*Warning*: This JokerxHarley chapter contains graphic violence.
Please keep in mind that is not the cuddly Harley of Mad Love... though she is every bit as crazy. Especially when it comes to a certain mass-murdering clown.
Harley
This feels so wrong.
I did exactly what J asked me to.
"He's dead. The manager-". There was real terror in my voice as I choked my line out. Genuine tears were gushing down my face. I actually stopped to take in the scene before stumbling backwards - feeling behind me for the handle of the door that I'd just come through.
I didn't just pretend that I was seeing the masked thugs with shotguns for the first time; I made myself believe that it was absolutely real. So that my fear would be real, too.
I nailed my part - this was the one time that I didn't fuck it up. But while I was upstairs garrotting the bank manager - just like we agreed - J changed the plan.
Now I'm kneeling on the floor with my hands behind my head. With the rest of the bank customers and staff. And J is holding some...random woman in front of him, with her back pressed against his chest. He's using his left hand to grip her blonde hair, and his right hand to press his gun to her temple. She's letting out a truly terrified, whimpering sound as he drags her across the floor.
I was supposed to play the hostage.
I'm so hurt and angry that I can barely keep from jumping up, grabbing the shotgun from Omar, and slamming it over the back of the Joker's head.
Now J and the woman are behind the counter, and through the plexiglass windows I can see him talking animatedly to the assistant manager; a Mr Darryl Fillion. I can't hear them, but I can see Darryl's expression as J shoves the woman forward onto her knees, and holds the barrel of the gun to the back of her skull. There's a loud bang, as a round goes off.
No one's bleeding. It was just a threat, aimed at the carpet.
And it worked. Mr Fillion is reaching for the key at his belt, and leading the way to the vault. Johnny stays for a minute, emptying the cash behind the counter into his backpack. The Joker drags the blonde woman onto her feet by the hair, and forces her to walk in front of him: they disappear through the door behind the counter.
Five minutes later I hear a bang: the sound of another round. Then hysterical screaming, abruptly cut off. I can't tell what caused the screaming to stop. Not from out here.
A wave of nausea – that must have been Mr Fillion being offed. And if it was, that means that J is already into the vault. I check my watch: we're right on schedule.
So everything else is going according to plan.
A combination of resentment and...envy is gnawing away inside of me. I understand that using a real hostage made it more convincing. But that was always going to be the case. We knew that there would almost certainly be female bank tellers and customers: all potential hostages. But J's plan was for me to act as the hostage, so that I could keep an eye on Mr Fillion.
So what changed in the last hour? Was there something about the trembling, terrified blonde woman that made J want to change the plan? That thought makes me feel like I've been punched in the gut – for a second, it hurts too much to breathe.
Another thought occurs to me: that he's deliberately fucking with my emotions. But that would mean that he's aware enough of my emotions to get something out of doing this to me - something I find hard to believe.
Figure this out later Harley; now you need to focus. Don't be stupid.
Omar keeps impatiently looking at the doorway behind the counter, where Mr J and Johnny will soon appear with fat bags of cash. I run my eyes over the other men and women kneeling on the floor. And the others, huddled against the back wall.
There.
To my left is a middle-aged man in khaki's and a t-shirt. Sunglasses rest on his short, steely grey hair. Subtly, he's signalling to the security guard sitting against the wall. Now he's pointing to Omar, who's facing in the opposite direction.
Oh lordy... a hero. Just what we need.
"Omar!" I shout, as the man springs up and charges forward with his head down, barrelling towards the masked man with the gun.
The first round from Omar's shotgun hits the hero in the thigh. Clutching at the gaping, bloody hole, he falls forward onto the floor.
Now the security guard has sprung up – he's on his feet trying to wrestle the weapon out of Omar's grip.
The masked man loosens his grip on the gun, and reaches down for his knife. His hand moves too quickly for me to see what where the knife landed, but the howling from the security guard tells me that he's badly hurt.
Omar briefly glances behind him: at me on the floor, and then at the hero clutching his thigh. He turns his attention back to the security guard, tossing me the knife.
"You wanna make sure that he doesn't get up?" Omar grunts at me. He's using the shotgun to motion to the bleeding security guard: indicating that he wants him back against the wall. I check my watch again – the others should be out by now.
In the background I hear the unmistakable wail of a siren.
We need to get out of here. Soon.
I stand up, smoothing my skirt down in front of me. I'm going to the vault, to see what's taking so long.
Icy fingers grip at my stomach. I don't want to think about what J might be doing to the woman. About what could be so much fun that he's risking the whole job. What it is that he couldn't do with me, back at the house.
The hero doesn't make much of a sound as I walk past him – just a mumbled "please." He's lying on his back, still clutching his thigh. Then he goes limp.
He's lost a lot of blood, judging from the diameter of spreading pool. Focus. Leave him for the ambulance, Harley. Remember why you're here.
