A/N: Hello dear readers, I know it has been a while. This has been one heck of a year so far. I won't bore you guys with the specifics, a quick rundown is COVID positive, slow recovery, buckets of work to catch up on, exams & lots of other stuff going on. But we're back in business baby!
All of your get well soons and well-wishing has been SO appreciated, thank you all so much! Also thank you to everyone who has continued to review & read this story, it really means a lot! Without further ado, here is the long awaited chapter 23…
23.
Herbert Fletcher had been a guard at the museum for 15 years. He enjoyed the routine of the shifts, the cheerful babble of the schoolchildren who trailed round the exhibits after adults dressed in garish high-vis. Most of all though, he liked the uniform. That smart blue shirt, the thick leather belt which held a sleek plastic baton, the buffed black shoes that poked out from his pressed trousers.
Herbert took great pride in those shoes. He would spend his evening shining them in the quiet of his dim kitchen, making sure that they would be properly polished for the next day. His wife, ex wife he corrected not unbitterly, had thought it a pathetic habit, but Herbert understood the importance of dressing for success.
It made him feel so powerful to walk around in his security get-up. He'd patrol the halls, whistling and twirling his baton, enjoying the click of those shiny boots on the floor and the crackle of the walkie talkie as Arnie communicated with him from across the gallery. Arnie was his favourite co-worker. A round man in his early fifties with a mischievous sense of humour. Shifts were never boring when Arnie was there, he could make a Queen's soldier smile.
It was him and Arnie on shift when the first incident happened. The day hadn't started off out of the ordinary. Herbert had dressed in his clean uniform (carefully laid out on the carpet the night before for easy access) and clocked in at around seven to relieve the team on the night shift. He'd started the patrol as usual, sweeping through the grand foyer and along the tiled halls. Eventually the main doors had been opened, and visitors began trickling in, a clamour of noise and colour that slowly dispersed around the museum as the clock hands wound round on his watch.
Then just before lunch, a man turned up and pulled out a gun. Herbert had never had to deal with someone armed before, his daily life consisted of scolding snickering teenagers for sticking their globs of chewing gum under the benches. He froze, half in bewilderment, as the barrel of the smooth handheld weapon swivelled recklessly around the room. Luckily, Arnie reacted faster, tackling the gun waver from behind before he could do any damage.
Herbert radioed into the security hub urgently requesting the police as Arnie slapped a pair of handcuffs on the scrawny gunman. The Gotham PD showed up not ten minutes later and carted the man away.
Arnie and Herbert were the talk of the museum staff for a few days after that. Heroes they were. Lara from the café even gave him a free coffee along with one of those mousey smiles that made Herbert's stomach go funny. Someday he would gather the courage to ask her out…
He didn't bother to wonder why the man had drawn a weapon in the first place, he was probably some loon on the way to Arkham by now. What really mattered was the new head of security promotion that was coming up. Herbert and Arnie were looking pretty good for it all things considered. But Herbert was confident that the gig would be his. After all, he'd been working here five years longer.
The next week, Arnie received the promotion. Herbert tried to be happy for his friend, but he couldn't help but feel a little put out. What was he doing wrong? What would it take for that stupid James fellow to recognise the talent he had right under his nose?
Herbert watched from his spot against one of the cool stone pillars as Arnie and James heartily shook hands. He wasn't jealous, not really. Herbert looked down at his shoes. The scowling face that met his eyes in the blurry reflection seemed to disagree.
Perhaps if he hadn't been so preoccupied with his colleague he would've noticed the strange group of people sooner. Unfortunately, his distraction gave them the element of surprise.
A woman, dressed head to toe in a Harlequin outfit, waltzed in through the front doors like she owned the place. Her face was painted white, black smeared around her eyes in a sloppy imitation of a domino mask. She was flanked by six hooligans in clown garb, thick semi-automatics clutched in their burly hands as they advanced through the foyer.
The Harlequin stopped and inclined her head, narrowing her eyes as she looked about herself. On her silent commend, her foot soldiers let off a peel of gunfire into the ceiling, bullets pelting the creamy marble and spraying dust and plaster on Herbert as he instinctively dropped to the floor.
