Inside the grand ballroom, the air smelled of vintage bourbon and the kind of perfume that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen explosions from the vaulted ceiling, casting a fractured, shimmering light over the cream of Gotham's high society.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer began, his voice amplified by the sound system. "Tonight, we offer a collection of artifacts that defy history. Our first item: a selection of relics recovered from the depths of the Mediterranean."
Jake barely listened. He and Lao Shi were there for one thing only: the Orb of Malphorus. The purple crystal sat encased in reinforced glass on the stage, pulsing with a faint, ominous light. It was the key to Fu Dog's release, and they weren't leaving without it.
After a series of introductions to other items, the auctioneer finally stopped onto the crown jewel of the night.
"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for. Recovered from the ruins of a temple lost to the sands of the Black Desert, we present the Orb of Malphorus. Starting bid: five million dollars."
A hand went up. Then another. The wealthy elite began to trade fortunes for a rock they didn't understand. Jake felt his skin prickle. The dragon inside him was restless, sensing the magic. Just a little longer, he thought. Wait for the distraction.
The distraction arrived, but it wasn't the one Lao Shi had planned.
A sudden, jarring sound—like a hundred balloons popping at once—echoed from the lobby. The heavy oak doors didn't just open; they were blown off their hinges by a series of small, colorful explosive charges.
Purple and green smoke billowed into the ballroom, swirling around the feet of the panicked guests. From the haze emerged a nightmare.
He was tall, thin as a rail, and draped in a suit the color of a bruised plum. His skin was a toxic, bleached white, his hair a chemical green that looked like it would glow in the dark. But it was the mouth—the wide, red, jagged smear of a grin—that stopped the hearts of everyone in the room.
The Joker had arrived.
"Good evening, Gotham!" he shrieked, his voice a high-pitched, melodic rasp. He skipped into the room, twirling a long-barreled revolver like a baton. "I heard there was a party, and I was deeply offended that my invitation got lost in the mail. Did you change the zip code? Is it 'Rich Snob O'Clock' already?"
Behind him, a dozen men in terrifying, distorted clown masks swarmed the room, brandishing submachine guns. They moved with a practiced, chaotic efficiency, herding the guests toward the center of the room.
"And look at this!" a playful, high-pitched voice chirped. Harley Quinn somersaulted over a fallen table, landing perfectly on her feet next to the Joker. She was wearing her classic red-and-black jester outfit, a massive wooden mallet resting casually on her shoulder. "Puddin', look at all the sparklies! It's like a giant candy store for grown-ups!"
"Now, now, Harley," Joker said, stroking his chin with the barrel of his gun. "Don't be greedy. We're here for the culture! And maybe a little bit of the commerce."
He walked toward the stage, his footsteps heavy and deliberate in the sudden, terrifying silence. The auctioneer tried to back away, but Harley stepped behind him, swinging her mallet just inches from his feet. He froze, trembling.
"Now then," Joker said, his voice dropping into a theatrical purr as he began to inspect the artifacts on the stage. "Let's see what we have here. Trinkets. Baubles. Garbage." He picked up a gold-encrusted vase and casually tossed it over his shoulder, watching it shatter.
One of his men dragged the battered auctioneer back onto the stage. Joker grabbed the man by the hair, forcing him to look at the remaining items. "Tell me, my friend. Which of these is worth my time? Which one has a soul?"
The auctioneer, trembling, pointed a shaky finger toward the Orb of Malphorus. "That… that is the Orb. We don't know much about it, only that it's ancient….a-and magical."
Joker leaned in close to the purple crystal, his reflection distorted in its facets. "Magical, you say? I used to like magic. Always thought it was real."
Suddenly, Joker's face went flat. The humor vanished in an instant, replaced by a cold, vacuous stare. "But, magic is for children and people who can't handle the truth. The truth is, life is a joke. And you just gave me a boring punchline."
BANG.
The Joker didn't even look down as he fired. The bullet took the auctioneer in the kneecap. The man's scream was raw and agonizing. Joker let him fall, watching with detached curiosity as the man clutched his leg. The ballroom erupted in fresh screams, but the Joker's men quickly silenced them with a volley of shots into the air.
"Quiet!" Joker screamed, his face inches from the writhing auctioneer. "See?" Joker said to the room. "Now that's a reaction. That's honest. Who else wants to be honest with me?"
The goons began to move through the crowd, stripping jewelry and watches. One of them shoved an elderly woman to the floor when she struggled with a necklace. Jake felt his blood begin to simmer. He caught Lao Shi's eye. The old man shook his head slightly—Stay down. Wait.
Joker then leveled his gun at the man's head, about to blow his brain matters out. Seeing what was about to transpire Jake felt something snap inside him. A raw human instinct to stop the senselessness. Before he could think, he stood up.
"Hey! Clown Shit!" Jake shouted.
