The Harlequin

7.


There was a hand on her arm, gently shaking her awake. Harley's eyes opened slowly, her eyelashes dragging against the thin material of the sleeping mask as she swam back to consciousness. For a few blessed seconds, she was simply confused about where she was and why she was wearing a sleeping mask. Then the events of the previous days and hours came rushing back and she groaned unhappily, lifting one hand to push the sleeping mask up on her head.

Bruno, who easily outweighed Harley by a few hundred pounds, was in the driver's seat watching her like he was worried she'd make a sudden move.

"How ya doin?" He asked tersely.

"Tired," she replied, peering out the tinted window to see where they were. She frowned and turned back to Bruno. "You took me home?"

"Said I would, didn't I?" He shrugged.

Harley shrugged too, too tired to argue or give the situation more thought. All she wanted was a place to lie down. Preferably one as far away from the Joker's henchman as possible.

"I guess," she agreed, and starting to reach for the door handle with sleep-deadened fingers.

"Your building got CCTV cameras?" Bruno asked, ducking his head to get a look at the tower complex out the windshield.

"No," Harley said slowly, following his gaze to the main entrance where the lobby's lights were shining out into the darkened square.

"How about a doorman?" Bruno pressed.

"Yeah," Harley admitted, looking down at the blood stained slip-dress she wore beneath the massively oversized blazer Bruno had lent her. Her thoughts began to turn toward the Joker but she shut them down with a remarkable amount of self-restraint. She was too tired for that. She sighed and pulled down the sun visor so she could check her face in the small mirror, groaning at what she was greeted with.

There was a smear of clown blood on her neck and her eyes looked hollow, the makeup she'd so carefully applied smudged all around them.

Bruno fished a tartan scarf out of the backseat and handed it to her. "Just keep yer head down," he advised. "People don't notice things unless they're lookin."

"Thanks," Harley muttered, winding the scarf around her neck, though she sensed the blood-spattered bottom half of her dress was more incriminating.

"Can I give ya some advice?" Bruno asked, and Harley nodded, though she was dreading whatever advice a Joker-affiliate could give her. "Call the cops when ya get upstairs. Let em' know you're alright," Bruno suggested.

"Are you sure?" She frowned, not quite trusting that calling the cops was her kidnapper's top tier advice. But Bruno confirmed this with a nod and Harley shrugged and started pushing the car door open, preparing herself for the cold rush of autumn air.

"One more thing," Bruno added as her foot hit the pavement. She looked back at him, feeling like there was only ever 'one more thing' with these people. "The other two we took'll be home by now. The boys tied em' up, blindfolded em' and drove em' around for a couple hours before droppin' em off down the street from their homes. Safe as houses. Just like you."

Harley blinked stupidly at him, understanding that he was giving her a line to tell the cops but not fully sure how she would explain what happened in her own words. How did you explain any of what happened?

"You know," Bruno continued casually, offering her a small smile that suggested they were sharing a secret. "In case you don't want em' to think you're special to the Joker or somethin'"

Special to the Joker. It was said so benignly but there was so much weight attached to the concept that Harley nearly gave up and collapsed back into the car. Instead, she shook her head and used the door frame to pull herself out into the square.

"Have a good night, Dr Quinzel," Bruno called after her.

Harley slammed the door in his face, not waiting for the Audi to pull away before she jogged up the steps of her building and into the lobby.

As with most evenings, the doorman on duty was absorbed in his phone and didn't bother to greet her as she hurried to the bank of elevators. She thumbed the button to call the elevator before thinking better of it and taking the stairs so she wouldn't come face to face with any of her neighbors. By the time she reached her front door she had removed her heeled sandals and was on the verge of crumbling to the floor, and only then did she realize that she had lost her clutch at some point in the evening and didn't have a wallet, phone or keys.

Harley exhaled slowly, trying to keep herself calm, or at least not become more stressed than she already was. There was a key under the mat, which now seemed incredibly naive but she was grateful for it anyway.

Once safely inside her apartment, where she was free to cry or scream or collapse to her heart's desire, Harley started to feel like she was losing her mind.

Had she really just snuck past her doorman, afraid she would be caught in a bloodstained dress? She was the victim! She should have run up to him screaming at him to call the cops! The Joker had kidnapped her, interrogated her, threatened and terrorized her, and somehow she made it home alive. It wasn't completely cut and dry - she had killed someone - but it could be argued she'd done it for self-defense. Gordon would understand, wouldn't he?

So why didn't she run up to the doorman demanding he call 911?

Harley sat down hard on the floor and ripped off Bruno's scarf as she starting to feel like it was strangling her. She ran her fingers over her face, her breathing growing shaky as she thought back to pulling the trigger and killing the Joker's henchman.

It hadn't been necessary, not really. She'd chosen to do it because she wanted to beat the Joker in a lethal game that was impossible to really win. How did she explain that to Gordon? He told me to kill someone or be killed, so I killed someone else. Would it matter? They were all criminals...

At worst she'd be pardoned for manslaughter.

Manslaughter.

It was an imposing word, leaving no room for interpretation.

She started to fall asleep on the floor slumped against the wall when Bruno's advice to call the MCU sprang to the front of her mind. With a great deal of self-control, she forced herself back to her feet and into the bedroom.

Along with her wallet and keys her phone was also gone, leaving her with the option of going back to the doorman or using Penguin's burner. She chose the latter, dialing Gordon's personal number from memory after calling him a handful of times in the wake of the Joker's escape.

It was late, nearing 3 AM, but Harley reasoned Gordon was unlikely to be home sleeping soundly after the events of the evening. She sat heavily on her bed and ran her hand over her hair, her bare foot tapping restlessly on the floor as Gordon's phone rang and rang...

"Gordon."

"I... hi," she fumbled the phone in the darkness. "This is Harleen Quinzel."

Gordon sighed loudly, a sound of relief and exhaustion.

"It's good to hear your voice, Dr Quinzel," he said briskly, but not unkindly. "Are you... okay? Do you need medical attention? I can send officers if you -"

"No, no, please don't," Harley could hear how strained her voice sounded. "I'm fine. I don't need medical attention but this has been very... taxing, and I just want to get some sleep."

That was partly true; she did want to sleep. But after a quick look around the chaotic mess of her bedroom, so similar to the rest of the apartment, Harley knew there was no way she could have police in her home.

"Are you sure?" Gordon pressed.

"Yes," Harley sighed, folding over so her face was pressed against her knees.

"Can you come to the station tomorrow? So we can get your statement?" Gordon cleared his throat awkwardly. "Unless there's anything you can tell me now?"

Harley's lips parted to speak but she couldn't bring herself to say any of the things she could - or should - have told Gordon. That the Joker had a major operation on a pier somewhere an hour away from her apartment. That he had fifty to sixty goons on his payroll, plus plenty of money and weapons stashed at that pier. That he was interested in Oswald Cobblepot. That he seemed to be in some kind of war with Maroni.

