Chapter One: The True King
Two Months Prior...
"Why are we going to this hoity-toity nightclub, anyways?" Harley asked, leaning forward from her spot in the back seat to slide her arms around the head rest of the passenger seat and settle her chin on his shoulder. Like a dog riding in the back who wants its owners attention.
Gum popping. Smacking. That was all he could hear as she breathed next to his ear. Mr. J's eyes narrowed as he turned his head towards her. Attention seeking and pathetic. His left hand shot up, pressing backwards into her face and shoving her off of him. Makeup smudged the shoulder of his jacket from the perfect white face paint that she wore. His harlequin warrior. He had crafted her in his image, in his own way of seeing the world. To her, he was God. But despite all efforts, he could not fully control her volatile nature. She might have a leash but it didn't make her any less rabid. And like any pet, Harley craved the reaction of her master. He would indulge her for now.
"If you don't spit out that gum, I will rip out your teeth one at a time and make a necklace," he growled, staring at the imprint of her facial greasepaint on his glove before rubbing it against his pants, unconcerned with the mess.
He could almost hear Harley's lips turn up into that dangerous smirk as she sat back and smacked her gum loudly. "Promise?"
"Uh, can you wait until I park the car, at least?" the driver asked, a nervous lilt in Doc's voice. "I just bought this thing and it has that whole new car scent and not the old blood scent that the last one did. I'd like to keep it that way."
"That was the best part of it, though," Harley commented, absently. "The car smelled like death."
The driver snorted. "Except you didn't die when you got shot and instead just ruined the upholstery, Barbie."
Doc's snide comments weren't really intended to bait Harley's anger. The former Arkham inmate just didn't understand how to act in social situations, always speaking his mind to horrible results. Exactly why Mr. J gave him strict instructions to stay silent during jobs. Despite consciously knowing that Doc meant nothing by his offhanded remark, Harley's emotions had peaked inside her and she was reacting by instinct. Mr. J could sense the motion behind him and shot his arm out to block her from grabbing at Doc. Then he twisted his arm and grasped her by the throat, turning around in his seat to stare at her.
Their eyes met in the darkness of the car, only the light of street lamps illuminating their faces. Her smirk disappeared as she tested his dominance in her usual way, pushing her neck against his hand, daring him to kill her, knowing he wouldn't. Pressing, pressing, always pressing. She thought herself equal because he began to use her mind to his own ends, not understanding she was another tool, another weapon to unleash. She had creativity, a unique perspective, and that gave her value. Her other assets were appreciated but unnecessary. But he understood that she also saw herself as his companion, his life-mate. In the dark of night when she slept, he often considered smothering her to prevent that line of thinking from being spoke aloud. She would not appreciate the conversation that followed. Neither would he, for that matter.
"No striking the driver, Harley," Mr. J said, taking his other gloved hand and placing it in front of her mouth, palm up.
Her big blue eyes darted down to his open palm and then back up to his face in defiance, wanting to win this war for once. She never would, not against him. A true battle of their wills would leave her acute mind staggering. And he did know all her triggers, her little secrets. She gave herself to him and that gave him final control. Harley wasn't weak, not by any means, but she had her flaws. That nagging sense of compassion still lingering somewhere inside her, if only appearing when her friends were in danger. For himself and Doc, it was acceptable when she became unpredictable to save them, but extended outside, it was a problem. Good thing that anyone else was nothing to her, but if she truly wanted to play the game, he would never fight fair.
For now, Harley was just dancing with him, nothing real. And as expected, she spit the gum out into his hand, a sign that her submission was not in question. He never doubted it for a minute. For there would never be a day that she would be completely free of him. Even when he died, Harley would be haunted by his metaphorical ghost, never living a full life because her mind would be so wrapped up in what they had together. For her, it was love, something so pitiful, but so useful to exploit. He understood the concept. Hormones and emotions, things that didn't affect him. And Harley never questioned whether he felt anything for her because she accepted that he would never see her in the same light. Maybe even surmised that he had no true emotion. Yet, her dedication never wavered.
