AN: This thing is... weird. Insane. I got this idea - a flash, really - while pondering S2 of "The Joker Blogs," and the scenes and casting just kept coming, and it just... wouldn't... leave. So I pounded it out in an hour and a half.

I'm not sure I'm ever going to do anything more with this (especially since I don't see how to cast some major roles from the limited Glee characters there are - Batman has a BIG supporting cast), but not tagging it Complete yet... juuuust in case.

"Is the defendant ready to hear the verdict?"

The rough-hewn voice echoed in Batman's pounding skull, even as the room inched towards brightness in his rapidly returning consciousness. Already his fingers and muscles were working at the tight bonds tying him to the heavy metal chair he sat in, but he knew he probably didn't have that kind of time. He had to buy it.

The first thing that came into focus was the gun, its barrel pointed directly at his forehead. Then the sneering man holding it. Actually, just half his face was sneering, a rictus of teeth surrounded in red, scarred flesh. The other half was whole, but all the more terrifying for the familiarity, for the cold neutral gaze that held his. A sharp metallic ting rang out each time the free hand flipped the heavy silver dollar into the air.

His cowl was still on; apparently, that was being reserved for after sentencing. Batman tried to find his voice, but his head was still ringing.

"The evidence against you is overwhelming," Two-Face continued casually. "I'd normally suggest a plea deal, but... I won't be accepting any of those today."

Finally, Batman's breath caught in his throat enough to form words. "Blaine..."

Two-Face's scarred visage twisted in rage, and he swung the gun viciously, sending Batman's head snapping back with a dull crack. "Order in the court! The defendant will refrain from further outbursts!" He shook for a bare moment, regaining his calm; for a moment, he seemed once more the dapper District Attorney, standing behind the prosecutor's table, or the podium at one of his political rallies. I believe in Blaine Anderson. And Batman did; for all that had happened, God help him, he still did.

"Blaine..." For a moment, he thought about it. He thought of returning his voice to his normal register and saying, "it's me. Your friend. Don't you remember? I want to help you." But even in his perilous position, he knew it was too much of a risk. Instead, he said, still in the low gravelly voice he used in this persona, "I know you. This isn't you, and deep down, you know it. We can get through this, if you'll just..."

"Shut up!" Two-Face screeched, his control cracking once more. Again, this time with even more visible effort, he calmed down. He regarded the coin in his hand, turning it over and over. Scarred, whole, scarred, whole. "The American justice system... It's imperfect. Flawed. But it's what separates us from the animals. One of its greatest qualities is its binary nature. Either you're guilty..." Scarred. "Or not." Whole. His gaze returned to Batman. "The jury has reached its verdict, Batman."

No! I'm so close...! Whether he was thinking about freeing himself, or getting through to Blaine, even he couldn't quite tell. "Blaine, you don't need to..."

"Blaine Anderson is dead! My name is Two-Face!" he shouted, and with a defiant snarl, he flipped the coin into the air. His eyes followed the glimmering disc as it rose, tumbling end over end. His eyes were off Batman, just for a split second. But that was all that was needed.

Now! Batman planted his feet firmly, leaning forward to lift the chair off the floor. Before Two-Face even had time to look back, the heavy chair was swung around, its legs slamming into the ex-attorney's shins.

With a cry of pain, Two-Face doubled over. The chair returned to the floor, one of the legs crushing the loosened gun hand. With another shriek, Two-Face dropped his weapon. Batman simultaneously kicked it away even as his bonds loosened, falling to the floor like a dead serpent.

It was over quickly. Another kick, this time to the jaw, and Two-Face lay still on the floor, the right side of his face - the face of D.A. Blaine Anderson - facing upwards, calm and unconscious. Beside him lay the coin, its pitted and scarred face almost mocking.

Batman regarded his old friend for a moment, then turned on his radio to call the commissioner and Arkham Asylum. There was no triumph in him, no righteous satisfaction, not even relief. All he felt was a bone-chilling weariness that wouldn't go away.

