THE CARNIVAL OF WAITING

Halle couldn't quite remember if this was her first night of carnival—or the hundredth. Time blurred when the world spun in laughter and chaos, and tonight was no different. The music roared from unseen speakers, the flickering neon lights of the circus tent casting wild shadows across the wreckage of a celebration that never truly ended.

A few days ago, a letter had arrived from Arkham, sent by her dearest little pudding. The envelope had been stained red—perhaps with ink, perhaps with something more intimate—and scrawled over with symbols and words that would drive an ordinary mind into hysteria. Lip prints covered its surface, as if sealed with a dozen desperate kisses.

But for Halle, it was their secret language, a cipher known only to the two of them. It was a love letter, in its own twisted way, a whisper across the void of distance and captivity. Every time she thought of it, warmth flooded her chest, a sweetness unlike any other.

She had barely noticed the trembling prison guard who had delivered it, his face pale with horror as he thrust the letter into her hands before bolting from the circus tent, screaming. That part wasn't important. What mattered was the delicate piece of paper she pressed against her chest, twirling around the room in giddy delight.

The jester had been locked away for over six months, and Halle had missed her more than words could say. Receiving the letter was like opening a long-forgotten Christmas present, like the first forbidden taste of chocolate as a child, like the secret thrill of stepping into high heels for the first time.

For a brief, wonderful moment, she had forgotten about the sledgehammer she had prepared for the unfortunate messenger. She had also nearly abandoned her plan to infiltrate Arkham disguised as a guard to stage a grand rescue.

Instead, she simply sat there, twisting the ends of her hair between her fingers, as giddy and bashful as a schoolgirl in springtime. With the other hand, she produced a knife—though where it came from was anyone's guess—and eagerly slit the envelope open.

But her happiness shattered the moment she read the words inside.

Her hands clenched the letter, eyes darting across the chaotic scrawl as an outraged snarl burst from her lips.

"Wow! No! This is not true!"

The jester's handwriting was as wild as ever, jagged letters dancing across the page, interwoven with random doodles—smiling faces, bats, and strange little symbols. Some parts of the ink had smudged, as if damp with saliva or something else. It was unmistakably her, in every way.

And yet… the words.

> "Dear little pumpkin, how are you doing? I have good news: the world is going to end, and we are all going to die! Are you happy?"

> "Oh, death, what a lovely little word. I've already dressed for the occasion!"

> "Today I ate dry roast goose. How about you?"

> "Mr. Spoon doesn't talk to me much lately."

> "Before I die, can you bring Batman to see me? I'd prefer to go with her. You can take a taxi home afterward."

> "Well, that's it! Hurry up, okay?"

Halle gritted her teeth. The laughter wasn't on the paper, but she could hear it. That manic, melodic giggle, dripping with mischief and meaning. And underneath it all, something sharper. Something desperate.

Her fingers tightened around the letter, crumpling the delicate paper.

She should have been thrilled. Should have been amused. She loved chaos—she worshiped destruction. The end of the world? The ultimate joke! The final punchline! And yet…

Why was it only a little funny?

She stomped across the room, seething, swinging her hammer wildly. Mirrors shattered, tables overturned, flames licked the edges of the tent as she vented her frustration. But no matter how much she destroyed, the ache wouldn't go away.

The jester was still obsessed with that stupid, stinking Bat. Even now. After everything. It was like Halle didn't even exist, just another errand girl, just another pawn.

"But we were supposed to be snacks for each other," she muttered, voice laced with hurt. "Pumpkin and pudding—always together."

Still, she obeyed.

Because she never doubted her pudding. Never once.

The world was ending? Fine. That meant Batman was needed. Halle rallied the circus, sending out her people into Gotham to track down any sign of the Bat. Chaos followed in their wake—fires, heists, high-speed chases—but for the first time, it failed.

Three nights in a row, Halle prowled the city, leaving destruction in her wake, but only the usual officers showed up. Batman was nowhere to be found.

"Maybe she's on vacation," she mused, leaning over a rooftop ledge, absently drawing swirls into the dust. "I'd love a trip to Paris… I'd make such a mess of the Louvre."

She switched tactics. Instead of destruction, she left signs. Giant, colorful billboards on rooftops, decorated with cartoon hands pointing toward her hideout. Come home, Bat. We miss you.

Still, nothing.

And so, Halle waited.

At first, she passed the time with books. That was boring. She kept falling asleep, and what if Batman showed up while she was snoozing? Unacceptable.

The next night, she drank while reading.

The third night, she drank while dancing.

And then, she just danced. Every night. The carnival never stopped. She had almost forgotten what she was waiting for. Almost.

But the circus folk weren't amused. They didn't like being hit in the head with a hammer when they failed to keep up with her. And so, one by one, they distanced themselves.

Lonely, Halle called a friend. And the party continued.

Meanwhile, in the bowels of Arkham, the jester laughed herself hoarse, alone in her cell. She had waited for days, and still, Halle had not come. The walls pressed in, and the shadows whispered secrets.

Then, a mysterious tape appeared in her room. A tape that would eventually find its way into the wrong—or perhaps, the right—hands.

A Visitor in the Dark

Halle clung to a support beam, panting from laughter, her body weak from the intensity of it. Across the room, her companion collapsed onto the couch, equally breathless.

But the laughter stopped when she saw the figure in the corner.

Under the pulsating neon lights, the silhouette was unmistakable—armor plated in black and yellow, standing like a silent monolith. A single red eye gleamed from the helmet, unblinking, watching.

Halle tilted her head, eyes wide.

"Ah-oh…"

Not good.

Because if there was one thing that meant trouble, it was Deathstroke standing in your house.

She stumbled slightly, shaking off the haze of alcohol, and squinted.

"Sladey! What are you doing here? Didn't send an invitation. Or did I? Whoops!"

"I need answers," Cindy cut in, stepping forward, her masked face unreadable. "Where's Batman?"

Halle groaned dramatically, flopping onto the couch. "Ugh, I'm looking for her too! What's so great about that stinking Bat?" She hugged the nearest person, pouting.

Slade's voice cut through the haze. "The jester sent you after her, just like she sent us. Which means she doesn't know either."

Cindy crossed her arms. "So Arkham isn't the answer."

"No," Slade confirmed. "Finding Batman is like searching for a needle in a haystack."

Halle grinned, stretching out like a lazy cat. "Ooooh, I love haystacks. We should set one on fire!"

Slade ignored her, turning to Cindy. "We need a new plan."

And in the dim light of the carnival's aftermath, the search for the missing Bat truly began.