"They put me in the trunk of a car and blindfolded me," she said instead, the lie rolling off her tongue too easily. "Then dropped me off down the street from my building. I... didn't see anything. I'm just... really tired."

"I understand, Dr Quinzel," Gordon said, and she could hear him scrubbing a hand over his jaw thoughtfully. "Come by the station whenever you feel up to it tomorrow."

"Alright," Harley agreed, nodding into her knees.

"Goodnight, Dr Quinzel."

When the call ended Harley remained where she was, folded over so she had a face-full of sticky, bloodied silk. But she was too tired to care. The most she was capable of was rolling onto her side and pulling her feet up onto the bed. And soon she was unconscious again.


She slept until noon, waking up with a headache and an awful twisting feeling in her stomach that she initially thought was her conscience prodding her to tell Gordon the truth, but was really from not eating for almost a full day. After feeding herself a meager brunch of leftover Thai food she finally peeled off the bloody Sofia Falcone dress and threw it directly into the garbage along with Bruno's blazer, covering them with empty take out boxes so she wouldn't have to see them again.

Then came cleaning the clown blood off her skin, which proved to be more taxing than she'd imagined. The shower took care of most of it, the soapy water running pink as it swirled down the drain as she scrubbed her skin raw. But there were still rust-colored lines beneath her fingernails, so she trimmed them right down to the quick, then scraped what remained with a scouring pad until they were bleeding.

Next, she discovered five fingerprint size bruised on the back of her thigh, just below her ass. Harley vividly remembered the Joker's fingers digging into her as he fled the party with her over his shoulder. The memory made her shiver - not unpleasantly - but she wasn't in the mood to figure out why. Instead, she compartmentalized her feelings into a rapidly expanding 'Don't Think About' mental folder. There were other, more important things to worry about, like what a cop would think if they saw the state of her apartment.

Knowing there was a better chance than ever that she would have to invite the police into her home, Harley started a frantic cleaning spree. She piled her clothes into trash bags - most of them were torn or stained after weeks on her bedroom floor, and besides that, she just didn't want to look at them anymore - and swept up the broken glass in the kitchen and bathroom. She shifted the remains of her smashed television to the corner, piled the couch stuffing into trash bags and vacuumed what mess she could from the living room floor. She bleached and scrubbed the bathroom, ridding it of all traces of clown DNA, and vacuumed the mirror and vase debris from the hallway until a particularly large piece of glass broke the damn thing and she had to admit defeat

By this stage, Harley had been cleaning for hours, and the apartment, while still in a chaotic state of disarray, at least looked better than it had for weeks. Cleaning almost helped distract her from relentlessly obsessing over each terrible, strange, and intense moment she'd shared with the Joker in recent weeks. Those moments when he had invaded her personal space, threatened her, hurt her, taken away her agency. And yet she didn't hate him for any of it. Instead, she berated herself for how she'd reacted in each instance. Weakly.

She needed to get out of the apartment and find something new to distract her. Arkham wasn't an option; she had the day off to 'recuperate' and Blakely was pushing her to take a leave of absence anyway. If she showed up they would just force her to go home again. That left the gym or the MCU, and she wasn't ready to face Gordon yet.

So Harley packed up her gym bag, including the Beretta after some deliberation, and hopped on the metro, feeling paranoid every time she caught another passenger's eye.

When she arrived at the gym she breathed a sigh of relief. Since all of this started, training had become a safe haven for her again, a way to channel her energy into conditioning her body while holding dangerous thoughts at bay. It was late afternoon on a Saturday so the gym was empty aside from a few die-hards, and Harley took advantage of the lack of other gymnasts training to practice some old routines on the floor.

When she was a teenager, gymnastics had been her life. She'd practiced for hours every day, her coaches telling her she could be an Olympian if she worked hard enough. Her dedication had partially been born of a need to win and succeed in a classic overachiever fashion, but it had also been about distracting herself from a miserable home life in foster care, where she was outright ignored by her guardians.

In the end, she was told she was "too tall" to be an Olympian and ended up with an academic scholarship to Gotham University instead of an athletic one. GU didn't even have a gymnastics team to join, giving her more time to party like a 'normal' college girl. Because that had worked out so well.

Harley didn't need validation from gymnastics anymore. Just distraction.

She did a series of front walk overs to get used to the sprung floor before returning to the corner of the mat to prepare. She paused, released a deep breath, and put her head down, then took off at a sprint and jumped into the air - roundoff, back handspring, back handspring, aerial cartwheel, front flip with a twist - and stuck the landing!

With her arms raised and her back arched, posing for an invisible crowd, Harley couldn't help but feel ridiculous. She chuckled and returned to the corner of the mat, repeating the routine a few times before moving to the beam and then the parallel bars. She trained until every muscle in her body was exhausted and pleading with her to stop, and she conceded to herself that it was getting late enough that she should suck it up and make the trip to see Gordon.

As she showered and changed, she practiced what she would say to Gordon when she saw him, and it wasn't all lies. She was just omitting quite a lot of important information and lying about one specific part of the story. And it wasn't like the Joker or any of his goons were going to blow her cover... maybe.

She headed for the metro with her gym bag hooked over one shoulder, finally starting to feel safe and well-balanced when...

"Yo, doc!"

She stopped in her tracks at the sound of the familiar, cocky voice, and looked over her shoulder to see Killer lounging against the hood of a clunky old Cadillac, smoking a joint and grinning cheekily at her.

A hundred reasons for Killer to be waiting outside her gym raced through Harley's brain, especially those that centered around him being sent to kill her. It wasn't exactly discrete, sending a henchman named Killer to catch her in the parking lot when the sun hadn't even set, but the Joker wasn't known for discretion.

"Chill out, girl," Killer laughed, sliding off the hood of the car. "I just wanna talk."

"What do you want?" Harley scowled, dismayed at how emotional she sounded. "What does he want?"

"Just to talk," Killer repeated, tossing away his joint and holding up both hands in surrender as he continued to saunter toward her.

Harley's body tensed all over as he moved closer, and she scrambled to open her gym bag and fish around inside for the Beretta. Not even considering that she was in public in broad daylight, she pointed the gun at Killer, deftly flicking the safety off with her thumb. Her hands were steady and her eyes cold, and she could see Killer hesitate.

He stopped short with his hands still raised, laughing in disbelief. She must have made a bizarre picture in athleisure wear and tennis shoes, her wet hair tied up in a ponytail, wielding a shiny Italian handgun.

"Damn, girl!"

"What the fuck do you want to talk to me about?" Harley demanded. Shooting him would be easy but explaining to the police why she had killed a kid with an unlicensed firearm would be difficult. She swallowed thickly and pressed her lips together, waiting for Killer to make a move.

"Look, I get it," he said, still smirking but aiming for a more conciliatory tone now that he had a gun pointed at him. "The boss is one scary motherfucker! But all he wants is a favor..."

"A favor?" Harley laughed incredulously as she tried to wrap her head around what Killer was saying. "Where is he? What does he want? I'm done with his bullshit!"

