the other guy were just here to keep an eye on the lair and round up the rest if he needed them, and both of them had been around long enough to know when it was a good idea to clam up. That shouldn't be a problem. But he'd have to get rid of her first.

Harley was stubborn. Telling her outright that she was about as welcome as a dead wombat in the punchbowl would only encourage her to try harder to win his approval. He'd have to come up with something else, something more subtle, and maybe just a little – ugh - romantic, so that she'd be too starry-eyed to catch wise immediately.

"Harley," he said mournfully, drawing her aside and shooing the henchclowns back with his other hand, "it really was…sweet of ya, to go to all this trouble, and I appreciate it, I really do, but really…ya can't be my, uh…henchwench. It just won't work."

For a moment she simply looked startled, but then his words sank in, and suspicion began to creep into her features. Which really was quite a feat, considering how much paint she'd slathered over them.

"It's not that Brian guy, is it?" she prodded, mistrust coloring her voice. "'Cause if he's the reason you don't want me…"

"Who said I didn't want ya?" Joker asked with exaggerated shock. "I do want ya, more than anything." Another lie. Ten Hail Marys and a slap on the wrist. "You're the only gal for me, doll." Not quite a lie. Actually, there was no girl for him, not since he had Batman. "An' that's the problem. You know how crazy it gets, beautiful, you see the villains in the Arkham infirmary after the Bat brings 'em in. I don't want that to happen to you. Look, listen, why do ya wanna be a henchman anyway?" Harleen wasn't stupid; surely she'd noticed how many of his associates ended up with mysterious and invariably fatal puncture wounds?

"Henchwench," she corrected. "'Cause I kept thinkin' about when I helped you escape, and I thought if I could help you as a doctor, I might be able to help you as a villain too…"

Damn, damn, and double damn. She'd gotten a taste for excitement. He should have just escaped on his own and left the little twit out of it. He soldiered on.

"Not a good idea, babe," he told her gamely. "With you around, I'd be too worried 'bout ya to focus on my job, the best way you can help me is by stayin' safe and, ah, outta the way." Out of my way.

At least part of the ploy had worked. He could see Harley melting like sugar under a blowtorch at the ridiculously sappy reasons he'd given, but he could also see that she was getting ready to argue with him.

"But Puddin,'" she began, but he cut her off. He did not need to be arguing with his former therapist, he did not to spend even more of his precious time trying to sort out relationship issues, and if the henchclowns ever heard him referred to as 'Puddin,' not even his agreement with Batsy would be able to save them.

"No buts, doll. I jus' don't want you to get hurt," he told her gallantly, chivvying her out the door. Before Harley could protest, he'd slammed it shut behind her. The slight scratch of a bolt slamming into place reached her ears.

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Joker leaned against the gate and allowed himself a sigh of relief. She'd finally gone. Thanks to her though, his euphoria had been ruptured as effectively as a Batarang through a balloon. If he was to enjoy this evening at all, someone, somewhere, was going to have to suffer.

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On the other side of the door, Harley was glaring at the steel as though wishing it a painful, fiery death and a long incarceration in whatever kind of hell existed for non-organic elements. That just wasn't fair. He could have at least given her a chance before refusing to allow her anywhere near his operations. Even if he did have a good reason.

That was just so sweet, and so like him. And so frustrating. He was an absolute darling to be worried about her, but she could handle herself, she hadn't come unprepared. Did he really think that she would be a hindrance to him? That thought hurt more than any wound sustained in helping him could ever have.

He was right though. She'd seen the kind of injuries the supervillains came back to Arkham with, after the Bat got through with them. Being a villain in this town was a high-risk career, as long as Batman was out there. Not even Mister Jay himself was safe.

If only her Puddin' didn't have to worry about protecting her from the big bad Bat…

She paused, a new idea taking root in her mind. Taking out the Batman would certainly get her Mister Jay's attention…and with the Bat out of the picture, he'd have time to thank her properly…if she got rid of his greatest foe for him, he'd be so impressed he'd realize he didn't have to fret about taking care of her, and realize that she was obviously the right one for him…

It was with that thought in the forefront of her mind that she began walking home, planning her revenge on the Batman. She wasn't very mindful of her surroundings, stumbling and weaving a little, and periodically slashing the air with a knife she'd found in the back of her cutlery drawer. It had seemed like a good thing to bring along on her first night as a supervillainess.

"Show him," she muttered, slicing haphazardly with the dull knife, "thinks he can mess with my Puddin,' hah!" She really should have been more cautious. A supervillainess and henchwench extraordinaire she might be, but she was still a girl out alone past nightfall, and in Gotham, there was good reason to be afraid of the dark. It wasn't long before her mumblings attracted unwanted attention.