I bend down to check his pulse. Just to make sure that he's not faking his incapacitation. No other reason.
I press my fingers over his radial artery, watching the second hand on my watch tick by. Oh brother. One hundred and ten. He's tachycardic. Under my fingers his wrist feels cold and clammy. He's pale too. I poke him in the arm with the tip of the knife. No response to pain: he really is unconscious – no faking. I press my thumb against the skin of his chest, checking his capillary refill time... which is long. So he's in hypovolaemic shock.
And something deep within me kicks in.
The sound of the sirens is louder now. Omar's saying something about checking on the others, but I'm not listening. Now he's shouting at me, and waving the shotgun around. The men and women on the floor flinch every time that the barrel of the gun points in their direction. I tune them all out and focus on the patient.
Airways, fine. Breathing? Yup, it's faint, but it's there. Circulation... I take off my jacket and press down hard on the wound. I rummage around in my bag with my left hand, continuing to press down on the wound with my right one. My left hand hits something cool and smooth – the wire that I used to kill the bank manager.
For some reason I feel like I'm going to throw up, as I wind the wire around my jacket, and then around the thigh above the wound to form a tourniquet. I need to get his legs elevated above heart-level. And I need fluids. And a crash team.
Don't be stupid Harley. The ambulance will be here soon... won't it? I strain my ears for a second. Police sirens only.
I run my gaze around the room.
"Your briefcase, and your backpack. I need them. Now." The two men that I'm addressing look at me blankly.
"We need to elevate his thigh. Throw them to me, now." Realisation seems to be dawning in their eyes, though the man with the briefcase looks reluctant to part with it.
"You." I address the younger man with the backpack, who's hesitantly standing up. "What's your name?"
He swallows, and then answers in a trembling voice: "Kevin."
"I need to you phone an ambulance Kevin. Tell them that-"
"He took our phones." he says, tossing me his bag. He nods towards Omar, who's pacing back and forth, aiming the shotgun at various cowering people on the floor.
There's no phone in my purse: one of the many manifestations of the Joker's paranoia is the ban against bringing phones on a job.
"Come here. Now." I order. Kevin looks hesitantly at Omar, and then at me. I'm wondering if I need to threaten him with the knife, but before I come to a decision the young man starts moving towards me on shaking legs. He's wearing a black t-shirt with white lettering, that says: "There are only 10 types of people in the world: those who understand binary, and those who don't." On his backpack is a Starfleet Academy patch.
The old Harleen would have liked this kid.
"Press here. As hard as you can." I motion to the young man to get down on the floor next to the patient.
"When the police get here, tell them that you have an unconscious patient in hypovolaemic shock. They'll take it from there." I instruct him. He nods.
"What are you going to tell them?" I ask.
"I have an unconscious patient in hypovolaemic shock". Kevin replies. Good. He was paying attention.
"You know how to do CPR?" I ask.
"Is that like..." Kevin does a mime of performing chest compressions and then rescue breaths. I nod.
"Two breaths, and then check the pulse. If there's nothing, give thirty chest compressions. Keep repeating those two things until he starts breathing on his own. Or until the professionals arrive. And watch that the chest rises: if it's not rising, air isn't going in. But only start CPR when he stops breathing. You know how to check that?" I ask.
Whilst I'm explaining this to Kevin, I become aware of footsteps moving towards us from behind the counter. And Johnny, saying something in a low, gruff voice. Another familiar sound: heavy bags being dragged across the floor.
Then there's a change in the room; an electricity in the air that lets me know that the Joker is here.
Without looking up, I continue explaining to Kevin: "This is how you check". Calmly kneeling down, I place my cheek above the unconscious man's mouth. His breathing is ragged and faint. But it's still there.
"Look, listen and feel for his breath." I say, and Kevin nods; his blue eyes alert.
"Now you try it." I say. The young man hesitates for a second, and then bends over the patient.
His blonde head hovers above the injured man's cheek – and then it's gone. His head is gone. Blood from the shot that pierced through Kevin's skull is raining down around me in little droplets. Kevin's body falls forward, across the unconscious man on the floor.
I look up to where the shot came from, and realise that I'm staring directly into the Joker's face. He's wearing a mask, like the rest of the team. But I know him well enough to recognise the emotion there: it's the same mix of curiosity and sick contentment that one would see in the face of a boy, as he pulls the wings from a fly. His head is tilted slightly one side.
I've spent enough time around the Joker to understand that asking why is the wrong question.
To him, the answer is obvious: Why not?
And any reply that the old Harleen could give would be treated as a joke, or an opportunity for a rant about the hypocrisy of Western morality.
Because when it comes down to it, it's not a topic for debate – there are too many value judgements involved. Either you feel in your gut that what the Joker just did is heinous, or you don't.
Please review with areas for improvement! *Gets down on knees pleadingly*
