Chapter Five

Hunting the Shadows

Harley Quinn was trapped; surrounded by jabbering mouths and a void of indescribable nature.

The mouths cackled and wailed; their yellow teeth askew within the open maws; their purple lips contorted into monstrous shapes as the fleshy lumps formed around horrid noises. She tried to run, force her leaden legs to move, but the limbs wouldn't obey. Her entire body weighed down by the madness seeping through her from the essence of this void. Insanity osmosing through every pore, carried on the notes of His cackling – His recognizable voice mixing in with the laughter of all those victims who'd fallen prey to their final, greatest scheme. Harley hadn't been there. Hadn't seen the carnage with her own eyes, but she knew what they'd rent. Had borne witness to the full breadth of the laughter's curse as the Venom seeped into her skin, burning her for life. The mouths continued to laugh, jovial and tormented, and Harley Quinn laughed with them, beside herself with the most painful brand of glee imaginable. The kind that didn't bring any pleasure, only brought into stark contrast this creature she'd become at His accursed touch.

All she could do was let herself be consumed. Allow His madness to hook its talons into her bones, burrow into the marrow, pulse with every forced inhale and shuddering blink. Harley Quinn was nothing more than an extension of Him. A herald to His chaotic whims. Formed in His own image, the Eve to Adam's rib. So she fell, laughing and sobbing, into the tooth-filled void.

She didn't know how long she sank into the abyss. Time ceased to exist here, but eventually, somewhere deep in the undertow of lunacy, she saw a faint light off in the distance. A red-hued glimmer of illumination that radiated calm and sanctuary. It felt familiar, somehow, harkening to a forgotten haven. Harley spread out a hand, reaching for the red light, stretching as far as the limb could go. She moved – a fraction of an inch – towards the light before the claws of madness reaffirmed their hold. The talons dug in, hard enough to hurt, and she screamed as they pulled her back, into the formless void, swallowing the red light with it.

'Come back!'

And Harley Quinn screamed into the void.

"COME BACK!"

Harleen blinked, banishing the void, as the sight of her outstretched arm came into focus. She was sitting up in the motel bed, covered in sweat, panting for air while her heart pounded inside her chest. After a few moments her wits began to gather, her panic subsiding as she realized the nightmare was over and she was back in the relative safety of consciousness. Harleen took a deep breath, releasing it with a long, world-weary sigh as she collapsed back – limp limbed – onto the mattress.

She was, thankfully, wearing a fresh pair of clothes at the conclusion of this round of nightmares. The new pajamas she'd bought the previous day were comfortable and breathed well, allowing her damp skin to cool in the open air as she lay on the bed, banishing the tension with every slow exhale. After a few minutes of peaceful respite, Harleen forced herself upright and out of bed, checking the clock on the nightstand. It was past noon, later than she'd planned on sleeping, though if asked she could blame it on the alcohol. She wandered into the bathroom, washed her face (she'd taken the layer of makeup off last night before crawling into bed), brushed her teeth, and applied fresh deodorant.

Breakfast was a drawn-out affair. Harleen treated herself to a meal of protein bars and an energy drink, chewing the first chocolate and peanut butter flavored bar slowly as she looked out the motel window at the cloudy sky. She took her time eating, mulling over her strategies for how best to proceed from here. Oswald offered a promising lead in this Exterminator character, but Harleen knew better than to storm a potential hideout in broad daylight. No, she'd have to wait until nightfall, and that might pose a problem for the impatient powers that be. The blonde frowned when she finished a second protein bar, knowing what she had to do. She gathered her trash and tossed it in the provided bin, then retrieved her phone from the nightstand. Harleen pulled up the saved number, dialed, and offered the code phrase when prompted. Once again, she was treated to the stock classical music before it was cut off a few seconds later by the gruff and demanding voice of Amanda Waller.

"I was expecting an earlier call, Dr. Quinzel. I'm led to assume you slept in because of a hangover, but I find such a development odd since you bought no drinks while on the premises."

Harleen fought the urge to roll her eyes, her intuition telling her Miss Waller would catch the indignant expression despite the fact the other woman couldn't see her face. "I still have some friends in the Iceberg Lounge. They supplied the drinks free of charge, but fear not, I only had two. They might have made me sleepy, but I feel fine."

"Good, make sure it stays that way. I need you to keep your head clear while on this assignment." Waller paused, allowing her order to sink in before she continued. "Now, what did you find out?"

