Author's Note: As this story progresses, I should note my version of Gotham City's urban design/layout isn't based off any singular supplementary material. The city's geography has varied wildly over the decades and shifted between writers, which doesn't help when trying to figure out where things are in relation to each other. So, I have a few different maps with notable locales I'm using for references, but I'm borrowing neighborhoods and locations from various canons as needed.
Chapter Four
Adrift at Sea
The rest of Harleen Quinzel's day was rather uneventful.
Amanda Waller had escorted her out of the hidden bunker with a verbal threat of vague yet serious repercussions if Harleen let any hint of the compound's existence slip into the public consciousness. Harleen reassured her master that – as someone who still hadn't told Jeremiah all her ex's secret hideout locations despite a series of "persuasive measures" – Gotham's secret government installation was safe with her. Waller took the reassurance as promise enough and let her go without further conversation.
Harleen took a detour to a nearby outlet store and bought some cheap lounging and sleep clothes so she wouldn't have to spend all her time at the motel naked. Shopping complete, she drove her bike back to the Black Swan and spent the ensuing hours catching up on sleep. She awoke past nine in the evening, feeling much more refreshed, and after downing a lukewarm energy drink was wide awake. Harleen combed out her hair, reapplied her foundation and added a touch of turquoise eyeshadow and pink lip gloss for the sake of formality. Oswald placed a lot of stock in the virtue of appearances, and she found him much more agreeable when she put some purported effort into making herself attractive to his eyes.
Not the most feminist of undertakings, to be sure, but Gotham's underworld had no regard for promoting gender equality. It thrived off catering to the male gaze, and there was a reason why the mere handful of women who entered its depths chose to accentuate their sexuality rather than bury it. Harleen knew firsthand that throwing a leather and latex bound female into a skirmish was enticement enough to set all her opponents off kilter, affording her a fleeting moment – as they hesitated, staring at her in slack-jawed, lustful fascination – in which to smash their skulls in. Harley had reveled in her own sex appeal, used it to sway criminals and law-abiding citizens alike to her crazed wiles. Harleen liked to think she was more sophisticated than her alter ego, but sometimes it still paid to play the game.
Night had fully descended on Gotham by the time she made her way to the Iceberg Lounge. The club was located in the Diamond District, the ritzy Downtown neighborhood where the social betters lived and thrived. The moment Harleen crossed the bridge there was a noticeable shift in the cityscape. The trash and graffiti lessened to a great extent, not fully eradicated but at least kept under control, and public art installations abounded, giving the grim gothic architecture some spots of color to help offset its overbearing ambiance. The Lounge was distinguishable from the surrounding buildings by the bright purple neon signage cutting through the softer glow of streetlights. Its dark, baroque style facades in stark contrast to the smooth metal and glass faces of the adjoining buildings. Harleen drove her Street Rod into the adjacent parking garage and paid Oswald's blood money with government funds, a small, pleased smirk on her lips as she charged the fee with her mysterious credit card. She stowed her mallet handle into her motorcycle's seat compartment, not having a way to smuggle it inside without being caught. The rubber bullet gun would have to do if trouble came calling.
She exited the garage and entered the small throng of people gathered outside the Lounge. Her eyes cast over the gathered patrons and noted they were well dressed, rich Gotham elites willing to overlook the criminal element of Oswald's past for the opportunity to take selfies at Gotham's most popular night life destination. A few noticeable characters in color coordinated outfits were mixed among the lot, though the yuppies didn't pay them any heed. Harleen decided to ignore the elites in kind and pushed her way through the double, carved oak doors.
The first room was a reception area decorated in a style akin to what Harleen would expect to find in an old theater from the turn of the twentieth century. Bronze fixtures lined the walls decked out in extravagant beige and cream wallpaper. A crystal and wrought iron chandelier hung from the ceiling, its branches adorned in endless strings of intricately cut glass which reflected the light in shimmering rays. A large, mahogany desk separated the reception area from the doors leading into the club proper. Three employees worked behind it, checking guests in under the watchful eyes of burly bouncers wearing ironed suits. Harleen diverted around the waiting crowd, cut in front of the line, and sauntered up to the maître d' standing at the right end of the desk; a dark-haired woman in a tuxedo and bowtie. The woman's eyes were fixed on the desk, writing something into a ledger or screen hidden from Harleen's line of view due to the sharp curve of the wooden surface.
"Evening, ma'am," the woman said as Harleen approached, both of them ignoring the indignant huffs of the people the blonde had cut in front of. None of the waiting patrons would dare to make a scene, they both knew. Any attempt at physical conflict was immediately crushed within the Iceberg Lounge. All guests submitted to the ever-watchful eyes of Penguin and his loyal, effective employees. "Welcome to." The woman paused as she looked up; the tilt of her eyebrows belaying her surprise as her eyes landed on Harleen. "Oh… it's you."
"Hello, Raven," the blonde said in an easy, welcoming tone.
Despite Harleen's attempt at friendliness, Raven's expression morphed into one of discontent. "So, they let you out again? Shame, Gotham's gotten a bit quieter without clowns running around. I like it that way. It's nice. Would hate to see someone upset the balance, yeah?" Raven's eyes make a quick, darting scan of the awaiting customers. "You bring any of your GCPD friends with you?"
"I'm alone tonight. Just stretching my legs after a long stint in Arkham and figured I could use a drink."
"You better keep it that way." Raven leaned in, her nostrils flaring. "I mean it, Harley, if I get a whiff of the cops being here so help me God–"
"I'll behave," Harleen said with a wave of her hand, choosing to ignore the woman's use of the wrong moniker. "I'm not here to rat anyone out."
"You use that same line on Killer Croc?"
A tense silence fell between them. Harleen knew the dark-haired woman was baiting her, trying to provoke a violent reaction or incur any reason to have the bouncers throw her out. Still, they both knew Oswald allowed Harleen to patronize his club so long as she played by the rules. Simply showing up didn't count as a violation, and Harleen would not stoop to Raven's level.
"If the club gets raided tonight then you have my permission to shoot me," Harleen said; her expression remained calm and collected.
Raven scoffed. "I didn't need it." Another long moment passed before the dark-haired woman jerked her head towards the doors behind her. "Fine, go on in, but if you don't behave I'll drag you out myself."
