He called from the hallway, on the apartment landline. Three rings, and New Harley picked up the phone.
"Knock, knock," Joker said, smiling.
There was a squeal of recognition. "Mister J! It's been ages," Harley pouted.
"Sorry, kiddo," Joker said. "It's been hectic. You have to be on 24/7 to catch a bat in a trap!" He laughed a little, giddily.
"Still. You couldn't'a called?"
"Now Harley," Joker said reprovingly. "You know I can't contact you more than necessary. All we need is one little slip-up to make this come down on our heads."
Harley sighed. "I know, Boss. You've been doing great too; I've seen all the speeches… with you both." There was a short pause, then she continued, cheerily, "So what's up?"
"It's time, I think, for a little demonstration," Joker said, holding the curled cord between his fingers, stretching it like a rubber band. "How do you feel about attacking the GCPD?"
He could hear her answering grin even through the static. "Now you're talkin'."
/
The air of Gotham was red with oncoming night when the attack hit. Brutal, efficient, without any of the usual puns and taunts: that's what you got when using a mind-controlled army. They did only what they were ordered and nothing more. It was reported live; and for days afterward the footage of the batsignal being torn from the GCPD roof and thrown, soaring, off the edge, as Batman threw himself after Commissioner Gordon, was shown. It was impossible to avoid, and Joker couldn't help the unwanted sting of anguish he felt at the repeated image.
If anyone was going to tear that thing off, it should have been me, he thought; and then nobody should have torn that thing off. How will Batman find his way anymore, without his flashlight? That was the point, of course. He was trying to tear Batman down; so far, so fast, so inexorably that he wouldn't be able to get up again. And it wouldn't be the kind of thing Batman could point to and say, this, all this was the Joker's fault. No: it would be his allies, it would be his city, even his own conscience. Nothing to grab hold of, nothing to fight against, only his own shadow.
He pretended to use the Hatter's headband, letting Old Harley piece together her own version of events—placing the blame square on New Harley as the instigator of the attack. She came into the room, hopping into her shoes. "She figured you out, Jack!" she said frantically. "She hijacked your plan and she obviously intends to steal you back from me!"
"Why don't you let him decide for himself?"
Just in time, New Harley—Neo Joker, as she called herself, made her entrance. She was dressed in lavender and black, a tear of makeup running down her cheek, out the other side of her mouth like a rivulet of blood. It was the first time he'd seen her in months, and when he did, his breath caught. She was beautiful. She came into his space while Croc strangled him on her command. She'd cut her hair shorter; it was now Harleen's length, and a pale purple to match her suit. A red rose adorned the buttonhole of her black coat. She played the part of villain to perfection, while he played wounded hero:
"I'm sorry for what happened between us—I wish I could take it all back. But I'm not the man you're looking for," Joker said, defiantly. "Not anymore." He looked up under his lashes, willing her to keep to the plan; what if she doubted?
She crouched down before him, pulled up his chin with one purple-gloved hand. The thumb traced gently across his jaw; but her grip was unyielding. "You're wrong," she said, with pure, unwavering belief. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, he almost reached out to her, despite the danger. She knew. She saw him. After that, he could play the rest with ease; he could even pull away. "I just need to draw him out," Neo Joker explained. "By doing what he never could—by taking control of Gotham. His massive ego won't allow me to surpass him."
Old Harley came to him, put her arm around him protectively, and he clenched his fists. "He already took Gotham—" Joker growled, "by becoming me! The city is mine and I'm not going to give her up." Not yet, anyhow—certainly to no upstart—not to anyone but Batman. Perhaps… perhaps not even to Batman. No. What was he thinking—to believe his own lies, even for a moment? Why, that would be crazy! What had society ever given him, what had Gotham, that he would want to keep any of it?
"You won't have a choice, Jack," Neo Joker said.