"You don't gotta deal with him at all," Killer placated, inching a few steps closer. "Just me and one of the other guys. Come on, I ain't gonna hurt you. We'll make it worth your while."

Harley's forehead creased into a frown, the notion of doing a deal with the Joker's men without having to deal with him directly repellent and appealing and disappointing to her all at once.

Damnit.

"What does he want?" She repeated, and glanced around the empty parking lot before before judging it safe enough to lower the weapon.

"It's real simple," Killer grinned. "You just gotta come for a drink with our buddy Lonnie tomorrow night. He needs you to consult on a project we're workin' on. Five grand just to answer some questions don't sound too bad, right?"

"Consult on what project?" Harley asked, some of the animosity leaking out of her voice as she thumbed the safety back on the gun and tucked it back in her gym bag. She didn't doubt a project put together by the Joker's crew would be anything short of horrific, but that didn't stop her from being curious within reason.

"I dunno," Killer shrugged and flashed her a gold-tinted grin. "They just tell me I need to get you to say yes and get you there on time."

Harley ran a hand over her ponytail and huffed out a frustrated breath. She had been right; there was always one more thing with these people.

"Why the hell should I help you?" she demanded, her voice still frosty even though she was thawing to the idea of... consulting...

Killer sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders and pulled an iPhone from his back pocket. His thumb slid across the screen a few times before he held it up for Harley to see the start of a video playing.

First, there was only shaky footage of a floor, but then the cameraman zoomed in on his targets. Through the narrow screen Harley was confronted with what she knew to be her own back, her blonde hair disheveled and her slip stained with blood. Beside her, the Joker was leaning in close, his white face and red mouth ghoulish as he whispered in Harley's ear. Then she turned to look at the Joker, and not only could you clearly see her face but you could see that she was aiming a gun at three men on their knees. A second later she turned away and the sound of two gunshots made the iPhone speakers fuzz with static.

Harley's mouth went dry. Watching herself kill the Maroni thug on camera made it even more impossible to ignore, and seeing herself standing beside the Joker was a completely new and startling affair in itself.

"You heard of Youtube?" Killer smirked, tucking the iPhone back in his pocket. "Ya know how shit goes viral?"

"So now I'm being blackmailed," Harley said quietly, her thoughts immediately going to Gordon and how he would react if he saw the video.

"Girl, it ain't blackmail if you gettin' paid." Killer flashed her another grin.

Harley glared at him, struggling more with the video than she was with the concept of answering some questions posed by an unknown Joker affiliate.

"Fine," she snapped at length. "Fine. What do I do?"

Killer handed her an old burner phone, a different model than the one Penguin had given her but no less clunky and outdated.

"I'll text you tomorrow," he told her, winking as he backed up towards the Cadillac, apparently not eager to turn his back on her. "Baby, don't look so sad! People would kill to make five grand just to answer a few questions about uh, science stuff, probably."

"Science stuff?" Harley repeated, bewildered.

But Killer had climbed behind the wheel of his car and started the engine, 90s hip hop blaring through a bad stereo. He offered her a friendly wave as he navigated the clunky car onto the road, leaving Harley stranded in the middle of an empty parking lot with only her confused thoughts to keep her company


The MCU was located on the east side of Downtown, probably because that was where a majority of the city's homicides, drug deals and robberies went down. It was less than an hour's walk from Harley's gym, so she decided to go on foot and use the time to clear her head. Again.

With the sun setting behind her, Harley ran through possible scenarios of what consulting on 'science stuff' for the Joker's men might mean, but nothing she came up with - drugs, torture, psychological warfare? - made any real sense. That she was being both blackmailed and paid made her think the Joker - or just his goons? - had important questions they needed answering.

Also at the forefront of her mind were warring emotions over Killer's comment that she didn't need to deal with the Joker directly. Part of her was relieved. Another part of her was irritated that he didn't feel the need to deal with her personally. Intellectually, Harley knew that being dealt with by the Joker was bad news. It meant blood, death, and trauma in no small amount.

More importantly, if she consulted on one 'project' what was to stop him from blackmailing (and paying) her into consulting on other 'projects'... And if that became a theme... shouldn't she tell Gordon?

That train of thought led right back to her primary dilemma. How much to tell Gordon. She wrestled with it right up until she was around the corner from the station, and even then she didn't know for sure what the fallout of telling the truth would be.

A police siren wailed nearby, jolting Harley out of her thoughts, and a second later a fleet of police cruisers came careening around the corner, their lights flashing and sirens screaming. She jumped back from the curb and watched wide-eyed as the cruisers sped past, quickly followed by another four hot on their heels. She quickened her pace and turned the corner to find one cruiser after the next exiting the MCU's underground parking lot, their lights and sirens on full blast as they drove off in all different directions.

A familiar sense of imminent doom stirred inside her, and she knew instinctively that something Joker-related had happened. Anything that required such a full-tilt response had to be, and as she entered the station she was shocked to find it nearly empty aside from a handful of patrolmen and detectives shouting at one another over the sound of unanswered phones ringing off their hooks.

"Aw, shit. I forgot about you." Stephens, the detective who had interrogated Harley at Arkham hurried forward to greet her. His face was beet-red and the white shirt beneath his suit jacket was stained with sweat. He had a cell phone in each hand, one pressed to his ear while he tried to text one-handed with the other.

"Is this..." Harley looked around at the rapidly emptying station and gripped her bag a little tighter. "A bad time...?"

"Uh, yes and no," Stephens grunted as he stomped up to an abandoned desk and rifled through a stack of papers. When he found what he was looking for he turned away from her and read a string of names to whomever he was on the phone with while Harley watched, shifting awkwardly until Stephens finally turned to face her again.

"Sorry about that," he said distractedly, pocketing both phones before running an anxious hand through his greying hair. "The Joker's making our lives hell again."

"What happened?" Harley frowned, watching a pair of deputies attempt to man the manically ringing phones.

"What hasn't happened," Stephens complained, planting his fists on his hips. "Four clown attacks across the city - City Hall, Wayne Enterprises, the D Train and the First National Bank - all hostage situations and they haven't told us what they want!" He shook his head and wiped sweat from his brow. "That's the problem with this guy - we never know what the fuck he wants!"

"Yeah," Harley agreed weakly, feeling she understood this sentiment all too well. "I can come back another time if that's easier?"

Stephens waved her offer off.

"Jim left me here specifically to speak to you," he informed her dutifully and gestured for her to follow him through the empty bullpen towards Gordon's office. "And I think you can help us figure this guy out."

"Me?" Harley replied in surprise, trailing after Stephens.

He circled Gordon's desk and prodded a drawer open, retrieving a blue plastic evidence bag, then circled back to sit in one of the two mismatched chairs facing of the desk. Harley lowered herself into the free chair, watching warily as Stephens ripped the evidence bag open and slid it across the desk towards her.