Harleen tipped her cap to the other woman as she meandered around the desk towards the doors to the club proper. She nodded up at the tall, bulky bouncer standing nearby. He'd patted down entering guests for concealed weapons as Harleen chatted with Raven but made no move towards the blonde as she approached.
"Brett," Harleen said. "How's the baby girl?"
"Harleen." The bouncer responded with a nod of his own, face forcing a stern expression despite the twinkle of a smile in his eyes. "She's good, just had her first birthday."
"Congratulations." Harleen grasped the metal door handle. "Give her a kiss for me, will ya?"
"Will do."
With that, the blonde pushed the door inward and entered the Iceberg Lounge.
The club's interior was a single, massive room built in a circular shape. It had two floors, with the upstairs consisting of a wraparound balcony open to the throngs below. Extravagant, black leather upholstered booths with wooden tables and marble lighting fixtures lined the edges of the space, filled with well-dressed patrons dining on tapas dishes and drinking overpriced cocktails. A raised stage on the far end hosted a live jazz band and DJ, the musicians playing in sync to produce a genre-fused track projected throughout the entire club. The crowd gathered on the wood tiled dancefloor all swayed in drunken discordance to the upbeat music. In the center of the room, surrounded on all sides by the dancefloor, was a sight generally reserved for an aquarium or a zoo. A cordoned off saltwater pool exhibit, home to live seals and penguins, the marine animals reclining and waddling on a gargantuan iceberg sculpture which rose so high it touched the ceiling. The air in the room was kept cool to accommodate the arctic life and reduce the combined body heat of intoxicated patrons. In keeping with the aquatic theme, the lights illuminating the club were all colored in shades of blue, and projectors cast a rippling water effect across the entire ceiling.
Harleen's eyes kept wandering to the other patrons as she made her way through the crowd towards the staircase, studying the strangers with more scrutiny than was necessary. Her gaze lingered on each piece of expensive jewelry. Marked a set-aside purse or the bulge of a wallet within a pant pocket. Harley squirmed within her at the sight, called out, begging for a chance to play.
"Look at these suckers, wearin' this shit in the Iceberg, like they don't even care the baddies are out! We'd be doin' them a favor, hun. Teach 'em a lesson they won't forget."
But Harley could keep her thieving hands to herself tonight. They were here on business.
The blonde climbed the stairs to the sizeable second floor balcony. The crowd up here was more subdued – the opposite of what one would expect considering the underworld types tended to gather above the dance floor. One of the Iceberg's unspoken rules was everyone inside, no matter who you worked for or what level of fame you amassed, would be on their best behavior within its walls. No fights between rivals allowed on the premises. No leniency for acts of theft or villainy if you were caught. Oswald was, after all, running a legitimate business here, and a positive public image was an invaluable asset in the night club scene. Harleen's eyes cut first to the darkened private booth overlooking the club below. No bodyguards stood sentry outside, indicating Penguin was elsewhere, though – knowing him – not too far.
Harleen headed to the long, polished wood bar dominating an entire wall of the balcony; one hundred feet in length and manned by three bartenders ready to assist awaiting patrons. There were plenty of people seated at the counter, but the far end was empty and Harleen sauntered up to a chair, sliding into her designated spot. She'd been seated for less than ten seconds before the nearest bartender approached. She didn't recognize the man, but he – same as the other bartenders on staff at the Lounge – was dressed in a classic 1950s bar uniform, complete with black dress pants and tie, white collared shirt, and red velvet suit jacket. The man's dark hair was sufficiently coiffed, and he offered her a welcoming smile as she settled in.
"Good evening, ma'am, what can I get you?" the bartender asked.
"I'd like an Old Fashioned on the rocks, hold the cherries, and an espresso martini," she responded at once, not even sparing a moment to pretend to mull over her options.
An odd look passed across the bartender's face. One of slight confusion mixed with an uncomfortable realization. "Pardon me, ma'am, but I'll have to make a call into the kitchen first. Once I get that squared away, I'll have those drinks right out for you."
Harleen nodded. "I appreciate it."
The bartender stepped back and headed for a corded phone installed in the back wall. She watched him dial a short extension and speak into the receiver in a hushed voice, so low his words couldn't be distinguished over the din of music and disjointed conversations. Still, she had a general sense of what the conversation entailed and knew she wouldn't have to wait long.
Harleen's eyes drifted over the other customers gathered at the bar, observing and cataloguing them in her spare time. Most of the patrons wore subtle color coordinated outfits, signaling their various allegiances to those who knew the code. A couple of Eddie's boys were here, a smattering of Penguin's own henchmen, and a small gaggle of Scarecrow's nurses cajoled each other at the opposite end of the bar, their uproarious laughter carrying down to Harleen's ears. There were a few unaligned men and women at the bar, wearing unfamiliar colors of the fame hungry newcomers or no coordination at all, pledging allegiance only to themselves. Harleen had always found these types the most intriguing, those who sought to carve their own name among the established Gotham legends. She'd been one of them once, crazed and out of her mind with a mad love, but obsessed with staking her claim to history. Somewhere, in the darkest part of her soul, Harleen Quinzel was still enthralled by the idea, though she took care to never indulge.
She noticed a nearby group of four men were watching her in turn. Though not out of similar curiosity, their eyes held the recognizable glint of lustful intent as they sized up a lone woman. Predators seeking their prey. Harleen resisted the urge to frown when she took stock of their outfits. Achromatic tailored suits split down the middle by a vertical line. On one side of the demarcation white was the dominant color; on the other side it was black. Her fingers toyed with the lollipops in her jacket pocket. She didn't have time to fend off their advances, but knew it was unavoidable.
The bartender finished his call and turned, nodding in affirmation to Harleen, before going to tend to his other clients. She waited in silence for Harvey's thugs to make their move. Harleen watched them out of the corner of her eye, not bothering to give them her full attention, and saw them chatting each other up, pausing every so often to leer at her. After a couple minutes one of them – the tallest and probable leader – straightened, brushed the front of his suit jacket with his hands, and casually sauntered over to her, a lecherous smile on his face as he tried to catch her eye.
"Hello, beautiful," the man said as he reached her, leaning against the counter in an all-too casual manner. "I see the bartender left you high and dry. Not a fair play, I'd say. A lady like you deserves a man's full attention, and some company too."
