A/N: WARNING – Some of the imagery depicted in this chapter may be too dark or too disturbing for some readers. Fears are often something so primal that we cannot stop them from entering our minds. For this reason, Harley's fears will go to dark places. You have been warned. If you wish to skip past this, please start reading at the cut halfway through the chapter.

This chapter also references back to my first Joker/Harley story: Repression. References are made to the chapters 14 (Flying) and 15 (Choices).

Chapter Ten: Harsh Revelations

Flash.

Running, always running. The shadow of her pursuer haunted her every step. She was a rabbit being hunted down by a wolf. No doors, no windows, no escape from the hallway that always continued.

Flash.

A scarecrow with its torn clothing and straw limbs. Blocking her path ahead. Limp but mobile, the smile fake, the eyes harsh behind the mask. A clown next to him, green hair, charcoal eyes, a grin that jeered at her futile attempt to escape whatever was chasing her. Teeth so wide, too wide to be real. Laughter echoed in this never ending corridor of nightmarish images. Her heart pounded in her chest with every step, her veins pulsing inside her skin, threatening to explode. Whispers in her ear but she couldn't hear the words. She pushed the terrifying scarecrow aside, moved past the clown, for something far more frightening was right on her heels.

Flash.

The hallway ended, still no doors, nothing to escape through. Dead end. She clawed at the walls, praying to create an exit. She cried out in terror as something touched her shoulder. Corner of her eye, something hidden in the shadows. Her skin crawled as it ran its hands down her back, feeling every curve, every scar. A cold touch, something alien about it. Cool metal around her neck, locking in place, followed by a yank that forced her body backwards into the frigid shadow behind her. The whispers continued, a language she couldn't understand. The darkness wrapped around her body, covering her in its chill. She was a slave to it. The collar around her neck, the chain that linked it to something forming in front of her. Her pursuer.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel.

"You'll never be free," the controlled voice of Harleen said as she gripped the leash tightly in her hands. "You're the part of me I will not allow out."

Harley screamed in panic, tugging against the chain with all her strength, but Dr. Harleen was too strong. Her icy features enhanced by the glasses, hair in a bun, body covered. The picture of professional control. Her face was twisted into a condescending sneer at her darker half, the naked, wild Harley. Slowly, Dr. Harleen pulled at the chain, one hand, then the next, bringing Harley closer to her. A breath away from each other. Harley gasped at the cold smile of her former self before Harleen's mouth opened wide, sharp teeth. Wider still, the back of her throat was visible. Lips expanded to an impossible angle, descending upon Harley. Swallowing her up like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, until there was nothing left of Harley except the darkness and the chains bound around her.

Flash.

His arms wrapped around her, the lips of her one true love against her neck. His body pressed firmly against hers, hands in her hair from behind. The feel of intense pleasure riding through her body as he thrust himself inside her. Her hands and knees relishing every ache of the concrete she knelt on. She moaned and pushed back against him, her back arching as his hands ran down the skin of her back, lightly rolling over the fresh claw marks on her shoulder blades. She shuddered with the pain of memory, wanting him to dig in, recreate the marks and make them a deeper part of herself. So close. So close to that moment of perfection. Exquisite agony.

"Come on," she begged, encouraging her lover further. "You know what I need."

A memory, vivid and unique. A nightmare and a dream. Tables turning and life changing. Harley remembered through the haze of this illusion. The moment of revelation. The start of a new path. His hips moving against her ass, his fingers grasping her lower back. Pumping away, keeping her at the edge. Untold pleasure sweeping through her but it wasn't enough, never enough. She stared at the space in front of her, needing to end this, to complete the journey he set her on. It was her moment. Her destiny. She remembered it all.

He mocked her with his constant movement, in and out, in and out. Letting her ride the pleasure, never letting it spill over. She begged, and cursed, and screamed. Harley needed the release, but he was denying her, always denying. And he knew the effect it was having on her, his little experiment with her writhing and pleading. Laughing at her pathetic demands to end her torment. He wanted to see if she would do it, if she would take the knife that lay near her. If she would end her torture. From behind, he observed. Always his way.