Mr. J turned, lowering the window for a second to toss the gum out. "It's not the club."
"Huh?" Harley's confused voice rang out from the back.
"You asked why. It's not the club that matters," he said, glancing over to Doc who was lighting a cigarette. "It's all about the man in charge."
Smoke filled the cramped car quickly but none of them moved to open a window and alleviate the stench. Harley's face appeared between them, her arms resting on the backs of either seat. "What's so special about the man in charge? We killing him?"
"No," Mr. J said.
A puff of air tickled his ear as she sighed, over-exaggerated. "Boring. For being a master of chaos, you don't create enough."
At that, Mr. J laughed. Harley did know how to make him laugh, he'd give her that. Staring out at dark streets of Gotham, he said, "You do realize that chaos creates itself regardless of our actions."
"Less fun for us," Harley said, huffing as she flopped back against her seat. Probably even folded her arms like a child throwing a tantrum. "I want some action."
"Can't always get what you want," Mr. J said.
"But sometimes, you get what you need," Doc sang and then burst out laughing. From behind him, Harley snickered.
Doc had chosen Harley and Mr. J as his family, despite his love-hate relationship with the girl. He could have left, fled, probably died for trying, but he saw Mr. J as his savior, just like Harley. And it was too easy to manipulate a mind like Doc's, creative, vicious, yearning for revenge. A gun to be aimed with the right ammo. His official diagnosis was Schizoid Personality Disorder. Mr. J's analysis went far deeper than that, searching beneath his insanity to find something useful beyond basic skills. He found it. Doc had a streak of brutality that was often incorporated into their plans. A genius of new and daring ways to approach situations. And with his die-hard loyalty, he was a man that Mr. J would keep around as long as he was useful.
The car approached the club and Mr. J simply looked at Doc. He didn't need to be told where to go, Doc had an innate sense when it came to Mr. J's wants. And soon the club was barely glimmer in the rear view mirror when it stopped. Mr. J could hear Harley fiddling with her guns in the backseat and he shook his head. "Won't need those."
"Better safe than sorry," she said.
Mr. J smiled. "Exactly what I was thinking." Then he tossed a small metal object back at her. She snatched out of the air with grace, looking down at it, a grin spreading across her black painted lips.
"This what I think it is?" She examined the object before slipping it into her pocket along with her guns.
"Had the boys do some prep work earlier today."
"Question is, where?" Harley tilted her head, curiosity peeking through her dark lashes.
Mr. J didn't reply. Instead, he exited the vehicle and headed back the way they came, towards the direction of the club. No need to look behind to see Harley rushing to catch up, desperate not to be left behind. She wanted her action this night and if she did well, maybe he'd allow her a taste. His eyes scanned the area, darkened alleys, street signs, how many people were out in the acceptable weather. Citizens were beginning to notice them strolling down the street as if they belonged among the crowds, no care for their hysterics. The clown couple invoked so many reactions from the masses. Tears, screams, sweat, frantic calls to the police. All predictable, lemmings the lot. Boring and not able to break free of the mold. Just once he wished someone would do something to surprise him.
Oh but he supposed Gotham had offered its one surprise in his Harley. The girl with so many secrets sealed away in the guise of control. She was a piece of coal being smashed by too much pressure. The potential was there from day one in Arkham. Doc may have been a side reward from the escape, but Dr. Harleen Quinzel was the true prize. The woman who had been broken, her mind shattered into something carnal, and she needed someone like Mr. J to open her to her truest self. To let her be free. Her multitude of physical scars were only a small piece of the puzzle. Her mind was the component, the one thing to unlock. He ripped past her barriers while she fought to give up everything, even her life, only to give in to him in the end. Because she needed him, then, as much as she needed him now. She was reborn as Harley Quinn.
As they approached the club, Mr. J observed the meager outdoor security. Two cameras and a bouncer. A line of patrons was waiting to get in, always wanting one last night of partying before the cold set in. Too soon but that was always the excuse. One last good weekend. But like himself, the weather in Gotham was unpredictable. There was an old saying. If you don't like the weather, just wait an hour. It would change, as always. Hot days in winter, cold days in summer. At the moment, it was a mild evening in early fall. The perfect weather for many things. Looking up, he noted that the moon was full. Also, the perfect night for the crazies to be out. It was a concoction to make this evening chaotic. Just what Harley desired.