Her blue eyes cut to the stranger for a moment. Harleen was, decidedly, not in the mood. In truth, she never was for this sort of thing. Romance and flirtation had been eternally soured for her over the course of the past seven years, and even if she had an inkling of interest in this man Harleen would never pursue. She was, simply put, incapable of fostering a romantic relationship. Couldn't trust herself to follow such inclinations ever again.
But cocky try hards were an eternal pox upon womankind.
"I don't need company," Harleen said in a stern voice. "I'm waiting for a friend."
"Well, you can make one in the meantime," the man said without skipping a beat. He leaned forward, his smile widening, flashing her an awkward view of too many teeth. "Let me buy you a drink. My treat, babe."
A switch went off in Harleen's brain at the flirtation. A sudden shift without warning or premonition; triggered by the use of a pet name that fell so easily from this stranger's lips. Memories flashed within her mind. A torrent of visions plucked from all the times in her life when someone had called her such sweet words. Had used flattery's wiles to bend her to her knees.
"Sweetie."
A lonely man trapped in a cage, begging her.
"Pumpkin."
The caress of a supposedly loving hand.
"Harley-girl!"
Words spoken in fervor, both illustrious and enraged.
"Puddin'."
The memory of the word was all it took.
Suddenly Harley was there, overtaking her mind. Her inclinations altered accordingly, initial plan to ignore this man cast aside in favor of toying with what was now her prey. Harleen slipped away into a fog, and there – leaning against the bar – she forgot how to be Harleen in the first place. You only knew how to be yourself, right? Couldn't conform your mentality and behaviors to another person's lived experience and all that psycho-babble bullshit. And that was the crux of it, really, when the shift in personality traits happened. Harley Quinn didn't know how to be anything other than her bubbly self.
And while Harley loved to dole out nicknames to her favorite people, no one was allowed to call her pet names. Not until they'd earned her respect.
A bashful smile curled her lips as she turned, looking up at the stranger through her lashes. "You'd really do that for little 'ole me?"
"This and whole lot more," he said in a voice dripping with promise.
"Well then, stud, I'll take a rum and coke."
The thug flagged down the now familiar bartender. He placed her order with the man, adding "put it on my tab" at the end of his sentence, embellishing it with a wink. The bartender nodded and set about mixing the drink. The blonde's eyes remained fixed on her target throughout; her name becoming "Harley" more and more with each passing second. Harleen cried out inside the recesses of her mind, screaming that something was wrong, the medication should be preventing this, but – for the moment – the blonde didn't care. She had a lesson to impart first.
"You're so generous," she said, keeping her phrasing controlled, not wanting to give the game away yet. "They have a terrible upcharge on drinks here."
"A guy like me can afford to spread the wealth, doll. I have some powerful connections."
And with that flirtation, Harley Quinn snapped to attention, her accent breaking through the surface with ferocity.
"Ya got nicknames for me already?" She giggled. "You're bold."
The bartender returned with her beverage of choice. Harley swiped the glass before the thug could get near it. She knew Penguin enforced strict, no drink tampering rules amongst his staff and failing to comply carried serious, sometimes deadly consequences. Roofies were bad for business, after all. Customers would be less inclined to frequent his club if it garnered a reputation for those sorts of shenanigans happening within its walls.
Harley maintained eye contact as she took a cursory sip of her rum and coke. "Thanks for the drink, mistah."
The lecherous smile was back on the thug's face. "The first of many things I can do for you. Just say the word, whatever you want, and I'll make it happen."
"Y'know, there is somethin'…"
"Yeah?"
Harley took another sip of her drink and leaned in, near to his face. The man's smile widened as she drew closer, her breath on his cheek, eyelashes fluttering in apparent seductive intent. The blonde's lips hovered next to his ear, but she didn't make any physical contact, not wanting his skin to touch hers.
She made a soft, cooing sound before she spoke in a singsong voice. "You can fuck off."
The blonde stepped back with a loud, jovial cackle. A wide grin on her face as she put a couple feet between her and the thug, ice clacking against the sides of her glass with the movement. His expression contorted as he struggled to comprehend the sudden shift between them; his confusion fueling her laughter before she tried to stifle her mirth with another long drink.
His mouth moved wordlessly for a couple seconds. "Did you just–"
"Important lesson for ya, pal. Free of charge, so listen good." Harley pointed at his face with an accusatory finger. "Just cause ya buy a girl a drink doesn't mean she owes ya shit."
He frowned; brows pinched together in visible anger. He clenched his fists as his arms shook by his sides. "You ungrateful little bitch! Don't you fucking dare try to pull this shit with me or you'll regret it. Do you have any idea who I run with?"
"Yeah, I do, and let me tell ya somethin'." Harley leaned forward, the mocking grin lighting up her face. "Harvey's a punk." Her lips smacked around the "k", emphasizing the letter with a harsh pop.
A thin tether of restraint snapped behind the thug's eyes. A violent tension settled between them. The nearby patrons had all fallen silent, their gazes turned towards the arguing pair, expressions a mixture of gossipy interest and eager anticipation. Harley's blue eyes bore into the taller man's, neither combatant withering under their opponent's glare. She could see his hands moving in her peripheral vision. One sliding beneath his suit jacket, reaching for a hidden weapon he'd managed to smuggle inside. Her lips drew back in a smirk as she reached beneath her own jacket, fingers wrapping around the comforting grip of her gun. Flashes of red pulsed within her vision, heart hammering in her chest, as she alighted in the adrenaline that foreshadowed a good brawl.
Then a familiar voice cut through the moment, dampening her hopes in the same fell blow.
"Take it easy there, young man."
Harley didn't spare Oswald even a cursory glance. Her eyes remained fixed on her target. The thug jumped a little in surprise, his wide-eyed gaze turning towards the legendary Penguin, who was now standing behind the bar decked out in his usual tuxedo and top hat, monocle firmly in place, and a smoking cigarette affixed to an antique holder grasped in a pale hand. His cast his signature toothy grin at Harvey's nameless henchman, clearly enjoying the show as much as the rest of the bystanders.
"You're biting off more than you can chew," Oswald continued. "You want my advice? Never mess with the crazy ones, and this clown princess is downright insane."
The thug's expression morphed from surprise to confusion. "Clown…?"
The man turned, slowly, and looked at Harley. Truly took her in for the first time since she approached the bar. She watched him note the colors she was wearing, the blonde hair falling past her shoulders, and the manic smile painted across her lips. He inhaled sharply and took a brisk step back.