Harley's eyes continued to stare forward, knowing what was going through his mind and through hers. His passive observation, her growing rage at her helplessness. His blade, close enough to take, to use, to feel. That was the purpose behind his motions, his denials. One stroke across her neck and her life would be forever changed. A chance to fly again. She remembered, even as she went through the motions a second time. The same words, the same pleading, the same cries. The end of her old life and the beginning of her new one. Her choice had been made so long ago. It was easy to make it a second time.

She reached to her side, grasping for the knife that he set near her. Except only the cold concrete met her outstretched hand. Confused, she looked to her side, the space empty. No knife. It should have been there. It was always there, waiting to be used. Waiting to change her life. But it wasn't. She was held by her madman lover, pushed to the peak of climax with no way of crossing over and letting the waves crash over her. She screamed, bashing her fists against the ground and turned to look behind her, her eyes accusing and angry. Betrayal for him to take this moment from her.

"Harley, do you trust me?"

The words met her ears but his lips didn't move. His eyes saw nothing, his body no longer moving inside her. The noose was tight around his neck, a blue pallor to his skin, his form hanging loosely from the beams in the ceiling. His hands fell away from her body, lifeless, dead, another corpse. The only victim that mattered. She could feel his seed cooling inside her, his cock as limp as his body. Horror swept over her, the sensation of her corpse lover still moving ever so slightly against her as he swung back and forth by the rope around his neck. Harley pulled away, screaming, pushing herself into the corner of this decrepit bedroom they shared. This didn't happen but it was happening. Her mind was confused, laced with turmoil. Guy was dead again, her love, her life, her everything.

Flash.

The leash tightened around her neck. Harleen laughed at her. "You're so pathetic, child, thinking you could outrun his death by becoming me. One day the marks will reflect what you did."

Pain flared through Harley, her agony reaching an emotional level, not penetrating to her pleasure centers. Torture, as her left arm exploded in blood. She looked down to see all the hash marks of the dead appear on her arm, bleeding but still recognizable. She see the face associated with each one. The largest, separated from the group was pouring blood, like tears down her arm. The mark for Guy Kopski. She touched it lightly, seeing his eyes staring past her. Her reflection no longer captured by his love.

Flash.

Bars, metal, cold. Everything was always so cold. The cage around her was stifling, suffocating, even with the air pouring in. The clown was toiling by his desk, reading some documents, marking some notes. Ignoring her, even as she bashed her hands against the steel rods until they bled from the effort. Naked, always naked, so he could see her for who she truly was. The demon, the killer, his girl. All her sins laid before him in sacrifice. Her soul was as bare as her body and he could always see right through her. The cage was just big enough for her body to sit comfortably, the bottom padded. The bars no longer were of steel, but instead changed to gold. Her gilded cage. Would he make her sing for her meal?

"You spend too much time rattling around in there, Harley," the clown said. "Have you been good enough to be let out?" The question wasn't directed towards her, more of his inner musings expressed aloud.

She tried to smile, give him the wide-eyed innocent act that never worked on him. If he wanted innocence, he never would have chosen a women such as herself to stand by his side, or rather, under his boot. He wanted sinners to accompany him in his symphony, playing the melody that he conducted. No room for errors in his chaotic music. Those who missed a note were expendable. Even her. It wasn't about perfection, that's what the rest never understood about him. His whims changed daily, plans never mattered. The design could be thrown out the window. As long as his sinners followed his charge, they would be safe. Well, mostly. And Harley was his queen of sins.

Sitting in her cage, she watched him warily as he approached humming some tune she vaguely knew but couldn't place. His makeup was streaked and cracked with the wrinkles of his face and she could smell the scent of death on him, rotten corpses and the morning dew. His gloved hands grazed the bars of her cage, a steady pinging noise as he moved from one rung to the next, circling her as prey. No affection, there never was. Cold, emotionless, the fluidity of the psychopath. She was not an experiment to him, but rather a toy.

"Time to play, Harley," he said, his grin absurdly too wide as his mouth stretched open, breaking apart his long healed scars. Blood gushed down his cheeks, sharp teeth, ready to swallow her whole if the mood took him.