"I have a potential lead on my poison theory." Harleen tucked her free hand into the pocket of her pajama shorts as she returned to her previous spot in front of the motel window, staring out at the parking lot and city beyond. "Have you ever heard of someone who calls themselves 'The Exterminator'?"

"Absolutely not," Waller said in a harsher voice than was, perhaps, necessary. "They must be a new Rogue on the scene. And I thought the names couldn't get any worse."

"Our names may be shit, but we make up for it in aesthetics."

"And what part does this person play in your theory?"

"According to Oswald, he's the only Rogue in Gotham dealing with a potentially injectable poison. Everyone else prefers their gaseous toxins and the like, but not this Exterminator character." Harleen worried her lower lip between her teeth for a second. "Granted, I don't know the details of his poison's delivery mechanism yet, but there's an active homicide case Mr. Exterminator claims to be responsible for and the GCPD has yet to trace the origin of the poison used, implying it's a homebrew. So that checks two boxes off my list. Now, here's the kicker, this Exterminator was seen talking to your dead man at the Iceberg not long before he was murdered. And, based on your answer to my earlier question, your agent didn't mention the meetup in his reports."

"No doubt he thought this Exterminator character wasn't worth my time," Waller said a bit too quickly.

"But you're thorough. You like to see the full picture–"

"My men know better than to withhold pertinent information, Dr. Quinzel."

"Not my place to suggest lax attitudes among your government employees," Harleen said in a careful tone, "but your men are – at the end of the day – still human, and therefore fallible."

An awkward, tense silence passed between them. Harleen knew Amanda Waller wasn't considering the validity of her words. The older woman was too proud for that. Instead, she felt Waller silently realign the power in the room, shifting it back into her hands, and daring Harleen to challenge her further.

Waller continued when it became evident Harleen had nothing more to say. "Do you know where to find this Exterminator?"

"Oswald gave me an address near the harbor. I'll go tonight when I have more cover."

"And until then?"

Harleen shrugged. "I was going to wait it out."

"I told you, this assignment is not a vacation."

"Unfortunately, I don't have much of a choice here."

"Well, while you're waiting you can write up a summary of your visit to the Iceberg Lounge," Waller said in a commanding voice. "I expect descriptions of everyone you saw there and what they were doing, including which Rogues the gathered henchmen were aligned with. Once you're done, forward the documents to this same number. Might as well do something useful during your down time."

"Yes, ma'am," Harleen said, keeping the disappointment out of her tone.

Then Waller hung up. Harleen sighed as she slid her phone into her pocket. She stood, looking out the window at Gotham, for a few silent moments. The remaining dregs of the nightmare flashed within her mind; her skin still wet in places where the sweat hadn't fully dried. A small, weary smirk tugged at the corners of her pale lips.

"Ain't no rest for the wicked."

IXI

Harleen had finished the dreaded paperwork and sent it off by the time night fell, blanketing Gotham with sufficient darkness for the task at hand. She took her medication, changed into her uniform, went down to the motel's front desk, and had the clerk order her a taxi. A few minutes later her ride arrived, and Harleen instructed them to drop her off at the Iceberg Lounge. The drive was uneventful, Harleen stared out the rear seat window at the city, streetlights and faded neon signs passing in the night as they drove by. The man at the wheel was, thankfully, not talkative, and aside from the necessary pleasantries they arrived at her destination without any words said between them.

She retrieved her Street Rod from where she'd parked it the night before. Before climbing on, Harleen reached into the seat compartment and took out her beloved mallet handle. She affixed the weapon into its customary belt loop, the wooden rod hanging against the outside of her right thigh. Everything in order, she hopped into the seat and within minutes was back on the gritty streets of Gotham City, following the GPS directions towards the supposed hideout of this "Exterminator" character.

The Gotham Docks were home to a fleet of warehouses all bearing a rather seedy reputation. The manifestation of the old cliché of criminal activity convening at a busy city's waterfront. Mafia activity was prevalent in this area of Gotham, and sometimes Rogues would take up residence in one of the abandoned buildings, looking to turn it into a hideout or base for their villainous enterprises. The locale was, to be blunt, rather dull. Harley had spent many a night in the shadows of these tall structures, and they lacked the colorful appeal of Amusement Mile or the charm of Chinatown. Ordinary criminals had never done it for her. She thrived off good theatrics, and while the mafia was rife with drama and culture of its own, they couldn't hold a candle to the wild frontier Gotham's Rogues had carved out for themselves.

