"Bruce...it's Harleen."

"Harleen, oh my God, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine...I just - "

"Where are you? You need to get somewhere safe. Did you see the news? He's out there and - "

"Yeah, I know, I saw. Listen...can I meet you somewhere? Just for a while. I don't want to intrude, I know your fundraiser thing is in..less than an hour."

"It's no intrusion, I just want to know you're safe. You need...really, Harleen, you need to get out of Gotham."

"Yeah, I know Bruce, I know what's going on. Can I meet you at the restaurant or something?"

"Of course. You'll be safe with me. I promise."

"...sure. Right. Um...five minutes sound ok?"

"I'll be there in two."

"Whatever."

CLICK.

The squad car screeched to a halt in front of Il Bello Piatto, one of Bruce Wayne's many ventures into the culinary arts, skidding slightly on the wet pavement. Harleen fumbled for the door handle, but Gordon caught her wrist.

"Listen, Harleen," he said, sighing. "I know we've never been the greatest of friends, but...be careful. I know...I know you're fully capable of handling things yourself but...so is he."

She sighed and mussed up her mop of curly hair, squinting in pain at the boring pain that was making its way up the side of her temple. "I appreciate it Gordon, really I do, and I want you to know that...that..."

She happened to glance in the rear view mirror. Harley was sitting in the back seat, smiling viciously. She turned around slightly to clear her view of the mirror and thus Harley, but the clown girl did not disappear. She was right there, plain as day, flesh and blood. Showtime, she mouthed, tracing a butterfly knife from the corner of her mouth to her ear.

Gordon turned around quickly, perturbed by her sudden alertness. "What's wrong? Did you hear something?"

She grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face her, massaging her temple. "No, no, it's fine, it's just these headaches, they make me...hear...see...nevermind, don't worry about it. I'm sorry...I have to go." She opened the door and stepped into the pouring rain, then hurried around the car and into the restaurant.

It had taken them a half hour to get all the way uptown, and the first of the party guests had already arrived. She was hardly dressed for the occasion, and was in fact, soaking wet. She tossed her wet hair, leaving a puddle on the marble floor.

"Good," said a pingy voice, "now all the socialites will slip and fall on their rich asses."

Harleen turned her head slowly, not wanting to see, but unable to stop herself. Harley was standing next to her, wearing the blood soaked uniform from last night. "Alright look," said Harleen in a hushed whisper, "before we do this...this you and me...us...meshing...thing, I have to do something. So stay out of the way, and don't - "

"Harleen!"

Both women turned their head in the direction of the voice. Bruce Wayne was coming towards them in a tailor-made Armani suit, his polished dress shoes clicking on the floor. He took her in his arms and embraced her, far too tightly than was needed. "I was so worried..."

Harley moved to Bruce's back, raising the butterfly knife above her head and smiling sinisterly at Harleen.

"NO!" Harleen screamed.

Bruce jumped backward a bit, alarmed by her outburst.

"...uh...I don't want to get your suit wet," said Harleen tentatively. She touched a hand to her temple and realized that the moisture on her face wasn't just rain, but sweat. "Look, Bruce, I haven't got much time, and I need to tell you - "

"Why don't you sit down? You look terrible." He ushered her to the back of the restaurant to a deserted corner booth.

"Thanks, I guess." She sat and scooted to the inside, still dripping all over the suede seats. Bruce sat next to her and draped his arm around her, and Harley next to him, still clutching the knife.

"Can I get you anything to drink? I think you might need it." He reached for her hand subtly, but she pulled away before he could reach it.

"No, I don't want anything. I don't want to...make life harder than it already is." She closed her eyes and swallowed, squaring her shoulders off to face him. "I...I did a bad thing Bruce." She shook her head as Harley laughed. "No, scratch that, I've done bad things. Plural. And...I care about you enough to tell you that you...you don't want to get involved with someone like me."