Finally tiring of disemboweling imaginary Batmen, she leaned against the dirty brick of an alley wall and pulled the hat off, letting her wheat-colored hair spill down around her face. This villainess stuff was going to be harder than she thought. She'd have to find a way of drawing the Batman out, maybe make a name as a supervillainess and use herself as bait…

No point in starting tonight though. She'd need some sleep if she was going to make it through work tomorrow. With a sigh, she shoved the jester's hat and knife in a side pouch of her backpack and pulled her coat around her, hiding her eye-catching costume from sight. Gripping the backpack with both hands, she slipped down another alley, part of the maze that would take her most of the way home.

She hadn't gone more than a few blocks though when she became aware that she was sharing alleyspace with someone else. The hair on her arms started to rise, some primal sense left over from the days when saber-toothed cats were an active threat warning her that she wasn't safe. A stolen glance back revealed a heavyset man in a dark jacket, and she silently cursed herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should have known better, should have known far better than to try and get home through the Narrows alley maze. What was she thinking? Or was she thinking at all? She must not have been, to pull such a fool stunt, and now she had a distinctly unsavory shadow to show for it. Well, if he tried anything, she would just have to deal with him. She was a supervillainess now. No need to go starting fights though, that would just be silly. She did her best to ignore him, but he had other ideas.

"Hey, gorgeous," he called in a voice that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention, "why doncha slow up a bit, hang around for a chat?" Harleen couldn't help it. She turned back to look at him. One bloodshot eye winked lazily, and she drew back in disgust.

He was in the same mold as the ones who'd harassed Batman and Joker a few nights before, but this one wasn't drunk. Just stupid.

"Look, I don't have time for this," Harleen growled, gripping the backpack tighter. "Leave me alone an' we'll forget this ever happened. No need to get messy."

"What if I like messy?" he chortled, closing the distance between them in a few long strides. "'Cause I do like it messy. Real messy."

Before she could dart away, one hand had closed around her arm in a vice-like grip, the other pulling at her long trenchcoat. She snarled like an enraged cat as his rough hands fumbled the jacket open.

"Ooh, looks like I hit the jackpot," he leered, eyeing her clinging jumpsuit. Harleen's forget-me-not-blue eyes narrowed.

"Bit mistake, buster," she breathed, and a split-second later her foot had planted itself in his chest. He went flying back and she used the momentum to turn a graceful, if hurried, backflip, still clutching the backpack. A moment later she'd landed on her feet, face flushed and eyes bright with the sudden adrenaline rush. He hit the wall and bounced back, feet turning a frantic tango under him, trying to balance his weight. By pure chance, they found his equilibrium and propelled him forward again. Where before he'd just been looking for an easy fuck, now he was spitting mad.

"You bitch," he howled, snatching wildly at nothing, "you fucking little whore!" With an unexpected burst of speed he managed to latch onto the dodging form of Harley Quinn, fingers curling into the fabric of the backpack. She yelped and jumped back, dropping the pack. She'd reflexively pulled two objects from it as she let it fall, and fingering them, she slowly became aware that she had the kitchen knife in one hand and a rubber chicken in the other.

Realizing he only had the pack, not the girl, he flung it at her with surprising speed. Before she could duck, it had struck her shoulder, knocking her off balance, and he bowled into her like a juggernaut, thick hands pinning the arm with the knife to her side.

For the first time that night, Harley felt something approaching panic. She was a supervillainess! This wasn't how it was supposed to go! The fear lending her unexpected reserves of energy, she used her free arm to force the rubber chicken headfirst into his mouth, jamming the synthetic poultry as far down his throat as she could manage. He reached up, trying to claw the chunk of latex out of his jaws, but she didn't give him the chance. It was the work of a moment for her knee to connect solidly with his groin. He collapsed like a building her Puddin' had bombed.

Her blood still thrumming with adrenaline and her body whip-cord tight, she didn't hesitate, but slashed the dull knife across his throat. She could feel a nick in the blade catch on his stubbly skin, tearing it unevenly. A moment later she'd scrambled up and wiped it on his coat, running on autopilot, her mind curiously detached from the scene she was acting out.

He choked, sobbing around the rubber chicken stuffed into his mouth, and Harley watched with interest as the blood drained out of him in a scarlet curtain, taking his life with it. There was just so much of it, and such a pretty color too, like the glowing sun just before it vanished over the horizon. It really was beautiful. She smiled delightedly, clapping her hands as it rippled over the cracked concrete, every pebble it hit changing the surface and reflecting the dim light in a hundred new ways. She felt oddly disappointed when there was no more blood left in the empty husk.

