Chapter Eight: Your Choice
Stealth, Harley found, was quite difficult when injured. Her steps were silent but her form was awkward, unable to slip into the small cracks as she normally would. Even without the thrashing offered by Mr. J, she was still weak. And she didn't know the mansion's layout too well. Half-remembered from years prior combined with her limited interaction in the past few days. Improvised weapons were plenty but she knew she didn't have the strength to make use of them, not as she normally would. Despite all, she heard her lover's words in her ear. Dangerous and underestimated. Crane would not underestimate her, but judging by the multitude of footsteps below, he wasn't alone. More importantly, they didn't know her. An advantage to her as Crane was a coward. He wouldn't directly confront her if he had another option available. So, she would be facing the minions.
Peering down the cascading, circular stairs as she planned her next move, she was startled by the hand that covered her mouth. No one had made it up the stairs yet, so she assumed it was either Thomas or Geoffrey. She turned her head to confirm Thomas' presence and nodded. The hand released and he jerked his head in a direction. Silently, she followed him into a bedroom. Judging by the wall hangings, the color scheme, the books, and the rumpled bedding, it had to be his room.
Thomas kept his voice low, an almost hiss. "What the hell is going on?"
"Jonathan Crane has come for me," she responded, while looking around the room. "Do you have any decent weapons in here?"
Thomas shook his head. "Everything would be down on the first floor. Why is he after you?"
"I kind of tortured him for a couple of hours and now he's looking for payback." Her tone was casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Harley walked around the room, looking for anything that could be a decent weapon. She spotted a letter opener lying on a small secretary on the eastern wall and snagged it. She tested the edge against a finger. Not perfect but sharp enough. "This will do."
"What are we going to do?"
"You," she said, walking back to him, "are going to do nothing. You are going to barricade this room after I leave. No matter what happens, do not leave the room, even if you hear gunfire. I'll be fine. Crane will want me alive. And if I should get taken, call Mr. J."
Thomas stared at her. She could see his inner white knight struggling inside him, worried for the safety of the poor, injured female. "You're going out there alone?"
"Hell yeah," she smiled wildly at him, giving him a taste of her demons. "I'm going to show those boys a real good time, Harley Quinn style."
"Harleen, I can't just stand by and do nothing," Thomas grasped her shoulders. "Let me help."
"No." She stared up at him. "Thomas, I know you got my back, but this is the big boys club now, not amateur hour. Unless you can find that inner fire, that monster inside, you'll just get yourself killed."
"What makes you think you can handle this? You're barely standing."
Harley leaned forward to kiss his cheek, laughing against his skin. "You're so precious when you're concerned."
Then she flipped the letter opener in her hand so it faced downwards, lifted her shirt, and cut her stitches open, ignoring the sound of protest from Thomas. The wound was nearly healed but pressing harshly against the opening, she was able to coax blood from it. Smiling at Thomas' dumbfounded expression, she said, "No expects the injured animal to lash out."
Thankful she was wearing her yellow pajamas, she pushed the material against the wound, letting the blood soak through. Very visible against the pale coloring. By the time she got back to her room, she would look sufficiently damaged enough to be thought of as prey. Dangerous and underestimated. Harley relished the pain that shuddered through her body. Resisting the urge to make Thomas her new plaything, she nodded to him, exiting the room. She heard the door close behind her. At least he could follow instructions.
Their conversation cost her time, as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Scrapping Plan A to be in her bedroom when they found her, she fled to the lounge instead, laying herself on one of the couches face down. She slid the letter opener between her arm and her body, hiding it from sight. With any luck, her pursuers would be confused by her present state.
It didn't take long for someone to approach her. Pretending to be unconscious, she was turned over, her body limp and pliable. "I think I found her!"
Another set of footsteps came. A different voice. Not Crane, not a surprise. "Yeah, that's her. Looks like shit."
"She's bleeding," the first guy said. "Someone else get up here first?"
"Who fucking cares. All I know is I'm not carrying her. God knows what diseases she picked up from the clown," the second guy said.