"Harley fuckin' Quinn," he said in an astonished tone.
She giggled and saluted with her free hand. "That's me!"
"Fuck this, man." The thug shook his head from side to side, as if trying to banish her from sight, and glanced at Penguin. "I don't… I'm not… You can keep her!"
With that eloquent declaration he retreated, practically running from the bar. His friends yelled after him, something about his credit card and an open tab, but he ignored them. Harley watched them scramble for purchase, giggling to herself, and took another sip of her rum and coke.
Then, as quickly as it had come on, the moment shattered, enough to create an opening.
Harleen gasped through to the surface, realizing where she'd gone, what had happened. There was too much Harley in her. Not a coincidence or a ghost of the past. In her haste to follow the lead she'd forgotten to take her medication. A brief war waged internal, as Harley fought to maintain her hold on the outside world, but Harleen won out as she slammed her drink on the bar and grabbed for the inhaler. Oswald watched with thinly veiled amusement as the blonde – face screwed in concentration and effort – brought the plastic mouthpiece to her lips with shaking hands. She activated the pump and took a deep, massive inhale, letting the powder fill her lungs completely. She held it for as long as she could, until the need for oxygen became overpowering and she gasped, sputtering as she leaned against the polished wood bar top.
"Need some assistance?" Oswald asked with a chuckle, but Harleen waved him off as she steadied herself and took another puff from the inhaler, calmer this time.
Once she'd gathered her wits, Harleen turned to face him, adopting a casual stance and retrieving her rum and coke from the counter. Oswald continued to stare at her with his signature, crooked grin; the smoke curling from his cigarette tainted the air with the scent of nicotine and tar. Penguin was a larger-than-life figure within his lair, swelling from his small stature to fill up the entirety of the club's upper balcony. Lord of his own private kingdom. The other patrons cast furtive glances his way at his sudden appearance, murmuring amongst each other, but in quiet voices to avoid him overhearing their whispers. Not daring to say something which might rile his less affable tendencies and get them thrown out of the Lounge – or worse. Oswald ignored the onlookers as he sized up Harleen; ever the attentive host when beckoned.
Ordering an Old Fashioned sans the cherries was Oswald's call sign when he wasn't readily available on the floor. Only a few trusted or notable Rogues were afforded special access to him, Harleen having earned the right back in the days when she was running with her former beau. She'd asked, once, why Oswald had settled on that drink as his calling card, and his answer was not particularly enlightening.
"Because fuck Wisconsin, that's why! No one in their right mind orders an Old Fashioned, and those drunks would never take it without their precious fruit."
Harleen had never been able to deduce what Wisconsinites had done to garner Oswald's ire, or why he wanted to be reminded of the hatred with any amount of frequency. Then again, Rogues weren't the most logical individuals to begin with, so – in the end – she chocked it up as another one of his eccentricities. Penguin had given her the code name "espresso martini", explaining the drink was much like Harley Quinn herself, peppy and full of energy, but damn she hits hard.
"Have you gotten ahold of yourself, or do you still need a few minutes?" Oswald asked with obvious mirth in his voice.
Harleen waved her hand. "I'm fine now, thanks for asking."
"You better be. You almost broke one of my Cardinal rules."
"I'm not the only one at fault, here," she said, leveling her gaze at him. "You saw him reaching for a weapon."
He pointed the smoking end of his cigarette at her face. "It doesn't matter, girly. No fighting in the Iceberg Lounge. No exceptions. And no mercy for the guilty, either."
Oswald said the declaration loud enough to carry down the length of the bar. The gathered patrons all fidgeted in their seats as he cast a withering gaze over them. None had the gall to meet his eyes, studiously avoiding the glare as they nursed their drinks in sudden silence.
"The matter resolved without incident," Harleen said with some insistence.
"Thanks to my intervention. Make sure it doesn't happen again." Oswald's gaze met hers once again as he took a long drag from his cigarette. They stared at each other for a few seconds before he exhaled a cloud of gray smoke which momentarily obscured his face. "Now that that's settled, why are you here, Harley?"
She suppressed the urge to correct him on the moniker. Harleen knew he didn't give a shit about using the right name when addressing her. "It's a business matter."
"Again?" He scoffed. "You're much less sociable since Arkham got ahold of you. Never show up just to call on old friends for a chat."
Harleen shrugged and took a sip of her drink before responding. "I'm not working for Jeremiah this time."
"Now, that is interesting," he said, running his fingers over his round chin.
"It would be better if we spoke in private," Harleen said, casting a surreptitious glance around the bar.
Oswald made a sound of agreement and, without further comment, exited the bar. Harleen picked up her drink and followed him, towards his private booth at the end of the upper balcony. The stark difference in their height became evident as the pair stood next to each other. Harleen never commented on it, though, even when she was Harley she refrained from making jokes which poked at that sore spot. Oswald had a massive Napoleon Complex and tended to react violently whenever someone pointed out his short stature. The door to his booth had an electronic lock, and Harleen waited as Oswald scanned his fingerprint against a touch screen next to the handle. With a soft beep the bolt unlatched, and he held the door open for her, beckoning the blonde inside, following at her heels.
It was much quieter within the private booth; the sound dampened through the walls and surrounding one-way glass which afforded the booth's occupants an uninterrupted view of the entire club, including the dance floor below. The booth was filled with dark velvet chairs and sofas for entertaining guests and carved mahogany side tables for holding drinks and assorted appetizers. Placed on a low dais in the center of the back wall, overlooking the entire establishment, was a veritable throne fashioned from shimmering blue stone carved to imitate ice and framed by replica artic rocks. Before the throne, in the center of the room, was a large glass table which doubled as a saltwater tank. Live reef fish and coral lived inside, swimming about beneath the tempered glass. The tank was lit by a bright blue light which illuminated the entire booth and cast a rippling water effect across all the surfaces it touched.
Jay was waiting for them inside the booth. The blonde waitress was dressed in a sequined black cocktail dress which shimmered as it caught the light, its low bust line revealing a tasteful amount of cleavage and the fabric hugged the curves of her hips in a purposefully tantalizing manner. Her makeup was colored distinct ice-toned shades which complemented the club's aesthetics and her long hair held back in a sleek high ponytail. She held a tray burdened with the martinis Oswald so enjoyed. As the Penguin sat upon his ice throne, Jay handed him one of the glasses, an olive spear floating within the clear liquid. Harleen took a seat in a velvet chair across from him. As she stared over the expanse of the saltwater table, she watched the blue light play upon Oswald's face from below, casting his features in appropriate villainous shadows, the smoke from his cigarette curling around the edges of his visage.
