The last thing you remember is the weight of a lead pipe connecting with the back of your cowl. Now, the world is a spinning kaleidoscope of neon lights and high-pitched laughter. Your head throbs with a rhythmic, wet pulse—a concussion so deep it feels like your brain is floating in syrup.

You try to blink the spots from your eyes, but the face that swims into view is your nightmare made flesh.

"Up-and-at-em, Gorgeous! You’ve been out for a while," Joker chirps, his voice echoing painfully in your ringing ears.

You try to sit up, fueled by a surge of adrenaline and a desperate need to strike that grin off his face. You command your powerful core to flex, to heave your body off the table—but the physics have changed. The moment you try to bolt upright, you are violently jerked back down by a massive, pendulous weight on your chest. Your new, top-heavy anatomy creates a center of gravity you weren't prepared for.

Instead of a tactical recovery, you let out a high-pitched, breathless "Oof!" as your heavy DD-cup breasts bounce forcefully against your chin, the red-and-black latex squeaking mockingly. You fall back onto the padding with a soft thud, your wide, flared hips jiggling uncontrollably from the impact.

"Oh, look at her go!" Harley claps her hands, hovering over you with a giant powder puff. "She’s like a bowl of Jell-O in heels! Careful, B-Girl, you’ll give yourself a black eye with those things!"

"That’s the game, Batsy!" Joker cackles, leaning over the IV drip that’s pumping 'The Bobble-Head Cocktail' into your arm. "Every time you try to be the 'Big Tough Hero,' you’re just going to provide us with more physical comedy! Your new body is built for entertainment, not justice."

You grit your teeth, your manicured nails digging into the medical table. You try to growl a defiant "I’ll kill you," but the concussion and the toxin are melting your thoughts. Your vocal cords feel like silk threads.

"I... I'll..."

"You'll what? Look cute for the camera?" Joker pulls out a smartphone, clicking a photo of you just as Harley smears a thick, sticky layer of bubblegum-pink gloss over your pouting lips.

"Stop..." you gasp, but as you try to kick out at him, your feet—locked into those 7-inch stiletto boots—betray you again. Your arched ankles buckle instantly under the strain of your own transformed weight. The movement only succeeds in making your massive chest heave and sway, the heavy jiggle sending a wave of humiliating heat through your sensitised skin.

"She’s so 'malleable', Puddin'!" Harley coos, beginning to brush your long, dark pigtails. "Every time she struggles, she just looks more like a doll. Look at those big, foggy eyes... there’s not much 'Batman' left in there, is there?"

The room spins. The "Batman" feels like a costume you wore a lifetime ago. The concussion makes the Joker’s plan sound almost... logical. Why fight when fighting only makes you look ridiculous? Why be a hero when you can just be... empty?

"That's it," Joker whispers, his voice smooth and hypnotic against your ringing ears. "Don't think. Thinking is for people who aren't wearing seven-inch heels. Just be my pretty, bobble-headed girl. Now... try to stand up for me again. I want to see you wobble."