By the time he fully came back to himself, he was back at the cave. The arrival of the police, the taking away of Blaine by Arkham, the questions, the slipping away... It was all a vague blur, as though he'd imagined it in some fugue state.

The cold nip of the underground air added to his weariness. He climbed out of the Batmobile and sat at the computer, removing his cowl and rubbing his face. He thought of a young lawyer, full of ambition, but most of all, hope - hope for Gotham, its people, and its future...

A warm fragrance lifted him from his reverie. Somehow, a bowl of chicken soup and a tuna sandwich had materialized in front of him. "Thank you, William," he rumbled without even turning his head.

"Not at all, Master David." William Schuester stood over his employer (but wasn't David Karofsky more than that, after all these years?), his face a study in neutrality, a state which belied the usual tumult of emotion. "I trust things went well?"

As a boy, David had once asked him why he "talked so funny." Back then, William was young himself, training to continue a long family tradition and take over for his father, then the Karofsky family butler. William had replied, "I have to be formal and professional. It's part of my job." David had nodded with wide eyes - wide innocent eyes, free of pain, free of misery, free of grief, free of the heavy burden of responsibility...

"Well? Not really. But I'm alive. Blaine is alive. I suppose that's as good as it gets."

"I hope Arkham is able to help him this time," the butler offered.

David didn't answer that. Instead, he took a huge bite out of his sandwich and switched on a comm link. "Home Base to Oracle."

A portion of the huge screen lit up, revealing a pert blond sitting in a wheelchair in an undisclosed location that any one of dozens of criminals would've slit their mothers' throats to discover - and bomb all to hell. "Oracle here." Her smile vanished at the sight. "Rough night?"

"Blaine's safely back at Arkham. It's some kind of victory."

"David..."

"I'm all right, Quinn. What have you found out about the burglaries?"

"Not much yet. I'm working on it." Quinn paused, squinting a little at her computer monitor, at the man on the other side. "You look like shit."

Dave ignored the observation. "Well, keep investigating. Sooner or later, our cat burglar is going to get sloppy, and I'd rather I be there than a startled shopkeeper or security guard. I don't know what she'd do if she were cornered."

"David, it's okay to mourn. He was my father's friend too, and I'm sure he feels just as awful as you do."

He stopped, the spoon halfway to his mouth. He dropped the utensil back into the bowl, pinching the bridge of his nose, struggling to keep his breathing under control. "Your father's a good man."

Quinn sighed. "Now. There was a time... a long time... when all Russell Fabray cared about was making captain and schmoozing with the mayor." Her gaze intensified; Dave could almost feel it physically through the video link. "It was you," she said softly. "You made him into a good man."

"I can't work with what's not there. Russell just forgot why he became a cop. All I did was remind him."

Quinn smiled a little. "Maybe. Anyway, I'll get back on that video analysis. See you at the gala next week."

"For a little while, at least. Home Base out." Quinn disappeared from the screen, leaving line after line of personal data, police reports, and forensics analyses, dancing letters and numbers that painted a picture of a city in the grip of fear. It stretched from top to bottom, the scroll bar a small dot in the middle of an empty column, and it just... kept... coming.

His face hard and set, Dave started typing and reading, his mind already making plans and connections and conclusions. The soup and sandwich, barely eaten, were forgotten and lukewarm by his side. He didn't even notice William take the tray, or the butler make his way out of the cave and up the stairs. William wanted to believe that it was because of his professionalism as a servant, but he knew in that cold lump in his heart that it wasn't.

The door, hidden by the heirloom grandfather clock, swung open quietly, and shut behind the butler with a soft click. The route to the kitchen passed by the library; the double doors were open, the moon beyond the huge bay windows casting the room in panels of light and shadow. William paused. Then, out of some deep impulse, he entered. He flicked a switch, and the room lit up in a warm glow. His stare went immediately to the portrait over the fireplace. In it was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mustache and goatee, one arm around an equally tall woman with long red hair, the other around a small boy in a black suit, smiling with joy.

