It's a cold December night at Arkham Ward in London, 1940. And while Dr. Harleen Quinzel is feeling the Christmas spirit, she's also throwing herself into her work.
A bell is ringing. A patient needs her. And as the rest of the staff head to a party, Dr. Quinzel stays.
The patient is Dr. Shondra Kinsolving: formerly her colleague, now her patient. They've formed a special bond during this time. Harleen feels a deep connection to her, not only because she's a doctor as well, but because if she had continued down the road she was on, she might well have ended up here too . . .
But she pushes those thoughts away, forcefully. Mr. J is an ocean away, and she's remade herself completely trying to forget him. She's Harleen now. Her life is devoted to helping her patients. She's even managed to affect a British accent, calling everyone "dearie" and mentally willing the Canarsie out of her voice.
(Still – anyone who saw her in this moment, happily belting out Christmas carols as she skips down the hall of the sanitarium, would recognize instantly that Harley is alive and well in there.)
She greets Shondra with kind words and a bit later, grasps her hand, unashamed as always to show affection and offer a bit of human contact to the good people she meets in this place.
The moment feels oddly familiar, a sensation Harleen experiences regularly. Another time, another place – another life perhaps – but that hand was . . . green?
She shakes off the sensation and focuses on what Shondra is saying: "One of Arkham's own doctors, now in her very own cell. That is my story, but I do not want such a fate for you, Harleen."
Her words echo in Harleen's mind. And once again, a memory from that other unknown world haunts her, makes her shiver – some deep part of her feels Shondra's words hit home in a way she doesn't understand.
She can see Shondra's visions of men with "hearts of shadow" – can smell the burning – can feel her final words "Come find me" squirming beneath her skin.
The words twist and shift inside her. The façade (or is it the real her? she never knows) starts to crack. She resists – she always resists – but she has to choose, or be torn to pieces by the pull of what other people want her to be – Mr. J, her patients, the world.
She kneels, breaks. Touches her face.
A madman bears down on her, but she's not afraid. The madmen outside are the ones she knows how to deal with.
She turns. Dr. Harleen Quinzel is gone. The approaching inmate doesn't stand a chance against . . . Harley Quinn!
Her foot finds his throat, and Harley finds herself again.
(The last vestiges of Dr. Quinzel wonder: is this self-actualization, or is she under his control? She's back – but who's pulling the strings? Is she any more or less a vessel than Dr. Kinsolving?)
Her hair comes loose, her smile comes unhinged.
She sets Shondra free, blithely, says her father had it coming. Maybe she's under his thrall again, but this time she'll be a voice for women everywhere.
Flexible and strong, she bounces off the walls and slings a full-grown man over her shoulder. Dr. Quinzel would have locked him in his cell.
Harley strings him up and decorates him.
She steals a hat from an elf. Green in the front, red in the back. Some part of her finds the duality appealing.
Then she waltzes out the door, still singing. The song is the same, the words are still the right words.
Now it's a little after midnight, at The Butchered Boar.
Harley's transformation is complete – gone is any vestige of Dr. Quinzel. Now she's a cross between a court jester and a sexy Christmas elf. Green and red head to toe, carefree and dangerous.
The song starts to change. Now it's "Joy to the world, my lord is come."
She feels this need to liberate the women from their men – she can't fight his power herself, not now, but she can make damn sure no one else gets used.
When one of them says "The girls are ours," it's on. She starts a fight, slips out of the fray. She's not in it for the fight, she's in it for the mayhem. Stir up trouble and slip away.
And suddenly, there he is. He's handsome, witty, he's onto her. And – he has a plane. His name is Hal.
She gets him alone in the hangar – not for the reason he thinks. It's just them, his plane, and a lonely little nativity scene. Have you seen this one? The old "distract with a card, steal the key to the plane, wallop him with a plywood camel" trick?
She's being pulled to Berlin, and this plane is her ticket. To France, and then on to whatever awaits.
Turns out the doctor is also a pilot. With a barrel roll, and a "Merry Christmaaaaaas, London!" she's out of there.
Shot down over the English Channel, on the France side. Now the song is completely different, as she gets blown out of the sky and gleefully rides a bomb to earth, singing all the way down. The gal knows how to make an entrance, also how to crash into a greenhouse and walk away with nothing more than a bump on the head.
And then – a vision. Is she real? Or a Christmas-and-concussion-fueled fantasy? Hair of fire, a look of fury in her blazing green eyes, pointing a gun at Harley and calling her a devil in French.
Naturally, Harley is smitten. Her glee is literally disarming, her grip around Red's waist sustaining, and they go from gun-pointing to eye-rolling to hand-holding in a flash.
Harley looks. Red is a smuggler, a connoisseur of luxuries. A girl after Harley's heart.
She's also secretive, and has a temper, and a pinup calendar, and when she catches Harley looking, she snaps. She threatens to bury her with the others, the Nazis, and – dear Lord – she turns green.
Harley likes it.
She's finally quiet, still, as Red tells her story. A story of deception, seduction, betrayal – and violence.
It's violence that brought them together – a plane bombed clear out of the sky, a fall from heaven to green, green earth. And it's the promise of violence that keeps them together now.
When the green one wants to stay home, the pale one can (now? some other time and place? always?) lure her out with that promise. She grips her hands, looks into her eyes, freezes her with a mention of her "beau" and just as quickly thaws her again.
Ivy's getting Nazis for Christmas. Harley doesn't know it yet (even though she said it), but she's getting Ivy.
They've found her now. A shooting star, a missile plummeting to earth – these things can't be missed.
A barrel, a handle, and now her transformation is complete. The face, the smile, the clothes, the madness – she was only missing one thing, one beautiful wooden smash-y thing.
Pamela (for that's the Frenchwoman's name) can only watch, shocked, as they pound on the door – and Harley pounds on their heads.
Harley is fluid, fearless, cunning. She's madness and mayhem in a tiny blonde package.
She gets in over her head, then just as quickly vaults over theirs. Now the missile doesn't disappoint, and for the second time tonight, Harley gleefully rides out on an explosion.
There's banter and more eye-rolling, contraband a-flying – and for the first time since her transformation, Harley once more finds the real words to the song.
Next chapter: The joyride! The tension! Harley's past!