Harleen drove along the waterfront for a little bit before her GPS pinged that she'd arrived at her destination. She kept driving for a couple blocks, eventually turning into a dark alley. Harleen hid her bike in the shadows behind some forgotten large wooden crates and engaged the Street Rod's security system on the offhand chance someone came across it. Satisfied it was safe, Harleen rounded the back of the alley to the lesser lit rear of the buildings and stalked through the darkness towards her target.

The warehouse in question was of the old and rundown variety. Its brick exterior was falling apart and overrun with creeping ivy. The paneled glass windows had all fogged with age, with panes broken or missing at regular intervals. A smokestack rose from one end of the building, though in the darkness Harleen couldn't see if any smoke was rising out of it at present. Harleen liked to go in high, less chance of being caught when you came in from overhead, and glanced up, scanning for possible entry points. Her eyes caught on a window, about four stories above ground, open to let in the fresh air, its metallic frame glinting as it caught the dim light from distant streetlamps. She studied the route she'd need to take, noting the protruding bricks and thick ropes of ivy reaching all the way to the roof. Confident in her ability to avoid falling to her death, Harleen gripped the first footholds in the side of the wall and began to climb.

She took the ascent slow and with appropriate care. Her arms began to tremble slightly when she reached the third story, the result of her once hyper defined musculature withering away in the confines of Arkham Asylum, but Harleen powered through. She did rigorous calisthenics in her cell and lifted weights in the yard on the off weeks when she was allowed to go outside, but the combination of Jeremiah having her in a straitjacket more often than was necessary and the lack of a nutritionally substantial diet had led to a notable loss of muscle mass from her Rogue days. She was still a force to be reckoned with, strong enough to hold her own in a fight, but not the same powerhouse as in her prime. For a lifelong sportswoman the loss of any physical ability was unacceptable, and Harleen swore to herself, as she reached the open window and slid through, that – the moment she was released on parole – she was going to find the nearest twenty-four-hour gym and sign up for a lifetime membership.

Harleen landed on a grated metal floor a few feet below the window on the other side of the wall. The interior of the warehouse was nearly pitch black, and she reached into her utility belt to retrieve the compact pair of night vision goggles she kept on hand. Harleen fitted them over her eyes and turned them on, the blackness dissipating into a green tinted, yet clear, image.

The goggles revealed an industrial warehouse Harleen assumed had been used for processing goods arriving at the harbor back when it was still in operation. Massive sorting machines connected by conveyor belts crisscrossed throughout the warehouse's gargantuan interior space. Long abandoned pallets, crates, gaylords, and various other shipping supplies were strewn about; the detritus left behind by a sudden vacancy. Harleen had landed on an overhead catwalk, a way for previous employees to reach and walk along the overhead conveyors in the case of repairs or a jam on the belts. The walkway spanned the length of the building, its surface littered with trash and debris from a crumbling roof. Harleen began to pick her way towards the other end, making sure not to step in any piles of refuse to avoid making excess noise.

She took note of any light sources as she walked. Most of the available light (what little of it there was) came in through the surrounding windows – produced by streetlamps or reflected off the moon – but the only illumination inside the warehouse was at the ground level. As she got closer to the other side of the building, she caught sight of a hallway on the first floor leading into what she assumed had been the corporate offices. A bulb was on somewhere within, causing dim artificial light to seep onto the warehouse floor. Harleen headed for the hallway, keeping her perch high above, her ears alert for any manmade sound. Then, as she came along the outer wall, she picked up the faint tones of muffled voices; people conversing outside of her line of vision. She knew it was coming from somewhere within the hallway, but she couldn't get any closer without climbing down, and she was hesitant to give up the high ground without assessing potential threats first.

The blonde knelt at the edge of the catwalk, conflicted over what her next move should be, when serendipity smiled upon her. The voices grew louder, closer, and she waited with bated breath for her quarry to come into view. Less than thirty second later she saw them, three men emerging from the hallway into the warehouse proper. They were, at first sight, your typical goons. Burly and well-built, two of them were quite tall while the third man was of average height, though he made up for the potential disadvantage by having the biggest muscles out of all three. Oddly enough, they were not dressed in a standardized uniform. Two were wearing typical street clothes; jeans, one with a graphic shirt and a leather jacket, the other a pull-over fleece. Only one man – the tallest – was dressed in anything resembling henchman's attire. He wore an all-black version of a chemical safety suit, with brown combat boots and sure grip gloves. At least, Harleen assumed it was an underworld uniform. She'd never seen anything like it before, but it would fall in line with the type of image one would expect a Rogue calling themselves 'The Exterminator' would want to cultivate.

