You explode into motion without warning, your body a weapon honed by decades of training. The batarang leaves your fingers in a perfect spiral, aimed directly at those mocking eyes while you're already closing the distance, calculating angles, ready to adapt.
But he's faster than physics should allow.
The Joker's grin doesn't falter. Instead it stretches, distends, becomes something that hurts to look at. His hand sweeps through the air in a theatrical flourish, and you feel reality bend around his gesture like fabric pulled taut.
The batarang stops. Simply stops, hanging in space like a frozen teardrop of metal.
Then the wrongness hits you.
It's not pain. Pain you could process, compartmentalize, push through. This is alteration at the cellular level, reality rewriting the fundamental code of your existence. Your legs stop responding mid-stride. Your arms lock. Your breath catches in a throat that's already ceasing to be flesh.
You fall, and the sound that echoes through the crystalline space is hollow plastic striking crystal.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk!" The Joker descends in a lazy spiral, landing beside your frozen form with exaggerated disappointment. "And here I was being such a gracious HOST! Giving you the grand tour! But nooooo, you have to go and be all stabby and punchy. Can't even wait for dessert!"
You can't move. Can't speak. Can't blink. Your consciousness remains perfectly intact, screaming commands to muscles that no longer exist. Your field of vision is fixed, painted eyes staring at nothing, seeing everything with terrible clarity.
He picks you up between thumb and forefinger. You weigh nothing. Are nothing but hollow plastic shell.
"Let's see what we've got here," he muses, turning you this way and that like a child examining a new toy. "Oh. Oh! OHHHH, this is DELICIOUS!"
He holds you up, and in the reflection of the crystalline walls you see what you've become. Twelve inches of rigid plastic. Your face painted in a mockery of femininity - long lashes, rosy lips pursed in a permanent kiss, high cheekbones dusted with pink. Long blonde hair cascades in sculpted waves past plastic shoulders. But the cruelest touch is the costume: a ballet outfit designed for titillation rather than dance. The bodice is molded tight against an exaggerated feminine form, creating the illusion of cleavage. The skirt is a circle of stiff pink tulle that barely covers anything, frozen in a permanent state of mid-twirl. Fishnet tights cover shapely plastic legs that end in pink pointe shoes. Everything about it screams sexualized, objectified, reduced.
"I think I'll call you Batlerina!" The Joker cackles, spinning you around. "Get it? Bat? Ballerina? I'm HILARIOUS!"