There were a few brief moments where Joker's anger subsided just long enough for him to appreciate the glitz and glamour of the production. That is, until the applause after each number would shake the stands, and Joker was once again reminded of his reason for attending. Every time he saw her face aglow with pride at the admiration of the crowd, he remembered. And thin white fingers twitched around the handle of his violin case.

Each smile she flashed had his belly tightening, and Joker watched her with such an unbreakable focus it felt as though the performance was solely for him. When the spotlight was on her, and the auditorium was dark, she was dancing and singing only for him.

And she was ablaze on the stage, glittering like a fiery angel atop a christmas tree of electric lights. The audience swooned for her, cheered for her and cried tears for her, as she paraded around, primed by their pleasure. And though he loathed to admit it, he could not keep his eyes off of her.

And Joker wondered if she'd have that same sparkle in her eyes, that same smile on her face, with his hands about her throat and squeezing on her windpipe. He wondered if she'd burn so bright she'd become cinder beneath him. If she'd still look as immaculate and invirogated after he was done with her. Joker knew that she would not, for she was as false as the role that she was playing, and that Harleen Quinzel was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

The final song-and-dance was closing down the show, and pulling himself from his hypnosis, Joker nodded to his goons either side. It was time. They hurried to crack open their cases to retrieve their guns, perched up on the balcony and waiting. Joker hoisted up the Tommy, ready and willing.

They waited, and waited. Waited for the show to end and the curtain to drop, waited for the flowers to fall from the stands. And waited with anticipation as the cast came out in turn to bow, curtsey and drink in the applause. It seemed like forever for Joker, who only wanted Harleen Quinzel. And finally – she appeared to him, holding a bouquet almost as big as she was, skin flushed with pink, round eyes wet with happy tears.

The audience erupted for her, and Joker stood on impulse to get a better view – no, aim. Blood ran hot in his veins as she drank in their attention, their love for her. His eyes stung the longer he stared at her. His lips curling in disgust.

"Now–" he ordered hoarsely, and Eric fired a single shot into the air from his rifle.

The crowd was stunned into immediate silence and though Joker's ears rang with the echo of cheers, he had killed the celebration dead. Eyes from all across the auditorium were snapped from Harleen and over to the three of them hanging over the gallery.

"HEY!" Joker yelled, and took great pleasure in watching her turn to face him, expression no longer tearfully ecstatic, but etched in confusion and fear.

"Who is that?" Joker heard from the public below, and was quickly reminded of his disguise. He drew a sleeve roughly across his face in order to remove the make-up. It was harder than it looked.

"I don't know!" yelled another audience member.

Tough crowd. "For fucks sake!" Joker dragged a hand across his face again, having removed even more of the residue to the chalky white beneath, and then tore away at his wig, unveiling the signature green of his own hair.

It was as though the entire theatre took a singular breath at once, as somebody screamed, "it's the Joker!"

Finally!

Harleen's mouth dropped, and Joker laughed manically at her stunned expression. "Loved the show Harls!" he yelled across at her, loving more the terror written plainly on her face, "why don't I give you that STANDIN' OVATION?!" and he slammed his finger on the trigger raining bullets on the the people below.

RATATATATATA ATATATATATATATAKAKAKAKAKAKAKAK!

Harleen stood frozen, horrified, as bullets littered her people and shredded them up like paper. They were running, screaming, flailing for the exits. Clambering the stage, clogging up doors, and crawling beneath the chairs. Seats had been torn to foam by slugs, and torsos and limbs to pulp. She swayed on her feet at the sights and sounds, unable to comprehend the rhyme or reason for this atrocity before her. Her bouquet fell from her hands to scatter flowers across bodies, her arms suddenly limp and weak.

"I'm gunnin' for you Quinn!" came Joker's voice from up in the boxes, and her heart had stalled in her chest at his hysterical laughter.

The ripping of gunfire stilled in the proscenium at this announcement, to be heard off through the walls, as Joker found the stairs, making his way from the balcony and down to her level.

Fuck.

Every fibre of her being screamed for escape, and Harleen spun and darted to the wings, headed backstage, to the nearest exit she could possibly reach. She ran, lungs hot with every panting breath she took, lunging the corners to be stopped dead in her tracks by a sheer giant of a man, resting on his shoulder – a BAZOOKA?!

She screeched, shrill and desperate, tearing back the other way, heels clacking madly on the wood.

What the–!

Harleen headed back out across the stage, where again, she was stopped by gunpoint. This time, a portly man with a rifle blocked her exit from the theatre. She couldn't even feel the heavy sobs that left her, nor the tears that streamed down her face and salted her lips.

"Be a good girl an' come with us and I won't have ta' hurt ya'"

She made a run for it – jolting over ravaged seats, Harleen bolted, bursting her way through to the staff corridor. She heard gunfire closely behind, more gunfire further off, and screams throughout the venue.

Harleen slumped against the wall and into the woman's bathroom, only to find it was without any windows or means of escape. Her cries were so hard, they were silent, as she dragged herself into a cubicle and locked the door. Harleen pulled her feet up onto the toilet, and clasped at her mouth tightly. She could not contain the ebbing grief without it, where she would crouch and wait for death to come for her.

She heard a scuffle from outside, of punches being thrown and the clattering of a rifle. She held her breath until her lungs blazed, and the door of the bathroom swung open.

"Miss Quinzel?" a male voice called out to her, a voice she recognised from the television, from interviews and press conferences – Bruce Wayne? But she remained silent, cooped up in her cubicle, her voice so small that it wouldn't come out.

Fire rattled off in the distance, with laughter – awful laughter – and the bathroom door closed shut. So all the money in the world and it couldn't buy some bravery. She sunk into the seat, body trembling. Why? Why? Why? Why?

After a momentary lapse in emotional control, Harleen cried heavily into her clawed hands, cramped up and rigid with fear. But she only took a moment for it, before forcing herself to her feet and unbolting the door. She couldn't just stay sitting here, the Joker would eventually find her – and then what?

Harleen whimpered as she stepped out and into the corridor, saw the portly man on the floor, disarmed and unconcious, with no gun to be seen. She continued to brave the great unknown, gingerly making her way around each and every corner. Wiping her eyes when her vision blurred with tears. There were still yells and cries throughout, but no gunfire, no laughter. Had the Joker given up on pursuing her? She managed to stop off at her changing room, still uprooted and messy from the night before. Harleen groped for her keys and left everything else.

There was the door, ahead – with nothing blocking her path to it. No giants, no bazookas. The stage exit that led directly to the carpark and directly to her means of escape. She ran, ran with a new lease of energy, keys jangling in her fist, threw open the door and out into the night, where she thundered towards her car in the distance, the cold whipping at her drenched face.

But a loud whooshing zoomed past her, and where her car had been in her eyeline, was now a mushroom of orange and red, of scorching metal and burning petrol. She turned to spot the huge man, who had taken out her car in one clean shot.

She screamed, she screamed until it felt as though her chest would explode, until a hand wound it's way around her neck and squeezed ever so slightly.

"Shhh."

Her eyes roved to the side to seek the man who was pressed against her, one hand twisting an arm behind her back, and another at her throat.

The corpse white of his face was only half visible through caked foundation, as though a demon had chipped it's way through to the outside. His lips, his cheeks, his shirt, were deep red and smeared with blood. And his smile – his smile –

Blackness creeped at the edges of her vision, and a ringing in her ears deafened her. Harleen could see the Joker's mouth move, but could no longer hear or make out the words. Her heart hammered violently, and her limbs tingled with pins and needles, until the blackness overwhelmed and all consciousness was gone.