AN: I own nothing. Also sorry for the wait. Longer chapter to make up for that.

He hated this. It was gross and demeaning, but it wasn't like Trevor had much choice. There was a fixed number of in-institution jobs available and the more fun ones like woodworking and mechanics were highly sought after.

"Hurry up, Beech," said the guard behind him as she checked her watch.

Trevor mumbled a passable 'Yes, Ma'am!' and went through the door she had just unlocked. It wasn't fair. Well, nothing ever was. If it was fair, he wouldn't even be here. If that cop didn't want to get punched, maybe he should mind his own business and not bother him about how he did - or did not, treat his girlfriend. The stupid cow even told him to back off - but that was overgrown boyscouts for you. They always had to play heroes. He stopped and looked around the supply room. Hopefully he'd find a good mop. Some of the others didn't clean them after use. Trevor didn't either, but that wasn't his problem.

His parole had been going well - nobody bothered him. His parole officer didn't get too much on his nerves. Then: BAM! And now he was stuck with cleaning the toilets at Stonegate. It was still worth the extra yard time and the miniscule wage, which let him occasionally buy crisps or a juice pack from the prison. If it wasn't, there certainly was no way he'd be doing this. Trevor grabbed a mop and a plastic bucket before shuffling over to the sink. His appeal would be in less than a week. Of course he'd been handed that dodgy public defender - it wasn't like Trevor's family would pay for a real one, they wouldn't even see him. Apparently the lawyers cousin was one of Trevor's exes or something stupid like that.

He grabbed a bottle of liquid soap from the shelf above him and poured a liberal amount into the bucket before he turned the faucet on. The pipes began sputtering and coughing uncharacteristically. Then the water came but to Trevor's astonishment it came out a bright orange color with specks of shimmering silver. Now, Trevor was no water-genius-nerd - or whatever it was called, but he was pretty sure this wasn't right. The soap bubbled and frothed orange in the bucket as the hot water steamed the room. Trevor stood there, staring at it, for a moment longer. No, that definitely wasn't right and they were probably going to blame him if the toilet floors came out orange. He'd just completed that thought when the water stream turned a distinct turquoise. Trevor turned and stumbled to the doorway, opening it wider and stepping into the hallway.

"Officer Pham, Ma'am?!" he called but that's when darkness nearly knocked him over.

Steadying himself against the wall with this odd faintness, he took a few deep breaths. His vision was blurred and he felt nauseous. That's when he heard a distinct whimpering coming from down the hall. He looked and saw a smudged blue and white shape on the floor, which he guessed was Officer Pham's outline. Yes, he could definitely hear her. Then he saw… It… Something standing over her. The dark shape straightened slowly. A demon. It had claws. It's eyes… They weren't there. A corpse. A monster. Trevor hyperventilated faster and faster. The creature didn't move at first but then, just as Trevor was sure it would lunge at him, it turned and slid down the hall away from him. He stood there stiff as a pillar. He heard a voice behind him.

"Down in da valley, valley so low!" it sang in a high, clear pitch that sent shivers down his spine.

"Hang your head ovar, hear da wind blow…"

That's when he knew this woman - or something, was going to kill him. He turned, falling to the floor as he faced the owner of the voice. The chains between his ankles jingled loudly. Officer Pham progressed to screaming behind him. Something was in this creature's hands.

'A noose! Shit!' Trevor thought as he scrambled to crawl backwards while staring stifly at this apparition.

No it wasn't a noose.

"Hear da wind blow, dear…" this creature continued and as the words it sang finally sunk in, it morphed into something new.

"M-Mom?" Trevor trembled, all color leaving his face.

"Think again, sweetie," his mother giggled as the screaming inferno, that was Officer Pham, dug its nails into his back - roaring with fury and terror as it did so.

"He doesn't look bothered," Pamela observed as they watched the guard at the gate casually browse through a comic book.

"No," Batman agreed.

That wasn't helpful, but nothing he'd said so far had been.

"Well, what then?" Ivy said in agitation. "Are we just going to sit in a bush?"

