The Madness of Two: A Sequel to The Ballad of Harley Quinn From Harley's POV
Summary: Harley tells Poison Ivy about life with the Joker. A tale in twelve parts.
Author's Note: If you haven't already read "The Ballad of Harley Quinn," you may want to before proceeding. Basically my goal with both stories is to bring Harley Quinn into Christopher Nolan's more realistic take on Batman saga, but to do so from her point of view.
This story operates on two timelines. Harley's conversations with Ivy take place in the present. Harley's flashbacks are to her life with Mr. J. To make it easier for readers, a triple set of lines is used to indicate movement between past and present.
Once again, fans will notice bits and pieces gleaned from Harley's comic and from other publications. However, I am not an expert in DC lore, so any errors/omissions/alterations are entirely my own.
--
Ch. 1: Harley Quinn
The first time I met Poison Ivy was when she slugged me with a metal tray.
It was the tray that normally sat next to the door in Arkham Asylum's common room. It usually held little paper cups filled with brightly colored psychiatric drugs.
Ivy scattered those all over the room when she grabbed the tray.
Luckily for me, it was only made of aluminum.
In fact, my head put a pretty good size dent in it.
Mr. J had always said I had a hard head.
But as I lay on the common room floor I was sure Poison Ivy could still figure out some way to beat me to death with it if she really wanted to. I'd heard she was a pretty resourceful lady.
I threw my hands over my head in case she swung again.
"Hey, I thought your m.o. was poison, not assault," I squeaked.
"I'm improvising," she hissed.
At that moment two orderlies tackled her from behind. I rolled out of the way before she went down.
I'd gotten pretty good at getting out of the way. Call it a job requirement.
--
My name is Harley Quinn.
I'm a criminal.
Some people say I'm crazy.
I'm not, you know.
Just a little off.
Working for the Joker will do that to a gal.
--
I got to my feet, rubbing my backside. It ached a bit from the hard fall.
Arkham Asylum's common room was in an uproar. Not only was it taking two burly men to hold Ivy down, but also several doctors had rushed in to see what the commotion was. A few of the other patients were surreptitiously picking up the pills scattered around the room.
"Let me go!" Ivy hollered as she kicked. "She's a traitor!"
Dr. Rodriquez, Arkham's latest administrator, walked over to me.
"What's all this about, Harley?"
"I have no idea," I pouted. "I just walked in, and Ivy went all Attica on me!"
"Because you're one of them," Ivy said from her spot on the floor. "I remember you!"
The guards yanked her to her feet.
"Really? 'Cause I don't remember you," I taunted.
"You better watch your back, Dr. Quinzel," she told me as they hauled her out of the room. "Watch your back."
"Geez Louise," I groused as I smoothed my orange jumpsuit. Ivy had mussed it all up.
"It's not like I ever treated her or anything. Way to hold a grudge."
Dr. Rodriquez was looked at me strangely.
I arched my eyebrows. "What?"
"I'd forgotten you were once a doctor here," the administrator said softly.
"Ah, ancient history," I said breezily.
The older woman looked serious. "Maybe we shouldn't have let you leave solitary. For your own safety."
"What, because of Poison Ivy?"
I sat down in a rickety orange plastic chair. The common room may have been a new addition to the high-security wing of Arkham. But the furniture was still older than I was. And uncomfortable as all get out.
Still, it was better than sitting in my cell staring at my feet. I'd done that for a couple of months, and, believe me, it had gotten old real fast.
"Ivy doesn't scare me," I told her. "Try going ten rounds with the Batman some time. Then we'll talk scary."
"Harley," she sighed. "What are we going to do with you?"
"That's the sixty-four million dollar question, ain't it, Doc?" I grinned.
--
--
--
I sat curled in an empty concrete drainpipe.
Outside it was pouring rain in Gotham City. A late spring storm had opened the heavens and drenched the earth.
Ever since I was a kid I had loved the way the rain smelled. And after the long weeks incarcerated at Gotham General, it smelled even better than usual.
I was still wearing the uniform I'd stolen from the nurse.