"We found that at the museum," he explained gruffly, and Harley dipped her hand into the evidence bag to find the clutch she'd lost the night before. "How did you call Gordon last night without your phone?" He squinted at her suspiciously.

"I have a spare phone for emergencies," Harley lied easily, peeking inside the clutch to find her phone, wallet, keys, and lipstick all where she left them. She stuffed all of it in her gym bag, still bundled up on her lap.

"Uh huh." Stephens sounded unconvinced and leveled her with a grave look. "Look, I'm sorry if I pushed you too hard at Arkham the other day, but you know how important it is that we get the Joker back into custody, don't you?"

"Yes," Harley agreed, nodding more enthusiastically than was necessary. "I'll do anything I can to help."

"Good, because no one has spent as much time with him as you have," Stephens wiped his brow and planted one elbow on the desk. "But right now I need to know what happened last night."

"Well," Harley exhaled and gripped her bag tightly, keenly aware of the Beretta wrapped up in a leotard inside it as she launched into an edited retelling of the previous evening's events.

She had been thrown in a trunk and didn't see anything.

She had been dropped off down the street from her house and didn't see anything.

She didn't know anything and didn't see anything.

Stephens' forehead crinkled, his frustration evident though he appeared to believe her.

"How are the others who were taken?" Harley asked, hoping to distract him from mulling over her story. "Are they... alive?"

"Did you see the papers this morning?" Stephens lifted a critical eyebrow when Harley shook her head 'no.'

"I've had enough of the press lately," she explained drily, and Stephens grunted approvingly at the sentiment.

"Yeah, the others are pretty shaken up but they're okay," he huffed out a disgruntled sigh, his face growing red as he started to get worked up. "I just don't get it."

"Don't get what?" Harley leaned forward so Stephens was forced to meet her eye. He was clearly struggling, it was written all over his face that he had something to say but was resisting. "You can trust me," Harley promised him, keeping her voice professional and clear despite the promise being anything but.

"We had eight bodies last night," Stephens shook his head, his hands curling into fists on his knees. "All security staff aside from that pianist. By all accounts it sounds like they were killed efficiently - no torture or crazy stuff - just shot in the head because he needed to get past them. So why does he take three hostages and let them go? He always kills the hostages. Everything has a message with him so what's the message in letting the rich people live and the servants die? And why diamonds and sapphires huh? What's he trying to tell us?"

Harley bit her lip as she considered his words. She couldn't help thinking that Stephens was reading too much into the Joker's moves and needed to take a step back, but she was guilty of the exact same thing. It seemed obvious to her that he'd stolen the gemstones because he needed money to fund his operation. But less obvious, was why the hostages had been let go...

Unless they'd been let go because Harley had been let go, and it would have invited suspicion if only Harley had been released.

Bruno's words from the night before ghosted across her memory. You don't want em' to think you're special to the Joker or somethin'.

Her mind started to feel sluggish, her thoughts tangling together as she tried to pick apart what she knew to be true from what she knew to be speculation. But it was getting harder to think straight, and even harder to find the resentment that had kept her going this long...

"I don't know," she said softly, blinking hard to clear her head. "He's... very complicated."

"Uh, yeah," Stephens rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, also blinking hard as if he was trying to keep himself awake.

Harley's eyelids started to droop and she felt a weird tingling in her fingertips that started to spread up her hands and arms, leaving them feeling pleasantly dull and heavy.

"I feel strange," Stephens slurred, but his voice sounded far away like he was speaking down a tin can.

"Something's wrong," Harley tried to say, but her tongue had become thick in her mouth. She knew she should be worried about what was happening to her body and some small part of her brain was leaping for attention, telling her something abnormal was happening to her nervous system, but she was so calm and warm, sleepy and tranquil...

Through heavy eyelids she could see Stephens was in much the same state, slumped half out of his seat with his eyelids fluttering, his breathing shallow. A picture flashed before her mind's eye. A picture from a textbook about addiction. Stephens looked like the men and women photographed in Victorian opium dens. And she knew that somehow, sitting there together, they had both been drugged.

Stephens lurched up suddenly, grabbing a handful of his shirt over his heart and wheezing as he collapsed to his knees in front of her. He scrabbled at the desk, dragging himself to his feet, and his struggling forced Harley to acknowledge the rational side of her brain which told her to move. She threw herself out of her chair and forward, following Stephens staggering steps to the door. Her limbs were like jelly and she landed hard against the wall, her elbow cracking the glass frame of a photo of Gordon and the Mayor shaking hands.

Stephens was trying to open the door but his hands were limp and useless so Harley intervened with equally sluggish movements. Together they managed to get the door open, both crashing out into the empty corridor. Harley had hoped for a rush of fresh air that would clear the fog from her mind but there was none. Instead her scalp began to tingle, the sensation too pleasurable to ignore as it spread down the back of her neck and along her spine. She pushed past it, following Stephens as he stomped Frankenstein-like down the hall, stopping every few feet to catch himself against a wall until they were back out into the bullpen.

Harley started to sway and she could feel her knees begin to buckle. She pitched forward to catch herself on a desk and looked around for answers as to what was happening. The phones were still ringing shrilly but the deputies were flat on their backs on the floor beside the desks they'd occupied. A receptionist and a patrolman were laid out on the floor just in front of the glass doors like they'd passed out only inches from freedom. And right beside them was a metal sphere with a red blinking light, a spout on its side hissing out a gas that became invisible as it was released into the station.

Harley stared at the sphere, blinking hard as she tried to understand what she was seeing. The strength in her arms was leaving rapidly, and she was crumpling forward.

She heard Stephens collapse behind her, grunting as he gave in, and she started to fall too, her vision blurring around the edges as the floor came up to meet her.

A pair of arms circled her, hauling her up roughly. Her head flopped back and she saw the bright lights of the ceiling, could hear bodies and voices storming all around her. She tried to turn her head toward the person holding her but before she could see their face she was swept away on a current of euphoric blackness.


The hostage situation at City Hall was determined to be the most critical so that's where Gordon was when he got the call that the MCU had been attacked. He took the call on a walkie, turning away from the SWAT team getting ready to infiltrate the building. A lump formed in his throat when they told him there had been some kind of gas attack at the station. They'd never seen anything like it but no one had been killed, just drugged, and the Joker's men had raided lock up. No, they hadn't taken the cocaine seized from the Chinese gangs, they just took all ten barrels of Jonathan Crane's fear toxin.

The SWAT team moved in and the clowns holding the mayor and his team hostage immediately surrendered. Because they weren't really clowns even if they were heavily armed and wearing masks. They were addicts and mentally ill men who fell on the floor pleading for mercy.

"The boss said it was a good game! Just a game!"

"I ain't done nothin' wrong! I swear it!"

"Don't hurt me mistah, please!"

It was the same story in the lobby of Wayne Enterprises, on the D Train at Elm Street Station, and at the First National Bank. Not real Joker cronies, but vulnerable people he'd convinced to play a game to distract the GCPD while he snuck into the MCU like a rat.

