Joker had left Harleen Quinzel in the care of his men for three days, where he had taken the time to mull over his next move against her. The thing with Harleen, now that he had her, was his involvement in her kidnapping had only worked to elevate her status in the eyes of Gotham citizens. And that by Joker having openly shown interest in pursuing her, the masses now followed suit. Just who was Harleen Quinzel and why did the Joker want her? It was the current talk of the town, much to his chagrin. And though Joker thoroughly enjoyed knowing there was a compelled audience discussing his work, the fact that his name was closely followed by her own, was not so easy to accept. It seemed that the whispers of Joker went arm in arm with the cries for Harleen Quinzel, and he didn't like it. Not one bit.

He needed a new approach – if he kept her captive for long enough, he knew the public interest would only naturally fizzle out. And he knew that by killing her and dumping her body, there would be a brief time of mourning for their short-lived celebrity, and then the hype, again, would soon die out. Though both efficient and easy options for Joker, he couldn't erase the thought that told him it would be a waste if he were to act upon them. That he could do something much bolder and grander with the gift he'd swept up from the stage. That there was something more, something essential he was missing. Some minor detail he had yet to uncover.

And so, with a taped interview he'd carefully recorded off the news the night before (nibbling popcorn alone) tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket, Joker sped his way back to the warehouse, and back to his project within.

The fairy lights wound about Harleen were no longer as taut, or as well placed as Joker had originally done for her. The constant unlashing and relashing of her binds due to bathroom breaks had taken it's toll on his set-up. Nor did half the bulbs light up anymore. One of his men had tucked their large, leather jacket over her shoulders, so that she was blanketed from her neck to her knees to shield her from the morning chill, and her heels had been removed to make way for giant socks, also donated, for warmth. Joker noted that she hadn't been gagged as he'd suggested – and that a scattering of playing cards in her lap told him they'd been passing the time, Joker had been absent, with games instead. The scene looked more after-party, than hostage/homicide, which wasn't truly that unusual for Joker.

It was the orange hours of dawn, and along with most of his men, Harleen was still asleep. Her head sagged low and breathing calmly, her chest rose and fell in steady succession. Joker approached her, treading very cautiously and without footfalls, to retrieve his knife still inbedded inches from her ear.

And Harleen stirred on the grating sound of splintered wood, no matter the care he'd taken, and her eyes flickered open to stare up at him. At first dazed – and then filled with horror upon realisation of the figure before her. "Shh – shh." A finger pressed to his lips only made her worse, and she screamed so loudly and so suddenly even Joker jumped.

His guys all roused in confusion and the echoed clicking of guns, to aim instinctively, but unintentionally, at their own boss.

"Oh it's you."

"It's just J, everyone relax–"

"Couldya' have dropped us a text first?"

A relevant point, Joker chose to ignore it. "I see you've been having fun," he stated, dusting the hand of cards from Harleen's thighs, and his entourage fell quiet considering the rhetoric.

"Havin' fun- are you mad?" Harleen snapped, and Joker was taken aback by the fact she'd spoken, rather than screeched.

He grinned. "We'll, I'm sure glad you asked toots, most people just assume."

And though she trembled in his wake, her eyes were daggers and bravely challenging considering her position. So, Miss Quinzel was not a morning person. Noted.

"I got something that'll cheer ya' right up," he continued, pulling the TV and it's tall, steel stand forward so that Harleen was positioned nicely before it. "I bought you a present."

He noticed that momentary bravery disappear at the notion of a gift, and Harleen's eyes flitted to and from him to the little television set, thoroughly concerned and distrustful. But she said nothing and simply watched as he pulled out the VHS, and fed it to the player.

"Gather round boys," he beckoned his men to join them, and too found a chair to drag across – perching himself adjacent to Quinzel, so he could watch her expressions intently. He was excited to see her reaction to this particular piece of footage he himself had howled at. And had chosen it with much consideration, of all the coverage, this was the one to watch.


Harleen didn't want to watch whatever the Joker had intended for her. She didn't want to take her eyes off of his, off of his idle hands, or his ever changing expressions. But she was frightened, she was threatened and she was so, so tired that the white noise fizzing on the little screen seemed to draw her in, and pull her from her bleak and terrible situation.

His goons had been mostly good to her. Not good enough to set her free, but good enough to feed her, and good enough to take her to the old bathrooms and let her piss without sneaking a peak. They weren't entirely devoted, but neither were they deranged – and Harleen didn't batter an eyelid as they pulled up rusted steel chairs to join them. Joker, however, was far too close for comfort.

The familiar jingle of Gotham City News blurted out from the box before them. And the anchors therein looked on, shuffling blank papers and feigning looks of sadness. Harleen squinted for a better focus, but could not read the subtitles or highlights without her glasses. Though it didn't take much to guess what the subject matter would be.