She was terrified as he opened the cage, unable to move, to speak. He yanked her out and she suddenly felt so much smaller than she actually was, dwarfed in his presence. Strings attached to her body parts, arms, legs, shoulders. The clown yanked the strings with a laugh, watching her jerk with his motions. Her legs were moved into a dance with him, her arms wrapping around his torso with each tug of the strings. The humming grew louder, penetrating her senses as if the tune were alive. He danced with her, his hands far above her head, manipulating her every step.

Her mouth opened to speak, to tell him to let her go, let her fly away and be free but her voice was silenced. Instead, words that didn't belong to her came out of her mouth. Her mouth, his words, his voice. The nasally resonance of his tone, a tenor clowny sound. Her lips moved with the words, speaking his thoughts, his world, his mind. The same strings appeared on her lips, a doll, his ventriloquist act.

"I'm free," she said with his voice. Not her words, never her words, not anymore. And she spoke lies. She would never be free with his strings attached to her, his thoughts in hers, his hands twirling her motions.

As he danced her around the cage, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Harley was no longer herself. Dressed in the same clothes as her captor, purple, blue and green. Her face scarred with a Glasgow smile, red lipstick crawling up her cheeks. White greasepaint, smudged black around her eyes. Green dye tinting her long blond hair. A poor reflection of the clown she danced with. The strings were gone from her limbs but she still swayed along with the tune he hummed. His to command, his to rule, his to control. Everything inside her died.

Harley Quinn didn't exist anymore. There was only him. She was his pawn. She was the Joker.

Flash.

The drugs were wearing out of her system. The inevitable crash after the intense sensations produced by the Scarecrow. His masked face peering into hers. Although she couldn't see it, she knew he was smiling under the burlap, excited by her reactions, whatever they had been. The panic began to subside within her. Harley could hear her voice still whimpering from the dose, her fear induced memories still haunting her mind. Was this real? Or another part of her strange trip to psychosis-land?

A needle pricked her arm again. Harley felt her eyes begin to droop. The antidote? No, a sedative to let her rest before Crane went at her again. She could barely think between the exhaustion and the fear still lingering inside of her. The new drugs worked fast, her eyes barely able to stay open. Her head lolling as she looked around the bare and bright room. Just before she passed out, she caught a glimpse, something green, purple, too blurry to recognize for sure. But it would be just like her man to come watch the show, so interested in all her little quirks. Then again, maybe she was imagining things, leftover remains of her hallucinations.

Did it even matter?

"Ugh. I feel like someone stabbed my brain with a dull pitchfork," Harley complained a few seconds after regaining consciousness.

"You're lucky," Thomas said, still tied up in the chair before her. "At least he knocked you out. I had to deal with the splitting migraine that followed his drugs wearing off. It felt akin to having a star explode in my head."

She made a face, indicating her distaste for his unfortunate luck. "I'm sure my constant screaming, then, didn't help in the least."

"The wails of a banshee. You got a set of lungs on you."

"That bad, huh?"

"Let's just say that I'll be spending the next few weeks readjusting my ear drums."

Harley giggled at that. Her laugh-in-the-face-of-danger attitude must have been rubbing off on her friend. The cart was gone from the room, as was Crane, but he left her the gift of a blanket that covered most of her nude body. It warmed her against the slightly cool air in the room. She didn't know why he bothered, but she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Too many times, people became stubborn when they were captive. Refusing to eat, talk, defying their kidnappers. Believing that making concessions was giving up. But for all their efforts, in the end, it made no difference. They would have to give ground eventually or they would die. It was simply about who had the power. And right now, Crane had the power and Harley had no problems accepting that.

"Think he'll bring us some food?" She asked. "All that terror made me hungry."

Thomas shrugged. "Don't know. Frankly, I'm just surprised I'm still alive."

"You're alive to keep me complacent."

"Someone thinks highly of herself."

"It's true," she said. "He knows you're my friend. You were able to sway me towards giving up as opposed to going out guns ablazing. He'll try to use that later when I start getting rebellious. If you're dead, he loses that advantage and I lose all incentive to cooperate."

Thomas smiled. "Good to know you value our friendship."