It took everything in her not to start laughing at the comment. Since it was clear they weren't going to pick her up anytime soon, Harley moaned softly, as if their voices were rousing her. "Mr. J? I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." She forced her voice to be fragile, hoping the goons would take the bait.
"What's she saying?" The second guy's voice sounded closer.
"Something about being sorry. Think she's on drugs or something."
She needed a better look at their positioning, weapons, so she allowed her eyes to flutter open, squinting at the men. "Is that you, Mr. J? Come closer. Your Harley has a present for you."
Harley smiled on the inside as she began to rub her breasts, continuing the pretense that she was drugged up and semi-conscious.. Men were easy to manipulate, especially in the criminal field. Tits and ass got them all going. It was why so many of the criminals in the city either owned or frequented strip clubs. Through her squinted vision, she could see the men were unsure of what to do but curiosity flared in both of their eyes. On the one hand, she was bleeding and injured. On the other, she was still a woman. Carefully, she scanned them for weapons. The second man had a gun ready in his left hand, the first one's was holstered in a shoulder rig, under his arm.
After a few seconds, she knew they were in the best position for her advantage and she smiled up at the first one. "I think you have something in your eye," she said, with a light laugh, before grasping the handle of the letter and jabbing it into his eye socket. He screamed out in pain, collapsing over her, the perfect angle for Harley to grab his gun.
The second man, likely surprised by the sudden change of events, raised his weapon, firing three random shots at her position on the couch. He failed to hit her, his colleague's screaming body blocking the bullets path. Two of the shots implanted into the first man, the third splashing into the sofa, bits of fluff flying. One down. The body slumped further on top of her and she used the cover of his corpse to return fire, catching the second man's shoulder and kneecap. The second man dropped to the floor. With more effort than she would normally need, she pushed the dead man off her, yanking the letter opener from his eye socket. The eyeball came with it, still attached to the optic nerve. With a frown, she peeled the eye from the blade, watching it flop loosely against the dead man's cheek.
"Ugh, eye goo. Gross." Harley wiped the letter opener on her pajama bottoms. A glance over to the second man revealed him straining to lift his gun in her direction while lying on the floor. "Bad puppy." She stomped on his gun hand, forcing him to release his grip on the weapon, which she promptly kicked away from his body. Harley, then, dropped to her knees, tracing letter opener over his face. Properly scared, just the expression she liked. "We don't have much time since I'm sure your friends heard our little squabble. So here's the deal. Tell me how many of you there are and I'll let you live. Don't tell me, and I'll make your death last for a long, long time. Your choice."
"Ten," the man gasped out, his eyes watching the dull edge of the opener trace just under his eye.
"Including Crane, yourself and your dead friend here?"
He nodded and she smiled, glad that Crane was a confirmed participant in the proceedings. As she pulled the blade from his face, she could see him visibly relax. "Good boy. Mamma's proud of you." She leaned down and kissed his forehead before stabbing her letter opener into his gut.
The man eyes went wide with shock as the sudden pain wracked through his body. "You said you'd let me live." His words were practically a scream.
She twisted the blade inside him, making him feel every last dull inch of the piece of metal. "I lied." Then she pushed upwards, watching the light fade from his eyes forever. Her body flooded with serenity at the feel of his sticky blood dripping from her hand, her inner demons clamoring for more. After wiping her hand on his pant leg, she stood, collecting his cast aside gun. She left the letter opener inside his body. Bringing a knife to a gun fight was a last resort move, but now she could fight fire with fire. Also, there was something innately bad ass about rocking the two gun mojo. Listening carefully, she heard more footsteps clamoring up the stairs. No time to hide. She rushed towards the staircase, intent on doing something reckless, the kind of move that only the stupid, or crazy would attempt.
