See, I told you not so long a wait this time, and a nice long chapter to boot. Although, I have to say, I'm beginning to wonder if this whole "trusting you to review" bit might be going a little too trusting. Come on, dear readers, don't let me down. But enough of that. On with the story!
Also, just a warning: things get very silly this chapter. Just so you know.
"Hey, guys," Harley Quinn's voice had an unusual edge to it- almost nervous- as she addressed her two friends in a booth at the Gotham Diner. In addition to their famous "French Toast you'll write home about," the diner was known for their criminal clientele. Even on a cold Monday morning early in December, customers included, along with the girls, two mafia dons swapping Thanksgiving stories, an illegal weapons designer hastily scarfing down a blue plate special, and a distinguished-looking politician accepting a steel briefcase from two tanned bodyguards.
"I was thinking," Harley continued, that same strange edge still in her voice, "about our jobs." At her friends' confused faces she continued. "I mean, when you think about it, me and Mistah J, we do things for the joke in watching 'em play out, right? And Ivy, you fight for plants because they can't fight for themselves, and Kitty, you're a cat burglar who hits museums and corrupt rich people, and even stopped a few muggings, right?"
"Yeah," both women agreed, giving each other a sideways glance. When Harley had suggested going out for breakfast, they had known she had another, potentially, er, unconventional idea, but they really didn't see where this was going.
"But my point is," she went on, "none of us want people to be hurt, right?"
"No," Ivy said, while Kitty murmured, "Of course not." It was the first time the issue had been brought up out loud, but none of the trio had ever wanted to hurt people. Contrary to popular belief and media reports, people in their line of work- theatrical crime bordering on performance art- seldom did.
Their breakfast arrived. All three of them had gone with the celebrated French Toast. "Come on," Kitty smiled. "Enough of this. Tell us the plan you have obviously been dying to spill since we walked in here."
"All right," Harley laughed. "Just a few more clarifications. One: you're okay with a plan that may involve what can only be called fighting crime, but is also funny and makes it easier for us to do the jobs we love with only occasional interference?" Both women nodded. "And Two: Ivy, you did need to talk to Bruce, right?"
"Yeah," Ivy shrugged, looking resigned and twirling a single red curl around one finger. Due to a certain incident- tucked away into a far corner of her mind, to be dealt with only when absolutely necessary- she had decided that the Bruce Wayne Experiment was coming to a close. Ah, well. It had been a fun ride, and she liked to think the new Green platform of Bruce's company had a little something to do with her.
"Good," Harley said with the broad, red-lipstick grin only she could muster. "Because after that last fight with the Bat, at the refinery, I kinda had an idea . . ."
o!o
Kitty was surprised, but it was true- Stately Wayne Manor really was as stately as she remembered from the old days. The wind picked up and she pulled her black wool coat a little closer. She and Harley looked at each other incredulously. How Ivy could stand it without a coat, just a fuzzy green sweater and a long scarf, was beyond them, but then, she had always been like that. They rang the doorbell.
"Wayne residence," Alfred, the ancient butler, greeted them. "Ah, Miss Ivy, I believe Master Wayne was expecting you. But what of your companions?"
"Oh, they're just here for, erm, moral support," Ivy said through chattering teeth. She had always had a high tolerance for temperatures, but this wind had a real bite to it. "Now let us in, please, it's freezing out here!" she laughed.
"Right away. Master Wayne is in his study, and if you two would care for some refreshment while you wait for Miss Ivy, the kitchen is right this way."
The two women followed him into the gleaming kitchen, where he poured two delicate china cups of steaming hot chocolate. There were even scones, Kitty noticed, choking back a laugh. Through all they'd been through, Bruce always did have a lot of class. She permitted herself a long nostalgic look around the kitchen, smiling slightly.
Alfred had just glanced back to the newspaper he had been pursuing before the ladies had shown up (so thoughtful of Master Wayne to get the Daily Mail delivered for him), when one of the young women, the blonde with the funny red hat, slid up next to him and grinned.
"Hey, Mistah Butler," Harley Quinn smiled. "Whatcha doin'?"
Exactly as she had predicted, Alfred was thrown completely off guard. No one ever asked him what he was "doin'," certainly none of Master Wayne's friends. "Just catching up on the news," he answered.
"The news? You know, that reminds me of this funny story I heard . . ." Harley prattled on, delighted at how well her plan was working.
Meanwhile, in Bruce's study, Ivy was smiling sadly. "But, really Bruce, maybe we should just be friends? I mean, we've had some great times together, and I hope we still will, but it might be . . . easier if we went back to just being friends. What do you say?" To her surprise, she really did feel kind of sad about this one- a first for her. But at the same time, she felt another first for a breakup- she felt relieved.
Bruce Wayne took her hands in his. Ivy would have been shocked to learn that he was feeling the exact same things she was- sadness and relief. He would miss Ivy, he would, but since Rachel's death, he was really only ready for Russian-ballerina type dating, not something like this. "That sounds okay to me," he said, with a similar sad smile. "But I'll see you around, Ivy."
"See you around, Bruce."
Ivy opened the door and went to collect the rest of the trio. They waited until they were a good way down the driveway, almost at their cars, before Harley finally asked, "So Ivy, how'd it go?"
Ivy shrugged her shoulders and sighed. "It went okay. So Kitty, did you drop it like we said?"
"Of course. I'm not a cat burglar for nothing. And Harley, you were a brilliant distraction."
"Thanks! Years of practice, you know. But do ya think they'll find it soon?"
Kitty grinned. "Oh, they'll find it soon. I'm sure of it."
o!o
Back at Wayne Manor, Alfred was surprised to feel something oddly lumpy under his newspapers. It was an old VHS tape. Now how did that get there? He looked at the taped-on label and sighed.
"Master Wayne," he held the tape out at Bruce, "I know it's none of my business certainly, but how exactly did 'Lusty Ladies of Gotham' find its way into the kitchen?"
Bruce Wayne choked back a laugh. "'Lusty Ladies?' Don't know what you're talking about. But give it here, I could use something fun and stupid to cheer me up."
Ten minutes later, armed with a bowl of popcorn, a skeptical Alfred standing by, Bruce popped in the tape. A scarlet curtain filled the screen as a sultry female voice whispered, "Do you want to know a secret?"
"What?" Bruce, grinning, leaned in a little closer, as, surprisingly, did Alfred.
"Since Batman has been prowling the streets, crime in Gotham has increased," the voice continued.
"Oh, re- wait, what?" Bruce was gobsmacked. The curtain parted to reveal a series of statistics showing an increase in muggings, pickpocketing, and drug-related crimes in recent months, as Batman had shifted his focus to higher-profile criminals, the bank robbers, mob bosses, and exhibitionists- anyone with a taste for the theatrical. The statistics and pie charts were all valid and sound, occasionally dotted with a newspaper article. It was all true.
"Gotham needs you, Batman," the voice continued. "For the little things as well as the big, tough crimes you're so fascinated by. The question is, are you up to the challenge?"
Bruce Wayne stared blankly at the screen, utterly stunned. The fact that someone had figured out his identity was the very tip of the iceberg. This was one of the strangest things he had ever seen (and for him, that was something), and he had the oddest feeling that the voice in the video was not mocking so much as teasing him, like an old friend, almost (could this have been Alfred's or Fox's handiwork, then? he wondered. It sounded strange, but stranger things had happened). But what was most staggering to him about the tape was . . . it made a valid point.