"The staff entrance is locked."

Pamela nodded before she had an idea.

"Could they get in through the sewers?" she asked. "They were in the sewage and sanitation department - looking at something to do with this joint?"

Batman shook his head.

"That was considered when they built this place. Arkham's piping is too old, too insecure. The pipes here are narrower, there are more lattices, bars, concrete… It would take them at least a week even with the right tools."

"So, then what?" Pamela hissed.

He wasn't making any suggestions. And yeah, she couldn't see Harley drilling through concrete in a sewer just to get into prison - but Scarecrow she wasn't entirely sure about.

"So…" said the bat, pulling out a strange pair of binoculars. "Options are… They aren't in yet or … They went through one of the doors."

"And you think this one?" said Ivy, raising an eyebrow.

"It's too calm," he replied, lowering the binoculars again.

Pamela looked towards the building. This man was terribly annoying. He was right though. The quiet was unnerving. As her eyes fell upon one of the windows, the body of an inmate was smashed up against it, only to fall limply out of sight. Not strange for Stonegate, but still it made her jump.

"Let's follow their lead," Batman suddenly said.

Poison Ivy's gaze snapped to him, worried for a moment he was going to suggest flinging her in through a window, but she was even more alarmed to see him jump out of their shrubbery hideout, straighten and casually walk up to the gate. He gestured at her to follow.

"You're crazy, bat!" she cried after him as she ran to catch up.

The shimmering blue swirled down the hallway, resonating off of the bulletproof glass that encased certain cells. Harley squealed with delight and threw another canisters' worth of glam - this time, to her joy, exploding into a cascade of gold confetti.

"There ya go! Mess hall!" Harley Quinn cheerily announced as she did a pirouette and pointed to the sign with the wrench.

"Hmm, good," replied Scarecrow, not looking up.

He studied the blueprint in his hands. Harley smiled. What was the need to read the map when there was a perfectly good sign on the wall right there? It was difficult to tell what he was thinking. Like this, he had no real features and his voice was different. It was harder, colder and carried less tenderness - and yet, for the first time Harley felt relaxed near the strawman. Perhaps it was her own imagination - though Harley didn't approve of the notion that she would ever falsely assign feelings for herself to a man.

The Scarecrow folded the map and tucked it away in his bag, retrieving another canister at the same time.

"Can I do it?" Harley chirped.

He paused as he surveyed the colourful mark she'd left on the corridor.

"I informed you already that they were to be used only to clear the way for us. The toxin is in every section of the water supply system. I predict the entire establishment will be affected to some degree within the hour."

The harlequin shrugged and jumped over to him.

"Ya told me, alright," she replied. "Just wantin' to help."

"You are… excellent assistance," the unsettling hessian sack replied.

He attempted to walk past her and towards the mess hall but Harley eeled her body under his arm and grabbed his hand to keep his arm around her shoulders as they walked. His response had been disappointing to say the least but she wasn't without means to point out just how wrong he could be. There was a feeling in the air. Like New Years eve, Hanukkah and 4th of July all rolled into one. She chuckled.

"You're a silly bean, professor," Harley teased him.

"I am not a…" he began but trailed off when his attempt to pull away only resulted in Harley stepping in front of him and placing her hands on his shoulders.

"An assistant?" Harley smirked. "For certain, professor, a fella as smart as you would know bettah, eh?"

"I didn't mean to…" he replied, hesitantly.

"Bet," Harley sighed contently, getting on her tippy toes to get nose-to-no-nose with the Scarecrow. "Don't worry about it!

"We should get into position, Miss Quinn," he replied, coldly.

"Which one? I know'wa few!" Harley smirked and tightened her grip only to be pushed off entirely.

He flew past her and marched stoically through the door to the mess hall. It was adorable to her. It always had been to make uptight people flustered.

"Gee, professor! It's a joke! Can't you…" But Harley trailed off as she skipped after him.

