On the other side of Gotham, two men - one slim and wiry, the other massive and bulky - gave a simultaneous start. A dark, lithe figure was entering the apartment that they had been hired to keep watch on.

"Awww, yeah." Killer Croc punched his palm, a toothy grin spreading across his face. "Time to rock."

"Remember the plan," the Tally Man hissed as he readied his guns. "I'll go in through the back. If she tries to escape from the front, stop her by any non-lethal means necessary."

Croc grunted. "Not makin' any promises, Stretch."

The Tally Man thought about lecturing his "partner" on the values of professionalism, but decided against it. He alone would be more than competent enough for this simple bag-and-grab. Hopefully.

Croc simply crossed his arms and leaned against the brick wall behind him as he watched the slimmer mercenary move toward Catwoman's apartment. The Tally Man didn't so much walk as slither - though that might have just been an illusion from his baggy robes. Either way, it was kind of creepy-looking.

In less than a minute, the Tally Man had went behind the apartment building and vanished completely.

Silence.

Croc yawned and scratched his nose twice, wondering if-

He stumbled back at the noise, blinking rapidly. When his vision had realigned again, he realized that the apartment was now very well-lit indeed.

With gunfire.

Then he heard the sound of shattering glass, and the desperate howl of his partner.

"Don't let her get away!"

A moment later, the lithe, black-clad figure of Catwoman was plunging out of the apartment and racing across the street, a feral snarl on her face and her famed bullwhip in hand. She landed on one of the cars parked by the side of the street, looking ready to spring again.

Rolling his shoulders, Croc picked up the lid from a nearby trash can and flung it straight at her with all he had.

<><><><><><><><>

"This better be good, Red," Harley half-snarled into her emergency cell. "I was in the middle 'a somethin' important!"

"Really?" Ivy's voice sounded even colder and more annoyed than usual. "Do you consider attacked by hired guns that your demented boyfriend sent to be good?"

Harley blinked. "Uh... can ya repeat that?"

"I. Was. Attacked. By. Hired. Guns. That. Your. Demented. Boyfriend. Sent."

Harley felt a sudden ice-cold prick of fear in the pit of her stomach. "Uh, Red... I think you better start at the beginnin'..."

<><><><><><><><>

The Joker sat atop the hood of his idling car, head bowed in thought. His famous smile had all but vanished, ironically improving the disguise that the layer of flesh-toned makeup over his face offered.

What was he going to do?

His lunatic's intuition never lied (expect when it did), and right now, it was telling him that something big was about to happen, and he would be in the crossfire whether he liked it or not.

What was more, he had a nasty feeling that Harley was involved somehow. And that she wasn't so sweet on him anymore.

He hrrmed and huffed and rapped his fingers against his chin and did all of the things that geniuses were supposed to do right before they did something great. None of them worked all that well.

Perhaps he could dial in the Bat? Eccch. Maybe as a last resort...

Beg for favors from one of his old pals (maybe Lexy)? No, he still liked to think he had more dignity than that.

Then, a third idea popped into his head. A terrible idea. A wonderfully terrible idea. An awful, wonderfully terrible idea.

(By now, his mouth had stretched itself into a grin exceeding even his normal expression. A poor stray cat that just happened to catch sight of it instantly died of a heart attack. That just made him smile wider.)

He was just beginning to get off the hood of the car when he heard a beep-beep-beep coming from his pocket. With a quirked brow, he reached inside and took out a communication device that looked much like a yellow smiley-face pin.

"Yo, Laughin' Boy?"

"Waylon," the Joker said politely, silently ticking off recipes for alligator stew in his head. Just for reference.

"Yeah, we got the alley cat," Croc half-growled and half-chuckled at the other end. "Stretch totaled half her apartment, though. Someone's probably called the cops by now."

The Joker snorted. "In other words, it'll be days before anyone actually shows up. Good ol' Gotham."

"Amen to that," Croc laughed. "So, where d'ya want her?"

The Joker rattled off a quick series of calculations under his breath, slapped himself upside the head three times, and decided that a slight change of plans was in order. Hadn't Croc told him something once about Gotham's sewers, once upon a cold winter night in Arkham...?

"Listen, Waylon, you know the old A.L. Bester Library in Lyntown?"

A pause. Then-

"Yeah, I know it." Croc's voice was much slower and much more suspicious now.

"Good man! Meet me there with Miss Kitty and your new pal. I'll have something there that'll blow your socks off."

And before Croc could say anything in reply, the Joker hit the right eye on the smiley-face pin, shutting off communications. He carefully tucked the communicator back into his pocket, climbed back into his car, and began heading straight in the direction of Lyntown, a most fitting little tune on his lips.

<><><><><><><><>

Harley sank back into her favorite overstuffed easy chair, her attire now very different indeed. Rather than her usual spandex or dominatrix leathers, she had optioned for a checkered overcoat, shoulder cape, and deerstalker cap. Still done in her signature red-and-black color scheme, of course - no point in fixing what wasn't broken.

The most prominent new addition, however, was the oversized calabash pipe in her right hand. It was a bubble pipe; Harley had never liked the smell of tobacco, and an athlete like her couldn't afford holes in her lungs. But nevertheless, the image it was meant to conjure was unmistakable.

For the moment, she was Harleen Quinzel: Clown Princess of Crime Detection. This was her Thinking Room. And by Queen and Country, she would find out what the hell was going on.

"GREAT HIPPIES OF THE MISSISSIPPI!" she cried, eyes springing wide open. "OF COURSE! PUD'N IS SECRET PEN PALS WITH JARED LETO!"

She paused.

"No, no, wait... forgot the decimal point..."

A minute and a half of more rigorous calculations later, she had arrived at the right conclusion.

"So... Pud'n wants me back, and he wants be back the hard way, huh?"

A blazing blue fire erupted in her eyes as she tossed the pipe away into a corner of her Thinking Room. She stood up from the chair, fists clenched and a horrible grin on her face.

"Well, FUCK him! And not in the fun way, either! He could come crawling back to me on his hands an' knees an' it'd do him no good!"

Her eyes narrowed as she envisioned all of her lovely angels giving him the beating of his life. Beatings that that giant chicken, Batman, could never have imagined.

"An' if he wants ta play rough... guess I'll just hafta play rougher!"

Mind instantly cleared (by her standards), the mad jester stood up and puffed on her bubble-pipe some more. As she watched the bubbles floating up toward the ceiling, something else began to occur to her.

"B-But... ceiling starts with "C"... C? C? C! C for Catwoman!"

Of course - it all made sense now, Pud'n had gone after Red trying to find a lead to her, but he wasn't the kind of guy who put all his grenades into one launcher (except when he was). Red stood more than a chance of fighting off any hired muscle he could bring, so he'd probably sent other goons after other people connected to her...

People like Kitty...

"Oh, no you don't!" Harley snarled, caught between anger and genuine concern. She dashed out of the room, praying that the Gotham City Sirens would be united once more before one of them met her untimely end.