A/N: Thanks for tuning in again! This chapter, again, refers back to my first story in the series. Specifically, the italicized scenes take place between Chapter 12 (Unleashed) and Chapter 13 (Resistance), if you want to reread anything. I hope you enjoy this longer chapter. Please read and review! I'd love to know what you think of the story so far! Thanks!

WARNING- This chapter contains scenes of torture. If this content disturbs you, please skip over the italicized portions of this chapter.

Chapter Eleven: One Down

The taste of blood in her mouth was pure ecstasy, feelings denied and pushed down for so long. Harley could feel the unshed tear that threatened to slide down her cheek as she lost herself in her past, the new hash mark in her arm paying homage to the death of her love. A final goodbye, a permanent space on her skin for the memory of Guy Kopski. Her sadness would end at this moment, filled with Crane's drugs and high on the taste of Mr. J's skin and blood. Almost as delicious as her own. The taste of freedom. She had been gone too long.

The muffled groan of her captive drew her attention and she giggled, her mood shifting yet again, a high pitched squeal at the thought of what Crane's pain would tell her. She bounded over to his tied up body, a grin splashed across her face. His mask was stuffed into his mouth as a gag, duct tape holding his body to her office chair. A present waiting to be unwrapped in blood and gore. She couldn't wait to make him feel her wrath and her gratitude for waking her up. And she was ever so grateful.

A quick look over to the discerning eyes of Mr. J, she couldn't contain her glee. "Why don't you go play somewhere else? This one's mine."

Crane moaned again, the sound unable to penetrate the makeshift gag. His sweat was delightfully fragrant, enough to make her lick his forehead to absorb some of his growing fear into herself, like a sponge. A quick slap of her newly acquired knife against his cheek, relishing the sight of his eyes opening, terror stark on his face. The former doctor saw his future reflected in her eyes. And that future was going to be full of agony.

"You and I are going to have so much fun, aren't we?" Harley smiled down at Crane.

The door shut, Mr. J gone. She was finally alone with the man who brought down her walls.

Crane was humming an old tune while he leaned over Thomas, a light shining into the pupils of the bound man. What he was checking for, Harley wasn't sure, but she did recognize the tune. Hush Little Baby. A common lullaby, one whose theme was strangely appropriate for her friend. The child who was never happy with what he had. Always wanting something better, something more. Crane picked up on that little fact quick, reminding her that his degree was just as good as hers, and his mind just as keen.

Very little headway had been made on escape. The duct tape had loosened, but not enough to slip her hand out. Breaking her hands wasn't really an option if she wanted to have any hope of getting past whoever Crane had on guard. Thomas would likely be useless in any real confrontation. No points for effort. He may have been a killer but his kills were methodical. Escape was all about improvisation. Even if she freed her hands, she wasn't sure how to loosen the duct tape wrapping around her chest and legs. She was flexible, but she wasn't a contortionist. And while the cart was in the room, a free hand would only allow her a quick second of action and throwing needles wasn't exactly easy. Only one route to go to freedom. Too obvious but potentially dangerous for her friend.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Harley said.

Crane peered up at her, his icy blue eyes scanning her up and down behind his glasses. "No you don't."

"Fine, then," she shrugged. "I'll just pee here."

Shame, dignity, those were foreign concepts to her. She would do it, not only to prove a point, but also to relieve her bladder, all because it was in her instincts. And she would always be a creature of instinct. The smell wouldn't matter to her. Humans were smelly, disgusting creatures. Her past was littered with urine and shit, between her old fun and her medical days. Crane may have had the same experience in his rotations, but his OCD nature was well known by both the staff and patients at Arkham. He couldn't help but keep things as clean as he could.

Touching the bridge of his nose with a sigh, he called out for his men. "Untie her, take her to the bathroom. If she gives you any trouble, shoot her in the leg." His voice indicated that he knew this was a mistake.

Her blanket was torn off her body, the sudden cool air sending her skin into goosebumps. Her nipples hardened, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the two men cutting away at her duct tape. She could almost hear their hard-ons growing. Simple truth was that men were men. Ruled by the basest of carnal desire, much like her. It didn't matter to them that she was scarred and bruised. She was a hole. A very dangerous and deadly hole, but a hole nonetheless. The men weren't stupid. They knew who she was now. She doubted they would risk their lives to rape her. But the longer they witnessed her being just a woman, the more their defenses would drop. And Harley had no problems taking full advantage of that.

Their cutting wasn't perfect. A few small nicks from their blades caused her to groan with the sensation. Tiny trickles of blood beginning to flow. Another reason she disliked using duct tape. It was messy to take off. The tape was peeled away from her bare skin, rather roughly, more damage caused from ripped flesh. These boys were hitting all her turn-ons, making her performance so much easier as her sexual energy increased. When the final bit of tape was removed, they forced her to stand. Her limbs tingled, gaining back sensitivity, and she collapsed against one of the guys, her feet alight with pins and needles. The goon was startled, instantly moving his weapons out of the way of her reach, but she couldn't have grasped anything, her fingers still asleep. Clearly, he wasn't aware of the effects of bondage.