Pamela dove under a table before the guard could grab her. He foamed around the mouth and he screamed in a constant fluctuation between terror and anger. He smashed his stick into the table surface before the bat dropped from the ceiling, kicking him in the chest. Poison Ivy crawled out just as another prison guard ran into the room, holding a tazer. She got her revolver out of her boot and took aim.

"Don't!" hissed Batman.

She fired, but he was faster than her and had the guard on the floor - kicking and screaming, before her bullet disappeared through the open doorway.

"What did I say?!" her companion growled as he fought off the assault of the guard.

Ivy knocked him out with the first guard's abandoned stick, before Batman began tying both of them up.

"I'd leave 'em," she commented. "And since you ask… I'm not in the mood to throw a fight - even for you. I'll protect myself, let these idiots do the same."

"Quiet," said Batman, clearly unimpressed.

She sneered but you couldn't tell as she wore a black mask, graciously lended to her by the bat. His own gas mask looked more sophisticated, but she wasn't expecting him to hand out his best stuff willingly.

"They were here at least - judging by these two," Ivy noted.

"Perhaps," the Batman agreed. "But I'm not so sure. Even professor Crane cannot gas a facility this large manually. There has to be more to this."

"Not my concern," Poison Ivy replied as she discreetly kicked one of the bound guards in the kidney. "So where are we heading?"

"I'm not sure," he told her as he went through the door.

'Figures,' Pamela thought to herself and followed.

They heard sounds of boots running on floors above them. Distant screams could be heard from several directions. Ivy hurried to catch up to Batman and saw upon the walls of the hallway a large splattered amount of something red. Red handprints littered the floor, scrambling away from the place.

"Paint," said the dark knight after smudging it with his gloved fingers.

"Jesus," muttered Poison Ivy. "That's her alright."

This place was giving her the creeps. The sounds, the paleness of the fluorescent lights. It felt familiar. Like Arkham, and besides a very friendly - if very nervous, man at the front desk of the lobby, even the staff here seemed crazy. It was unsettling to her that the man at the gate had seen a man and woman which could be Harley and professor Crane, but the man in the entrance hall had not. There had been no ruckus. And everywhere else in the building - at least what they'd seen, had been affected. How on earth had they done this?

They said this was the safer end - not that it was ever safe. When Louis became a prison guard, it was not due to a love for the system. No, like many others in his field, he took the training because this sector was always hiring, it was hard to get laid off and the money was alright. His parents hadn't liked it. He understood that. It was dangerous - arguably not as dangerous as becoming a cop would have been but… These people, you never knew what they were up to. Always trying to get out, waiting to get at you the moment you turned your back - or perhaps that was his bad experience speaking there.

Now, Arkham, that was the real danger zone. It made him glad he wasn't a nurse or had any psychiatric training. You wanted to be unqualified for that job. Those inmates… Sorry, patients - were unpredictable. You'd never know if one of them would try to eat you, turn your blood to jelly, hand you an exploding tissue. That place was as mad as the people it contained. Stonegate housed criminals. Sane people. Supposedly.

Not that this made the job cushy, but Louis preferred to worry about shivs and punches rather than death rays and half-kangaroo people. He often volunteered for gate-duty even if it was lonely, simply because it was routine and a welcomed break from action. Nothing much was meant to happen. Check the list. Open the gate if there is clearance. Easy-peasy. He hadn't thought too much about that lawyer and the older man. Honestly, it was a bit odd but he wouldn't put it past the scheduling guys to make a mistake once in a while. He'd never have given it another thought if he hadn't had Batman of all people show up and ask questions. When first he saw his companion - he thought he was here to drop her off or something. He didn't.

Louis didn't have time to consider what on earth Poison Ivy was doing with Batman, before he was bombarded with questions. He answered as best he could that no, he hadn't seen a blonde woman. He had seen that lawyer lady but he couldn't remember much about the man she was with except that he was middle-aged and didn't say much.

Batman flung himself over the gate - not even bothering to ask for it to be opened. Louis did open it after that for Poison Ivy - but mostly just because he didn't want to be alone with her. They'd disappeared through the main doors more than 10 minutes ago and he was only now getting over the initial shock. He had his phone in hand. The ringing sound - as it tried to call his superior, cut into him.

