A/N: Sorry for the long time to update. Seven months does seem a little long. But this Harley Quinn has been fighting an emotional battle with her Joker and she has been losing. And so while she waits in the ashes for him to appear once again to toy with her some more, she shall write.

"Noooo!" screamed Harley.

"Yeeees!" replied Tony as he and Fat Tony pulled Harley off of her feet.

"One."

"No!"

"Two."

"No!"

"THREE!"

Harley shrieked as the Tony's threw her into the air. When she landed in their arms she started smacking them.

"Again?"

"NO!"

"One!"

"Fucking die!"

"Two!"

"Fuck-"

She was cut off by several nearby explosions. The trio flew to the ground along with an assortment of items that were now nothing more than trash and rubble. The air became thick with dust. Harley struggled to see, but the dust was too thick. She could hear gunfire now.

"Harley, take my hand!"

Coughing, Harley took the hand offered to her. They ran, crouched, in the general direction of the beach. The dust was starting to lighten up. She looked over to see Tony doing his best to lead them through.

"Hey!" they heard behind them They both turned. It was then that someone took a baseball bat to Tony's head. Harley's shrill scream was soon muffled. A ball was shoved into her mouth and strapped to her head. A burlap sack was then shoved over her head. She tried to scream, but the sound didn't travel far. The ball vibrated in her mouth and that was it. All she could see was shades of brown. She just about jumped out of her skin when she felt two rough hands grab her around the waist and throw her over someone's shoulder. She kicked and hit with all of her might, until she felt a leather strap going around her wrists and then her ankles (helpless worm!). The man whom was carrying her was running very fast. Gunshots followed them and Harley struggled until she ran out of energy and breath. Her lungs were threatening to explode if she couldn't intake a vast amount of air through her mouth. She went limp and tried to figure out what was happening. Things seemed so much simpler when she didn't move. All she could see was brown. All she could hear was screams and gunshots. It didn't sound and feel as chaotic. It seemed more like a strange CD - "Sounds of a Village Invaded by Soldiers" (a one time TV off, only $19.95! Perfectly safe for home!)

Pretty soon the screams got quieter and the gunfire was less frequent. Now Harley could hear the sound of shoes flapping on pavement. Heavy breathing. Then, she heard her kidnapper (or rather, freaknapper?) fiddle with something. She felt herself being thrown and she roughly met a bumpy, cold cold metal floor. She winced at the initial pain, though it wasn't too bad. She realized that she was in the back of a truck. She felt a few more people get on before the engine started. Someone floored it, causing Harley to roll toward the back.

"Grab 'er!" yelled a gruff voice.

Several rough hands pulled her deeper into the truck. A few men kept her in place with their feet. It was like she was a footrest. She felt like an object. When they'd hit a bump or dip she'd fly into the air only to be kicked back down. The force made her leak a few involuntary sounds, which were met with "shut up you stupid bitch!" and one man went as far as to make fun of her crying (insert evil henchman laughter here). It was obvious that none of them had been bound and forced to lay on the floor of a truck with several feet holding them down.

It wasn't long until they'd reached their destination (or if destiny had nothing to do with it, chancination?) Someone cut the engine and the men piled out. She sat there in silence, wondering if she was alone. The scent of cigarette smoke answered her question. So she waited. And waited. And...each second weighed a ton.

"How is she?"

"She whimpered on the way here, but that's about it."

"Whimpered? Hmm..."

"You want me to go get her?"

"You know, that whimpering just will not do! One little fight and she'd be down and out. No. No, I want you and a couple of your buddies to take her into the garage and...beat the shit out of her. Make her feel real pain. She can't be hanging around here crying every time the wind blows. Just make sure she's nice and bruised up, but do not break any of her bones or hurt any of her vital organs. We need her functional."

"Want us to use knives?"

"Oh please no!" The air was dripping with his comical over-exaggeration. Get this guy a studio audience. "Just hurt her. Toughen her up. But no knives. Bruises heal. Cuts turn into scars. And we all know about scars."

He moved his lips around for emphasis. On both sides of his mouth were deep, poorly healed scars, resembling what had been done to the Black Dahlia. But this man was no flower. Some would say...he was a clown from hell. Most folks didn't find him very funny. Just frightening...and sad.