William's head bowed. "Master Paul... I'm so sorry. I... I..." The tears threatened, but never came. William Schuester wasn't British, but he believed nevertheless in the stiff upper lip. His grip tightening around the tray in his hands, he turned on his heel and returned to the hall. He switched the light off, plunging the library and portrait into darkness once more.

It was almost sunrise. Dave could tell, even underground, and even without a clock. It was instinct, the kind he'd been careful to hone through years of training. Besides, the cold weariness in his body had long since turned into actual weariness. Stretching, he made his way out of the cave and into his bedroom.

There's one good thing about all this worthless wealth and privilege, he thought. I don't have anywhere to be today. The thought usually cheered him, but this time...

He dropped into his bed, sleep already overtaking him before his head hit the pillow. Even as he slipped into unconsciousness, he prayed to a God he no longer really believed in that he wouldn't dream of Blaine, of bats, of pearls bouncing off pavement with a dozen tiny pings.

His prayers were in vain.

At that moment, a penthouse in downtown Gotham was receiving its occupant - oddly enough, through its balcony. The lithe figure swung itself over the railing and glided inside. A cat, once a starving stray, pattered forward and wove its body around its owner's ankles. Said owner gave the cat a small scritch behind the ears and an affectionate "Glad to see you too, Brian."

Several items were tossed onto a neatly made queen-size bed. First, a small leather satchel. Then, a custom-made belt, with attached pouches and tools. A leather skullcap, to keep hair out of the eyes (and out of the hands of crime scene investigators), with two small ear-like nubs that could pick up any one of a dozen police radio bands. A pair of gloves, thick enough to protect against broken glass, yet sheer enough to keep out of the way of dexterous fingers.

One sweep of the hand caught up a remote control, and the TV flicked on. Gotham This Morning was just starting, and this viewer, at least, was quite pleased to see what the top story was.

"... fifth robbery in as many weeks, with no suspects and few leads." The cat burglar sat on the edge of the bed, cuddling the brown and black furred Brian, who was nuzzling with a contented mewl. "This video footage is all that exists of the burglar the press has dubbed the Catwoman, for her unusual headwear." The video was black and white, grainy... Yet the curve of the breasts and the sharpness of the "ears" atop the head were unmistakable. "Gotham Police Commissioner Russell Fabray is holding a press conference at 10 am to address public concerns about this crime spree. In other news, rumors of a mysterious vigilante persist in..."

The so-called "Catwoman" shut off the TV with a wry grin. Batman... It was only luck, most likely, that had kept the two from meeting thus far, and "Catwoman" had no illusions that it would last. From all reports, such a meeting wouldn't be... all bad... But "Catwoman" was equally open-eyed to the fact that anything happening between them (even the preferred sensuous "quickie") was unlikely at best, for many reasons.

The burglar's thoughts turned towards more pleasant subjects, like the contents of the satchel nearby... and the media. The stupid, gullible, easily manipulated media. Like a true professional would ever have been so careless as to be caught like that on any security camera. But the burglar had learned long ago that people made certain... assumptions about lithe, curved, graceful bodies. So why not take advantage of them? It was as good a shield, a disguise, as almost any.

Brian wriggled in discomfort as the burglar reached into his shirt and plucked out the falsie bra, tossing it carelessly across the room. There's irony for you, he thought, turning their pig-ignorant heteronormative assumptions against them. He then opened the satchel with one hand (leaving the other free to stroke Brian's head) and turned it over. A cascade of glittering gems spilled across the satin sheets; he gasped in delight. No matter how many he had, no matter how many he took, he never failed to be amazed at such a sight. Not that he cared about value (indeed, he got most of his pleasure from the doing, not the having), but he did care about beauty. And gems were very beautiful indeed.

"After all," Kurt Hummel purred as he turned over the necklaces and bracelets in his hand, "diamonds are a girl's best friend."

AN: Yes, yes, I know, Quinn would've made an appropriate Harley. But considering the wheelchair, and the fact that she's one of the few girls whose fathers have appeared on-screen, AND that many of the others' personalities just wouldn't have fit that well, I thought I had to make the sacrifice. I think it's funnier to imagine Brittany in Harley's role anyway...