'Pick up. Pick up. Holy shit, no one's going to believe me. Pick up, ma'am!'

He heard footsteps and looked up to see a group of men in trenchcoats running towards him.

"Holy…" he began and rose from his seat. "Hey, there!"

He began calling to them but they paused and then came the loud sound as multiple firearms were drawn and fired. The bulletproof glass separating them shook and became opaque from cracks. In his hand the ringing stopped as a person on the other end accepted the call. He thought to himself that he should duck, run, do anything but it was too late, the glass crumbled under the heavy fire. He was gone, floating in darkness. Safe.

They had a place just like it at Arkham - except that room was larger. The Scarecrow did not consider it unusual. It was common for these facilities to have similar designs - and it could come as a surprise to no one that Arkham was functionally more a prison in design than a hospital. The mess hall was rectangular, two stories in height and had a gallery running along the wall on the second floor - protected by bars. The tables were fastened to the concrete floor and stood in neat rows. They entered the gallery through the door and the sounds of shouting were overwhelming. He calmly walked to the railing to view the pandemonium below, paying as little mind as he could to Harley Quinn's words behind him.

He needed to catch his breath and so leaned against the barrier so he appeared to be studying the people below. A heated discussion of some sort was going on. A number of food carts had been used to barricade one of the entrances to the mess hall. Harley Quinn mumbled something as she entered behind him, but he did not hear her words until she stood right behind him.

"... Don't be such a stick in da mud."

He exhaled slowly, carefully, inaudibly. She was so young, so innocent. She didn't understand half the things she was saying, not fully.

'Yes, that is the root of it. She toys with men's affection to amuse herself. No doubt, she had neither toys nor affection in her childhood.'

She was lost. He had seen that the first time he'd ever noticed her. Distinctly brunette, spectacled and gently biting her pen as she glanced at the young man next her. She'd just answered a question of his. She smiled at the boys around her, impressing them with more than her knowledge. He had to look at the roster to address her. It was early days and professor Crane did rarely bother remembering any student who didn't excel. He took immense satisfaction in telling 'Miss Quinzel' that her answer was, in fact, wrong.

They locked eyes across the classroom. He saw a flash of confusion in her eyes. She, no doubt, spotted the amused cruelty in his, before her own expression changed to a smug determination. She'd try again. And again. And a few weeks thereafter, her lack of success and decent grades would bring her to his office for the first time. He was stronger than her. Incorruptible. She'd dangle herself in front of him but he would never bite. He did not want her, he told himself, certainly not that way. It was funny to see the frustration she felt, thinking he was too slow to catch on. He never would desire her but he would, eventually, indulge her. He didn't have the heart to see her fail. At least in his class, she'd have earned the A's the correct way when she got them.

'She is naive, running in circles. A silly child. Yes.'

This mantra, which informed his entire view of her, was interrupted. He felt her finger tapping his arm before she joined him at the railing.

'Get it together!'snarled the Scarecrow in his mind.

"... of my massive ego, we can assume that I'm too important to answer when people talk to me, because I've got a stick up my ass today and pumpkin guts for brains and…"

The Scarecrow turned his head and saw Harley making rude hand gestures at him. She paused in the middle of a rather unsuccessful imitation of his own voice. She instantly lowered her hands and appeared to blush - though it was difficult to see with the mask covering her nose and mouth. His own reaction remained hidden from her.

"Observe," he said, turning back to look at the people below. "What do you see?"

The few guards in the mess hall shouted and held up sticks and tasers with shaking hands. Those prisoners not huddled in the corners aggressively attempted either to gain control of the guards weapons or get them to escort them out.

"Fear," said Harley.

"Why?" The Scarecrow inquired.

She straightened her posture.

"They're scared of us!" she announced with some triumph.

"Not so," he countered, to her visible annoyance. "They do not know we are here. They do not understand what is happening."

His voice had softened halfway through, once again being Jonathan's own. He alone did not notice.