'Gooood afternoon ladies and Gentlemen.' The woman called in a thick Brooklyn accent, twirling a scuffed baseball bat in her slim fingers and stepping over an old lady who was cowering on the floor near her feet. 'Today we're gonna play a game. The rules are simple, move and Smiley here will blow ya face off.'
She looped her arm around one of the clown's necks for emphasis, affectionately patting the top of his head as his painted mask grinned menacingly at the onlookers.
Behind him, Herbert heard Arnie frantically whisper into his walkie talkie. For a second, he was annoyed with himself for being too shocked to remember to radio in, then Smiley lifted his gun and fired, putting a round red hole in Arnie's chest. Suddenly Herbert was grateful that he hadn't.
The room drew in a collective gasp as Arnie choked and gurgled, the impact of the gunfire knocking him onto his back like an upturned turtle. Nobody moved to help him.
'Now we're working on a time limit here people.' The Harlequin declared, not sparing the dying man a thought. 'Let's get to it!' She practically skipped out of the room, two clowns breaking formation to trot after her.
For a few minutes, the hostages just waited. Herbert's eyes darted anxiously around, sweat making his armpits clammy. Would he make it to see the next day? Would any of them? The same thought must've occurred to a few others for some sobs started up next to the rack of fliers that crouched underneath the colourful welcome board. Apart from that there was nothing but tense silence. Arnie had stopped spluttering a minute ago.
The four clowns in the middle of the entrance hall stood guard like ghastly sentinels, ominously brandishing their weapons, the warning clear. In the distance, there was the tinkle of glass breaking, followed by a whoop of laughter.
The hairs on Herbert's arms stood on end. He knew that cackle, everyone in Gotham knew that cackle. That was the cackle of a much more menacing clown. Who was this Harlequin? Herbert had never heard of her before, and yet it seemed like she robbed museums on the daily, the way she breezed through the room. There was something so sinister about how dainty she was, completely at odds with the Joker's awkward gait. She could've been a dancer, or a gymnast, the way she moved so light-footed. But with that repulsive black and white makeup marring her face there was a wickedness to her elegance. She donned the mask of a killer. It was horrific. It was mesmerising.
The Harlequin strolled back into the room, crossed the foyer and pivoted when she reached the great oak doors. Her audience collectively held their breath. The woman grinned, a show of teeth and white paint. She stooped low into a bow, her arms sweeping out behind her in a dramatic flourish.
'Thank you for your time guys and gals, it's been a blast!'
She turned and headed down the entrance steps without so much as a backwards glance.
Her entourage of clowns lined the museum visitors up in the sights of the guns and backed away, disappearing dutifully after their leader.
One minute after the terrorists left, six police cruisers screamed round the corner, sirens wailing and blue and red lights striking the asphalt of the sidewalk with harsh beams. They had arrived exactly ten minutes after the first round of gunfire. The terrorists made it out in nine.
Who is the Harlequin? Demanded the Gotham times headline. A question that gripped Gotham like a vice for the following days. Established talk show hosts like Susan Pepper enthusiastically debated her origins. Some claimed she was a nobody, a copycat who wanted fame. Others thought she was the Joker's protégé, a chosen successor even.
The newspapers had a field day, haemorrhaging stories with generous helpings of gossip for the city's inhabitants to gobble up. A shot of Harley bowing low, a smile dancing across her mouth as she stood in front of the museum's huge wooden doors was smeared across the front page of every magazine and broadsheet worth its salt. Who was this new villain? What would she do next? The Harlequin was a sensation.
Harley found all the speculation wildly amusing, the thrill of her secret riding giddy in her veins. IT'S ME! A voice in her head cried whenever she saw the news, sometimes so loudly she thought for sure someone would hear.
Pulling off the heist had been such a rush. The decoy gave them a time frame to work with and the rest had just fallen into place. It had been almost laughably straightforward, like taking candy from a baby. It was easy to see how criminal activity could become like a game to some people. Harley had certainly enjoyed it, much more than she'd anticipated.
Even the death of the security guard hadn't dampened that unexplainable high she'd felt as she'd commanded the attention of all those people. It'd been the most fun she'd had in years. The way everyone had stared at her with eyes as wide as saucers, Harley had never realised she was capable of inspiring that kind of fear in anyone, let alone a roomful. Maybe because it had never occurred to her before that she could.