"Want to play with the people in line?" Harley asked, excited by the buzz in the air, as they drew closer.
"We're here for a reason," Mr. J replied. Then with a smile twisting his lips, he looked over at her. "Besides, there won't be any people in line."
More predictability from the masses as he and Harley strolled past the line. He could hear the gasps of the mob, the whimpers. He could see the frightened looks and worried eyes. No outright screaming, a shame. But then again, they weren't the goal. And as soon as the first patron realized this and fled from the line, others quickly followed. Some walking quickly, most running for their lives. As stupid as they were, almost everyone had basic common sense and survival instincts. Almost everyone.
One woman still remained in line, big brown eyes wide as she observed Mr. J and Harley moving up the empty rope line towards her. She looked fragile. Weak. A short frame. Her skin and hair indicated a Latino origin. Dressed to dance, comfortable black shoes but the rest of her attire was designed to attract. Red and black, low cut shirt, midriff showing. Short skirt. She was looking for action. Males, females, didn't matter. She was there, like so many others, to be seen, to be desired. And she didn't run away. Did she stay, frozen from her overwhelming terror? No. The pupils were wide but not the size they needed to be for real fear. She wasn't stock still either. She shifted slightly, her head following their motion to get a better look as they drew nearer to her. This was a look of fascination, curiosity. There was unease there, but not enough. And a lot of nervous energy, as if this was an important event in her life. Ah, that was it. She idolized him or Harley or both. He laughed to himself at the realization. She wasn't the first fan by any means.
Mr. J stopped directly in front of her, looking down into her soul. The smile on his face grew as the girl met his eyes without blinking. Interesting. The last one couldn't look him in the eyes, all nerves and no vocal chords. But she had that Latino blood, all fiery and determined. She may have looked fragile but he suspected she had some hidden depths and a tongue to match her heritage. Behind him, he could feel Harley fidget impatiently. As a former psychiatrist, she would have recognized the signs as he did. She wanted to get on with business, not dawdle with their fan club. Mr. J, though, had an idea.
"Not running away with your chums?" he asked the girl.
It took her a moment to find her voice before she said, "It's you." Admiration was noted in her sighed tone. "I can't believe it."
Mr. J did a dramatic bow, playing to expectations of theatricality. "In the flesh."
"I always wanted to meet you," she said, her words quick and staccato.
He scanned her up and down again. Deeper. Innocence. She had never killed. Never felt real blood on her hands. Soft fingers, not a worker. Fragile, as suspected. She was practical, her shoes indicating she could run if needed at any moment. Also meant that she was running within her own life. A girl with problems. But she had that devotion he sought in members of his crew. The girl could be an addition. He chose the insane, the dedicated, simply because they didn't look for their reward in payments but rather in the work itself. And anyone who held that look in their eye when staring him in the face was certainly insane. It was obvious when anyone looked at Harley. But was the insanity enough? Time to play.
"What's your name?" he asked the girl.
"Ana." The Spanish flavor of the name, making it flow better than the Americanized Anna.
"Ana." He tasted the name on his lips and decided it was soft, too feminine. "How'd you like to join me and Harley inside?" Mr. J wrapped an arm around her tiny shoulders, slowly guiding her towards the double doors of the entrance. "We're meeting some of Gotham's elite."
Her face flushed a tad from his touch. Physical attraction to him. Mundane but useful. She looked up at him, eyes widening further. "Really? You want me to come with you?"
"Why not? You seem like a woman who knows what she wants and tonight, you're getting the chance of a lifetime. You'll even get to meet the owner of this club." He raised his hand up to point at the marquee sign, lit in bright blues and whites. The Iceberg Lounge. "Mr. Oswald Cobblepot."
Ana smiled widely, perfect teeth gleaming in the yellow street light. "I'd like that."