Gordon stood over Stephens' hospital bed, letting wave after wave of hatred for the Joker wash over him. He'd spoken to the Batman already; he had his own ideas about what the gas attack had been and was working on a remedy. Until then Stephens and everyone else who had been at the MCU would remain in comas. But for how long, they didn't yet know.

They were only four days into the Joker's new-found freedom and already there had been seven major incidents that could be attributed to him. Gordon caught a cab home. He missed dinner with his kids but his wife was waiting up for him, nursing a glass of wine and looking worried. He fell on his knees in front of her and she wrapped her arms around him, assuring him that it would be okay.


Harley felt like she was fighting through a snowstorm, her legs trapped in deep snow banks and her vision obscured by thick flurries. She tried to push forward but she was blind and deaf, her body frozen solid. Every now and then a spotlight would appear in the distance and she would try to chase it. Sometimes she came close, so close she almost touched it and it would open up wide, inviting her through. But then she would be dragged backward by the storm, her senses overwhelmed once more.

The first time she woke up all she could see was the snow, but she knew she was awake. All around her were the voices of men in motion and metal and chaos. Then she was swept back under the current, thrown back into the storm.

The second time her eyes fluttered open it was quiet and though her vision was blurry she could still see. She focused on the texture of the gray cloth in front of her. Old and piled up, torn. A seat, she realized, and there were two of them. She was in the back of a car, lying on her side. The car was moving, she could feel the hum of it in her body, as well as sinuous movement beneath her head, and she knew she was laying on another person - their lap maybe.

Fingers were dancing on the side of her neck, taking her pulse, and she tried to shift to see who was touching her. She saw bright purple and she attempted to speak, to protest, to call him a motherfucker, but the effort zapped her strength and she was swept back out into the storm once more.

The third time she didn't have to fight so hard. Her eyes opened slowly and even though she was groggy and dazed she was more awake than she had been in what felt like years. Something was tugging rhythmically on her ponytail and there was a sinewy leg beneath her head, and as her vision cleared she could see she was surrounded by black leather, which she recognized as Bruno's Audi. She was laying across the back seat with her head in someone's lap again.

Not just someone.

Her body felt like it was full of molten lead so she relied on her eyes, taking in the small details. Killer was in the driver's seat, slouched down and smoking a rolled cigarette. Someone was in the passenger seat too, but she wasn't sure who, all she had to go on was a black hood on the other side of the headrest. And right in front of her eyes were a pair of knees clad in black denim, one of which had a small hole showing a circle of skin. Then she spotted her gym bag on the floor and felt a pulse of hope waggle through her.

They had changed cars if her memory of the gray cloth seats was anything to go by, and it seemed the Joker had changed clothes too. It hadn't been years, obviously, but maybe many hours if the emptiness in her stomach was any indication. She knew rationally she should be much more anxious or pissed off that she was laying there with her head in the Joker's lap while he absentmindedly played with her hair. Whatever drugs were rolling through her system were still there, making her slow and stupid.

She tried to bat the Joker's hand away and she heard him chuckle low in his throat as he pulled back in an uncharacteristic gesture of acquiescence.

"Is she coming around?" A voice from the passenger seat asked, and a youngish man wearing a black hoodie craned his head around the seat to get a look at her. He had a tattoo on his neck - a black 'A' in a jagged circle, the symbol of anarchists - and when he leaned forward to wave a narrow glass vial under her nose, Harley could see he had the same tattoo on the backs of both hands.

She recognized the scent of ammonia wafting from the vial - smelling salts - and inhaled deeply, relishing the rush that helped clear the fog from her brain. It was just enough to give her the energy to move and she rolled onto her back so she was looking up at the Joker.

His unpainted face was hovering above her, and he was gazing down at her curiously, reminding Harley of a children's drawing of a sun with a face. She blinked a few more times until the world came into clearer focus, and as they sized each other up Harley thought, I should be terrified.

"What happened?" She croaked, licking her dry lips and rolling her head to the side to look at the tattooed man in the passenger seat. "What did you do?"

He smiled, but there was no humor or in it, just a calculating kind of smugness that rivaled the Joker's.

"What you're feeling? That's where pharmaceuticals meet the military, Dr Quinzel. It's a whole new world."

"I don't understand," she said, shutting her eyes and taking another deep breath. When she opened them, she knew her dislike for this new man was evident on her face as she said, "And who the hell are you?"

In the driver's seat, Killer cackled happily and took a drag off his cigarette.

"I'm Lonnie," the tattooed man said, shooting Killer a disdainful look.

"Right," Harley nodded slowly. "You're the one with the questions."

Killer laughed again, and Harley could feel the Joker's body quiver beneath her like he was holding back his own laughter. She looked at him and he quirked his eyebrows conspiratorially, the hint of a smile on his scarred lips.

"Yeah, I'm the one with the questions," Lonnie replied, sounding annoyed. "And you're-"

"What happened at the MCU?" Harley interjected, sounding a little more like herself, and she was pleased to hear her voice sounding stronger and impatient instead of weak and emotional. She was putting together what Lonnie said as she sobered up - pharmaceuticals and the military. That meant... "Are you saying you used some kind of chemical weapon on us?"

"That's right," Lonnie confirmed, smirking but not looking amused. "A little something we picked up from Daggett Industries earlier this year."

"Colorless, odorless, opioid-like," Harley mumbled, more to herself than them. She was still tired and eerily-calm - chemically calm - but at least she could think more clearly now. "Dangerous."

"Strictly off the books, of course," Lonnie added snidely.

"Why," Harley asked next, closing her eyes and sighing. "What was the point in gassing the MCU?"

No one replied.

Harley started to sit up but the Joker stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Ah, ta, ta, ta," he said lightly, pushing her back down into his lap. "We're not quite there yet."

Harley felt a little shiver of irritation but it was so faint she was able to let it go easily, leaving curiosity in its wake.

"Where are we going?" She asked, rolling her eyes to the windshield. It was pitch black out but she could tell they were still in the city from the passing street lamps, though she had no idea what part of town. That was the idea, obviously, they didn't want her to know where they were going.

Again, no one answered her. Lonnie swung back into his seat and Killer crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray, keeping his eyes squarely on the road, and the Joker let his head drop back against the seat so he could stare at the ceiling, leaving his hand wrapped around Harley's shoulder.

It was a heavy, meaningful silence, one Harley knew was designed to keep her in the dark. She remained still, listening to the car purr quietly beneath her, and as she continued to sober up, she became increasingly aware of how close she was to the Joker. She could feel the rough denim of his jeans against the nape of her neck and she could feel his stomach gurgle against the side of her head. She could smell the sweat and gunpowder clinging to his skin and tobacco on his clothes, like he'd recently had a cigarette. His hand was still on her shoulder, his thumb swiping back and forth along the heavy collar of her coat like a pendulum clock, steady and soothing.

Through the chemically-induced calm, something inside Harley purred contentedly over his attention. Like she'd been waiting for this without realizing it.