And she strode out undaunted, with her goons in tow, truly her own woman, for the first time he'd known her. He let out his breath in a shudder, feeling lightheaded—though maybe some of that was just from getting strangled. Did he love her? Dare he? Joker in love with Joker—the ultimate expression of narcissism, if anything was. Perhaps he only yearned to be her, with every fiber of his being, wanted to paint those pastel shades onto the empty canvas of his clothes.
/
"Wonderful performance, Harley!" Joker said, the moment the other end picked up. "Did you get what you needed?"
There was silence, for a moment; a few breaths magnified and distorted through the phone.
"Harley?" Joker said. "Hel-ooo? Anyone home?"
"Sorry, Mister J!" Neo Joker said. "It's been a long night; I'm kinda tired…"
"I'll bet!" Joker chuckled fondly. "Well?" he said suddenly, snapping. "Did you get it or not?"
"I got everything," Neo Joker assured him. "The plans are nuts, honestly… how did you know we'd find them?"
Joker laughed. "That's the kicker! I didn't! Oh, I knew they had something hidden in those archives, of course—there was too much evidence of GCPD having some kind of terrible secret in their history—but I didn't know what it would be. …So what are they?"
"A freeze gun," Neo Joker explained. "A big one; big enough to encase half the city if you were able to turn it on. Not built by Freeze, but his father, a Nazi who was brought over for his expertise, at the beginning of Project Paperclip."
"Eugh," Joker said. "Well, he can't help who his father was, but I feel sorry for having to live with that in the family!"
"…Quinzel's Jewish, isn't she," Neo Joker said after a moment.
"Uh… yes?" Joker scratched his head, wondering what had brought that up.
"It's just funny," Neo Joker said. "I forget, sometimes, that you have limits, like any man."
"Oh, everyone does, now and then," Joker assured her. "I've spent years convincing the public I'll do anything; the reputation's more terrifying than any man could be."
There was a soft breath, like a sigh. "It's hard, being Joker. Trying to figure out what to do—how to act—"
"How insane should you be? Little or lots? What do you steal? Who do you gotta kill?" he said, humorously. "It's a balancing act—believe me, I know."
"How do you do it?" Neo Joker asked.
"Ah-ah-ah," even though she couldn't see the motion, Joker wagged his finger. "You can't ask someone else. It's the kind of joke that just comes to you! —but I will give you a little hint: never give them what they expect."
/
He still had dramatics to fall back on; enjoyed the look on Batgirl and Nightwing's faces as he showed them the GCPD building he had outfitted, replete with everything from a new batsignal of his very own design to a garage full of cars and tech.
"In a way, I have more respect for Batman than any of you," Joker explained, Harleen at his side, leading the way down the stairs around the corner of the building, their shadows lost in the darkness under the artificial glare of lamps. "But he's refusing to see reality. He's not adapting." At the sealed door he paused, turned to face the semicircle waiting for his next words, for him to throw open the curtain for the final act.
Do you see what I'm doing, Batman? He thought. I'm becoming you. You can't stop me; you can barely keep up. Letting it all slip from your hands, too distracted by your obsessions.
Joker had pressed his fingers against the shape of the insignia, dark-glittering metal with a beam of light waiting behind it, as yet unformed. When it had turned on, the brightness stunned him, even turned away as he was to hide his eyes from the glare. He felt—as the two crime-fighters showed up, their faces moving through shock, anger, and bewilderment to see him beside Gordon—as though he had birthed a perfect, monstrous inversion of the truth, had taken reality and made it cohere to his own beliefs through sheer force of will. Unlike other times, there would be no Batman coming to haul him back to Arkham; no doctors telling him he had it all wrong. No: the public was behind him, the doctors had been fooled; Gordon had been worn down, and even the Bat's partners were almost in the palm of his hand.
In the massive garage, a Batcave without the cave and only two wary little bats, he explained the whole thing—threw the keys back to Batgirl's hand without even looking behind him, hearing her intake of breath as she caught it. "Best part of all—you each get your own batmobile."
First wear down their faith in Batman, then win them over with gifts. He'd never met anyone, no matter how noble they claimed to be, that was immune to a bribe.
It just had to be the right one.
.
.
.