"It will be a night to remember," Mr. J said, ominously, as he looked backed to Harley. She rolled her eyes at his melodrama but had a smile on her face. She knew where this was going, always in sync with him, and while it may not have been her cup of tea, she liked that he wanted to test the new girl.
The three walked towards the entrance. The interlude with Ana cost them the factor of surprise, the bouncer gone from his spot. No doubt reporting to his employer of his guest at the doors. Mr. J was disappointed, looking forward to that moment when the bouncer noticed who wanted into the exclusive club. The look was always precious and valued. Not this night, though. Thing changed and adaptability was needed. He waved to the camera on the outside before Harley opened one of the doors for him. No hesitation as he pushed Ana in front of him, just in case. A line of gunman would hit her first, giving him warning. No bullets went flying, no dead girl on the ground. A good sign that Cobblepot wasn't looking to pick a fight.
Unlike Harley, whose hand was twitching inside her black and red ringmaster's jacket. She was itching for some violence. She gave quick glances to Mr. J every second to judge what she should do, following his lead with practiced ease. Her restraint had become admirable. Time was, not so long ago, she would have run and did whatever she wanted, no care for what was needed. That was her downfall, her "id" state, the result of experiments by her former college lover. Her control fled her, giving into instinct and dynamic emotions, always changing, unstable. Guilt drove her to suppress her destructive nature, inside a mask, a shell. And then she met him and the floodgates reopened. He found the real Harleen Quinzel and trained her to be his tool, to do his will, no longer her own woman. She hadn't been her own woman since the moment she accepted his case at the asylum.
With Harley on his heels, he sauntered into the club, taking it in. Blueprints could only show so much. Structural weak points, hidden electrical lines, exit points. But it couldn't capture the feel of a location. The Iceberg Lounge was, for lack of a better term, swanky. It took the style of an old jazz speakeasy and mixed it with a modern twist. Sharp blues combined with steel chrome. A stage to host live musicians. Tables only, no booths. While it was ritzy, the place lacked any warmth, and it wasn't just because of the color scheme. A front, a place to cover up the real business. Mr. J could spot it easily. Obviously, the line outside didn't. They wanted to be part of the popular club and drunk patrons made great camouflage for the beast within. Cobblepot had more panache than those who had come before.
"Where is everyone?" Harley asked.
The club was silent. Empty. No one was inside. Not even the band or the bouncer. It was well past open per the sign outside, but no one had been let in. And with the clown couple present, it seemed that the night's profits would be nullified. Mr. J smirked, knowing the reason. "Come on," he ordered with a gesture for her and Ana to follow.
Past the décor, beyond the top shelf bar, was a door. Not the only one in the club, but the only one that mattered. The door led to a curtain, voices heard beyond, all male. A secret gathering. One important enough to shut down the club. The last secret gathering of this sort ended in bloodshed. Harley came home satisfied and covered in crimson, the blood of the mafia leaders coating her like butter. This one was different, though. New players, new game. Settled in and ready to work. The moment had come.
Mr. J pushed past the curtain, slipping his left hand into his pocket, entering a richly decorated, low lit room with six green felt tables. For those in the know, poker games regularly occurred in the room during business hours, the side business for those more discerning customers. High stakes, massive security. Cameras aimed in every direction, allowing each player to feel comfortable and cheaters demotivated. Tonight, a different kind of poker was being played.
Around the room, many different men sat, all armed, all lower level. Flunkies to the guests of honor that sat at a large cherry wood table in the middle of the room. Eight men and one woman. All sat on the long sides of the table, with one man presiding over the meeting at the head. The legacy of Gotham's mafia. The heirs to the empire. After Mr. J's move to take out their predecessors via Harley, they had gone to war. They didn't make the link, see the connection. No one saw her come in or come out. Everyone was dead. Everyone but Carmine Falcone who had missed the meeting on account of health issues. The first assumption was the Falcone family, but too obvious. Even they weren't so stupid, so the destruction began. Just as Mr. J wanted. Chaos amongst the families, the mafia no longer functional. Only the internal war that was slowly spreading outside of their playground into the heart of the city and the innocent civilians.