"How many other people would put up with my bullshit for a week without trying to kill me?" She laughed. "Oh wait, you did try to kill me. Let me rephrase. How many other people would put up with my bullshit for a week without actually killing me?"

"Not for lack of trying," he muttered, a mischievous smile crossing his lips. Yeah, her attitude was definitely rubbing off on him.

"Eh, your heart wasn't really in it. And I'm too pretty to die."

Harley began to work against the duct tape. It was generally unforgiving as a material, very little stretch, but her struggles during her fear-induced torture loosened the material just a smidgen. Enough to give her something to do. Working hard at it, she might be able to free her arm. So she moved her wrist, up and down, back and forth. Thomas watched her movements with interest.

"Think you can get loose?" he asked, a little bit of hope in his eyes.

"It's going to take some time. He did a good job with the bindings but duct tape, unlike some other materials, is easier to manipulate. I'd have gone with zip ties." Constant motion was the key. Back and forth, like trying to get a car out of a snow mound. Little by little, it would be a slow process. To distract herself while working the bonds, she decided to pick at Thomas' brain. "So Bruce Wayne, huh?"

"What?" Thomas looked confused.

"Your source of fear. Well him and your father. Interesting tale your fears told."

"I'm not afraid of Bruce." Defensive. And not denying his fear of his late father.

"Maybe not, but you're afraid of what he represents. He's your baseline, your comparison. The one man you'll never be able to beat because somehow you think he has it all."

"I don't want to talk about this, Harleen." Thomas was closing off. A good sign that she was digging in to the right pressure point.

"Oh come on, Thomas. You're just as privy to my biggest fears as I am to yours," she said with a small smile. "I'm not ashamed of what you just learned about my fucked up psyche. There's nothing wrong with hating the man that your parents constantly compared you to. And nothing wrong with fearing that you're not good enough."

"They're dead," he said. "My parents' opinions mean nothing to me."

She continued to wear at the duct tape, moving her wrist millimeter by millimeter. "I beg to differ. They're haunting you, even now, from beyond the grave. Why not let it out, talk about it? It's eating away at you, I can tell. I mean, damn Thomas, how many times do I have to tell you that I won't judge you no matter what you say? I'm not like them. You can tell me anything and I'll support you, no matter what."

There came the eerie silence that often accompanied Thomas' introspective moments. Harley watched him, his eyes moving past her, looking at the wall behind her. A place to focus his thoughts and decide what to say, do, what he would reveal. She never lied. She would never judge him for anything he did. Even if it was the most fucked up thing she'd heard of. People did crazy things and who was she to throw stones? She hoped he would come clean. Because the longer she waited, the more she remembered her own nightmares that the toxin produced, and she wasn't quite ready to face herself yet.

When he looked back to her, she could see his walls crash down. Coming to terms with his own fears, his own pain. "My father was a drunk and a bastard."

"He beat you, didn't he?" She asked, already knowing the answer.

Thomas nodded. "And my mother. She just took it all like it was part of her job as wife. She never lifted a finger either when he came after me with the belt. Instead, she'd sit me down with old philosophy books, telling me the answers to all of life's problems could be found within. I hated it and hated her for making me do it, but I did learn a lot. My father was the epitome of the Aristotle quote 'Men are swayed more by fear than by reverence.' We both feared him. Too bad all that knowledge couldn't help me stop his rage."

His eyes were so lost in memory, lost in the pain, that Harley couldn't help but wonder, "Were you responsible for your father's death?"

Startled, he met her eyes. His surprise, followed by his pause, gave her all the acknowledgment she needed. She nodded to him, trying to convey her acceptance of the crime. No judgments. Thinking about it, she remembered Thomas' father died when he was young, maybe nine or ten. A car crash that killed his father. His mother lived. A young age for a first murder. How that must have molded his future.

"I cut the brakes on their car." No tears from him. Simple statements. "I couldn't take it anymore, the constant abuse and drinking of my father, the passive allowance of my mother. It was too much. I needed them out of my life once and for all, so maybe I could grow up without having to flinch every time I walked into our home."