The silence that followed was absolute. Every eye in the room turned toward the waiter in the ill-fitting tuxedo. Lao Shi looked like he wanted to crawl into the floorboards. Jake's hands immediately flew to his mouth, his own brain screaming What did you just do?
The Joker paused, his finger hovering over the trigger. He slowly turned his head, a wide, yellowed grin spreading across his face. "Did someone say something? Or is the champagne starting to talk back?"
Realizing that he messed up, Jake couldn't help but sign and stepped forward.
"Bring him here," Joker commanded, gesturing to his goons. Two men grabbed Jake by the arms and dragged him to the center. Joker squinted at him, leaning in so close Jake could smell the greasepaint and chemical waste. He tapped Jake's name tag. "'Morty Sanders.' A waiter. A simple man of the people."
"So Morty, is there a problem?" Joker asked, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Are the crackers too salty? Is the champagne flat?"
"The crackers are fine," Jake said, walking slowly toward the stage. "But your act? Man, it's painful. And I don't mean 'kneecap-shooting' is painful. I mean your 'failed-middle-school-talent-show' is painful."
A stunned silence fell. Harley Quinn tilted her head. "Is he… is he talkin' to us like that, Puddin'?"
"I think he is, Harley," Joker said, his grin returning, sharper than before. "Go on, Morty. Give us your critique. I've always wanted to know what the service industry thinks of my brand."
"Your 'brand'?" Jake snorted, stopping ten feet from the Joker. "You're a grown man who spends three hours a morning doing his makeup just to get attention. You're not a criminal mastermind; you're an edgelord with a chemical burn. You're the guy who comments 'first' on a video and thinks he's a genius. Seriously, the whole clown thing? It's mid. It's less than mid. It's cringe."
The Joker's eye twitched. The goons looked at each other, unsure if they should laugh or shoot.
"And you," Jake said, pointing a finger at Harley. "You're way too talented for this. You've got the gymnastics, the look, the energy… and you're wasting it on a guy who probably uses a gag buzzer during 'private time.' Seriously, what's it like? Does he make a balloon animal every time he wants to say he loves you? Or does he just spray you with that acid flower when you ask for a hug?"
Harley's face turned bright red, her grip tightening on the mallet. "You shut your trap! Puddin' is a genius! He's… he's got a very complicated emotional landscape!"
"He's got a forehead that says 'Damaged' in invisible ink," Jake retorted. "And Joker, buddy, let's talk about the suit. Purple and green? Are you a supervillain or an expired eggplant? You look like you fell into a vat of radioactive Skittles and the Skittles won."
The Joker walked down the steps of the stage, his movements slow and serpentine. He stood inches from Jake, the smell of ozone and cheap greasepaint filling Jake's nose again.
"You have a very big mouth for a waiter," Joker whispered. "I wonder… How much bigger can I make it?"
He raised his revolver, pressing the cold barrel against Jake's chin. Jake didn't flinch. He looked the Joker dead in the eye and smirked.
The ballroom was flabbergasted. Half the hostages looked like they wanted to cheer; the other half were already praying for Jake's soul.
Joker's finger began to squeeze the trigger.
THWIP.
A green-feathered arrow hissed through the air, piercing the sleeve of Joker's coat and pinning his arm to the stage pillar behind him.
"I'd listen to him, Joker," a voice rang out from the darkened balcony. "Man's got a point about the suit."
Green Arrow stood on the railing, a second arrow already notched. Beside him, a dark, heavy shadow detached itself from the ceiling. Batman landed with a bone-jarring thud on the stage, his cape billowing like a shroud.
"Batman!" Joker shrieked, struggling against the arrow. "You're ruining the roast! We were just getting to the dessert!"
"The party's over, Joker," Batman growled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to shake the floorboards.
The clown goons, shaking off their shock, raised their submachine guns. "Kill 'em! Kill 'em all!" one of them yelled.
The goons leveled their weapons at Batman and Green Arrow, their fingers tensing on the triggers. It was a kill zone—too many guns, too little cover.
Suddenly, a high-pitched, shimmering vibration filled the air. It started as a low hum and escalated in a fraction of a second into a glass-shattering, eardrum-piercing scream.
WREEEEEEEEEEEEE—
The "Canary Cry" hit the goons like a physical wall. The gunmen were blown backward, their weapons flying from their hands as they clutched their ears in agony. The massive crystal chandeliers overhead shattered, raining diamonds of glass onto the floor.
Standing at the main entrance, her blonde hair whipped back by the sheer force of her own sonic blast, was Black Canary. She lowered her head, the blue-and-black leather of her tactical gear gleaming.
"Am I late?" she asked, a confident smirk on her lips.
"Just in time love," Green Arrow quipped, leaping from the balcony and firing a net-arrow that ensnared three goons at once.
The real party was just getting started.