After a few moments, Harley was able to flex her feet enough to move. Walking would help the circulation, and she followed the two guys out the door.

"You know, I always wanted to be your psychiatrist," she said, slashing the knife down the front of Crane's Arkham prison uniform, deep enough to cut through the t-shirt underneath. Bare flesh, unmarked. Her own upper torso was exposed to him, the old scarring, burns, and branding so pale against her white skin. She always wished she had been born naturally tan, so all the markings would be highlighted more.

"Not permanently, though," she continued, "just for a few sessions. Really get into your mind. See what trauma caused your worship of the fear gods, so to speak." She ran her fingers down his chest, seductively before straddling his legs. "You have beautiful skin, you know. I just want to tear it off and attach it to my face" She laughed as his eyes widened. "I'm just joking!"

Harley punched his arm. "Don't take everything so literally, Jonathan!"

Outside her office, she could hear the sounds of chaos invoked by the riot. The screams, the crashes, the random gunfire. She closed her eyes and leaned into Crane like two dancers, enjoying the music surrounding her. Her feet, planted on the ground, swiveled the chair slowly in time with the stunning melody of horror occurring beyond her walls. She wondered which of her so-called colleagues were screaming, begging, or dying. She rested her head against his chest, barely hearing his fast beating heart, his muscles tense at her strange motions, his quick breathing.

"You hear that?" Harley asked, her cheek pressed against his hot skin. "That is all because of you. The terror, the anguish, even what's happening right here with us. All you." She straightened up to look him in the eyes. "You should be so proud of yourself. It's like a mother giving birth. So natural, so magnificent, but also vile and bestial."

The knife in her hand caught the light of the florescents above her, shining into his face. Her words brought forth feelings of resentment inside herself, angry at Crane because he could never understand. Another emotional change. "But you're not a woman. You can never really experience pregnancy and birth. But I can help you with that." A wicked grin formed on her lips. "You must learn that being a mother is riddled with true agony."

The gag didn't diminish the effect of his screams.

The building was indeed an empty office building as suspected, well-used furniture, cubicles, offices littering her view as she was marched down the main aisle. Likely another victim of economic trouble, the original company having left for greener, or rather poorer, pastures. The windows were covered, no magic reveal of where she and Thomas were being held, but chances were, it was right in the heart of downtown. Just outside the door, the man who killed Geoffrey stood guard. The last of Crane's men, unless he had hired some more she hadn't seen. Passing the rows of empty cubicles, she had to smile at the absurdity of a naked woman being led through this bastion of business at gunpoint. No wonder the police could never find the criminals. They were all stationed in corporate America.

When they reached the womens restroom, the men joined her inside. She didn't object to their presence, as modest women would, knowing that arguing would only lead to further distrust. And she needed them to be in a cooperative state of mind. Plus, they had a job to do and she held some respect for that, being a lackey to Mr. J herself. So Harley entered the first stall, not even bothering to close and lock the door, and did her business without a word. In return, they watched her without comment or leering. She flushed the toilet, surprised that the water even worked. It should have been turned off, but perhaps the building's owners still paid the water bill in case a potential buyer came strolling in.

"Can I wash my hands?" She asked the men. They looked at each other before shrugging. She took their indifference as approval.

Walking over to the sink, Harley stared at herself in the mirror. Many of her older cuts and bruises from Mr. J had healed, the ones he had given her from before she was shot. But the fresh bruises from his recent beating still marred her face, her chin and cheeks purple and swollen. Her nose was slightly puffed up, the tape still covering the top bridge. The bandage across her gunshot wound was clean on the outside, no more bleeding through. She peeled it away just a little, to glance at her fresh stitches, the wound scabbing over nicely. Despite her ripping the stitches open twice, she was recovering on schedule.

Since the moment she'd been kidnapped, she kept herself focused on the important objectives, Thomas, Crane, escaping, anything but the dark recesses of her mind. The mirror laid everything bare before her, baby blue eyes haunting her, raw and real. A sadness behind her tough exterior. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink, supporting her weight as her thoughts turned to the fears exposed by Crane. It was ironic that her old controlled self of Dr. Harleen Quinzel was so afraid of the impulsive murderer, Harley Quinn. And now, she discovered that her biggest fear as Harley Quinn was all that control. A walking hypocrisy. Always afraid of herself in some way. Being locked back in by Harleen's control. Being Guy's experiment in id states. And most importantly, being turned into Mr. J's puppet. Yet, she was still letting it happen, his voice penetrating her thoughts, preventing her from going overboard. There was reason behind his actions, the pleading of her former self, not wanting to completely lose control. She gave herself over to him. A conscious decision by a desperate and needy woman.

But she wasn't Dr. Harleen Quinzel anymore.

The choice had been taken out of her hands. Oh, yes, they were the same person deep down. Not like she was another identity disorder nutcase. There really was no separation between Dr. Harleen Quinzel and Harley Quinn. But there was a difference between who she was a year ago and who she was now. And that doctor side, her discipline, the side that pushed against all her darkness, made the final call, not even bothering to consult with her wild side. Agreed to allow Mr. J full access to her soul, to train, to humiliate, to take over everything that was real about her. She had conceded in the beginning, believing it was a valid compromise, but the longer she was away from Mr. J, the more she saw the truth. She wasn't free.