Harley tipped her head back so she could see the length of his torso above her. It was strange seeing him in normal clothes instead of the baggy orange scrubs of Arkham or the ridiculous purple suit. He'd changed into a light gray button-down shirt, which was tucked neatly into his black jeans, and a straight black jacket with a pair of dark sunglasses tucked into the breast pocket. If it weren't for the fact that his hair was still off-puttingly green, she would have thought he'd be able to get away with roaming the streets of Gotham with a pair of shades and no need to worry about being stopped.

As if he could feel her staring, the Joker dipped his chin down, so he was facing her again. He lifted one amused eyebrow as if to say, whaddya lookin' at?, and Harley - maybe because of the fading chemical weapon high, maybe because she was losing her mind - responded by smiling sweetly up at him.

His eyes widened, not quite surprised but definitely intrigued, and his head tipped to the side like a curious cat as he studied her.

The car rolled to a stop and the engine cut out, and Harley's eyes darted to her gym bag where it sat behind the driver's seat while she listened to Killer and Lonnie climb out of the car. She was feeling more springy now than she had even five minutes earlier - enough to potentially make a break for it - but was there really any point? Perhaps it was the drugs lulling her into a false sense of security, but Harley wasn't so sure she had anything to really be worried about. She had been safely returned home once before and the only reason she was there now was she'd accidentally been caught up yet again in one of his heists. The consultation she'd agreed to would have been sans-Joker otherwise.

The car door near her feet opened outwards, revealing Lonnie with his arms crossed, looking annoyed.

"Are you guys coming or what?" He snapped, and Harley looked up at the Joker to see how he would react to such blatant disrespect from his henchmen, but he only chuckled and released Harley's shoulder.

She sat up quickly, scooting across the backseat before he could roughly shove or yank her like he'd done at the museum in his haste to get her to moving. She snatched up her gym back and climbed out of the car, her legs still a little wobbly, and sucked in a lungful of the crisp night air, which helped to sweep away the last, lingering cobwebs from her mind as she took in her surroundings.

They were obviously still on the east side of town, with its narrow brick buildings from different decades leaning against one another like old trees in the forest. They had parked in a small lot flanked by two taller buildings with one squat one between them, lit by one ancient lamppost that was bent over so far it was nearly kissing the ground. On the left of the shorter building was an old laundromat, its windows smashed and the washers and dryers laying broken across its floor. From where she stood Harley could see the chalk outline of a body inside.

The other side of the building was in better condition, housing a pub with a cracked wooden sign declaring it The Three Doves. Harley held her gym bag close to her chest, fingering the Beretta through the nylon as she watched the Joker stretch his arms over his head in an exaggerated yawn while Lonnie and Killer drifted toward the pub. No one tried to push her or drag her with them, like it was expected she would come without a fight.

This was a prime opportunity for escape, she realized. She had a weapon, she had a phone, she could run in the other direction with a relatively high chance of a successful escape.

The Joker dropped his arms down from his yawn, using the momentum to swing around to face Harley and raise a curious eyebrow at her - uh, are you coming or not?, it said.

Harley chewed her bottom lip. She felt sober now but she still wasn't scared. Maybe because he wasn't painted up like a psychotic clown while he grabbed her and shoved her around. Maybe he just wasn't in an especially cruel or violent mood this evening.

She tried to remember what he was capable of as she trailed after Killer and Lonnie with him on her heels. The pub's 'Closed' sign was on but it wasn't locked. Killer planted himself beside the door, lighting up what smelled like a joint while Lonnie pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold with the familiarity of a regular.

Inside, the pub stank of stale beer and old cigarettes, and in the background, the punchy notes of The Clash's 'Should I Stay or Should I Go' played from a jukebox. The place looked like a watering hole for British ex-pats, with a long bar dotted with brass fittings and an Irish flag hanging on the wall. There was a line of booths along one wall, all of them empty. The entire pub was empty aside from a muscled barkeep with closely cropped red hair manning the Guinness tap.

He looked up when the door slammed shut, taking note of each of them in turn and lingering on Harley but not, she noticed, the Joker.

"Hey, Murphy," Lonnie greeted the barman, without warmth.

"Y'alright, Lonnie," Murphy replied in a thick Irish brogue, returning his attention to the beer he was pouring. "Ye want drinks?"

"Yeah, sure," Lonnie replied, moving toward a booth at the back. He glanced back at Harley, who had stopped to gaze around the pub until the Joker prodded her in the back with a sharp finger that made her yelp and glare at him over her shoulder.

He chuckled and pushed her again, but not with the excessive force she had come to expect from him, and as Harley slid into the booth, she was bizarrely reminded of little boys pulling girls' pigtails on the playground, reinforced further when the Joker slid in beside her, scooting close so she was crowded up against the wall. She shot him another dirty look, but he pretended not to see it, draping his arm over the back of the booth and crossing his ankle over his knee, effectively taking up all the space.

"Here y'are lads," Murphy the barkeep said briskly, dropping a trio of Guinness onto the table, which was sticky with decades of slopped beer.

Lonnie and the Joker each grabbed a pint and took a few healthy gulps while Harley stared at the third pint of stout, then glanced between her... kidnappers? Or were they clients now? She wasn't sure what to make of the situation. It was entirely too strange for the Joker to be sitting beside her wearing skinny jeans and drinking a beer with his pal like he was some sort of normal person. It had to be a farce designed to fuck with her.

"Ya got any of those... uh, pies left?" the Joker flashed the barkeep a snide grin, showing off a row of yellowed teeth and Murphy nodded quickly, keeping his eyes on the floor.

"Course' boss. Three of em'? He rushed away before the Joker could answer, and Harley thought for someone running a pub catering to criminals, Murphy the barkeep didn't have a very strong stomach. Then again, to call the Joker off-putting would be generous, and most people recoiled him aside from sycophants like Killer or men like Lonnie and Bruno who Harley hadn't figured out yet.

Harley supposed she wasn't recoiling from him either, and she reminded herself again of being strangled and threatened and manhandled like a piece of meat just the night before.

"Dr Quinzel," Lonnie started, angling for professional. "Thanks for agreeing to come to talk to us. It was uh, fortuitous that you happened to be at the station today."

"Uh huh," Harley replied drily, pushing the Guinness away. "I'd be very interested to hear more about how Daggett Industries are developing chemical weapons."

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Lonnie said airily, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down to cover his hands. "I'd be very interested to hear more about Jonathan Crane's fear toxin."

At first, Harley was too stunned to react because the request was so far out of left field. She hadn't spared Crane even half a thought since the Joker's escape. He seemed like a little fish to her now, and she hadn't considered that anyone aside from her would be interested in his fear toxin...

"You stole it from the MCU, didn't you," Harley accused, as it dawned on her why they'd attacked the station. "What the hell are you planning on doing with it?"

"Plans are for the elite schemers who run this city," Lonnie sneered, making Harley roll her eyes.

"Sure," she scoffed. "Because all the trouble you've gone through in the last few days hasn't required extensive planning."