And then Oswald Cobblepot made his debut. Mr. J didn't know how he did it, yet, but he managed to reign in all the empires under his umbrella. Almost all. Falcone was the lone holdout but that didn't matter when so many had come to peaceful accord. The war ended and the mafia was back to business, finding a new purpose. All because of one man, Mr. J's chaotically constructed plan had fizzled. And he needed to meet the man who made it happen.
Every eye and gun turned at his entrance, glancing and aiming at the new arrivals. With so many weapons pointed at them, Mr. J was content. Reputation was a hard thing to gain in a city like Gotham. Harley moved beside him and waved to everyone with her demented smile. A glance back revealed that Ana, though, wasn't coping as well with the danger of her situation, tears forming at the sides of her eyes. Win some, lose some.
His turned his attention to the head of the table. He knew the other faces too well but Cobblepot was only a photograph. Now real, he saw the confidence, the power. A larger man, round but not overly so. His frame from Mr. J's angle indicated he was no taller than 5'3". A shorter man, but had the aura of someone much larger. Napoleon's protégé. Short black hair, prominent nose, a vulture look to him. Oswald wore a tuxedo, comfortable in it, showing he wore it often. But the tuxedo spoke volumes to his origins. He wasn't raised in wealth. He came into it and this was his way of showing he had it. Tacky but effective. Many secrets hidden by it. He was not one to talk about himself. All business. One thing, though, stood out. A weakness. A small red boutonniere on the lapel. Red. Cobblepot, like Ana, was looking to attract a partner. Lonely. Easy to exploit.
"Joker." Cobblepot inclined his head, his voice a min-tenor, clearly trying to establish control from the start with the first words. "Why are you here?"
Mr. J smiled and took up the seat opposite of him. The other head of the table. "My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. Or Harley burned it." She tittered, standing behind him.
"You have thirty seconds to state your business before I give the order to have you and your companions executed," Cobblepot said. He was all nerves despite the threat. The others wouldn't see but Mr. J did. The owner of the Iceberg Lounge knew he was in a precarious situation. He didn't want to look weak but he also didn't want to face off against Gotham's most famous terrorist.
"Harley," Mr. J waved his right hand towards her. She stepped to his side, pulling out the metal item that he had given her in the car. She displayed it for the inspection of the assembled crowd, the smile dropping from her face as she made it clear what she was willing to do. Everyone seemed to take a mental step back, recognizing the piece as a homemade detonator, her thumb on the trigger. "Do that, Ozzie, and things are going to get a little explosive."
Cobblepot visibly bristled at the shortening of his first name but conceded. "What do you want." It wasn't a question. A demand.
Mr. J widened his eyes, looking innocent. "Me? Why I've just come to say hello to the new King of Gotham. That's all." He gave a thumbs up. "Good job getting them back in line."
He watched as Harley circled the table, tracing the backs of each of the attendees with her gloved fingers, much to the confusion and alarm of their trigger happy henchmen. Even Mr. J had to admit she was strange sometimes. She paused for a moment, her eyes flickering towards a darkened corner of the room, her body language stiffening before shaking her head and continuing. Focus was diverted and he switched it back to the man in charge.
"You never do anything without a purpose," Oswald said. "So, again I ask, what do you want?"
"It's the opposite, you see. What I want doesn't matter. It's what you want."
"And what do you believe I want?"
"This chair," Mr. J gestured to the seat he had stolen, "seems to be empty. Wrong season for Elijah so either you're expecting a death in the family, or you're looking for a reunion."
"If I wanted Falcone dead, he'd be dead," Cobblepot said.
"But you want him here. Kissing your boot with the rest of this sycophantic lot."
At the insulting comment, one of the seated men, the Riley heir, reached into his jacket for a weapon. The second his hand disappeared, an ear shattering boom rocked through the room. Screams erupted as everyone expected fire and debris to come raining down, little Ana's, the loudest scream by far. But only the ground shook. Not enough to cause anyone to fall, but enough to rattle everyone. Mr. J glanced over to Harley, who had just pressed the trigger on the detonator.
