Jonathan Crane wasn't used to thinking of his minions as attractive young women. He could look at them and know, intellectually, what they were made of. He had seen them use the "Kirk Gambit" on more than a few of their enemies, and survived their occasional flirtatious moods himself when they had no other outlet. And while he was resistant to their charms, he was not immune. After all, he was only human.

But he didn't think of them that way. If he ever looked at them, it was because they were in his way. If he ever noticed their sexual promise, it was with an eye toward turning that edge against his enemies, as a weapon or a tool. If he ever felt anything positive for them at all (which he wouldn't admit even if he did) it was—at best—a strictly paternal sort of affection. They weren't exactly like daughters to him—good lord, he wouldn't know what to do with a daughter if he had one—but they were much closer to that than potential mates.

When the Captain came out of her room, all dolled up and positively glowing, he almost laughed at himself for being surprised that his little girl had grown up. He had been thinking of them as children, or as dolls with the capacity to simulate, but not truly possess…well…

Beauty?

The Captain didn't consider herself beautiful, and no wonder. She bore more than a passing resemblance to a prepubescent boy, as she liked to say, and her ordinary wardrobe did nothing to disguise that. There was nothing wrong with her; she could even make herself rather pretty when she tried. But he had never thought of her as anything special.

He had never considered what might be hiding under the t-shirts and loose-fitting jeans she liked so much. She wasn't busty, not by a long shot, but she was…well, she had…she wasn't totally lacking. He felt the heat rushing to his face as he realized that the corset contraption she was wearing did nothing but draw attention to her—shoulders. Her shoulders. She had very nice shoulders. (And legs that didn't quit.)

Damn it, Crane, she's your minion. Just…stop looking at her.

He focused his attention on the battered gold top hat perched at a jaunty angle on her head. She had changed her hair—cut it a few inches shorter and dyed it a vibrant shade of red. It was all very fascinating. The hat was old, worn around the edges and missing most of its gold sparkles. And he wasn't looking at anything else.

"Hi…Squishykins…" The Captain's face was as red as his must have been. Looking incredibly self-conscious, she crossed one arm over her chest and let the other hand drop, fingers splayed, mimicking the pose of Venus rising from the foam. "How…um…do I look okay?"

"Where in God's name are you going dressed like that?" he demanded, completely forgetting the importance of not caring.

"A movie…" Clearly, that wasn't the whole story, but he wasn't going to ask her any more. She seemed relieved by that. "I'll be back by dawn."

"Fine. I'm not giving you a curfew."

"Good. 'Cause you're not my real dad!" She stuck her tongue out at him. He rolled his eyes.

"Just go. And do try not to get arrested."

"Hey, they've never made it stick." She grabbed a coat from the rack by the door and sailed out with a saucy grin. He went back to reading.

Ten minutes later, Al and Techie appeared. Again, he had to remind himself not to stare.

Techie looked like a French maid, and while that had never been a particular fantasy of his…looking at her, he could almost begin to understand the fascination. If he were looking at her. Which he wasn't.

And he wasn't looking at Al even more carefully. If he had been looking at her, he might or might not have noticed that her white cotton bra could barely contain her—her—he would not use the phrase "heaving bosoms"—and her half-slip was clinging to her in a way that—er, that is—it was ripped along the bottom.

He stared at their feet. Why were they doing this to him?

"Close your mouth, Squishykins," said Al. If she had been amused, he would have gassed her then and there, but to his immense relief, she seemed almost as embarrassed as he was.

"You'd better get changed," Techie added, sounding conspicuously neutral. He glared at her shoes.

"Into what?" Her foot tapped impatiently.

"You're Brad Majors. You get to wear glasses and tighty-whiteys."

He raised his glare to the hem of her skirt, then dropped it to her knees.

"Oh, no, I don't."

"You can cover up with a lab coat," Al reassured him. He glared at her toes.

"No. This was not part of the deal. I'm not going outside in my underwear."

"But we can't do it without you!"

"I don't care."

"But—"

"No!"

"But Eddums is doing it."

"That's because 'Eddums' likes the attention. I'm sure he'd be perfectly happy to have you girls fawning over him and discussing the merits of his choice of undergarments. So why don't you bother him?"

They exchanged an amused glance.

"Oh, believe me, we will," Techie said. "But if you won't be Al's date, I guess she won't be able to come. She'll just have to stay here. With you. Alone."

The next thing he knew, Al was straddling his lap, all but poking him in the eye with her ample chest, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his back, holding him close and immobile.

"Why don't you help me slip into something more comfortable?" she said throatily.

Throwing himself backward and overturning the couch was not the best move he could have made. The position she was in, Al had nowhere to go but with him. He hit the floor hard, and Al landed on top of him, knocking the breath out of him. He tried to push her away. She didn't move.

"Off!" he demanded, his voice muffled by—

Shoulders! She had very nice shoulders.

She rolled away from him with a mumbled apology, and moved off with an obvious limp. He had to wonder if she'd injured herself in the fall. He also had to wonder why he should care.

Techie reached down to help him up. He swatted her hand away.

"Why can't you girls learn to take a damn hint?" he bellowed. "Leave me alone!"

"Are you hurt?" Techie asked.