"So watcha sayin' is, 'we fear what we don't understand'? Ain't that a little cliche, professor?"

"It is the truth. This is not a performance," The Scarecrow replied.

"Well, I understand. But that doesn't mean ya shouldn't get adventurous, no? Explore the possibilities a little?" she purred, edging closer.

The Scarecrow ignored that and Jonathan instead inquired:

"The unconscious can do fascinating things when fear inhabits the conscious. What do you predict?"

The Scarecrow raised the canister as if about to drop it over the railing and paused, looking at her expectantly. Her eyes smiled deviously. He felt a slight chill running down his spine.

"Well… Ain't the unconscious just full of all our most depraved repressed desires - according to that Jung fella'?"

He shook his head.

"You are thinking of Freud."

"Well, he had some good ideas then," Harley replied.

The Scarecrow made a sound very like a snort.

"What? Thought you'd be a fan. Ain't' we proof of all that 'kids with weird childhoods growing up to be deviants'?"

"And we are not then, in any way, shaped by our aspirations? As a medical doctor I am certain you would also consider genetics yourself."

"So what's the answer then?" Harley Quinn impatiently inquired, not keen to discuss her medical credentials.

He handed her the fear toxin-canister. Her eyes lit up - like a child given a wrapped present.

"Would you care to find out?"

Two more. By the sounds of it they weren't fighting. Ivy could hear the begging and whimpering through the door.

"Don't," her brooding companion said as she placed her hand on the cell door.

"What then?" she asked.

"We head to the surveillance room," he replied.

"You think they're there? Can't be. You saw the paint. That's Harley. It was fresh."

"If they aren't there, they should still show on cameras," Batman explained, turning around.

Poison Ivy hesitated. A hand flew up and punched the small window in the cell door repeatedly. Someone kept calling for their mother down the hall. She shuddered and sneered at the door before following Batman. If they hadn't decided to begin housing her at Arkham Asylum, she might as well have been in here today. The thought only further ignited her anger at her friend and the person she was airheaded enough to follow.

"Do you even know where it is?" she yelled at Batman's back.

He didn't answer her. Why was she even expecting him to? The longer she spent in this creature's company the more she was reminded of exactly why she despised him. He wasn't open to reason, to cooperation, to the bigger picture. He was a perfect representation of the system she hated. Honestly, she was impressed that he found his way around Stonegate with such ease. She, herself, was fairly good at finding her way in here - but she had limited knowledge of staff rooms and staff corridors. Batman almost seemed like he had the place memorized.

However, as they ran down the hallway and past the door leading back into the entrance hall - Ivy still proved more observant than him. The door was open, ever so slightly. This was wrong. The guards would have closed it behind them. She halted, flinging open the door. Somewhere behind her, her dark-clad companion noticed she had ceased to follow and turned back to catch up with her.

"Look," she whispered as she felt his presence.

He ran past her and over to the body, lying but halfway concealed by the reception area. Poison Ivy, feeling no real dread for the prison guard, took in the bullet holes scattered about the entrance hall. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

"This isn't them!" she said out loud.

They weren't alone.

"Ivy!" hissed the bat. "Look at this!"

She jogged over to Batman, as she knelt beside the man on the floor. It was the same man they had met when they entered. He was very tall and had seemed very flustered and surprised by their arrival. Something was different though. He wore a gas mask.

The Batman tugged at it. A gun - not a regulation one lay beside the man. A wound to the forehead betrayed it was too late.

"He knew to wear this," Batman mumbled. "This is one of the Scarecrow's people."

"But…" Ivy trailed off.

Next moment, Batman had her by the arm, his cowl mere inches from her face as he thundered:

"Who else did you tell!?"

"Nobody!" Ivy hissed as she kicked him.

He didn't flinch.

"Well, somebody knew exactly when and where this was going down! Somebody has it out for one of them already!"

"I…" Ivy croaked, twisting to get herself free. "I don't know! It's not my fault! Get off me and help me find her! Don't be an idiot! Don't act like you don't know who has it out for them!"