She saw one of the men reach for a nearby light switch and she managed to rip her goggles off before he switched it on, avoiding being temporarily blinded by the rows of bulbs that lit up down the lines of the first floor of the warehouse. Harleen returned the goggles to their designated place in her utility belt now that she no longer needed them. The provided light wasn't impressive, a few bulbs flickered in and out, and the stacks of crates and gaylords cast large blocks of shadow across the floor. The three men were still gathered by the entrance to the hallway, close enough for their conversation to drift up to her as they continued speaking.

"Hey, Mack," the goon in the leather jacket said, head inclined towards the man in the black safety suit. "I was wondering about something."

"Yeah?" the man in black said in a gruff voice.

"Well, we were talking earlier, before you arrived, and thing is we've been working this gig for a couple of weeks. And we figured we'd be wanting some uniforms by now. You know, something like what you're wearing. All official."

Mack made a grunting sound. "You want digs like mine you've gotta earn it first, boy. Takes more than a few rounds of guard duty to make an impression in this gang."

"Seems like a dumb way of doing things," the third man in the pull-over fleece said. "When I ran with Riddler he got us decked out in the green right away. It was all about presence with him. Letting the city know who ran the streets wherever we went. It was… what's the word?" He paused. "Effective, right."

"Exactly," Leather Jacket chimed in. "We want to announce ourselves, like, that's what Rogue henchmen do."

"The boss works different." Mack crossed his bulky arms over his broad chest, looking down at the other two men. "You can either accept how he does things, or you can find a new job."

Leather Jacket held up his hands in a placating gesture. "This isn't a formal complaint, like, this gig pays well and all. I just thought, you know, we – how'd you say – earned the recognition from all the hard work we've been putting in."

"Well, you'll be one degree closer to earning a uniform once you've finished your sweep," Mack said in a biting tone that left no room for argument.

Pull-Over Fleece placed a hand on Leather Jacket's shoulder and pulled him backwards a couple paces. "No need to be a dick, man," he said to Mack as he steered the other goon away, "we're going."

Mack glared at them as they retreated. "And don't ask again. I'll tell you when you're ready."

The boss turned and walked away, leaving his underlings behind. The two men slapped at each other as they muttered in low voices, too quiet for Harleen to hear, but she could guess what was being said well enough. After a few moments their squabble concluded, and they split up, all three henchmen taking different paths as they began to sweep the first floor of the warehouse. Mack went in a straight line down the interior, maneuvering around stacked crates as he walked, while the other men traveled around the outside perimeter.

Harleen waited upon the catwalk, watching the men retreat, noting where they were in relation to herself and each other. Once they were all out of direct line of sight to the hallway entrance, the blonde decided to make her move. She hopped over the walkway's railing, down onto a conveyor belt about a floor below. Her landing was silent, years of gymnastics training paying off in spades, and she moved quickly, descending onto a tall stack of crates next, moving down them like steppingstones, hopping from one to the next in light footed grace until Harleen dropped to the ground floor of the warehouse in a nimble crouch. She glanced around, verifying she hadn't been seen, and dashed forward on silent feet, into the relative safety of the hallway from whence the men had emerged.

The hallway was short, immediately branching off to her left into a longer corridor. There was only one light on near the end, explaining why the illumination was so lacking. The exposed fluorescent bulbs hummed and flickered a bit as a determined fly kept colliding into one, relentless in its doomed pursuit. Four doors lined the hallway; one on her left, two on her right, and one ominously held in shadows at the end of the hall. Harleen tried the door on her left, finding it locked and proceeding onwards. The first door on her right opened into a small, abandoned office; its furniture overturned and dusty, lightbulb blown out when she tried the switch. Deeming it a dead end, she closed the door and proceeded to the next one. She opened it, revealing a broom closet filled with cleaning supplies and various office necessities. Harleen returned the door to its closed position and moved on, to the last remaining door. The overhead lights flickered violently as she approached, casting the hall in darkness for staggered seconds as the blonde reached for the bronze handle. Slowly, she turned the knob, finding the door unlocked, and pushed it open, tiptoeing inside.

She found herself standing inside a decent-sized office she assumed belonged to the warehouse foreman back in the days of operation. The large windows on the wall opposite the door were boarded over. The office was somewhat dark, save for the rays of light from a nearby streetlamp bleeding through the gaps between boards which cast long, thin, yellow-tinted streaks over the room, and the harsh glow emanating from the active screens of two working computer monitors set up on the desk in front of her. Harleen quickly noted the rest of the room's furnishings as she rounded the desk, towards the electronics. A series of old file cabinets stood against the right wall, and an empty particle board bookcase took up the left. A ratty rolling office chair stood behind the desk, and she pushed it away with a slight flick of her wrist as she perched in front of the illuminated monitors. Immediately she was confronted with two lock screens, the password entry field mocking her with silent glee. She had no clue what the correct answer was, and she wasn't going to waste her time trying to guess. To her chagrin, she'd have to find a clue elsewhere.