"So, who's holding your reins this time?" Penguin asked as he sipped on his martini.
Harleen swirled the ice cubes in her drink. "You're not going to like this, but I'm working a Fed job."
Oswald sputtered, coughing as he inhaled a bit of vodka in surprise. "For fuck's sake, Harley," he said as he continued to cough.
Jay, ever attentive, proffered a white napkin and held it out to her boss. He placed his drink on the table and snatched the napkin from her hand, hacking into the cloth a few more times before the attack subsided. Oswald breathed slowly for several moments before he wiped the spittle from his mouth and tossed the now dirty napkin aside.
"So let me get this straight," he said, voice thrumming with fury. "You're working for the goddamn Feds and decided to walk in here like there's no issue? Like I'd be fine with you bringing their bullshit into my home? I run a legitimate business here, Harley."
"No one's going to bust down your door. You have nothing to worry about," Harleen said with some insistence. "I'm an unwilling contractor. I have no loyalties to any authority figures, and they didn't saddle me with a partner. I'm working entirely on my own."
Oswald shook his head. "Some comfort that is. Willing or not, they've finally turned you into a classic narc."
Harleen narrowed her eyes. "Never."
"The Harley Quinn I knew was a true spitfire in the underground. Annoying and aggravating as hell, to be sure, but the girl had a way of getting under your skin. Now look at what you've become. A civilian who plays by their rules." He let out a long, world-weary sigh. "I knew this would happen eventually. You used to have passion, but you've gone soft while on the inside. A rebel turned government lapdog. It's a damn shame."
An uncomfortable silence encompassed them as Harleen nursed her drink. Despite the supposed comradery she'd sold to Amanda Waller, Harleen and Oswald were certainly not friends. Those were hard to come by in Gotham's underground – impossible, really. There were allegiances formed for the sake of supposed boons and business opportunities, but you always slept with one eye open. Always made contingency plans for the realistic possibility all partnerships would end with a proverbial or literal knife in the back. Oswald allowed Harleen Quinzel to still meet with him after her incarceration because it was mutually beneficial to both of their interests. That was the whole of their relationship, and he never missed her when she was gone. Truth be told, if anyone else was able to topple Penguin's monopoly on illegal information Harleen would jump ship in a heartbeat. Being in the Iceberg Lounge, conversing with its locals, reminded her too much of days gone by. Of spending nights here on His arm, drinking and cajoling as they plotted the demise of Gotham City.
"My supposed downfall aside, are you still willing to make a deal with me?" Harleen asked at length, looking Oswald directly in the eyes as she spoke.
"Our usual offer still stands, yes." Penguin nodded towards his henchwoman standing nearby. "Jay, you know what to do."
Jay placed her tray of martinis down on one of the mahogany side tables. Then she opened an attached drawer and withdrew a folded piece of paper and a pen. Necessary items retrieved, Jay approached the saltwater tank and spread the paper out across its surface. Printed on the sheet was a detailed map of Arkham Asylum's High Priority ward, drawn up based on the intel Harleen had fed Penguin as part of the first deal she made with him after Jeremiah took her under his oppressive wing. They'd made adjustments over the years, as Harleen became more familiar with the ward she was hard pressed to call home, and now the map was as accurate as one of the architectural blueprints. There were no notes, at present, but Jay uncapped her pen and looked at Harleen, expectant.
They set about their usual routine. The same trade she'd made with Penguin for the past couple years now, once the map was finalized. While trapped inside Arkham, Harleen memorized the changes in the guard rotations and patrol routes. Routines Jeremiah shuffled every three months to throw the inmates and their allies off kilter. She went over the most recent changes with Jay, helped her draw up the fresh routes and jot down exact times when the rotations happened. Harleen revealed who was prestigious enough to have been moved to High Priority and which cell they currently occupied. All highly valuable information Penguin would sell to clients looking to try and break an inmate out of the Asylum. Assaults on Arkham were something of an underworld routine, and Harleen had proven to be quite the lucrative asset. Oswald never revealed how much he made off her, and she never expected him to, but it was enough to keep her in his good graces.
It took them about twenty minutes to finish marking the map. Harleen's rum and coke had run dry by the time they were done. The ice cubes melting despite the cool temperature of the room.
"We've got a dead soldier here," Oswald said with a chuckle as he eyed her empty glass. "Care for a martini? It's on the house."
Harleen nodded, knowing better than to refuse the offer. Jay grabbed a glass for her, and the blonde took it, raising it to her lips at once and taking a slow sip. She could, thankfully, drink alcohol while on Jeremiah's medication, but she partook so infrequently now she'd become a bit of a lightweight. Harleen would need to find a ride home once this meeting was over.
Oswald offered her his signature toothy grin as Jay rolled up the map. "Well done, you're about to make some of my clients very pleased. So, Harley, what are you expecting in exchange?"
"I need all the information you have on any poisons or venom being used and distributed through the underground, particularly if they've passed through the Narrows. Even if it's just a rumor, I want to hear it."
Penguin's smile faltered. "No one deals in venom anymore. Not since…"
He let the unsaid words hang in the air. All three of them knew what he was referring to without it needing to be spoken out loud. The dreadful day a scar had been left upon the face of Gotham City, and its criminal underworld inexorably changed forever.
"Three years is a long time," Harleen said after a moment.
"I miss his laugh sometimes; can you believe it?" Penguin said, more to himself than to the women. "It's crazy. You'd think I'd be relieved at its absence. I always found the laughing to be the worst part of our conversations."
Harleen tensed at his words, but she said nothing. Schooled her face into a solemn expression even as the echo of that damnable laughing rang in the confines of her mind. On some days – when Harley took over – she could still hear Him, the sickeningly jovial notes resounding through her skull. Memories tried to surface, but Harleen pushed them down, back into the Id where they belonged. She wouldn't lose herself. Not here. Not now.
"But I digress," Oswald continued, "where your request is concerned not much comes to mind. Crane is always tinkering with his fear toxin, of course, looking for ways to make it more potent. I suppose that counts."
Harleen shook her head. "I know Crane isn't involved in my case. His toxin is gaseous and inhaled by victims. I'm specifically looking for a poison that's injected directly into the bloodstream."