She giggled softly to herself, not looking too much at the situation below. Some minutes ago it had turned surprisingly bloody - well, perhaps not that surprisingly since the guards had weapons. Instead she glanced briefly at her old teacher, only to find the sack looking at her. Supposedly looking at her anyway.

"Is something amusing , Miss Quinn?" he said.

"Nope!" she grinned.

He reached out and snatched her notes, before she could object.

"Hey!" she protested. "Um…"

He stood for a moment, looking at her work. Harley had taken very good notes, she knew. It was just that at some point she'd gotten bored and begun doodling not only the people below but also her partner. And yes, there might have been added the odd speech bubble with totally appropriate dialogue.

"Miss Quinzel," his natural, more pleasant voice began.

Harley smiled.

"Am I a joke to you?!"

The sudden switch made her jump. Not only that but the very audibly agitation in his voice.

"It's just a bit of fun," she half-heartedly laughed, daring to come closer.

"This," he said, gesturing grandly around the room. "Is my life's work!"

He paused. Harley reached out, placing her own hand on the one in which he held the notebook.

"Whoopsie, my bad. Serious Harley on the job, promise! Perhaps… I can make it up to you?"

She let her hand slide up his arm. He froze under her touch.

"You will remove your hand, Miss Quinzel," professor Crane's voice hissed. "And you will complete your work satisfactorily within the established parameters for excellence!"

"It's just notes," Harley countered through her teeth.

She didn't care about him having standards for her. He'd always had that. No, it was the dismissal, the constant refusal. Why didn't he want her? Why would he care? Why would he be so kind to her - but he never wanted her? Wasn't she good enough?

"It's not like ya won't just only use yer own anyways!"

"You will learn respect!" the Scarecrow thundered, the sound dulled by the commotion of their surroundings.

It sent a chill down her spine, not an entirely unwelcome one and that made it worse. It made her disgusted with herself, that he had such power. That she liked it. She turned away from him, trying to absorb the feelings.

"Apologies, that was unprofessional," professor Crane said behind her. "It is my own fault, child, I should not expect you to shed this skin so easily."

Harley felt like she'd been punched, hearing his familiar tone and words for the first time in a different way. It hurt. It hurt enough she wished he had punched her. But he wouldn't, and now she knew why.

"I'm not a kid," she said.

"Pardon?" he replied.

"I said: I'm not a child!" Harley yelled. "So stop it! Why're ya always saying that?!"

"My dear Miss Quinzel…" he began, clearly shocked by her outburst.

"Shut up!" Harley cried, forgetting she prompted him to speak. "I'm not stupid! I'm not a kid! And I'm not some kinda lizard! I'm me! Harley! And if ya don't like it, shut up!"

"You are upset," said Dr Crane after a small pause. "I respect that. If you would like to discuss this, we can…"

"Don't fuckin' start that! I know that trick! And you're not playin' psychologist with me!" Harley interrupted him.

"Do not speak to me that way!"

"I'll speak to ya any way I like, so how's that?"

Harley confidently squared up with him.

"I could destroy you," the Scarecrow said and it sent a tremble through her confidence.

Still he casually put the notebooks in his bag which stood on the floor next to her own, not seeming physically provoked by her.

"Why don't you?" Harley replied, but despite her best efforts, it came out more as the question it truly was, rather than the threat it was meant to sound like.

"Enough of this," Dr Crane's strained voice replied. "There is work to be done. We will discuss this once home. I suggest you take a minute to calm yourself, dear girl. You are clearly not yourself at the moment."

"I'm pretty sure I told ya! Stop infantilizing me! Yeah! That's a big word! I know how to use those!" Harley returned.

" Harleen! This is not the time!" he replied, raising his voice slightly again.

"Fine!" she said, grabbing a bag, turning and stomping through the door they had entered through.

She made it some way down the corridor before a sound emanated from the bag in her hand.

' Damn!' she thought as she saw it was the wrong bag.

For a moment, she just stared at it, wondering what to do, until she remembered the radio that was in there. She opened it, moving canisters aside until she found it .

