After about a half an hour it really hits me how fucking cold it is. I'm frigid from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. My teeth almost chatter, but I grind them together securely when it begins. The denim messenger bag is overstuffed, and my head is ripping itself in two moment by moment.

At one point, I stop in the streets and kick the snow up as I walk. It's deserted, empty, and the white crystals of cold scrape along when they backfire at me. I scream as loud as I can. I don't care if the Batman comes.

Six-hundred-and-sixty-six is what I'm looking for. I'm searching high and low (see: an excellent Ah-ha album) and I still can't seem to locate it.

I wonder if blizzards ever end, or if they wait for just the right moments to begin.

I wonder if Cleave makes the snow come, in all honesty. I wonder if it's just another one of his nifty powers.

I stuff a headphone in my ear and scroll through my low-battery'd iPod. I search around and stop on the good ol' Boss, dandy Mister Springsteen who's always lifted my spirits. Well, not really, but he's always done an awfully good job of coaxing my thoughts away from my problems.

Suddenly, I notice it, and triumph! Etched into the side of a repulsively dilapidated building, I can see the numbers '666' in utterly decaying gold. I finally manage to locate the stairs and I have a hell of a time climbing them. There are immense piles of snow, snow and more snow. I'm tripping all over myself.

I stop wallowing in my bitter thoughts and return my attention to my iPod. A few clicks, and I ring at what I figure is the doorbell. The microscopic button is hidden along the grey-shaded wall.

Rosalita, jump a little higher. Senorita, come sit by my fire. I just want to be your love, ain't no lie. Rosalita, you're my stone desire—

In a swift moment, the door opens and my iPod dies all at once. When I glance up, the Boss' voice fragments and dies, and I shrink a few feet or so. I go from four-foot-ten…to a good two inches tall.

Whatever it is, the tree with fire-red hair stares down at me with that quick flash of emerald and I hear a low, purring voice mutter, "Can I…help you?"

I look up, so quick it's abnormal, and then settle my stare on the ground again. This must be the illustrious Poison Ivy everyone keeps talking about; I assume this from the fact that, neatly in her hands, she cradles a potted plant and seems to be dressed predominately in green skinny jeans. She's taller than a human should be. It makes me feel like I represent the lollipop guild.

"One more time—how can I help you?"

I flinch, and speak in one quick puff of breath. It makes me wheeze. The air is too cold, "You're Poison Ivy I'm Harley Quinn."

"I suppose you're right. It still doesn't answer me as to why you happen to be here."

Why I happen to be here? My mind rushes in an alarming mudslide of thoughts, and I fight to keep the main console working. My head pounds. I feel myself going into shut-down, but I keep my vision in focus and choke out nervously, "You're the only person in town I know. And i-i-i-it's either this or—the-the Batman."

I swallow an anxiety-ball in my throat the size of a meatball sub. It hurts as it goes down. I feel my stomach bottom out. My nerves grind against each other.

Her pedicure'd toenails are painted a scarlet red, and when I raise my eyes enough to notice a hand at her hip (the skin pale, so very pale), I can see that her fingernails match the coloring. Red is a good color for you, not green, I think, Red should be your name.

"You're the clown's girlfriend."

My nose wrinkles. It's a distasteful look. I hate that word.

"Maybe you're not the clown's girlfriend…wait, let me guess—you're the clown's ex-girlfriend."

I nod. The anxiety-ball shrinks. She almost sounds understanding when she sighs and reaches forward to grab at my hand (which is occupied, fiddling with the other), "Come on. If you stand out here any longer, he'll see you, change his mind and drive up on his uni-cycle."

My damaged brain wonders what a uni-cycle is. It must be a very unfortunate object.