Well, ladies and gentlemen, I've finally decided to divulge Harvey's oh-so-thrilling backstory! (As if, yeah, sure.) Really, it's not that fascinating, but it'll let the pieces fall into place as to why she's a bitch. XD A horrendous one, at that. Anyway, without further ado, underhanded methods to truth-telling ahoy! Thanks to everyone, and thanks especially to Miss-Emotive, whose awesome fan-art work will be up on my profile page once my profile stops acting like a whore. I love you guys, thanks for reading :D!

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It's about twenty minutes of me just sipping the coffee until this horrible sensation starts to sink in. I wonder what's wrong with this chocolate syrup (didn't I ask for a vanilla latte..?) because it's certainly making me dizzy.

It's like the entire edge of my vision is in fuzzy, That '70's Show flashback mode, and I'm incapable of focusing where I probably should be focusing. Instead, I feel everything fade around and colors mesh with colors which mesh with other colors. I swoon from the dresser I sit on top of, and arms too strong to be so chicken-scrawny swoop me up without a difficulty. In a normal mindset, I might've found myself enticed by how slightly dashing that one motion was.

Instead, with this much nausea and perplexed dizziness, I just hate the fact that he rattles me around.

Am I sick?

What is this shit?

It's like he reads my mind and when he sets me on the bed. He gnaws lightly at his lip, clears his throat, and speaks with a merry timbre, "That would be a veeery small dosage of valium mixed into your caffeine. –No no, Hahvey, I'm not going to do what you think I'm going to do. I mean, I may be a monster, but I could get you to do it without the use of sedatives," He pauses and his grin, his moving, yellowy grin is shark-ish, "promise. Anywho-zles, today we're going to see what makes you tick-tick-tock, Harv-cakes, because it's tickling at my brain just as much as I'm sure it's gnawing at yours."

My attempt to move is almost depleted. Motor skills fail because my hands don't seem to recognize my desire to punch him in the face. My legs don't seem to recognize my desire to move. Most importantly, my foot doesn't seem to recognize my want to jab him in the breadbox.

"But—I've got a solution to your…ah—" He purrs, curls his fingers at my cheek. They stroke mockingly, and he hisses, his tongue almost vibrating, "ree-luctance. Would you like to meet my little buddy?"

No. I want to say. No, I don't want to meet your little buddy. I want another frappuccinno. I want my motor skills back. I want to know why you're playing with my head.

I see something between his teeth as he climbs into the bed, and sits on his knees to clamp a spidery hand at my wrist and hold me down. It doesn't matter, because I can't even jerk, let alone shove the human rock off me.

And there's a stab. It's all too agonizing, a quick pinch, but for one second it feels like he's driving a harpy into my arm. It's wet, cold, and then the pressure subsides and he pats me like saying 'good job, kid, you done me proud'. I can't imagine how hateful I must seem right now.

"This," He grins, and he holds up a long, clear object with a shiny metal point that won't stop moving. Trying to focus on it makes my head spin, it makes me feel urged to pretty much toss my cookies, so I stop and wait for the inevitable speech he's about to give, "Sodium Penthanol, my sweet, medically handicapped little buddy. That's what this golden little ambrosia in this here hype-ee-oh-dermic needle is. Sodium. Penthanol."

I almost feel the need to remind him that those words mean nothing to me in the least, that they make no sense, but like I expect the self-satisfying prick keeps talking—

"Sodium Penthanol has the nifty little ability to lift a person's inhibitions and force them to answer questions. You wanna buzz in on just what Sodium Penthanol is, Harvey-cakes?"

I just roll on my side, before a hand lashes out at my waist and he rolls me back. His eyes search mine, and I feel his face deathly close. Those eyes half-lid, sedate, and he positions his lips just an inch away. His voice is the lowest purr, and in some dream his grin cracks off his face in a thousand repulsive shards. They cut me. "Truth serum, my little Harley Quinn. I want to know what makes you…that enchanting you I so adore. I want to know because you—oh, ho, ho, you won't tell me."

In his awkward lean, his hand caresses at my hair, soft, eager and he doesn't move. In my drugged hippie-daze I hear his voice through a tunnel in a tunnel in a tunnel. It's an echo amplified, "I did tell you once, Harrrvey, pretty bird like you, should be singin'."