A spark of recognition flared in Oswald's eyes. He stared off into the middle distance for a moment, a frown overtaking his features. "What if she's…? No, couldn't be, I would have heard…"
The words were muttered, low enough Harleen had to strain to hear them. A curious foreboding feeling rose in the pit of her stomach. She opened her mouth to inquire about what – or who – he was referring to, but before Harleen could say a word Penguin snapped his fingers and leaned forward on his throne.
"Come to think of it, I might have something for you after all." He gave her a smarmy grin as he took another long drag from his cigarette. "There's a newcomer trying to make his way onto the Rogue roster. Calls himself 'The Exterminator'. Stupid name, if you ask me, and to make it even worse the punk looks like a shittier Ratcatcher. Kids these days have no imagination." Oswald scoffed and shook his head. "Anyway, he's been hanging around the bar every other week – in full fucking uniform, mask and all – trying to recruit some henchmen into his fold. Far as I know the kid only has one job of note to his reputation. Robbed a penthouse overlooking Robinson Park. Apparently got away with an original Warhol, so not a bad deal. Thing is, the marks were home at the time of the robbery, and guess how they were dealt with?"
A moment of silence passed before it became evident Oswald was waiting for her to say it.
"I'm betting they were poisoned," Harleen offered, forcing herself to keep the sarcasm out of her tone.
"And quite dead when the cleaning lady discovered them the next day," Oswald said with a wink. "Only word moves fast in the underworld. The bodies were still warm when the kid came in here bragging, saying shit about how the police would never be able to figure out who or what killed them. Claiming he'd concocted a chemical agent unlike anything Gotham's seen before." He chuckled around the smoke filtering out of his mouth. "The GCPD is inept, don't get me wrong, and they have yet to solve the case, but loose lips and all that. It won't be long before this Exterminator is rotting next to you in an Arkham cell."
"I'd like to have a talk with him," Harleen said, ignoring the bait. "I'm assuming he has a base somewhere."
"Talk, sure, with the upside of your mallet, probably. He tells prospective goons to go to an old warehouse near the harbor. You know, the typical ruse." Oswald made a waving motion with his hand. "Jay, be a dear and give her the address."
The other blonde reached into her dress pocket (oh, Harleen was going to have to find out which fashion company was responsible for this marvel of engineering) and withdrew a small notebook. She wrote an address down on one of the pages before tearing it off and handing the sheet to Harleen. The wayward doctor nodded in thanks as she stored it in one of her jacket pockets.
"I appreciate the help," Harleen said, keeping her eyes trained on Oswald.
He made a snickering sound. "It's just business. Don't go thinking you're a favorite."
"I'm not a fool. I know better."
Harleen had no disillusions about what their relationship was. Old allegiances aside, Oswald would kill her without hesitation if she ever became a liability, and he wouldn't lose any sleep over the decision. No, Harleen knew exactly what she meant to him. They stared at each other for a protracted moment before Harleen set her half-finished martini on the saltwater tank's glass surface and stood up, heading for the door.
"Oh, Harley."
Oswald's voice made her pause, but she didn't turn to face him. "Yes?"
"If you're setting me up with the Feds you've got another thing coming. Killer Croc may have been easy to trick, he's dumb as a rock, but not me."
"You're not on my list, Oswald," she said, keeping her voice even. "Far from it."
"Why should I believe a double crosser?"
She did turn her head then, looking at him over her shoulder. "Because I'm telling the truth. But believe me or not, in the end it's your choice to make. I can't force you."
"For a shrink you're real shit at getting people to trust you," he muttered. Another silence stretched between them before he finally made a grumbling sound and collapsed back into his throne, clearly exasperated. "Now, you either start paying for your own drinks or get the fuck out of my club."
Harleen left the booth, not wanting to test her luck by lingering. The effects of the alcohol she'd consumed were making themselves known now that she was upright and moving. Harleen Quinzel was, officially, tipsy. Still, she was able to walk in a straight line as she decided her business at the Iceberg Lounge was best concluded. The patrons gathered at the bar all eyed her as she passed, some surreptitiously, others outright staring now that they all knew her identity. Harleen ignored them, not wanting to engage with any potential fans or an old career goon who might be holding a grudge. She did crack quite a few skulls in her heyday, and some of them lived to tell the tale.
She made her way downstairs, through the throng of people writhing on the dance floor, and back into the reception area. The blonde rushed outside before Raven saw her and decided to offer further harassment. She took a deep breath as she stepped onto the sidewalk, the city air oddly invigorating, helping to take the edge off the alcohol swirling in her system. There were less people milling about now, to her relief, and the blonde took purchase on an empty span of concrete some thirty feet away from the Lounge's front doors.
A heady swarm of both positive and negative feelings swirled inside Harleen's chest. The visit had been productive, she'd gleaned the information she'd set out to acquire, yet it came at the cost of skirting too close to the past. Through the shades of who Harley Quinn had been, which always sought to overthrow who Harleen Quinzel was in the present. The conflict of her own identity came into sharp relief whenever she visited Oswald. He'd had front row seats to most of the significant stages of her Rogue career and development. He both knew her too well and not at all, and having that kind of history was dangerous in this town.
Harleen pulled out her phone to order a ride home only to have reality smack her in the face. She didn't have Uber or Lyft installed, and with the store features missing she had no way of downloading the apps. Damned government issued phone. She'd completely forgotten about its limitations when she accepted the drinks and doomed herself to a night of no driving. Well, with the most convenient methods out of the way she'd have to flag down a taxi on a busy night in the middle of Downtown. Luck was not on her side.
A few frustrating minutes later, Harleen found herself snubbed by every taxi that passed. Either they were already carrying fares or avoided her in favor of more well-to-do patrons. As the last taxi swerved around her, Harleen made a rude gesture in the rearview mirror, hoping the driver had seen it even if the effort was juvenile at best. She was about to give up, surrender her dignity, and crawl back to Raven for help when a sleek black Mercedes pulled up alongside her. Harleen stared in confusion at the car as it idled in the road. Then – after a moment's hesitation – the passenger side window rolled down.
"Need a ride?" a familiar voice asked.