Betty, her name had been. I'd chosen her because we were pretty close in size and coloring. My boobs were a bit bigger, so the white dress pulled across the bust, and I'd already gone through one knee on the itchy support hose she been wearing. But it was a small price to pay.
I had been able to just walk past the security guard outside my door. He hadn't even blinked.
It had been a couple of hours now.
I wondered if they'd discovered the switch yet.
If they hadn't, they would soon.
So I was hiding. I'd found a construction site, standing empty because of the storm. I figured it was a good place to lay low and rest until night fell again. Then it would be safer to move around.
I wasn't particularly sleepy, not after so many weeks in a sedative-induced twilight state. In fact, I felt fantastic—full of energy, as if any moment electricity might start sparking from my fingertips.
I was going back to Mr. J.
Gotham City was a big place, but I knew Mr. J.
I was confident I'd locate him, sooner rather than later.
And wouldn't he be surprised to see me?
What a great joke!
--
I owed Betty for more than just the uniform. I'd found a twenty-dollar bill and a pack of cigarettes in one of the dress' pockets.
When it was dark and the rain had eased a bit, I slipped out of my hiding place.
I was just south of the heart of downtown Gotham. This was a tough part of town, but I wasn't frightened.
I wasn't frightened of anything any more.
I was a new woman.
I was so happy to be alive, and to be free. Everything was wonderful—the bums with rain dripping off their filthy noses; the toughs who eyed me as I walked past; the ancient neon signs that hissed and crackled like angry hens. It was all perfectly lovely to my eyes.
I found a grimy, all-night dinner and treated myself to a cup of coffee and a hamburger. My first solid meal in weeks.
I swapped Betty's pack of cigarettes with the waitress for a ballpoint pen and some quarters. I then went over to the vending machines in the back and bought copies of every one of the evening newspapers. I leisurely perused them while I ate.
I then spread out the papers and circled anything I thought was relevant.
There was a lot to circle.
Joker had been a busy man.
Armed robberies here, the occasional body there. A handful of exposures to Joker venom. All breathlessly reported, along with lengthy editorials about how ineffectual the Gotham P.D. had been at tacking this particular menace.
Yawn.
Yet there had been few actual sightings of the Joker himself. I found that a lot more interesting. To me, it suggested Joker had spent his freedom rebuilding his organization. He now had enough help that he didn't have to take on the smaller jobs himself.
The last time I had seen him he had complained to me about the caliber of people he had to work with. Obviously he'd solved that problem.
Clever Mr. J.
It was a delightfully random pattern of crime.
But it was going to make finding him a little more difficult than planned.
I'd keep my ear to the ground, and my eyes open.
But first, I needed a change of clothes.
--
This part of Gotham's downtown wasn't exactly teeming with boutiques.
It had a few off-brand stores and some clothing stalls, but even those were closed this late at night.
So I chose a charity shop that had left one of its rear windows open a crack. It had been wedged open with a brick, but I had no trouble shimmying through anyway. I'm pretty small.
I was careful to close the window behind me. I kept the brick, balancing it in one hand while my eyes adjusted to the darkness.
It would have been too risky to turn on the lights, but fortunately the storm had ebbed. The moon was now out, and there was just enough light to see my surroundings.
It was a typical thrift store, with rack after rack of dusty clothes and shoes, and mangy toys piled in one corner. Battered sports equipment filled another, and old office furniture, a third. In the final corner was a small office and kitchenette.
I decided to indulge myself a bit and wash my hair in their sink. I had to use dish soap, but it was worth it to get the last traces of the hospital smell out of my hair. I then wrapped a clean dishtowel around my head and went to see what I could dig up for a new outfit.
I wanted something Mr. J might like, but I wasn't sure what. Most of the clothes were so hideous they shouldn't have been worn once, let alone a second time. I did find an old green army bag just the right size to sling across my shoulders, and a little purple nightie I thought would be nice for my reunion with Mr. J.
As for day wear, I was about to give up hope when I finally unearthed an old mini-dress. It was half-black, and half-red, with a vertical seam down the center, and a little white collar. And, glory be, it was 100 polyester. So practical for a woman on the go.
I figured the dress might remind Joker of Harlequin's multi-colored costume. At our first meeting he had named me after the famous clown.