Mr. J never credited her with an abundance of smarts when it came to strategy, but he did love to watch her try something new. Even though he wasn't present, she could feel his laughter ringing in her ears as she frog-hopped over the banister at the top of the staircase and splashed down onto the railing, landing as an equestrian would atop a horse. If not for her years of brutal training on the balance beam, she likely would have fallen. The speed of the maneuver sent her sliding down the railing, her inner thighs clenched tightly against the moving rail, barely keeping her balance, just as three men came rounding up the stairs and into sight. With both pistols up, Harley fired as quickly as she could, not giving a shit about aim, just hoping she would hit something and that the recoil wouldn't knock her over. Her high pitched demented laughter echoed through the stairwell, as she curved with the railing, hearing the thud of bullets slamming into flesh. And once again, she felt that amazing adrenalin rush that came only when she felt like she was flying.
As the railing ended on the second floor, she didn't have the time to prepare herself for the inevitable crash landing. The fall sent her sprawling face first onto the marble, the gun in her left hand tumbling away from her and out of sight. Harley had no time for recovery, no weakness, forcing herself to stand despite the throbbing in her nose that begged her to lay there and enjoy the agonizing sensation. Blood trickled down her face, nestling on her top lip. Nose was probably broken. Again. A nuisance but she refused to let it impair her mission.
Glancing up the stairs, she noted all three men were down for the count. Harley wanted to ensure the job was completed but a noise down the hall caught her attention. Another lamb for the slaughter. No doubt, the intruders all knew her current whereabouts, but she rejected the notion of rushing towards her new target. Primarily because she was injured and her adrenalin was barely keeping her standing. But also, because it created fear in her victims to know that she was so cool about her situation. Turning the corner into another hallway, she stopped, a gun aimed at her. Another lackey of Crane's. Harley turned her deadly eyes towards him. Young, nervous, likely new to the game. The sight she must have presented, all visceral and tenderized, had the gun shaking in his hands. Definitely new.
"Where is Crane?" She asked sweetly, leaving her own weapon flush against her side. No reason to agitate the shaky kid.
"Down on the floor, Quinn" the lackey said, the slight quiver to his voice removing any sense of authority. Amateur.
"No." She pressed forward until the gun rested against her chest, staring into the lackey's soul, mustering as much of old Harleen as she could. "You are clearly unprepared for this level of violence. I understand how difficult it can be. I was once like you." False sympathy covered her face. "You have a choice here. I know you have orders not to kill me, just as I know you don't want to fire that gun. So make your choice. Tell me where Crane is and I'll let you walk away from all this. Or don't, and you'll be forced to take your first life."
She smiled at him through her bruised face, seeing the uncertainty on his face. She kept her voice as empathetic as she could. "You'll see my face everywhere you go for the rest of your life. Always remembering the sound my body made as it fell to the ground, the gasping choke as blood filled my lungs. Wondering how you could be such a monster to take the life of a battered woman whose accusing eyes haunt your every dream. The guilt would weigh heavily on you, more than you can bear. You don't deserve that fate. But it's your choice."
The lackey sighed, her words penetrating his thoughts like a virus. Closing his eyes, he said, "He's in the kitchen." The gun lowered against her chest.
"Thank you," she said before knocking him out cold with the barrel of her pistol. It was a kindness, not that she gave a damn about him one way or the other. Yet, at the same time, her words made her remember her first kill, the mark still ticked into her upper left arm in memorial. She spoke truth that the face would never be forgotten. And somehow, maybe a small shred of humanity crawled its way into her, making her reminisce, making her leave him alive to make better choices. A choice she never had because of her broken mind. Bah. Her thoughts were getting too melodramatic, even for her.
Harley stole the gun that lay loosely in his grip, counting six down. Four to go, including Crane. The second floor was foreign to her, never having explored it. Se also had no clue where the kitchen was, but going down the main staircase was akin to suicide so she needed to find another route. Perhaps there was a set of servant stairs. The mansion was old enough for that sort of thing. She walked in the most logical direction, starting to feel the aches that threatened to collapse her into a pool of tortured bliss. This situation had to end soon or she'd be dead on her feet. Even she had limits.