Harleen leaned over, looking inside to find Jay smiling up at her with all the charm she usually laid on unruly customers or those she was trying to wring extra tips out of. Harleen wondered how the other blonde had gotten from the private booth to her car in such a short amount of time, eventually concluding that Jay had found a way to excuse herself immediately after Harleen left, foreseeing this predicament. That or Jay had been ordered to tail Harleen before realizing the stranded doctor wouldn't be going anywhere without intervention.
"Are you offering?" Harleen asked after a moment.
Jay chuckled and leaned over, patting the empty seat beside her. "Get in."
Realizing she had no other options, Harleen opened the door and climbed inside, settling into the leather passenger seat with a polite smile meant to convey her gratitude. Jay had the map app open on the car's console screen; her fingers hovered over the input as she waited for Harleen to pull her seatbelt on.
"Where are we off to?" Jay asked.
"The Black Swan Motel."
"Oh, they're still in business? Glad to hear it. Never stayed there myself, but it's a Gotham staple."
Jay looked up the address and set it as her destination in the GPS. The two women sat in silence as the car pulled away from the Lounge and set off into the artificially illuminated streets of late-night Downtown Gotham. A couple minutes passed with neither of them speaking before Harleen fidgeted in her seat, never one to find comfort in a shared quiet space. She always needed to fill the emptiness with something, regardless of who she was that day.
"Thanks for giving me a ride," Harleen said in a soft voice, breaking the silence.
An amused smile creased Jay's lips, though she kept her eyes on the road. "You looked a little helpless, waiting by the side of the road. Figured I'd come to your rescue."
Harleen knew Jay was teasing her but decided not to rise to the challenge. Instead, another idea occurred to her as she found herself alone with one of Penguin's most trusted employees. "Does Oswald still have you working the floor?"
"It's my main job most nights. Lark likes to take the dance floor crowd, while I tend to work the balcony area. Business has been booming the past year, and Penguin demands we run a tight ship. We haven't had an incident in months." Jay side eyed Harleen for a fleeing second. "Well, until you came along and decided to rile up the customers."
"I bet you see a lot of faces come through," Harleen said, once again ignoring a barbed comment. She had plenty of practice dodging hurled insults and burying the ones that truly hurt. But considering the vitriol He had put her through none of the comments tonight had even come close to causing genuine harm.
Jay's smile grew wider. "Now that feels like a leading question."
Harleen pulled up the dead agent's ID photo from her phone's gallery and held the screen towards Jay. "Do you recognize him?"
"Ah, so that's why you're asking about poison." Jay waited until they'd stopped at a red light before she took a good look at the supplied photo. "So, he's a Fed? Guess I shouldn't be too surprised. I can see it now."
"You know him?"
Jay nodded, her eyes returning to the road as the light turned green. "He showed up out of nowhere a few months back and immediately became a regular. I always keep tabs of people like that. You never know if they're simply looking for work or an undercover pig trying to snitch. Usually my senses are pretty good at picking up on the fakes, but sometimes they fall through the cracks, like your boy here."
"Did he ever socialize with anyone?" Harleen asked.
"He liked to get friendly with the local goons, but never left with any of them. He tended to stay the whole night, I noticed."
"And did he ever talk to this Exterminator?"
Jay flashed her a conspiratorial grin. The kind of expression that usually graced Harley's face when she was toying with someone. "That is the million-dollar question, isn't it?"
Harleen narrowed her gaze. "I already paid my dues."
"You paid Penguin's toll, not mine."
"I can't afford your price," Harleen said, knowing Jay's more expensive tastes. Her budget wouldn't be able to survive, even if Waller approved the bribe.
"Lucky for you I'm only asking for a favor."
"Depends on what it is," Harleen said, her guard up, ready to deny Jay at a moment's notice.
"It's rather delicate, actually. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else." Jay was silent for a moment as she made a left turn down a side street. "My… well, I guess she's my niece now. She's been having a rough go of it for a while and finally worked up the courage to admit she wants to transition. Her deadbeat parents can't help her, so the responsibility falls upon me. I want to get her in to see a good doctor, someone who's trustworthy and knowledgeable on this gender stuff, but problem is I have no idea where to look. Then you show up out of the blue and I figured, hell, you used to be in this field, you'll probably be able to pull a reference for me."
"Oh." Harleen paused for a long, protracted moment. "Is that all?"
"There a problem?"
"No, I just wasn't expecting it. You got a spare piece of paper?"
Jay gestured with her right hand. "Look in the glove compartment."
Harleen leaned over, opened the latch, and immediately found a pen and sheet of loose paper nestled inside. She withdrew both and began to write a name and number on the sheet.
"Gender therapy was never my area of expertise," Harleen said as she wrote, "but I did work with this wonderful woman back in my Arkham employee days. She's a specialist and was only called in to treat patients exhibiting potential gender dysphoria. Her name is Dr. Diana Kovacs. A true honest type, uses the sliding scale payment system last I checked, and won't turn your niece away just because of her connection with you."
Harleen held out the paper to the other blonde, who took it with a smile.
"I appreciate it," Jay said in a soft voice.
"Now, about my earlier question."
"Right." Jay cleared her throat. "Last time the Exterminator graced our club your man spoke to him. They conversed for about twenty minutes, and I saw them exchange numbers."
"Interesting," Harleen mused as she pensively ran her fingers across her lips.
"Are you going to tell me what happened to him?" Jay asked in a honey-sweet tone.
Harleen scoffed. "Leaking case details is outside both of our price ranges."
"Spoil sport."
The former jester wondered – not for the first time – if her previous mannerisms had made any sort of lasting impression on Jay, considering how the other blonde behaved. Harleen pushed the thought aside almost as soon as it had formed. Medication intervention aside, such musings would only make the latent urges to revert to Harley even worse.
"I don't make the rules," Harleen settled on saying.
"A shame. This whole detective persona would be much more fun if you did."
Harleen made a noncommittal sound and they fell into silence once again. The last minutes of the trip passed without further conversation between them. She and Jay didn't have much to talk about aside from business. They'd never worked together directly, and Harley had a distinct lack of friends during her Rogue days, what with most of her attention being consumed by a demanding partner. Harleen was relieved when they finally pulled into the Black Swan's parking lot. Her head was still swimming from the alcohol, and she had a tendency to run her mouth when intoxicated. Thus far she'd been able to keep her cards close to her chest, but if Jay kept prying Harleen was liable to slip up.
"Thanks again," Harleen said as she directed Jay to park beneath her room.