"No." He got up on his own and put some healthy distance between himself and the two of them.

"Sorry…" Al was laughing so hard she could hardly breathe. The way she was shaking, doubled over like that, she was sure to come spilling out of her bra any second. He felt it prudent to shield his eyes.

"Jonathan, it's okay—"

"It is not okay. Touch me again and I'll…" He couldn't think of an adequate threat. "I'll have you all shot." He refused to look at either of them as he fled—left the room.

(He wasn't afraid of them. He just couldn't stand their presence a moment longer.)

Once back in his own room, with the door satisfyingly slammed behind him, he realized that his hands were shaking. How infuriating. Those damned tremors were just another unfortunate side effect of their company. He let his hands curl into a pair of fists and then relax again, willing himself to stop shaking.

It was times like these he wished he could still hate them as much as he had in the beginning. Things had been so much simpler in the old days.

He found an old newspaper on the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed. A stubby pencil made its presence known in his pocket. Would it be too Riddler for him to do the crossword puzzle?

He did enjoy word puzzles, not as much as Edward did, but enough. He couldn't do them in front of the girls, though. Last time he'd tried, they had called him Squishy McNygma and distracted him with key lime pie.

He didn't even like lime.

They couldn't see him now, though. He found a more comfortable position and got to work.

It was slow going, which suited him just fine. A nice intellectual challenge would provide a fitting distraction. He could pretend he didn't hear the knock at the front door, or the resulting exclamations of delight.

"Eddums! You're so hot!"

(His pencil was rendered useless as the lead snapped off against the paper. He tossed it aside and turned to the obituaries.)

"Too bad the Captain can't see you. She'd leave the mob brat in an instant if she knew you looked this good in a corset."

Why, oh why was this room not soundproofed? He had some serious work to do. Right after he bleached these images from his mind.

"Thanks." Edward sounded smugly embarrassed, a combination very few people could pull off successfully. "What about Jonathan? Did you con him into coming?"

The voices were moving closer. He needed a weapon, didn't he?

"We tried, but he's a big wuss."

Jonathan bristled. They were standing right outside his door, undeniably having this conversation for his benefit.

"What's he afraid of?" Edward asked innocently. Jonathan got up and threw open the door, surprising them all.

"I am not afraid, but I'm not an exhibitionist, eith…" He registered Edward's appearance and blinked very carefully. Nothing changed. So it wasn't his eyes that had gone insane. He blinked again, just to be sure. "What are you wearing?"

"Nothing." Al cackled, and Edward's face went red. "That's not what I meant."

The time to step back and slam the door in their faces had passed, slipping by while he was busy staring.

Edward Nygma looked nothing like himself. There was not a speck of green anywhere on his person, not a single trace of a question mark, no sign of the rather forgettable man behind the costume. He was one of the few of them who could look perfectly ordinary when he chose.

Obviously, today he didn't choose.

The absolutely ridiculous shoes he was wearing made him tower over Crane by several inches. How he, or anyone, managed to walk in those things was a mystery best left unsolved. He was wearing a sparkly black cape that looked almost, but not entirely, unlike Batman's. Thrown open in the warm room, it left a perfect view of his corset—literally, an honest-to-god corset. He had been hoping that the girls' exclamations had been exaggerated.

Edward's arms and legs were bare; Crane had now officially seen too much of his fellow rogue to ever consider partnership again. On the upside, he looked like he might be just muscular enough to keep the girls occupied for a while.

And was that a tattoo?

The most surprising thing about his outfit, though, was the makeup. Black eyeliner, blue eyeshadow, and lipstick so red it would make a hooker cringe did not scream "Riddler." They screamed a lot of things, but "Riddler" wasn't one of them.

"Squishy? Is there something we should know?" asked Al. He glared at her.

"What?"

"It's just that you're staring at Eddums a lot more than you stared at either of us."

Crane remembered to close his mouth.

"I never expected you two to have any sense."

"I think there's a compliment for you in there somewhere," Techie told Edward, whose face was turning the most interesting shade of pink.

"No. There isn't."

"So you don't think he looks yummy in a corset?" Techie asked innocently.

"No!"

"Well, there's no accounting for taste, I guess." Edward's face was now officially fuschia. Crane's couldn't be too far behind.

"You two are going to have so much fun," Al said, throwing a calculated pout his way. "I wish I could go."

"Don't let me stop you," Jonathan insisted. "Go. Spy on your friend. Watch your movie. Have fun. Leave me out of it."

"But Brad and Janet are a pair. Although…" A mischievous gleam came to her eye, and he took a step back, just in case. Al turned to the other two. "He could always go as Rocky."

There was only one way to describe what happened to Techie and Edward just then: they exploded. With laughter, that is, not the good way. He had never seen either one of them laugh so hard, practically screaming as they slid down toward the floor, holding on to each other for support. Even Al was snickering, though she tried valiantly to control herself by covering her mouth. It didn't seem to be working out.

He wasn't going to give in and ask them what was so damned funny…but he suddenly had the feeling that if he didn't, the curiosity was going to eat him alive.

Seeing his dilemma, Al took it upon herself to stop laughing long enough to explain.

She didn't explain well, of course. Only just well enough to get him dressed (if you could call it that) and to the park in time for the midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show