Harleen started with the desk. Aside from the dual monitors, wireless keyboard, and mouse, the desk's surface was completely bare. She began to rifle through the drawers below, finding the first couple full of various leftover office supplies from the warehouse's final tenants; pens, sticky notes, paperclips, and the like. Nothing a criminal enterprise would consider necessary for its operations. Still, she pressed on, sifting through every drawer with thorough hands and eyes, until she reached the bottom. Then, when she opened the final drawer, she was met with something unexpected. A rather vacant interior, containing only a short stack of empty manilla folders, but there was a crumpled-up sheet of letter paper thrown haphazardly inside. Harleen's hand darted out, snatching the white ball, and stood, unfurling it with her fingers as she held it up to the available light.

On one side of the discarded paper was a map. Obviously hand-drawn, the lines were squiggly and chicken scratches, giving the entire image a rather crude appearance. Based on what she could decipher, the map marked a two-mile long winding trail through what was either a wooded area or a field, dotted with landmarks such as "knobby willow tree" and "red-ringed rocks". There were no clearly identifying labels written on the map. Nothing to indicate where this trail was or where it led, aside from a black square unhelpfully marked with an "X" at the end. Still, she could sense its importance, and she carefully folded the sheet into a neat square before storing it in one of her jacket pockets. Her search of the desk concluded, she moved on to the nearby file cabinets. A few quick tugs on the handles revealed all the drawers were locked. She was reaching into her utility belt for the lockpicking kit she kept on hand when she heard the soft yet telltale sound of a doorknob turning.

Harleen's ears pricked up, all her senses coming to life as she turned towards the source of the noise. She moved in quick, fluid motions as the door to the office slowly swung inward. The blonde retrieved the mallet handle from its holster against her side and pressed her thumb against the circular base of the handle, where the word "POW!" was written, activating a hidden button. Harleen adjusted her grip on the handle, cradling it in both hands as the weapon silently whirred to life. The top of the cylinder opened, and a long metal rod expanded from within the handle itself. It extended outwards a few feet before a shorter ribbed section appeared at the top of the rod. Then, the ribbed section ballooned outward, forming a hollow, skeletal shape of a circular mallet head. Thin plates spread out from between the metal ribbing, fusing them together in a solid drum, and completing the signature weapon of one Harley Quinn.

The first thing she saw was gray smoke, illuminated by the end of a lit cigarette. Then, as the door opened wider, the uniformed man known as "Mack" appeared in the threshold. He sauntered inside; eyes closed for a brief second as he took a long inhale off his cigarette. She'd reached him by the time his eyelids opened, his gaze landing on her, a startled expression quickly overtaking his features. His hand moved towards his side, but Harleen was faster.

"What the–" was all he managed to say before she struck.

Harleen had mastered the art of swinging a mallet over the years. She knew the right amount of force to put behind a swing to knock a grown man out without killing him. Sure, she often left a concussion in her wake, but that could be treated easily enough and was better than leaving a longer string of bodies behind her. The mallet head collided with the top of Mack's skull on her downward swing. He crumpled to the floor in a limp heap, immediately rendered unconscious by the blow. Harleen dropped her mallet and quickly pulled him further inside the room, so he wasn't lying half in the open hallway. She propped him up against the adjoining wall and left him for a moment as she rushed silently to the broom closet. She pulled the door open, scanning the inside for appropriate tools. Within seconds she spotted suitable candidates and grabbed an old, dirty cloth and cheap extension cord. Arms full, she returned to the office and closed the door behind her.

She worked quickly, binding the man's hands behind him with the extension cord and gagging him with the old cloth. Once bound, Harleen set about searching him for clues. Mack groaned a bit as she patted him down, but she ignored the muffled sounds. There was a gun strapped to the uniform belt around his waist. She removed the clip, hid it inside one of the desk drawers, and tossed the gun in a nearby wastebasket. The blonde checked his pockets next, finding them empty aside from a cell phone with a thick rubber case to protect it from the rough and tumble lifestyle of a goon.