At our second meeting he had tried to strangle me.
Ah. Good times.
I couldn't find any decent shoes that fit, so I was stuck with Betty's ugly black nurses' shoes. I did finally shed the support hose, though.
It felt so much better to let my legs breathe.
With clean hair and a new dress, I felt much more confidant heading back out into the night.
--
"Hey, baby."
I ignored the voice.
It was coming from a pimply-faced teenager with a mohawk. The group of friends around him guffawed.
I was concentrating.
After hanging around downtown for a few days, without even a glimpse of green hair, I'd moved on to the Narrows.
That was riskier, of course, because it put me close to Arkham Asylum. But I figured there was few other places in Gotham Joker could be so well concealed.
I'd always made sure to lock my car doors before crossing into the Narrows. I'd never paid any attention to what happened here.
I can't say I had missed much.
The Narrows had never really recovered from the Scarecrow's attack almost three years earlier. Few people actually lived here any more. But there was still plenty of action at night. Most of it was the illegal, illicit kind. And, with the Batman himself apparently lying low, most of it went undetected.
So far everything I'd seen had been small-time stuff. Nothing even approaching Mr. J's level. I had pretty much decided to move on again. But to where?
"C'mon, baby," the punk said again. "Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, blondie."
More laughter. They were getting on my nerves. Couldn't a woman hunt for her lost love in peace?
"Take a hike, junior," I snapped. "I'm not interested in whatever you're selling."
"Oooh, she's tough," one of the other punks, a taller one with a nose ring, offered. "You gonna let her talk to you like that, Spike?"
"Yeah, are you?" The third asked. This one had a shaved head and a t-shirt that read 'I'm the Batman.'
Yeah, he wished.
Spike puffed out his thin little chest.
"Hey, bitch, nobody talks to me like that."
I almost laughed.
Across the street a man and woman glanced over at us, and quickly scurried away. Off to illicit activities of their own, I guessed. Oh, well.
Emboldened by testosterone and what smelled a bit like airplane glue, the three toughs circled around me. The tall one gave me a shove.
"High and mighty, ain't she?"
Mr. Bald Head gave me a shove from behind.
"Yeah, thinks she's too good for us."
I sighed.
What would Mr. J do? I asked myself.
I swung my green shoulder bag back, hard, and heard it connect with a sickening crunch.
Did I neglect to mention I'd put the brick in there?
Well, I had.
The bald-headed one shrieked in pain.
I didn't bother to turn.
Instead I reached out and grabbed a hold of the tall one's nose ring.
One good yank was all it took.
Blood spurted from his nose, and his whole face went white.
I tossed the tiny gold hoop away, a chunk of skin still imbedded inside it.
"Oooh," I told him. "That's going to need some stitches."
I took a menacing step forward. "I'm a doctor, you know. I think I've got a needle here, somewhere…"
I reached into my purse.
That was all it took.
He bolted away down the street.
The one who had started it all—Spike—now slunk backward a bit.
"Jesus, you crazy bitch," he laughed nervously. "It was just a joke."
"A joke?" I repeated.
"Trust me," I said with a smile. "You don't know the first thing about jokes."
I kicked out with my gymnast's legs and connected with his solar plexus, knocking the air out of his lungs.
He went down with a grunt and a thud.
"Dude, help me!" He screamed at his one remaining ally.
"She doke my nobe!" The other one just squealed, his voice thick with blood. "She doke my nobe!"
Spike tried to crawl away from me, but I had the advantage.
I stepped on his belly.
He stopped moving and stared up at me in sheer terror.
"Lady, I'm sorry, OK? Oh, god, please don't kill me!"
It hadn't occurred to me to kill him. But I thought it was pretty funny anyway.
I laughed and laughed.
That only scared him more.
"Please…please…I'll give you anything you want…"
I was going to let him go, but then I noticed his boots.
Lovely, shiny, leather boots, the kind that came all the way up to his knees. The kind with a steel plate over the shin and a buckle over the instep. Must have cost his mommy and daddy a pretty penny.
And I did need better shoes.
I bent down.
I smiled.
"I like your boots," I told him.
