You lean into the absurdity of your new voice, weaponizing it. "Gosh, Mr. J, you're like, SO creative and everything! I mean, wow! Turning people into doormats and pool toys? That's, like, totally the height of criminal genius!" The sarcasm drips through the chirpy tone like poison through candy. "I bet all those other villains are super jealous that they didn't think of it first! Lex Luthor must be SO impressed!"
The Joker's grin wavers. Just for a moment. His eyes narrow.
"I mean, using stolen powers to throw a tantrum?" You continue in that breathy, girly voice that makes every word sound like bubblegum pop. "That's like, really showing everyone how big and scary you are! Not desperate at all!"
"Careful, Batlerina," he warns, but there's something dangerous flickering behind his eyes now.
"And keeping me as a dolly so you can, like, show me all your toys? That's not needy or anything! You totally don't need my validation to feel special! You're a super independent clown who doesn't care what I—"
"ENOUGH!"
His scream echoes through every dimension of the crystalline space. The walls shudder. His hands glow with that fifth-dimensional energy, but this time there's no theatrical flourish. No playful buildup. Just pure, furious power.
"You want to mock me? FINE! Let's see how funny you are when you're MY creature! My loyal little BAT-HENCH!"
The energy slams into you like a freight train made of pure reality distortion. Your plastic body expands, flesh returning but wrong, reshaped. Your consciousness screams as your form is rebuilt according to his will. Bones shift. Curves manifest. Height adjusts to something petite, feminine, conventionally attractive. Long dark hair cascades past your shoulders. Your face reconstructs itself—softer, prettier, with high cheekbones and full lips that pull into an involuntary smile.
When the transformation completes, you're standing on the ledge in a body that's entirely human but entirely not yours. The costume is a perverse fusion of his aesthetic and yours: a purple and green corset cut obscenely low, adorned with golden bat symbols that catch the light. A short, ruffled skirt in harlequin diamonds—purple, green, black—barely covers your thighs. Fishnet stockings. Green gloves with bat symbols. Purple boots with ridiculous heels.
"There!" The Joker gasps, actually winded from the effort. "Now you can serve me properly! My very own Bat-Hench! I think I'll call you... Jokette!"
You open your mouth, and your voice—still feminine, but deeper now, sultry—emerges without your permission: "Whatever you need, Puddin'."
No. NO. You didn't mean to say that. Didn't want to say that. But your lips said it anyway, and worse—some horrible, buried part of you felt pleasure saying it.