A confession like this made her realize how little she really knew her friend. Sure, she must have sensed his darkness but this was darkness beyond even hers. Hers might be more visceral but it was powered by passion and emotion, usually spur of the moment, whatever suited her fancy. It was obvious from the deadened tone as he spoke of cutting the brakes, that Thomas' actions were premeditated, without any impulse. It may have come from an emotional place in the beginning but by the end, it was well thought out.

"Your mother lived."

"Thomas Wayne saved her life. She was crippled for many years with a broken back, living in home care as an invalid before she was diagnosed with cancer on top of it all. Nine years." He voice became angry. "Nine years I had to waste on her before I did something about it. After my father died, she was a better woman. Maybe her near death experience helped with that, made her grow a backbone. Or maybe it was because she had been poor her entire life and was willing to suffer through any kind of indignity just to feel comfortable. And without him, she finally could relax and just enjoy being comfortable. But me, she treated as a reminder of my father. A horrible reminder."

"So where does Bruce Wayne fit into this tale?"

His lips curled inwards, more anger, more distaste. "My father was so jealous of the Wayne family, despite calling them friends. Like us, they had everything. Unlike us, they were respected for all their accomplishments in Gotham. Even today, people talk about them like they're royalty. But truth be told, my family did just as much for this city as Thomas and Martha Wayne did. We built hospitals, and gave to charity, and so much more, but they got all the glory. I think my father placed his misguided hope that I'd be the crowning achievement of the Elliots and thus constantly compared me to Bruce, wanting me to always be better than him, so somehow he'd feel like he won in his private war against the Waynes."

Harley had to smile. "You are so much better than Bruce Wayne. Did you know that when Mr. J crashed the Dent fundraiser that Wayne ran away, hiding in a panic room?"

"I know. I was at that fundraiser."

"Really? Must have been fun," she continued. "But you? You've faced down my man and lived to tell the tale. You have balls. More than I can say for the arrogant ass who's slept with half of Gotham."

"He was always like that, you know? He knew what was going on with my family, how my father would beat me. He saw the bruises, was sympathetic, but did he tell anyone? Try to get me help? No. He only played at being my friend. A real friend would help, tell an adult or do something. Instead, he just watched me go through hell, day after day. I thought maybe after his parents died, he'd get some perspective, understand what it was to live in real pain. But no, he went away to boarding school, spending his money, living his life, not giving a damn about anything but himself. He never grew up."

It was easy to see where his resentment came from, although her logical side told Harley that Thomas was irrational in his hatred of Bruce Wayne. Kids who lost their parents would often want to get as far away as they could, trying to forget the pain of their pasts. And from everything she had heard about the Wayne family, they were extremely close and loving. It made sense to her that Bruce would depart Gotham. But it also made sense why Thomas hated him. He had never known the love of a real family. Just bitter disappointment. And instead of seeing Bruce's pain, he only saw the things he wanted out of his own life. The freedom, the money, the lack of responsibility. And of course, the absence of parents.

Thomas shook his head, his anger still clear. "You're right, Harleen. Even now, even though they're gone, I can still feel my parents haunting me. My mother still quoting Aristotle in my ear. My father still telling me I won't measure up to the Wayne family. I've worked my ass off to try and be better than either of them, to make the Elliot name worth something. And still, even now, Bruce gets all the press. He burned down his house, debased his family name, and still the media treats him like he's the best thing in this city."

Harley quirked an eyebrow at that. "That can be easily remedied."

Thomas stopped his pity-party ranting for a moment to look up at her. "What do you mean?"

She smiled. His explanation of his past was immensely helpful. A child never content with what he had, he always sought out more. Really, in the long run, the natural progression of his darkness was clear. "Normally, I would say, we should kill Bruce Wayne, but that would just make him a martyr, always remembered as a favorite son of the city. No, with someone like him, he needs to be broken. In order to show Gotham how pathetic he is, and how amazing you are, there is really only one thing we can do."

His eyes glinted, something looking like hope, excitement. "What's that?"

"We have to bring him down to our level," she laughed as she devised ideas in her head. "We have to turn Bruce Wayne into a villain."

A/N: Sorry about the delay. I've been extremely sick for the past couple of weeks. But hopefully this chapter will make up for it. Please read and review! I love knowing what you all think of my work. Take care!