The cat was out of the bag now though. She felt like a caged bird who had been able to stretch their wings for the first time. How then could she go back to her normal life after getting a taste of what flying felt like?
Harley suspected that that particular question wasn't going to be a problem. She didn't want to go back to normal life. This was way better.
She hadn't expected how liberating spreading greasepaint across her features would feel. As soon as the first coat swept across her skin, her worries and inhibitions had slipped away, like shower water rolling off her body to pool at her toes. If she'd known that ditching those pesky insecurities was that easy, she would've donned the disguise years ago.
The exact design had only come to her in the back of the unmarked van as Frost whisked them through Downtown towards the museum. She didn't want to copy the Joker's, that wouldn't do at all. Harley wasn't some impressionist. Better to be individual and lean into her own persona – the Harlequin.
She had swirled her index and forefinger around in the oily paint and applied a layer of the thick white liquid to her face as the clowns crammed into the back with her jostled into her shoulders. A streak of black to cover her eyes and temples came next, made a haphazard job by the potholes that rocked the van. Good. It looked more authentic this way, like a messy afterthought instead of an intentional statement. If Harley had learned anything from the Joker it was that unpredictability was what scared people. You didn't want to look like a man with a plan. Plans can be foiled, plans are rational, plans are boring.
She had grinned at her new reflection in the grimy handheld mirror, an electrifying energy making Harley practically vibrate in her seat at the unrecognisable woman who grinned back. Where was that meek psychiatrist who would never set a foot out of line? Harley suspected that she'd never look in the mirror and see that person again. And without her she was a force to be reckoned with. Cunning. Dangerous. Sure of herself. The Joker had no idea of the creature he'd unleashed.
He was pleased with her, she could tell. He smiled like a Cheshire cat as the guards brought him in to the session, much to the discomfort of the obviously unnerved escorts. They couldn't escape the room soon enough, shoving their charge into his metal chair and slamming the door behind them. Harley couldn't blame them. The smugness radiating from Gotham's most prolific psychopath was sinful.
'My, my, haven't we been busy.' He drawled, waggling his eyebrows at her and making her laugh, properly laugh, loud, unrestrained chuckles bouncing off the walls. It crossed her mind that the guards might hear, but Harley didn't care. They could go to hell.
She pushed out of her chair and slid round the table, leaning against the edge and starting work on the leather straps of his strait jacket. He shed the rough material like a snake malting its old skin, revealing his scratchy Arkham sweater underneath.
As she dropped her hands, one of his shot out, grasping her fingers and holding them up by his face, stopping her from pulling away.
'Don't you have something for me Harley girl?' He cooed, cocking his head.
'Patience.' She scolded lightly as she reached down to pull the pendant out from under her blouse. It winked at them from between her collarbones, warm from its contact with her skin.
His rough fingers dropped her hand and came to hold the piece of jewellery, the back of his knuckles brushing her clavicle. As he twisted the stone, she watched his face from under her eyelashes, enjoying the freedom to study his features at such close proximity.
Suddenly, his dark eyes flicked up to hers, meeting her gaze with that breath-taking intensity that she was wasn't sure she'd ever get used to.
'What do you think?' Harley half whispered, her vision swallowed by black eyes and green hair.
He rewarded her with a grin, her favourite kind that slightly crinkled his eyes, making her think (or hope rather) that it was genuine.
The Joker let the pendant fall; expression suddenly serious even as his eyes sparkled. 'I'm afraid that it's not really what I'm looking for. It'uh… not my colour.'
Harley's face fell for a second. He didn't want it?
When she looked away his hand found her chin, tilting her head up so that she was staring into his eyes again.
'You keep it.'
Her stomach summersaulted; gaze trapped in the magnetic pull of his.
'But… but it's priceless.' She protested softly.
He shrugged, broad shoulders making the fabric of his sweater go taught. 'I like the way it looks on you.' Harley swallowed, his fingers under her jaw felt the movement. 'Wear it for me.'
'Okay.' She breathed, skin singing where it made contact with his. He'd never touched her for this long before, Perhaps in times past she wouldn't have let him…
A/N: What did you think of that eh? Please do let me know, you have no idea how much i look forward to reading your reviews!
Next time: The Joker makes a big offer...