The screen lit up when she pressed the power button, the option to unlock using a fingerprint or pin number appearing on the lock screen. Harleen grabbed Mack's right hand, sticking his thumb out and pressing it against the whorled icon until the phone vibrated and the home screen appeared. Smiling to herself, Harleen opened the Settings screen and scrolled down to password management. Her joy was cut short as she found herself faced with another lock screen when she went to edit the saved credentials, this time requiring the pin specifically. She chewed on her lower lip as she entered random numbers, hoping he'd gone with the default auto-complete option, and was relieved to see an error message pop up automatically after only four digits.

Well, that mystery would be easy enough to solve. Harleen exited the menu and pulled up the calendar, scanning through the months for saved dates. She came across a couple birthdays, one for someone called "Stacey" and another for "Nona". The man's birthday was in September, but she knew that was too obvious an answer to be his pin. She was mulling over which woman was more important to him when Harleen spied an event saved on November 25th, titled "Caesar's Gotcha Day". Harleen didn't bother checking December. She returned immediately to password management and entered one-one-two-five. Sure enough, the digits went through, and the smile returned to her face. Animals always came first, even for henchmen. Access granted, Harleen changed the pin number and biometrics to her own credentials and turned off all GPS location tracking. Then, she stashed the phone in her jacket, intending to go over the contents later.

Her attention turned to the chemical safety suit the man was wearing. The outfit was entirely black, save for a hitherto unseen white logo printed on the right side where a chest pocket would be. Harleen leaned in and studied it carefully. The image appeared to be the silhouette of an animal hybrid between a rat and a cockroach; the body and legs clearly Rodentia but with bug-like wings sprouting from its back. She didn't recognize the logo from anywhere, and Harleen took a quick photo of it with her government phone for documenting purposes.

Sensing she was on borrowed time – and having gathered all the evidence she needed – Harleen retrieved her weapon, left the bound and gagged goon behind, snuck into the hallway, and closed the office door softly behind her. Fully formed mallet in hand, she quickly made her way back to the end of the hallway, where it turned into the warehouse proper. Harleen stopped at the bend and listened for any sign of movement nearby. Nothing reached her ears, but she endeavored to be cautious. The blonde placed her mallet against the wall before she reached into her utility belt and withdrew a small mirror attached to a retractable, thin metal rod. She expanded the rod and, holding one end, extended the mirror into the hallway. Harleen could see its reflection from her angle and was relieved to have a vacant warehouse shown back at her. She picked up her mallet, and lightly jogged around the corner, performing the check twice more before returning the device to its home in her utility belt, and entered the expansive room.

Once out of the relative safety of the hallway, Harleen looked around for the quickest escape route. She wouldn't easily be able to go back the way she came, the descent much faster and more discreet than the climb. After a few moments of searching, she spotted an open bay door to her left, on the North side of the warehouse. She was moving at once, running in silence up the row of abandoned cargo until she reached another sharp turn near the end of the line. Harleen was about to place her mallet down, reaching for her utility belt already, when – without warning – the man in the leather jacket turned the corner and almost ran headlong into her.

He jumped back; eyes wide as he took in the sight of her. "Oh shit!"

It all happened in a blur. Leather Jacket moved faster than Harleen would have expected. He had impressive reflexes, she had to give him that, probably the result of full-contact sports training in his youth. With his right hand he reached for a gun nestled in a shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket, the movement in sync with her raising the mallet up and back. As he pulled the gun out, she strafed to the left, forcing him to rotate to aim the barrel at her. Harleen swung the mallet in a horizontal arc, counterclockwise to her footwork, the head colliding with the back of his right hand. The mallet drove his hand into an adjacent wooden crate; flesh, metal, and lumber colliding with a sickening crunch as the force of the blow broke delicate bones. The gun discharged as the man cried out in agony, the weapon fell from his grasp and clattered to the warehouse floor.

Blood spurted from the mangled hand as Harleen pulled the mallet away, intending to hit him again, when the man sprang into action. He adopted a southpaw stance (a boxer, of course), pivoted, and threw a savage left-cross with his good hand aimed at the blonde's head. She was able to dodge the blow, ducking to the side, as she tried to back up to allow more room for swinging the mallet, but Leather Jacket moved with her, encroaching as she rushed backwards. He followed it up with a left hook, which he choreographed ahead of time by raising his elbow. Before he even threw the punch Harleen was falling backwards, ducking into a somersault as the fist careened through empty air. Once her feet returned to the concrete floor she sprung back a few more feet, the man returning to his neutral stance after another failed attack.