Lonnie shot the Joker a look that bordered on pleading, but the Joker just shrugged in response, not bothered by her accusation that they were hypocrites.

"What are you going to do with it?" Harley repeated, not interested in arguing over the semantics of their philosophy, not with someone who had anarchist symbols tattooed in plain sight.

"That's not important," the Joker interjected smoothly, his eyelids growing heavy as he stared at a spot in the wall over Lonnie's shoulder. "But Lonnie here is a little... freaked out that he's gonna go crazy if he opens it without knowing all the facts first."

Harley looked at the Joker and then at Lonnie in turn, finally starting to understand what this powwow was really about and where Lonnie fit into the Joker's circle of goons and henchmen.

"What do you want to know?" She sighed reluctantly, her eyes drifting to the Joker, who was staring straight ahead like he was transfixed by the wall across from him.

Lonnie leaned forward. "When Crane attacked the Narrows with the toxin he stole a microwave emitter from Wayne Enterprises. Why?"

"The toxin only works as an inhalant," Harley explained, folding her hands around the pint glass. "As a liquid it does nothing. Jonathan pumped hundreds of gallons of it into the drinking water but they needed the microwave emitter to vaporize the toxin."

"They?" the Joker said lightly.

Harley skipped over the business with the League of Shadows, reasoning the least she could do for Crane was let people believe he hadn't been taken advantage of by a secret society of ninjas.

"The inmates," she said evasively. "He had them working on the toxin in the basement."

"That's fucking creepy," Lonnie said drily. "So it has to be vaporized to work. What about vapors coming off the liquid?"

"You really are freaked out by it, aren't you?" Harley smirked, enjoying how flustered Lonnie got over the comment. "The inmates wore gas masks when they were working with the undiluted toxin."

Murphy returned then, balancing three plates piled high with mashed potatoes and savory meat pies slathered in gravy. Harley nearly jumped out of her seat to grab a plate, not realizing how hungry she was. After a few heavenly mouthfuls, she pulled back, feeling self-conscious about shoveling food into her mouth like an animal, but the Joker and Lonnie were eating like they hadn't seen food in years, so she just shrugged and dove back in.

"So, what does it do?" Lonnie asked around a mouthful of food. "How did Crane come up with it?"

"It's a psychotropic hallucinogen," Harley explained, pushing her plate away once her stomach was suitably full. "Jonathan's specialty is psychopharmacology. He was - still is, really - one of the foremost experts in the country."

"Fancy," Lonnie sneered, like being a respected expert was somehow distasteful. "So it's like mushrooms?"

"It's slightly more complicated than that," Harley replied, eyeing Lonnie warily. "It targets the part of the brain that interprets threats and releases stress hormones which create a physical response to stimuli. Those hormones stimulate the fear receptors in your brain, and you begin to process all incoming data through the lens of that fear." When Lonnie just stared at her blankly, clearly uncomprehending she added, with no small amount of condescension. "That means everything around you turns into your worst nightmare. Everything you see or hear or taste or smell - your brain tells you to fear all of it."

"Uh huh," Lonnie said running his tongue over his teeth. "So it's like mushrooms."

"No," Harley snapped, growing impatient. "Imagine when something startles you, that tingle of fear that runs up your spine. Sometimes, it actually feels nice, right? Because once it's gone, you feel relief." She felt the Joker turn to look at her when she said this. "But with the fear toxin, there is no relief. It's constant, unending waves of panic, each more fresh and new than the last. And if you're given a high enough dose, it will never stop until you are administered an antidote or sedated or your heart just gives out."

Harley glanced sideways at the Joker, who was eyeing her curiously, a little line forming between his eyebrows as he considered her. Their eyes met briefly, and one side of his mouth curled into a lazy smirk before he shot Lonnie a knowing look Harley was unsure how to interpret..

"What constitutes a heavy dose?" Lonnie continued, looking disgruntled.

"Well, a microwave emitter vaporizing the drinking water would definitely qualify as a big dose," Harley said thoughtfully. "But the dose Crane gave Carmine Falcone was enough to drive him insane, and that was administered in one of the session rooms at Arkham. It would have had to come from the calibrated canisters he developed to administer the toxin."

She felt the Joker tense up when she mentioned Carmine Falcone, and she shot him a curious look of her own.

"And where are these canisters now?" Lonnie pushed.

"They were confiscated and destroyed," Harley said, the corner of her mouth twitching when she saw Lonnie's face darken. "Guess you'll just have to make your own."

"Uh huh," Lonnie replied, barely concealing his disdain. "So you and Crane are pretty good friends, huh?"

"Professional acquaintances," Harley corrected. "I respect his work and his mind, and since he's stuck in Arkham I used the opportunity to find out more about both."

"That's pretty cold," Lonnie observed and Harley rolled her eyes, declining to dignify the comment with a response.

Lonnie took a thoughtful sip of his beer and Harley waited for him to ask more questions - though she didn't have many more answers she would willingly share - but the next question never came. Did that mean she was done for the evening? That they would give her a bag of cash and send her on her way?

The pub's door opened again, and two huge bodies pushed through, one of them grunting a greeting at Murphy as they settled onto a couple of stools and ordered beers, muttering to each other out of the corners of their mouths.

Harley immediately recognized one of the voices as Joey Nash, the inmate she'd prescribed countless hours of shock therapy and solitary confinement and unnecessary spinal taps too. A shiver of anxiety rippled through her as she imagined a variety of creative altercations that could arise if Nash noticed her. Surely not while she was sitting beside the Joker?

"Is there anything else?" Harley asked, keeping her voice low so Nash wouldn't hear her. "Or can I go home?"

"Yeah," Lonnie agreed warily. "Fine. Bruno's outside now, he'll pay you and take you home."

Harley nodded, no longer surprised by anything, and started to edge her way out of the booth. But the Joker didn't move, he just stayed where he was staring at the wall until Harley cleared her throat. His eyes rolled toward her, one eyebrow lifted in a question.

"Yessss...?"

"I'm leaving," Harley told him coldly.

"Aww," he cooed, tipping his head to the side as he looked her over quickly. "I guess this time it really is goodbye?"

"I guess so," Harley replied lightly, feeling a twinge of disappointment as he slid out of the booth to let her pass. She didn't know what that disappointment meant, but the effects of the Daggett drug had worn off, leaving her with a mountain of questionable feelings she didn't expect to figure out.

Bruno was waiting for her at the bar, sitting close to the door with an untouched highball next to his elbow. Harley offered him a wave and gestured to communicate that she was going to the bathroom, and Bruno flashed her a thumb's up. It was too normal, and Harley shook her head as she headed for the bathroom, bewildered by the evening's events.

In the bathroom, she peed and washed her hands, then stood in front of the cracked mirror above the sink, sighing as she smoothed the pieces of hair that had come loose from her ponytail to the side. Against the backdrop of the filthy bathroom, she looked ridiculous in her athleisurewear and sneakers, but also pale and exhausted with pupils the size of nickels. The next day she would need to go to Arkham and perhaps she would go see Jonathan to tell him what had happened. He was practically the only person she could talk to honstly anymore...