He laid a gentle hand on her cheek and chuckled. "I know, Harleen. It's ok."

She looked at him, wide eyed. "You...you do?"

He nodded. "Arkham told me. But all of that's in the past. You haven't run around the desert as a contract killer for quite some time. You're a different person now."

He leaned in to kiss her, but she backed away abruptly. "No Bruce, no I'm not. I...something happened to me in Baghdad, and...I don't know what it was, but I brought something back with me. There is something...very, very wrong with me and...and no amount of pills or alcohol or self-medication is going to fix it. You have to understand, I killed a lot of people in Desert Storm and I think...I think that - "

Harley's laugh cut her short. "Don't try to rationalize it, Harleen. You're a cold-blooded killer, and you enjoyed that shit. LOVED it. He's not going to understand, no matter what you say. Get OVER IT!"

Harleen rested her head in her hands. "Bruce the point is that...I am not who you think I am." She looked him in the eyes and took his face in her hands. "I am someone else. This person you see in front of you...she's not real. I'm sick, Bruce. I am a raging schizophrenic, and I need to be dealt with delicately. Dr. Harleen Quinzell is an altar-ego to someone entirely different, someone you don't want to deal with, and it's something you wouldn't understand."

Something changed in him. His eyes became far off and dreamy, and sad. "No," he said slowly, "I understand. I...know what that's like." He stared down at the seat and sighed. "Do you...do you know where you'll go?"

She let her hands fall and rested them on his. "No," she said, "I don't. I'm afraid that's not really up to me. It's up to..."

"Mr. J," Harley finished for her.

Bruce looked up at her. "Who?"

Harleen sighed and laughed at what she was about to say. "God." She leaned in slowly and kissed his cheek. "Maybe...maybe if I ever get better, if life is kind to me," she sighed, "I'll come back for you."

She smiled, then left the restaurant.

Harley was back at Harleen's apartment, ransacking the drawers and closets for useful items. It was finished, over - Harleen Quinzell was no more than a figment of her imagination now, that annoying voice in her head that could be turned down or off, like the switch on a television. It was time to paint this town red and black, and she was just the clown to do it.

That is, once she found Mr. J.

She tore into the bathroom, searching for any white powder that might still cling to the counter tops, when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her uniform was splattered with blood, and her black eye make-up ran down her cheeks, her hair splayed out in all directions. She looked horrible, like some kind of children's doll that had been tortured in some macabre fantasy. But it wasn't enough.

Her eyes narrowed as she removed the butterfly knife from the strap around her left thigh. She held it in front of her, examining the razor sharp blade that gleamed under the fluorescent bulbs. She smiled darkly as she slowly slid the blade inside her mouth and to the corner. In one swift motion, she cut her cheek open, blood spraying the mirror in an arc. She screamed out in pain, which turned to wild laughter as blood ran down her chin and on to her chest. A moment's respite and she had cut the other side, blood now running from both sides of her face and pooling in the hollow part of her collarbone.

In the back of her mind, she heard Harleen screaming in anguish, horrified at what she had done to them.

Harleen laughed, ignoring the splitting pain that was now her face. "Don't worry Harleen. You can swallow over a liter of blood before you get sick and vomit everywhere." She licked her lips and swallowed, warm salty liquid sliding down her throat. "See?" She said, barely containing her laughter, "You're fine."

After a long time, when the bleeding and Harleen's pitiful gurgling screams had stopped, Harley flung the drawer open and quickly grabbed a needle and thread. She threaded the needle, and, without hesitation, pushed it through the bottom corner of the gash and through the top, then down through the bottom of the gash again. Flecks of blood dripped from the needle holes, staining the already soaked counter top.

When she had finished, her face resembled the laces of a tennis shoe, stuck in a perma-smile that rivaled the Joker's.

"Tell me the truth Harleen," she said, admiring her handiwork, "do I look ugly?" She threw her head back in manic laughter, Harleen's sobs only fueling the joke.