"Oops," she said, biting her lip like a naughty child, hiding the laughter that was threatening to bubble out. "My finger slipped."
Mr. J looked over to the visibly shaken Cobblepot, who opened his mouth to order the gunmen to fire on the intruders now that Harley's trigger had been set off. The clown shook his right finger at Oswald in admonishment, "Ah, ah, ah," and pulled his left hand out of his pocket, standing up. Gripped in his hand, since the moment he walked in, was another detonator.
"You see, Harley's toy was linked to the building next door. But mine, here, is to the bomb in your basement." He'd given Harley the other detonator knowing full well she'd use it at some point. Whether through need or through boredom, it would go off. She did love a good explosion and would give up her life for one spectacular moment, if the mood struck. Played her part well.
"You're bluffing," the lone woman at the table said. "You wouldn't kill yourself."
At that, Harley laughed loudly, mocking the woman's words with her peels of hysteria. Mr. J couldn't help but smile at her. She understood more than anyone how far he would go. He never bluffed. Beneath the Iceberg Lounge were several barrels of gasoline, set to blow at the push of a button. And he would press the button if the situation called for it. In a heartbeat. But he was also a man with an exit strategy, and he'd studied the floor plans extensively. If he had to hit the trigger, he'd have a couple of seconds to find his selected cover.
"You want to test that, sweetheart?" Harley said between laughs.
Oswald met Mr. J's eyes and, for a long moment, they stared at each other as Cobblepot assessed the sincerity of the threat. Finally, he nodded to himself and spoke, "I'll think your words over, Joker."
"You do that," Mr. J said, reaching into his coat pocket to pull out his signature Joker card. With casual ease, he tossed it on the table. "Leave a message when you've decided you need me."
He kicked the chair behind him out of the way and nodded to Harley, who waved with her fingers to everyone. "Ta ta!"
Together, they headed for the back door of the room. He caught Ana looking around the room with terrified eyes before she rushed to catch up. Girl probably figured the lesser of two evils. Outside in the alley, the car was waiting, Doc behind the wheel. He moved to the passenger's side, sliding in. Harley pushed Ana into the back with her and the car took off. As they rounded the corner out of the alley, Mr. J listed to the symphony of the sirens. Fire trucks closing in on the newly cratered building next to the Iceberg Lounge. An evening to remember. Casually, he tossed the detonator out the window, letting fate decide if the newly crowned Cobblepot would live or die as the device hit the ground. Two seconds later, nothing happened and he grinned in anticipation. Oswald Cobblepot would live to see another day.
Glancing back, he watched Harley settle in next to Ana, whose frightened face had morphed into a wide smile, adrenalin speeding through her system. "Oh my god, that was so awesome! Did you see the looks on their faces?"
"Just don't get the appeal," Harley muttered to Mr. J, quietly. Murder was in her eyes.
Ana continued ranting on, not even hearing her. "I mean I was totally scared when they pointed their guns at us and when that explosion happened, but then you were all like, 'ha, that was to the other building.' So cool!" She was behind Mr. J's seat and she clapped him on the shoulder like an old friend. "I always thought you'd be amazing to meet but this is, like, the best night ever."
Harley and Mr. J exchanged a look and he inclined his head towards her, giving her silent permission. A wild smile crossed her face as she grabbed Ana by the side of the neck and slammed her head into the door frame. The girl cried out in pain as Harley gracefully slid over her body, straddling her and peering down at the beautiful mess she had made. Mr. J turned further to watch her work, Harley's body blocking much of the view. As if reading his mind, Harley shoved the girl sideways, her body limply sprawled across the back seat and adjusted her position to keep Ana secure between her legs. Mr. J looked on, unaffected by the actions. Ana was a mere thought, to see how she would react to their lifestyle. But her post-job chatter was too annoying. If Harley had been anything like that, he would have put her down ages ago.
Ana was struggling against Harley, pushing at her body, trying to force her off. But his girl was far too strong to be knocked away by a useless, weak sheep. Using one hand to grasp the tiny woman's wrists, Harley slipped the other into her coat pocket, pulling out a knife. Ana froze in her fight immediately, terror taking her.