"Boss? Boss! Goddamnit!"

"Tim? Tim, it's Harley!" she said into the device.

"Oh, thank God! I've been trying to reach you for, like, 20 minutes!"

"Maybe the reception is bad," Harley exhaled irritably, while eyeing the concrrete walls.

"You okay, ma'am?" Tim asked.

"Yeah… Yeah! It's… nothin'. What's up?" Harley replied, not wanting to think about what had just happened.

"It's bad," said Tim. "Max is dead."

"What?!" Harley cried. "Whaddya mean?"

"I don't… I was messing with the wiring. I get up. See him there on the prompter. I went out to see. Shot."

"No, that's not right…" Harley muttered as her blood ran cold.

"There's more… Is the boss around? He's not gonna like this… I think I saw him… The bat…"

Panic grabbed Harley's throat and squeezed her dry.

"Shit!" she exclaimed loudly, turning and running back to the mess hall.

The mixture of screams and whimpering was as she'd left it but something was missing. Her bag wasn't there and neither was the Scarecrow. She sprinted as fast as she could along the gallery, kicking the door handles in the process until she found one that flung open and then she continued down that corridor, frantically looking in either direction.

She raised the radio again.

"Tim! Ya there? Can ya see the professor anywhere on there?!"

"Just a… Hey!"

A loud crash was heard over the radio and the connection ended. Harley wheezed and began running again. They'd planned this so well! No one suspected! No one knew! How could this be! Her sore heart flip flopped in her chest cavity. It couldn't end like this. Maybe she could escape. Maybe he could. This was a prison. There was no easy way out. And even if he was cruel, even if he didn't want her, she couldn't have these be the last things she said to him. What if he thought it was her? That she sold him out? What if he'd hate her? The thought was menacing. It would tear her apart and send her to Arkham's solitary long enough that all meaning would have abandoned her and all willingness to forgive died in him.

Hallways, corridors, cells.

It all became a blur as she searched and searched. Every time she heard a scream, hope rose in her, until she remembered water, that he didn't need to have been near them. She reached the end of a hallway. The door was locked. Harley screamed in frustration and kicked the door. She flung the bag against the wall and two canisters, the radio and a keycard fell out.

She looked at it, then tried to punch herself.

'Stupid, stupid stupid!' she raged.

They both had keycards. She hastily gathered the things, took the bag and unlocked the door. Cold wind hit her in the face. It was dark by now but the lights were on in places. Bright white lights. It was the prison courtyard. Some of the lights had been smashed and Harley had stepped out onto the gallery, which was only a few meters above the ground. There, across from her, she saw movement. He stood in another doorway, either exiting or entering the courtyard. He was still, she saw her.

"Professor Crane!" she cried, running along the gallery as her feet loudly thumped against the metal.

"Miss Quinn…"

It was the Scarecrow's voice, cold, unkind and furious. Harley didn't care. It was there. She stumbled the last few feet as she tried to slow her pace, but still she slammed directly into him, wrapping her arms around him instantly. She gasped repeatedly into the hessian of his attire. The familiar scent of chemicals and a hint of lavender hit her in the face as she tore off her mask to better breathe.

"We…" she gasped, pausing when she felt his arms rise and he returned the embrace.

He didn't say a word.

"We… We gotta run. Go! Get out!"

"What are you saying?" professor Crane's own voice said, as they still held on to each other.

"Max is dead!" she sobbed. "Batman's here! He knows! Somehow! And I think he attacked Tim!"

"Hmm…" Dr Crane hummed quietly. "Batman does not readily murder people."

"Whaddya mean?" Harley sniffed, wiping her eyes while still clinging to her partner.

"Weeeell! It's that cute?! Just precious!" A very familiar voice called somewhere behind Harley's back.

She held her breath in what she recognized was terror. Her grip around her friend tightened and she heard a change in his breathing.

'No…' she thought before her mind began screaming the word.

"You look at me, you two-timing bitch!" a roar erupted when no one answered the clown.

"Run!" she whispered into the hessian. "When I let go, run!"

TBC