As the last of it crept into the cracks, she felt something else rise behind the inquisitive glee and heady intoxication at the newly-discovered wonders of the night, something wild and hysterical screaming that she'd just killed someone, she'd ended his life, she'd destroyed another human being, her job was to help, to fix the mind, to rebuild what shock and violence and Batman-induced trauma destroyed, she was violating everything she'd ever stood for, this was wrong. She shut it down, with difficulty. This was not the time or place. She'd done what she had to. She was a supervillainess now, she couldn't go getting upset every time someone died. Shit happened. She caused it.

Still, did she really have to kill him? Maybe next time – and there was bound to be a next time; she was female, only a little over five feet, and wearing a spandex leotard – she'd just castrate them. No balls, no problem.

She was silent and thoughtful as she wiped her knife on the man's coat. Consciously or not, it didn't matter, she'd taken the first big step. No going back now. For better or for worse, she was in this for good. As Caesar had put it, the die was cast.

Since she was going to be on the radar soon enough anyway, she might as well start drumming up public attention. Her Puddin' had his signature. It was written all over his face. She'd need a trademark too. Thinking carefully, she bent over the body again.

A moment later she finished, and stood up, stretching the kinks out of her back. At least the spandex made it easy to move. Small favors.

It was like anything else, she supposed, casting a last regretful look at the drained corpse. It had to get harder before it got easier. She was tough though. She'd stick it out.

Harley was a naturally optimistic creature, and she couldn't help feeling just a little bit smug, against the part of her mind that still railed at her over what she'd just done. She'd successfully defended herself. Too successfully perhaps, but she'd proven to herself, and to the world, that she could if she had to. She wasn't just some dame in distress. She was Harley Quinn.

It was not in her nature to spend precious time brooding on what was already done. Within minutes of leaving the body, she was walking almost merrily, a spring in her step, towards her apartment. The incident was still there, of course, but it had been relegated to a side compartment of her mind, waiting its turn to resurface.

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Later that night, the police received an anonymous tip. They traced it to an alley where they found a male corpse with a rubber chicken stuffed in its mouth, the throat slit, and a pair of diamond shapes carved into the cheeks, possibly the work of an unknown supervillain.

When the Joker heard the report, he was in an unused office building by the docks, busy toying with the man his henchclowns had brought back for him. No one special, really; one of the Russian's men. Just someone to have some fun with, kill some time and work off a little stress. He had the police scanner playing in the background, much like a seamstress might have a radio playing for the white noise.

"Now, hold still, and maybe this, uh, this won't hurt too much," he cooed gleefully, fingering a mirror-shiny scalpel. He buffed it absently against the lab coat he was wearing, before drawing it across the forehead of the man strapped to the gurney next to him. The man shrieked, keening like a trapped animal. Under the purple surgical mask, the Joker smiled.

"Hmm, doesn't seem to have helped. As your, uh, your doctor, I think we should try again – over here maybe…" He raised the bloodstained scalpel again.

"Please," the man gasped, eyes bulging like a rabbit's, "my name's Frank, Frank Granger. My friends call me Frankie. My brother…"

Joker rolled his eyes. These people. They watched Silence of the Lambs once, and thought that all they'd have to do was tell him their name and favorite color and keep blathering on about their life, and sooner or later he'd feel bad and let them go. Really, who exactly did they think he was? No real villain worth the title would ever fall for that, only a prettyboy pushover like Scarecrow. This guy, Frankie, needed a few illusions shattered. For his own good, really.

"Well, Frankie," Joker grinned, "now that we know each other, let's experiment, shall we? Let's see how much it hurts when I cut off your…" It was at that point that the report flashed over the buzzing airwaves, ruining his good mood as effectively as a spark wrecked the Hindenburg.

He froze, face twisting into a snarl behind the purple surgical mask. A moment later he'd ripped it off in one smooth motion and stalked out of the room, leaving his struggling captive still tied to the gurney, making little choked noises of relief and fear. Joker ignored him.

He'd like to find out who exactly it was that said persistence was a virtue, he thought, stripping off the doctor's coat as he went. He wanted the opportunity to demonstrate to them just how pleased he was that they'd passed their priceless intellect on to impressionable young psychologists.

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Can we in fact pretend that she is anything but a woman scorned, like which fury hell hath no? We cannot.

~Jack Sparrow, Pirates of the Caribbean 3

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A/N: I wish I could claim to own Lewis, but he's on loan from the comics. Not mine at all. I'm not even the first writer to think of borrowing him; J-Horror Girl uses him to great effect in her story 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head.'

The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster and the Invisible Pink Unicorn are both real things. Google them if you doubt it.

For some reason I absolutely love the term henchwench.