A few white smudges on one of the doorknobs made her pause, wondering if Mr. J had rested in that room while she was recovering post-surgery. If so, Geoffrey was doing a crap job of keeping the place clean. But then again, it could have just been paint. It didn't matter. She found the servant staircase at the end of the hall, tucked into an alcove. Hopefully, the television shows she watched with old houses like this were accurate and it would lead directly to the kitchen. Thin, wooden steps greeted her and she doubted she could keep her footsteps silent enough to come upon Crane unawares.
"Fuck it," Harley said, and bounded down the stairs like a child at Christmas. It was the final showdown and she might as well use the last of her energy to enjoy it. She was stopped by a door at the bottom of the stairs. Kicking it open, she reveled in the sound of wood splintering for the second time that night. A soothing melody of violence about to ensue.
Both pistols up, Harley entered the kitchen, ready for anything. The bright gleam of the spotless room nearly blinded her, her eyes having to adjust from the darkness of the stairwell. She almost felt like she was violating a sacred space, her dirty bare feet touching the clean white tiles, blood still creeping down her face, onto her shirt. But she wasn't the only one committing kitchen blasphemy, she noted, spotting a man in the corner with his gun pointed at Geoffrey's chest.
There was no wait, no pause, nothing she could do except watch as the trigger was pulled. As soon as she entered, the shot was fired, as if the henchman waited for her arrival to execute the butler. There was little blood with the precise shot and Geoffrey's body slumped forward onto the tiles. Something about the act enraged her. Harley wasn't above executions or making a point, but killing someone who wasn't involved was just plain nasty business. Her rage consumed her, vision going red as she aimed her gun at the already moving henchman. She fired but was unable to hit the target before he escaped the kitchen.
"Son of a bitch!" She shouted, pissed that she missed. Her last burst of adrenalin hit her and she followed after the henchman, determined to take an eye for an eye. He led her through the maze of a twisting hallway, always managing to get out of sight just as she lined up a shot. Bits of wood and plaster flew as she chased him down, firing shots whenever he was visible. Frustration was beginning to take hold after her fourth bullet missed. But finally, the hallway opened up to a large room, some sort of parlor, a waiting room. She remembered, the parlor was just behind the main staircase. Several sets of double doors lined the room, leading to various entertaining areas. The henchman ran through one such set, the doors already open and waiting for him.
Harley didn't slow down her pursuit, despite knowing it was a trap. Her rage had gone further than logic or caution. And if Crane and the rest of his goons were beyond the threshold of the doors, then they would experience her wrath as well. She raced through the open doors and into one of the most exquisite ballrooms she had ever seen. Once upon a time, she had been to a party in the same room, but it had since been revamped into something out of a fairy tale. Lush velvet curtains hung, floor to ceiling, over the windows, a deep sapphire color. The walls were champagne, dusted with gold, creating a shimmering effect that was visually stunning, a true feast for the eyes. Past that, the room lay bare, no tables, chairs or any other effects. A blank canvas, ready to host a ball.
In the center of the ballroom stood two men, the last of the minions of Crane, her quarry joining them. Their guns were, unsurprisingly, aimed in her direction the instant she was visible. She paused in her pursuit, seeing the odds were far against her. Lack of cover, open layout. And the doors behind her were too far to escape unscathed. The rage that fueled her evaporated as she considered her options. They lessened even more as the men moved aside revealing Crane, hunched over a chair that held a captive Thomas.
"Hello, Harleen," Crane said, inclining his head towards her.
Cursing under her breath, she kept her guns aloft, not entirely sure who she was aiming for. She nodded back. "Jonathan. Long time, no see." Harley put on her best, friendly smile. "Looking good. Arkham's been treating you well, I see."
Without his mask, he seemed as diminutive as she remembered. Jonathan Crane was not a tall man, nor an intimidating man, but he made up for it in sheer ego, his arrogance legendary. "I wish I could say the same for you. You look like you're ready to collapse. Would you like a seat?" He waved his hand over Thomas' seat. "I'm sure Mr. Elliot doesn't mind giving it up."
