Quinn didn't pause when she reached the outside of the apartment building, even if there was no way the black-haired man could catch up with her. Not with one leg hurt and one leg that already made him limp. She ran for an entire block before turning to cut through an ally. She wasn't nimble enough to make it in the circus, but she was nimble enough to scurry up the fence in that ally and toss herself over it to the other side. Her knees gave way when she hit the ground, and she fell onto her side. Quinn rolled two or three times before coming to a stop. She never had been good at sticking landings. The rips in the knees of her jeans proved to be an unwise fashion choice as both knees started to leak red. She dusted away the dirt and gravel as best she could before standing up, and slowing her pace to a jog.
Quinn was relieved to find that the men hadn't robbed her, which almost made her wonder if they'd actually been trying to help her. She shook her head. It didn't matter. They were obviously psychopaths either way she spun it.
But Jerome was kind of a psychopath, the thought slipped through her mind before she could stop it. Quinn was instantly angry at herself. How dare she think about him like that? He was unique and misunderstood. And even if he was a little bit loony he was her loon.
Momentarily, Quinn considered going to the police about the decapitated head in Ed's freezer. But then she remembered how cold and rude everyone had been to her there. Well, everyone except for Jim Gordon, but he was the one that broke the news to her about her friend, and even if whatever happened to Jerome wasn't his fault he was the only person she had to associate the bad feeling inside of her with. Except for Jerome's mother that is, but it didn't feel satisfying to give her the blame. The rotten bitch was dead too, after all.
Quinn didn't feel comfortable staying in town. Who knew where one of those psychos might be looking for her? She chanced taking the time to seek out a liquor store to get herself a bottle of whiskey, and then chanced the time stopping at a convenience store for a small bottle of cola and a bag of chips, but wasted no time other than that. The bus had passed a port on the way into town. Once she'd finally found the bus stop she'd been dropped off at, she knew which direction to go in. Gotham was a very large city though. By the time she finally reached the port the sun was getting ready to set. It must have been nearly five o'clock.
The air out by the port was much more bitter than the air inside the city. Quinn shivered and wished she'd had more room in her backpack to fit her coat. But she hadn't and had decided to leave it behind. The girl made her way along one of the docks, sitting cross legged on the edge to watch the sun set over the water. She uncapped her whiskey and took a swig, chasing it with a mouthful of cola. The alcohol started to warm her the second it splashed against the bottom of her empty stomach. She then opened the chips and started to eat, hoping not to have a repeat of the previous night but also wanting nothing more than to be squeezed by the warm hand of inebriation.
Halfway through the bag of chips and an eighth of the way through her bottle of whiskey, Quinn heard a voice behind her.
"Well, well, well, whadda we got here?"
Quinn looked behind her to see a scraggly looking boy, no older then seventeen, standing a few feet away from her with his arms crossed. A small smirk creased his face, right above his pointed chin and right below hus crooked nose. She hadn't even heard him coming up behind her. She decided to ignore him, but he didn't seem interested in going away.
"I'mma take that bottle of whiskey, if you don't mind," the boy sneered, stepping closer.
"Ain't it past your bedtime, sweetheart?" Quinn remained unamused. She tried to shrug off her backpack as quick as she could to get to her mallet, but she wasn't quick enough. The thug was close enough to grab onto the top of the bag and yank it upwards. "Agh!" Quinn cried out as the bag yanked at her arms.
That moment of weakness gave him a chance to slide it off of her. Quick to act, Quinn fell onto her back, flipping her legs over her head like she used to do when she was younger. Only this time, she straightened her legs, meaning to kick the thug before she completed her roll. She misjudged where he was standing, however, and just barely nicked his chin. This threw her off balance, and her roll became diagonal, and she didn't land on her knees. She landed on her side, hurting her arms. She couldn't seem to catch a damn break in this godforsaken town.
The kick was hardly painful, but it still pissed the boy off. He dropped the bag, taking the four steps he needed to reach Quinn's landing place and not hesitating to give her a kick of his own to the stomach.
"Think you're tough shit, huh?" he asked, this kick hit her shoulder. "Pathetic little bitch!" He kicked her again. Quinn couldn't bring herself to roll away. She couldn't even breathe. All she could do was lift her arms to shield her face, just in case he decided to get really vicious.
The thug didn't however. He gave a nasty cackle and she could hear the wood creak as he walked now. If only she'd had her ear to the dock earlier, when he first showed up. Peeking past her arms, Quinn watched him rummage through her bag. It would be better to stay down, she decided. She never was good at defending herself. Jerome had always done that for her.
When Quinn was fifteen, her mother decided she might have better luck in the act as a clown, so her acrobatics would be acceptable even if they were clumsy and ineloquent. She still wanted Quinn in the family act though. She'd decided that Quinn would run around acting a fool, interacting with the rest of the Lloyds as they summersaulted around her, taunting her. Basically, if she couldn't make the auience love Quinn, she was going to make the audience laugh at her.