They eyed each other for a few, tense seconds as both combatants took stock of the other. Then, Leather Jacket's eyes slid to the gun lying on the floor near his feet. As one, they moved, the man crouching to grab the discarded weapon and Harleen bringing the mallet back. He grabbed the gun's handle as she swung in an overhead arc, he turned, trying to aim, but he wasn't fast enough. The mallet collided against his skull with a hollow thud. He crumpled immediately, knocked unconscious by her blow, and the gun once again clattered useless to the floor.

Harleen didn't have the opportunity to search him. She was moving again at the sound of frantic footsteps heading towards her. The blonde rounded the nearby corner as a gun went off and a bullet blew a chunk of wood off the crate next to her. She ran down the line until she reached a blockade in the maze of crates and gaylords and took a sharp turn to her right, hearing the third man thundering behind her.

"Get back here!" he screamed in vain.

Harleen hit the button on the bottom of her mallet handle as she ran, returning it to its more manageable state and shoving it into her thigh holster. She ran down a narrow strip in between a high row of crates and a raised conveyor belt, hearing Pull-Over Fleece getting closer behind her, but she found no feasible escape route and would soon end up being an easy shot. She spotted some lower-hanging rods attached to a support beam for the conveyor belt overhead and Harleen leapt, her hands wrapping around the horizontal bar, and with a practiced swing from years of intensive gymnastics she vaulted herself into the air, angling herself up and over, before she landed in a graceful crouch atop the raised conveyor belt.

She was running again a split second later. The conveyor belt lane was fairly large; wide enough for two gaylords to stand side by side without issue. A shout of recognition came from below and she started to maneuver in a staggered, serpentine pattern to throw off the henchman's aim. Another shot rang out, and the bullet missed, whizzing past her head and lodging into a nearby gaylord. Harleen dodged around packages left on the belt and leapt over a couple of discarded piles of refuse. The man was running on the ground alongside the conveyor belt, aiming at the fleeing women with his unsteady gun hand. She dodged another wayward bullet and, determining she was too out in the open, looked for the nearest exit off the conveyor belt. There was a large, tiered row of crates off to her right, offering a foothold and cover at the same time, and the blonde vaulted over the belt's low railing and ran into the relative safety the crates provided.

Her pace slowed as she ran across the unsteady tops of the closed crates. The boards were starting to rot and liable to break if she misplaced a foot. Eventually she rounded a bend and stopped, pressing her back against the crate next to her and took a few deep breaths as she tried to listen for the goon's footsteps. Then, she heard him, coming from the direction of the conveyor belt, the sounds of his heavy footfalls echoing in the sudden silence of the warehouse.

"You should come out now, you know," he called into the emptiness.

She heard him getting closer, stalking down the row, knowing she was nearby but not being able to locate her.

"A little girl like you, out here all alone, you stand no chance against us by yourself."

Harleen stayed quiet as she reached into her utility belt.

"I'll go easy on you if you surrender."

She retrieved a small, inconspicuous metal ball from her belt. There was a T junction nearby, where the goon would eventually make his appearance when he got to the end of the line. Harleen tossed the ball away from her, down the right turn of the junction, the sound of the clatter loud enough for the man to hear. She ducked behind the surrounding crates and waited, eyes on the warehouse beneath her as she waited for the goon to take the bait. His footsteps grew louder, more frequent, and she saw him come into view, gun poised and at the ready. The ball was still rolling audibly away, and he turned in its direction, putting his back to her, stalking down the new row of crates.

"You're not quiet, doll. I'll find you."

She watched him look around, unable to find his target despite the noise.

"Know what? I'll make you a deal. See?" He holstered his gun, holding his hands up in a placative gesture. "I put my gun away. Promise I won't shoot you so long as you come along nicely."

Despite his words, Pull-Over Fleece reached down and picked up a metal bar lying on the nearby ground. Broken off from a shipment or simply the result of the warehouse slowly falling apart around them. Harleen pressed the "POW!" button in turn, letting her mallet reform in preparation. Then, a soft pop echoed throughout the warehouse, her cue to move in. She jogged forward, keeping to the top of the first layer of crates as she approached the goon from behind. The henchman also picked up his pace, raising the bar as he drew closer to the source of the noise.

"That's right, no more playing–"

The metal ball burst at his feet, releasing a cloud of off-white smoke. The man coughed as it filled his lungs, waving his arms as he staggered backwards. Harleen gave up all pretense of stealth, running towards him, over the crates before leaping through the air with her mallet swung back behind her head, ready to smash against his skull. He flailed around, either alerted to her presence by a noise or seeing her in time through sheer luck. The goon raised his metal bar as she came bearing down, and both weapons collided with a loud clanging. The vibrations set them both off kilter, and the combatants staggered back for a fraction of a second before they were on each other again, each out for blood.