"Leaving so soon?" Jay asked when Harleen reached for the door handle.
Harleen watched the other woman out of the corner of her eye, knowing she had to be firm to avoid prolonging the conversation. "I have work to do."
"Working too much is dangerous for your health." Jay adopted a winsome smile as she leaned over and ran her hand up Harleen's left thigh, the lust-tinged glint in her eyes making her intentions clear. "Don't you know playtime is just as important?"
Harleen studiously ignored the sudden pang of desire that coursed through her. Harley and Jay had slept together once before, years ago now, during a moment of weakness. She'd been on the out with Puddin', which wasn't unusual. They broke up and got back together on a regular basis, but this was one of only two instances where Harley had instigated the breakup of her own volition. The fight had been a particularly bad one, and after telling Him where to shove it Harley found herself at the Iceberg Lounge hours later, all Earthly possessions crammed into a shoddy backpack, wallowing in her sorrows at the balcony bar. Jay had joined her, whether out of kindness or an ulterior motive Harley didn't care to determine, and the two commiserated over round after round of drinks.
Truth be told, Harleen still wasn't quite sure how it happened. She didn't tend to go for other blondes, and Jay had never flirted with her prior, but by the end of the evening they were making out in a dark corner of the balcony, hair and makeup mussed in the lustful fray. Drunk, sorrowful Harley wanted a warm body to ease the hurt of a love supposedly lost, and Jay was willing to fill the sudden void. They'd taken a taxi to Jay's apartment (both women in no condition to drive) and fucked until they passed out from exhaustion. Harley woke up late the following morning to a sappy text from Puddin' and, well, that was the end of it.
The temptation to give in again burned hot within her. Harleen hadn't been with anyone in a physical sense over the course of her incarceration, but that was also by her own choice. This wasn't the first time the opportunity presented itself; when someone expressed an open and wanton desire to offer their companionship for the night. Except Harleen knew herself; understood her own needs and limitations. Jay wasn't offering what the former jester truly desired, and she never would.
"I'm sorry," Harleen said in an even, controlled voice. "Harley can have casual sex, but I can't."
"But you are Harley." Jay ran her tongue over her pouted lips (the display played up for its salacious appeal) as she leaned in, diminishing the space between them. "What's the difference?"
Her words doused the flames of Harleen's wayward lust. She let out a long, weary sigh, grabbed Jay's hand, and removed it from its home on her thigh. Jay raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but Harleen held her ground. She never expected the other blonde to understand her reluctance, but her former associates' continued inability to see that Harleen and Harley weren't interchangeable was still upsetting.
"All the difference in the world," Harleen said in a whisper.
Then she left.
'There was a time in my life when I thought I knew what it meant to be loved.'
Harleen didn't look back as she slammed the car door shut. She hunched over, hands in her jacket pockets, as she made a slow procession across the asphalt parking lot and up the stairs to her room's front entrance. She knew Jay would be taking note of which room she was staying in, but Harleen craved an immediate privacy more than keeping her whereabouts a secret.
'Love's always been a complex emotion to me; tied to pain or struggle of some manner. Love always had a price attached to it. An expectation. When I was a child love was not freely given, it had to be earned. And, as I grew older, I came to the logical conclusion no one would love me until I offered myself as a sacrifice upon its proverbial altar.'
The cool air of the motel room hit her full force as she stepped inside. Harleen closed and bolted the door behind her as she leaned back, against the fireproof steel, and took a few deep, calming breaths.
'I thought love and pain were the same thing. I thought offering ownership of myself to another was the mark of devotion. I thought I had to surrender all control to the whims of love in order to be worthy of it.'
No matter how much time passed or the distance she tried to put between herself and Harley Quinn, Gotham would never see her as anything other than the jester, would it? She'd cemented that persona into the very bones of the underworld. Carved her painted visage into every cracked skull and broken jaw. Harley Quinn was no one's true friend, ally only to the decrees of a mad love, and still – when she offered a better, more reasonable façade – the rest of the Rogue gallery didn't want to see Harleen. Couldn't perceive the shift.
'And while I know now – on a base level – that's not what love is, I still have no idea what form love should take.'
But what else should Harleen have expected from a band of criminals?
'What a damnable existence, to crave something you have no reference for. To want love as much as breathing yet lack any understanding of what it should entail.'
The truth resounded once more inside her head: Harleen Quinzel was an entity unto herself. A powerless human with no bonds left to the outside world. Harley Quinn had eradicated the life that came before her. And now, coming out on the other side of years steeped in madness, there wasn't even the shambles of an existence left to recover. No pieces remaining to pick up in Harley's stead. Even if she completed this job as promised, was granted the coveted parole, where would she go? What would she do? She'd never be able to practice psychiatry again, her life's first true passion, and the thing that solidified Harleen Quinzel's identity in the formless years of youth.
She couldn't go back, she could only go forward, but what did the road ahead entail? What promise did it offer?
She'd do anything to regain her freedom, break the chains tethering her to Arkham Asylum, yet beyond that base desire for personal autonomy Harleen was devoid of dreams. She was a fighter, at heart. Wouldn't lie down and die or let her soul wither away to nothing, but she knew better than to hope for grandeur or companionship. Indulging in such desires had turned her into a monstrosity.
'I only know ownership, not love. Yet I still want to be loved.'
And she couldn't afford to lose herself in those depths again.
'How foolish am I?'
IXI
Outside, in the darkness of a parking lot shrouded by lack of working light fixtures, Jay idled in her Mercedes longer than was, perhaps, necessary. She watched after Harley for a while, frustrated at first by the rejection before her thoughts bled away into an odd reminiscence. Even after all these years you never knew what to expect when it came to the supposedly retired jester. One minute Harley would toy with you, all smiles and confidence, but the next she'd be closed off, ready to bite any hand that drew near.
For the first time, Jay considered the blonde had always been like this. That it wasn't entirely the making of her former insane lover. The realization almost made Harley seem… pitiful, but Jay knew better than to feel sympathy towards anyone in this town. Gotham City ate the weak, and – if Jay had proven anything in her career under Penguin's wing – she was strong.
Harley, on the other hand?
Jay shook her head as she finally put the car into reverse and pulled away, ready to leave the echoes of the past behind.
"What a damn shame."
End Notes: As always, reader engagement and feedback on this story is thoroughly appreciated. Feel free to leave a comment if you're enjoying my work.