"Nice phone," said one of the henchmen. They'd taken her phone and her wallet, the only two things she'd had on her. Next they took the burlap sack and the gag ("Scream all you want! No one will hear you!") It wasn't difficult to get adjusted to the light – there was hardly any. The only source of light was a small lamp. It created odd shadows that dance sinisterly. They were in a nearly empty garage. Another henchman entered the room with a smile. There were now three in the room with her. She was still bound and she didn't say a word. It always seems like the more someone cries and whines, the more the shit gets beaten out of them.

A man with an unusual amount of facial/neck skin suddenly came face to face with her. He chuckled a little bit and Harley turned her head away. His breath was terrible. He grabbed her chin and made her face him. She held her breath the best she could. His hot breath gave her chills. Quickly, he brought his face to hers. Despite his hand holding her chin, she was able to turn away. She felt his lips on her cheek. She felt just how rough and unshaven he was. When he pulled away she stared him right in the eye.

And smacked her and "hmph" was all he uttered before pulling out a strip of black cloth. It was a blindfold. She went back to staring him down even as he tied it tightly around her head. To replace her stare, she smirked. No matter what, she kept that smirk on her face. Inside, she was freaking out. Things were really started to sink in and not being able to see made her jumpy. Her skin prickled. There was a lot of moving around before things went gravely silent. She became aware of how loud her breathing was. She tried to breathe more softly, but it felt more and more like her lungs were going to implode.

A brief shuffle of feet broke the silence before something rammed into her stomach. This forced her to lay on her side, a brief grown escaping her lips. There was more shuffling of feet before the pain happened again a million times over. Her lip split. Her right knee was kicked out of place. She was sure all of her insides were breaking open. The smirk was now forgotten and she so badly hurt. She never wanted to move again. So she just laid there and took it. After what felt like an eternity, the beating stopped. There was panting and a shuffle of feet. The sound of a door opening. The sound of rummaging. Was that all they were going to do? To an outsider it didn't seem like much. But her body felt like it was on fire. She'd never felt worse pain. So many people could say that it could be worse, but have they ever taken a blind beating? Things could have been worse, but they could have been so much better.

"Done already?"

"Just taking a break."

"Did she cry?"

"No. She groaned a little, but that's it. She didn't fight back or nothin'!"

"Has she said anything?"

"Nope, not a word. She's got some real balls."

"Or a death wish."

The henchman laughed, but the man with the scars frowned. Not that anyone would notice. No matter what, thanks to the scars he always looked like he was either smiling or smirking. Or maybe...it was just the make-up – black coon eyes, red smeared over his cheeks and mouth, skin painted white. He truly look like a clown, but something was off. Was it the scars? The red was always grinning the biggest smile, but the scars were just lines. Was his "smile" really permanent or could it easily be washed away?

Her eyes were wet. She wasn't really crying. She didn't have the energy to. Tears were just kind of seeping out like they did when she yawned. It didn't even matter now that she was blindfolded – she never wanted to open her eyes again. The only thing she wanted was to be back with her friends, but she'd even settle for just lying there – slowly getting better. Any hope of that was soon shattered when she heard a shuffling of feet followed by laughter and some noises. Music started playing. If filled the whole room and it wasn't long until she realized it was Prince. Prince of all the things in his shit hole. Prince – king of sex. Prince! What were they thinking?

Harley must have been concentrating on the music for too long, because the pain began without her hearing it begin. It was different this time. Maybe even better if her body wasn't already bruised and broken. But either way, it sent paining ripping through her already beaten body. There was a lot of laughter and she realized that she was being shot at. She could hear golf balls bouncing away from her body, but there was something else that stayed on her. She'd always heard her friends talk about it and she'd seen it on TV. Oh how romantic it was in that movie! But she'd never actually experienced it firsthand. Paintball shooting. She certainly didn't see anything fun or romantic about it now as her bruises were pelted – as some got in her mouth. She tried to focus on the music, but she wasn't even hearing words anymore. Or had Prince switched over into a different language? Nothing helped. More pain just kept coming in little shots of paint or small orbs that were bounced off of her body. She felt so weak. She'd hardly noticed when they'd stopped. She could still feel points of pain, but it was all in her head. There was the shuffle of feet and the sound of the guns being put down. A door opened. She felt some cool air blow in before strange sounding foot steps came near her. Suddenly a new pain began as an excruciatingly hot liquid was poured on her. She gasped in pain. And just as cool air touched her like a bird catching a fish, she felt it again. Something between a gasp and a scream escaped her lips. Prince sounded like he was nearing orgasm. Strangely, she did too. Sometimes it's hard to tell pleasure and pain apart.