Thomas was loosely bound to the chair, a bruise forming under his eye. She wasn't sure how he got down here, whether he decided to follow her despite warning, or if he was captured in his bedroom. It didn't really matter. Only added extra drama to the standoff. If Thomas wasn't there, she would have just started shooting, hoping for the best. But his presence complicated matters greatly. While she would have felt no regret in killing Thomas herself, it was another matter to allow someone else to kill him.
"Oh, I'm peachy," Harley said, cheerfully, refusing to admit her body's fatigue to the enemy. "But you know, feel free yourself. I know how exhausting these hostage situations can be on the abductor."
Their light-hearted banter confused the minions. She had to smile at that, as they shifted in place, waiting for something to happen. It was the sad thing about henchmen. They never really understood the people they worked for. And not a single one of them could see the anger that flared behind Crane's eyes as he stared at her. Cold fire emanating from him, his silent wish to tear Harley apart, piece by piece, in response for her grievous injury to his pride. And his body.
"So," she said, wanting to move this along before her aching muscles dropped her. "What's the play? We both know why you're here. How do you want this end?"
"I found it most displeasing the way we left things in Arkham and I believe you would be an excellent subject for my new toxin formula." Crane nodded to the henchman that shot Geoffrey. In turn, the henchman aimed his gun at Thomas' head. "One of two things will wind up on the floor in the next thirty seconds: your guns or your friend's brains. Your choice."
"Tempting, but I have a counter proposal." Harley lined up both her pistols on Crane. "I could just kill you now, Jonathan. And then your men will kill me, thus ending this crazy adventure with both our deaths. I have no fear of dying." She gave him her most demented smile. The one that unsettled everyone she came across. Feral, wild. Crane would no doubt remember that smile as she cut into him all those months ago. "What about you?"
The famous sneer crossed his face. "Your friend will still die."
"Yes, but the satisfaction of killing you might outweigh that factor."
"Do I get a say in this?" Thomas spoke up. "Because I really don't want to die."
"We all die, Thomas," Harley said, her eyes shifting over to him. "Suck it up."
His eyes pleaded with her. "Please Harleen, don't do this. Surrender and let them take you. Besides, it'll give you a chance to turn the tables."
Harley thought about Thomas' statement. She had been longing for a chance to toy with Crane again and with his goons surrounding him, she wasn't getting the one-on-one time she so desperately craved. And really, what was the worst he could do her? Pain was pleasure. Fear was a new experience. And nightmares were nothing but ephemera. The Scarecrow could never break her. He was inept, a substandard villain trying to play the game that Mr. J perfected so long ago. Eventually, she would overtake him, and then she would show him, for a second time, how a real monster behaves.
A slick tick of his eyelid betrayed Crane's surprise, as she tossed her guns down on the floor with a casual, "Heh, why not?" Her accompanying laughter was disturbing, even to herself. An omen of what she had planned. "You had better pray, Crane, that you don't bore me."
The minions approached her, cautious, as well they should be. Most of their colleagues were dead, or unconscious by her actions. They wouldn't underestimate her in the future. A piece of white cloth appeared in one of their hands. Chloroform. How cliché. She almost rolled her eyes. She didn't struggle as two of them grasped her arms. Truthfully, she no longer had the strength, but they didn't know that. Let them manhandle her.
"Trust me, I won't," Crane said, a ghost of a smile floating across his lips. "Oh, and boys, make sure you grab the spoiled brat, as well."
Harley's eyes narrowed at the order. "He's got nothing to do with this, Crane. Let him go."
"I do believe you're no longer in a position to bargain, Harleen." The superiority in his tone was aggravating.
"The name's Harley, asshole," she said just before the rag closed over her mouth and nose. Crane may have won this battle but the war was far from over. Darkness swam into her vision, the sounds of the room muting in her ears. And then, there was nothing.
A/N: Whew! Glad to have this one done! Action is always difficult to write. I hope you all enjoy and please let me know if any of the action in this chapter was confusing. This is one area of writing that I am trying to improve. As always, thanks to everyone following this story and a big hug to all my reviewers.