The bathroom door slammed open then, crashing into the wall, and Harley spun around to see Nash storming toward her. His face was contorted in a terrifying expression of rage, his teeth bared like a wild animal, his eyes bright but unfocused. It occurred to Harley that she should scream, but she only backed up into the tiled wall between two hand dryers, too shocked to do anything but stare wide eyed.

Nash swung at her with a roar and Harley ducked just in time to miss his fist. It connected with the wall where her head had just been, cracking the tiles. She bowed under his arm with the intention of running for her life but she wasn't quick enough. Nash's arm closed around her waist and he hauled her up off her feet, furiously spitting his familiar rant of "YOU BITCH! YOU WHORE!"

He punched her in the diaphragm, leaving her gasping and wriggling furiously as Nash roared mindlessy and rushed her forward into the bathroom sink, crushing her with his weight and pinning her there. Harley grit her teeth and struggled against him as he grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her head down, still roaring and screaming and threatening her as she tried to slither free.

Harley had become all too familiar with panic lately, but this time she surprised by herself. Even with a man three times her size threatening to rape her while he held her down, she wasn't losing her mind to blind fear. No, this time she was simply pissed off. She released her own shout of frustration and stamped down on Nash's foot, making him blither and spit as he issued familiar threats. She thrust her elbows back into his gut, thrashing wildly as his roaring grew louder and more inhuman.

Then suddenly there were more bodies and voices in the bathroom and Nash was being dragged off her. She was free. She straightened up and swung around, breathing hard as adrenaline surged through her body like a bolt of lightning.

Bruno and the other big man who'd been drinking at the bar were holding Nash back - and not without some difficulty - and then Murphy the barkeep strode in and laid Nash out with a punch that made his head snap to the side.

"Ya fookin' crazy bastard!" Murphy spat furiously, throwing another punch and then a third. "Who tha fook do ya think y'are comin' in here!" Four, five, six.

Nash was sagging between Bruno and the other thug, his face a swollen, bloody pulp. Harley watched with wide eyes, unaccustomed to seeing such blatant, unapologetic violence but also... transfixed by it.

At some point the Joker slipped in, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe as he watched the scene unfold with vague interest. When he cleared his throat, Murphy stopped short of landing another punch, lowering his fist and stepping back obediently.

"Well, well, well," the Joker drawled, strolling up to Nash with his hands folded behind his back. The tone in the room shifted into something much more sinister as the Joker squinted at Nash, tisking in exaggerated disappointment. "I mean, Joey, pal. I thought we were friends. You can't just go around... uh..." he waved his hand, searching for the word. "Attacking people willy-nilly."

Nash groaned, and a fat drop of blood slid down his chin, landing on his shirt.

"Uh huh," the Joker grunted, taking a step back and spinning around to face Harley, who was using the sink to keep herself on her feet. "Harl?" He gestured to Nash, his lips twitching into a sneaky smirk he didn't bother to hide. "Wanna uh... take a swing?"

Harley could see it was a test, not just some benevolent gesture, but she didn't know how to react to the invitation. She didn't want to give the Joker leverage but she also very much wanted to take advantage of the offer. She understood how these men worked now, and there was no way Nash would live out the night. She might as well indulge herself and do what she'd wanted to do to Nash for months now.

Now that the Joker had put the idea out there, the other men were looking at Harley with varying degrees of curiosity, confusion, and surprise.

She stepped forward hesitantly and was surprised when Murphy offered her a pair of brass knuckles. Her heart lurched in her chest as she clumsily slid three fingers into the brass knuckles. They were warm and too big and she could smell the blood on them, and somehow all of those things made her feel empowered.

She squared off with Nash, who was groaning and bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth, his face already starting to swell up.

Her fingers curled into a fist around the brass knuckles as she tentatively drew her arm back, and Bruno flinched when she punched Nash in the nose.

Harley didn't know how to throw a real punch, but the force behind her fist made something crunch, sending blood spurting down Nash's face and over Harley's hand. She inhaled a shuddering breath, excitement rolling over her skin as she stared at the blood dripping down the back of her hand.

She could feel the room collectively holding its breath as they waited for her to make another move, and then Nash made the mistake of speaking.

"You fuckin' whore... I'm gonna... fuck you," he slurred weakly, glaring at her hatefully.

Harley's expression soured, her lip curling and eyes narrowing, and from there, things got a bit hazy.

She lurched forward, using her fists and then her nails to attack Nash until he was screaming and swooning. She clawed at his face and neck, gritting her teeth as she removed a stripe of skin from his cheek. She wished she had something heavy she could use to smash his head in. She wanted to crush him.

Then Bruno dropped one of Nash's arms and the other thug obediently followed suit, and Nash fell to his knees. He pitched forward, landing face first on the floor, his body wracked with sobs.

Harley's head was spinning. She felt dizzy and exhilarated and like she was suffocating all at once. She spun on her heel, determined to get away and desperately in need of fresh air to clear her head.

The Joker was leaning casually against the bathroom wall, and she met his eye as she passed him. His face was cold now, calculating as he prodded the scars inside his cheek with his tongue. He quirked his eyebrows twice when their eyes met, and Harley had to smother the impulse to punch him as well.

She speed walked through the pub and out the door, throwing the brass knuckles aside so they rattled across the floor. The sun was starting to rise as she rushed for Bruno's car, sucking down lungfuls of fresh air. She couldn't decipher the emotions pulsing through her alongside the buckets of endorphins and endocrine, but she knew she felt strong in a way she'd never experienced before. It had been like the night she'd destroyed her apartment or the day she'd nearly fainted at Arkham or that night with her college boyfriend, that same head-spinning mania, but this time she felt in control. She felt free from fear of herself, which made her powerful.

She could hear Bruno behind her as she waited for him by the car. He unlocked it silently and they climbed in. Harley wiped her bloodied fingers on her thigh before she opened the glove compartment to search for the mask she would inevitably be required to wear. She pulled it on then buckled her seat belt, breathing deeply through her nose to calm her rapidly beating heart.


The Joker watched Harley storm away, a slow smirk growing on his lips when she tossed the brass knuckles aside and they skidded across the floor, her blonde ponytail swinging as she left the pub.

Bruno shot the Joker a bewildered look as he hurried after her, and the Joker shrugged helplessly, unable to dial back his grin as he swung around to deal with Nash - or what she'd left of Nash anyway.

The Joker squatted down beside the bloodied man, pulling a jackknife from his jacket pocket.

Christ, he thought as he slit Nash's throat, she was just too cute.


A/N: Ah Harley. Becoming more comfortable with her anti-social desire for violence but still so judgy about the psychopaths around her doing exactly the same thing. Cognitive Dissonance at its finest.

Next week: 'Normal' life resumes for Harley until Penguin comes calling, and tensions with the Joker reach a boiling point.

Please review!