Quinn's mother stitched her together something more edgy than the traditional red-nosed clowns: a long sleeved unitard, half black and half red. It was skin tight, hugging every inch of Quinn's body like a glove. ("Drop a few pounds and you could turn some heads" Miss. Lloyd had told her teenage daughter). She put Quinn's hair in pigtails and painted her face white, with exaggerated red lipstick on her mouth and black eyeshadow on her eyelids.
"Look at that. You're a regular old court jester. They used to call 'em—"
"Harlequins," Quinn had finished the sentence. "I don't want to be a harlequin."
"You sure don't mind it when Jerome calls you that," her mother had said. She didn"t sound like she was teasing, she sounded honestly bitter, which further infuriated Quinn.
"Hardly."
"What's that weird little thing he says? Hardly Harley Quinzelle? We could change your name. Just call you Harley Quinn. People would eat that up."
"Hardly." With that, Quinn had run out of their trailer, over to Jerome's.
Just as she was about to knock, the door opened. It was a man. He was drunk. No surprises there.
"Um…is Jerome inside?" Quinn had asked unsurely. Normally he'd be outside if his mother had someone over. The man's eyes scanned over her costume and it made her feel gross. Her breasts were large for her age, and his eyes lingered.
"The kid? Yeah, yeah, sure." He stepped aside to allow her in. "I'm Roger, by the way. What's your name, pretty girl?
Quinn hesitated, but stepped inside. She jumped as he closed the door behind her a bit too hard. Her throat was tight. He made her uneasy. She swallowed then said, "Um...Harley." It felt more appropriate to lie to this unnerving man named Roger.
"Cute. Suits you," he grinned at her, his arm sliding around her waist and his hand resting on her hip. "Look, the old lady headed out for another bottle. You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"
"Hardly," Quinn declined and tried to snake out of his grasp. She could smell the alcohol on him from that close.
Roger was adamant. He pulled her back to him. He had to be at least twice her age and more than twice her size, and this time she couldn't pull free.
"Let go!" Quinn demanded, but Roger only chucked. So she did the only thing she could think of. She drew her right hand forward, formed a fist, and brought it down as hard as she could between his legs.
Roger let out a howl, but the angle hadn't been quite right to cause enough pain to stop him from chasing her towards the door that stood in front of Jerome's room. He caught her by one of the damn pigtails her mother had put in her hair and Quinn stumbled backwards, falling to the floor. That's when Jerome's bedroom door opened. His eyebrows were furrowed together. One wisp of red hair fell down over his forehead and he looked like a child, innocently confused.
"Sir…what are you doing?" Jerome asked Roger, tilting his head to the side.
"We're just playing a game 'til your mom gets back, kid. Don't worry, you can play with her next." Roger gave one of Quinn's pigtails a hard tug and she whimpered.
"Oh. That's what I thought," Jerome said, matter-of-factly. He stepped back into his room and disappeared.
Quinn couldn't believe it. She wasn't even scared anymore, just heartbroken. She finally started to cry as she was dragged backwards, towards the couch. He pushed her down onto it first, then stood admiring her. Just as he was about to lean down towards Quinn, she saw Jerome jump onto Roger's back. There was an orange extension cord in his hand that he struggled only for a second to wrap around Roger's neck. Jerome, with his legs secured tightly around Roger's torso, pulled on each end of the cord with all his might. Roger was gasping, trying to get air and get Jerome off of his back at the same time. He staggered, trying to slam the boy into a wall, but even that didn't work.
Quinn had never seen Jerome's face like this. It was dark, as if shadows had been created by nothing just to fall over it. He wasn't smiling, either. His look furious, with his teeth bared in a snarl. He looked deadly, even.
After two minutes of struggling, Jerome's hands were turning beat red from pulling as hard as he could on the cord, and Roger finally collapsed onto his knees, mouth gaping. Jerome didn't stop however. Quinn sat on the couch, her tears dried away as she counted the seconds, getting to sixty and then starting back at one again. She counted eight entire minutes before Jerome finally climbed off of Roger, who hadn't been moving for a long time.
The redheaded boy shook the cramps out of his hands as he walked over to Quinn on the couch. His hand reached down and stroked one of her pigtails. She could see the fire in his eyes slowly starting to die down.
"Thank you, Puddin'," Quinn said, her lower lip trembling.
Jerome's hand left her hair and moved to her face, grabbing her chin so hard she thought it might shatter. But she didn't cry out, or get angry or anything.
"Only I get to hurt you," he said, and then gave her that grin of his as he released her.
She was his, that's what she knew he was saying. The pain in her jaw sent sparks to her heart. That was the night. The night when a villainous young man became a hero to someone, and Quinn Lloyd fell in love with Jerome Valeska.