She went in for his kneecaps first, swinging low, but the goon jumped over her mallet, more nimble than she'd given him credit for. He followed up with a series of fast swings with his less cumbersome bar. He held it like a baseball bat, going for her head in two successive attempts she blocked with her mallet both times. The goon shifted his grip and followed up the attacks with a vertical downward swing. Harleen dodged to the side, pressing her body back against the adjacent row of crates. Growling at her evasiveness, he made a clumsy attempt at hitting her face again, standing upright before swinging, allowing her to avoid it with ease. She ducked, falling into a backwards handspring, her legs coming up beneath him with the movement and before he could reposition himself Harleen kicked him square in the jaw with her booted feet.

The goon stumbled backwards as she twirled through the air, landing back on her feet once the maneuver was completed. The blow had dazed him, and she used the opening to lunge forward, driving the handle of her mallet into his solar plexus. He made a hollow grunting sound, falling to his knees as his right hand gripped his side, his left hand – still holding the metal bar – balled in a fist against the concrete floor. In a flash, Harleen brought her mallet back, swung in an overhead arc, and brought the head down upon his left hand. The sound of a loud, sickening crunch coincided with a jagged scream of pain wrenched from the man's lips. Harleen didn't need to see the evidence to know, based on his hand's position around the metal bar, his fingers were now little more than mush if not severed completely.

Harleen waited for the man's screams to die down a little bit before she spoke. "It's not nice to hit a lady. Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"

He bared his teeth at her; hard gaze meeting the blonde's. "Fuck you."

Harleen shifted her stance, pushing her foot underneath the mallet head before removing it and standing up straight. The goon continued to glare at her, breathing ragged from both the stomach blow and the sheer amount of pain he was in. The blonde adopted a stern expression as she applied some pressure on his broken hand with her foot, causing him to cry out once again.

"What's the password to the office computer?" she asked.

"I-I don't know."

She applied more weight. He gasped and a full body shudder coursed through him.

"Shit, man!" he said through gritted teeth. "I'm being fucking honest, I-I'm a new hire. They don't trust anyone just off the streets with that info. The computers were Mack's thing, he's a vet."

"What about the warehouse, then? Is this a base?"

"It was up until a few months ago. The boys cleared it of anything important, but the vets want to keep it on the back burner, ya know. They assigned me to patrol in case the cops come snooping around, plus we still get new hires showing up from time to time. Mack or another vet has to be around to give them the rundown."

"Know anything else?" she asked in a hard tone.

He shook his head. "N-no, nothing."

She ground her foot into his hand again. He cried out, clawing uselessly at her foot with his still-intact hand.

"Swear to Christ!" Tears were running down his face now, but Harleen felt no ounce of guilt for this man who had repeatedly tried to murder her. "I'm too new! They don't trust me yet! I'm just a fucking security guard!"

Harleen studied his body language for open signs of dishonesty and found none. He was telling the truth, or at least whatever version of the truth he personally believed. After a protracted moment, she stepped back, relieving the pressure on his broken hand.

"Thank you for your cooperation," she said as she towered over him.

Then, with another quick swing of her mallet, Harleen knocked the man unconscious. Once he fell limp she was running back the way she came, towards the open bay door. Leather Jacket would be waking up soon – if not already somewhat cognizant – and while he'd be groggy and probably concussed, she had no doubt he'd raise the alarm. Thankfully it was a quick journey to the exit and within a minute Harleen sprinted out into the adjacent alley. She booked it for her bike, feet slamming loudly against the asphalt as she ran, heart pounding delightfully in her chest on the rush of adrenaline.

Harleen disengaged the security feature the moment her bike came into view. She hopped on without breaking stride, pulled the helmet over her head, started the engine, and sped away into the night. Her mind alight with the thrill of a successful venture, feeling the metaphorical weight of the gathered evidence in her pockets. A smile lit up the blonde's face despite herself. Because it was these moments – facing a literal firing line and coming out unscathed – where both Harleen and Harley felt truly alive. The distinction between the two fading away to nothing.

And then, as she passed beneath rows of streetlights, Harleen let herself laugh.

Just for a moment.

End Note: Bit of a transition chapter into the next phase of the story, but I tried to make it enjoyable and engaging all the same.

As always, a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has engaged with this story thus far, whether by leaving a comment/review or even just being a silent reader. Stories are meant to be shared, and it's always an encouragement to see that people are reading this fun, personal foray into some of my favorite media.