"It has been a tragic few days for the people of Gotham City," spoke a grave-faced woman, "with no news yet on the disappearance of Harleen Quinzel – the police assure us they are working tirelessly in hopes of bringing her back, safe and sound."

"Indeed," spoke another, a man so pampered by make-up, he shon at the camera. "The commissioner has turned on the batsignal, and we can hope that the greatest detective is already working steadily on the case."

Harleen noticed the Joker turn to the television at the mention of that, and he scoffed loudly, flicking up the volume on the set before catching her watchful eye –

Harleen became too preoccupied with his video however. And it was surreal to see her photos flash up on the screen, on what had been live television. A tiny, a teensy, a terrible part of her felt a squirming joy at the thought of so many people talking about her, looking for her. She stared hard at the screen, hard enough for her eyes to ache, in order to fight the smallest impulse to simply smile at the reception she was receiving, even second hand.

"It's not all doom and gloom," the gent tried to remind the viewers. "There has been a great deal of bravery, of resilience shown from the cast and crew – and here we are now, with Vicki Vale and the lovely Peyton Riley. How are you doing Vicki?"

The screen flitted to a live location, a busy street near a different theatre, thin sheets of rain muffling the sound from their microphones. The red-head reporter paled in comparison to her counterpart, Peyton Riley, who looked to the camera with a coy and careful simper.

"There's still a great deal of pain here–" spoke Vicki through the drizzle, mic pressed to her lips, "and such a sense of loss– but everyone has come together in order to make this work. They are going to continue on with the production, despite the heinous actions of the Joker. To stand tall against the enemy, isn't that right, Miss Riley?"

The Joker laughed loudly at his mention, but Harleen ignored him, leaning closer still to the TV, filled with dread for what Riley had to say.

Peyton pulled back her blonde locks for a better shot from the camera. "Oh yes, Vicki, most definitely. Though we miss Harleen terribly, and it won't be the same without her, we know she'd have wanted the work to continue here." She flashed a set of brilliantly white teeth, "the show must go on, as Harleen would have said–"

"Tha's a lie!" Harleen cried out at the screen, despite herself – and drew odd and questioning looks from all but the Joker, who smirked from ear to ear.

"She a friend of yours?"

"I'll be performing in place of Harleen Quinzel until she is back home safe and ready for our company," Riley spoke with a sickeningly convincing assurance. "We're all praying for you Harleen, please come home–" and the recording ended abruptly.

Harleen still watched the screen, though blank, her stomach knotted and throat tight. Is this how the Joker had felt, seeing her in the papers? Is that why, out of all the footage he could have recorded, he'd chosen this? No wonder she was strapped to a chair, tear-and-blood stained. Her fists were balled, and she squeezed her nails into her palms to keep from crying. This just – it wasn't fair! She'd made it, she'd had it all within reach, she'd taken it and now, now it sat in the hands of the one person she'd tried so hard to keep it from. She sniffled.

"Are you crying?" the Joker asked, with the least concern she'd heard in her life. And his coldness triggered an avalanche of emotion, until she was sobbing so hysterically she could barely breathe.

None of them, not even the Joker, seemed prepared for her outburst, and all of them moved back a few inches to make way for her tirade of frustration and sadness.

"Do you want me to kill her?" The Joker suggested in the most casual tone. It struck a chord somewhere within Harleen, that she wailed even louder and could not stop.

"Oh g–great, so y–you wanna r–replace me a– as well, do ya'? You– wanna s–swap me out too– that I – I can't even k–keep a murderer e–entertained enough–"

The Joker looked to his men as though searching for answers, and Harleen sobbed loudly, heavily, all the while. A couple of them shrugged.

"Am I – I – that terrible – that I can't even – can't even – keep a killer wantin' to kill me– s–so it – it's not just t–them it's y–you too?"

"Hey, settle down kid, you're scaring the boys."

"J, you can't promise a girl you're gonna kill her, and then not. That's just cold."

"Yeah, boss, you can't build it all up like this and then bring in someone new, that ain't gonna work–"

"That's not what I meant! I never said that!" His eyes darted back and forth from his men to Harleen, brows furrowed as he snapped their comments shut. When his gaze came to meet with Harleen again, it stilled her hysteria and silenced her cries.

"Don't you worry," he told her with a light chuckle, and extended a thin finger to outline the delicate shape of her jaw, "I'm still gonna kill ya', don't you worry your pretty little head about that–"

And Harleen couldn't tear away from his gaze, though she spilled over with tears and looked back through a watery haze. The Joker had her transfixed. Somehow able to drag her from her despair, he held her in a frozen moment, where all the hurt, the pain and the insult had gone, and instead left her with one overwhelming, all-consuming feeling, the fear and anticipation of him.