"Please don't kill me," she begged.
"Oh, honey, I'm not planning to kill you," Harley said, leaning down to press the knife against the girl's chest. "I'm just giving you the full experience."
"What?" Ana was confused, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes.
"You want to fuck Mr. J, don't you? I see that desire in your eyes." Ana was shaking her head wildly, denying the very obvious, which only made Harley smile more. "Don't worry, darling, I'm not jealous. I get it. He's the greatest man in all of Gotham." She leaned down, in a conspiratorial whisper. "And just between us girls, he can last for hours when he wants to."
"Please just let me go," Ana whined.
Mr. J could see the fire behind Harley's eyes. This was what she had been waiting for. It had been awhile since he allowed her to express herself to the fullest, to do as she willed without fear of reprisal. He admired the way she took pleasure from every gesture, every motion, drinking in the fear of her victims like an elixir. Ana's tears were only fueling Harley's need further and he found it stimulating. Harley leaned back up, trailing the knife down the front of the girl's shirt, her pupils dilating wide, like a predator, as she taunted her prey.
"But you really should know what you're signing up for with him. It's not just hugs and kisses, my dear." With that, she pulled the blade back a couple of inches before plunging it into Ana's shoulder. Shallow, but painful.
Piercing screams filled the car and Doc almost veered off the road in surprise. "New upholstery!" He wailed in dismay.
"Hush Doc, mama's working," Harley said, pulling the knife out and bringing it down to Ana's stomach. Her focus would not be shaken. "That's only a small taste. Want some more?"
"NO!" Ana's panicked cries were like ambrosia, the smell of her blood filling the air as acutely as Doc's cigarettes.
"Oh, I think you do." Harley's grin became inhuman, every motion of her lips exaggerated. "Mr. J carved something very special into me when we were fucking, once. I think it'd look even better on you."
This was her element, doing what she did best. Visceral and primal, Harley didn't even resemble the woman he first met. Mr. J watched every moment with twisted glee as she continued her work on Ana. It wasn't about the torture, as she carved the word "MINE" into the girl's stomach. It was about giving in to instinct. She wanted it, and she took it. It was the deepest part of her, perhaps not the oldest, but it ruled her like nothing else. The only thing that could conquer that need was Mr. J, himself. And as Ana whimpered below her, Harley looked up at him, her makeup smeared from sweat, her eyes both lustful and filled with rage. She wiped a gloved hand over her neck, blood staining her skin and clothing, and stared at him, wanting to share the moment with the man she loved.
Harley was a work of art. His work of art. The one truly beautiful thing he had created.
Mr. J jerked back suddenly in surprise. He turned in his seat, ignoring the slaughter behind him, mulling over what just happened. It wasn't about the thoughts he just had, no. He'd had them before about Harley. Something more. Something deeper, within him. He had felt his heart race, his breath pull in, and a twinge in his stomach. A tiny spark emotion had crawled its way inside of him for a moment. Just one moment. Which emotion, he didn't know. It was foreign. Like a virus twitching inside, wanting to curl up and make him sick. He had the unexpected urge to do some violence, to overwhelm himself with such vile acts that his mind would forget that split second of feeling. It could never happen again. Mr. J would not lose his edge.
It was her. Harley. She did this. Everything she did created that spark. It would not ignite. It would not become anything. The concept of that emotion was repulsive and it was weakness, pointless. She would not become that to him. His eyes narrowed, his lips turning down into a deep frown. Outside, the landscape of Gotham was flying by rapidly. And as the screams reached a crescendo in the back, Mr. J only had one thought.
Harley Quinn had to die.
A/N: I hope you all enjoy the first full chapter in this story. There were a lot of elements to this chapter so I truly hope it wasn't all confusing. Please let me know if it is. There are some references here to previous stories, as always, so if you haven't, I recommend reading my first two stories: Repression and Corruption.
As always, thanks for reading and any questions, comments, or feedback, leave a review!