She wasn't free.

The thought kept circling her head like a buzzard over roadkill. She wasn't free. The anguish hit her as tears sprung from her eyes. She wasn't free. It was all a lie. Mr. J was just another cage for her. The only time she had known true freedom was after her awakening, because Guy couldn't stop her, couldn't master her. And those moments in her office with Crane before she slipped back into her restraint. She wasn't free. Harley needed that freedom. Dr. Quinzel was so worried about what she would do, who she would hurt, that she forgot how truly happy her freedom made her. Even when she watched a child burn by her hands, she was full of joy. She had lost that bliss. She wasn't free.

She wasn't free.

Anger overtook her grief, her fist curling up in a ball. Her eyes in the mirror became dark as the sea at night. They dropped to examine her chest, the J carved into the diamond brand that rested between her breasts. Mocking, insulting, keeping her caged. His mark, his way. Always his way. Always defined by him and his needs. Pure unadulterated rage took her, the J laughing at her ignorance, her captivity. She would be a captive no more. Tears of anger replaced those of sadness, and her balled up fist pulled back, slamming into the mirror with a force that drew surprised sounds from the men. Her image cracked, blood streaming down her knuckles. Pieces of the mirror falling to the sink.

Hands grasped at her, but she was not weak, not a slave. No one would ever trap her again. Her vision went red and the next few seconds became a blur. Blood sprayed, screams of agony before silence, thumps on the ground. The pain in her hand, the ecstasy in her body. A sharpened piece of mirror glass, covered in her blood and theirs. Throats slashed. No chance to even stop her. No one would ever stop her again. She would be free.

Harley didn't know how much time had passed since she started. His beautiful body beginning to match her own. Crane was her latest masterpiece, every new cut showing his true colors. She bent down from behind him, her knife grazing his cheek lightly, enough to cause his terror to rise but not enough to mark him. Yet.

"The master of terror fearing a little girl with a knife. You're a coward, Jonathan. You always have been. You hide behind this demented scientist angle, always above it all, never getting down and dirty with the rest of us. Maybe Scarecrow does, maybe he gets it, but you never will."

She yanked the gag from his lips, allowing him to gasp in a real breath. "You hear that?" she whispered in his ear. "That's the sound of life. Every breath, something invigorating. Lets you know that you're alive." Her other hand reached down to one of his wounds, digging in, feeling the red wetness cover her finger, even as he cried out in pain. "You feel that? That's the pain of life. It may hurt but it's a reminder that you're here and now."

Her fingers moved to his face, painting his lips with his own blood. "You taste that? That's the flavor of life. When it's gone, so are you."

Crane wiggled against his bonds, his voice choking out, "You're insane."

"You don't know the half of it, love," she said, circling back to face him. "But I think if you did, you wouldn't have woken me up. Or you would have run when I warned you. But you stayed, so safe and secure of your place on the food chain. Not bothering to listen to the person trying to save your sorry hide."

"Please, Harleen, stop this." If Crane had the ability, he would have been down on his knees, begging her for mercy. "This isn't you."

"You don't know me. Hell, you don't even really know yourself. Not like I do. See, a man shows his true colors when he's at death's door. Some beg to stay alive, some try to bargain, some try reason or logic, like you. But the ones I love, the ones that I enjoy spending time with, are the ones who accept it for what it is." She down on his lap again, stuffing the mask back into his mouth.

"They give up, knowing the inevitable is around the corner. That they can't do anything to avoid it. It's like the five stages of grief. I'm sure you remember that from all those classes you had to take. They skip over all the other steps and move right to acceptance. Because they know, deep down, that the decision is out of their hands. They give it up to me. Allow me to take them where they will go."

Harley sighed, a smile crossing her lips. "There is something so sublime about it, you know? A calm, a break in the storm. It's nice to experience every now and then."

Crane wasn't listening to her, she could tell, lost inside his head. Perhaps having an internal monologue with his Scarecrow buddy. Instantly, her mood shifted again, away from her peaceful thoughts, back to anger. Malice crossed her face, bringing back his distress, her knife edging close to his ear. "If you're not going to listen to what I'm saying, then at least let me give you an excuse for your rudeness."

Sawing through cartilage was easier than she remembered.

Red swirled at her feet, the blood pooling around Harley. Two more bodies. Flipping the piece of glass around, she dug the makeshift blade into her upper left arm, creating two new hash marks. Old habits died hard when she was finally breaking out of her shackles. Later, she would take the time to add precise hash marks for the rest, but for now, it was a start. Satisfied the wounds were deep enough to scar, she dropped the broken glass to the floor, leaning down to pull a blade from one of the corpses. Its gleaming surface would bring her the joy she craved.

The screams must have attracted the attention of the door guard, Geoffrey's killer. She heard his voice through the bathroom door, asking if everything was okay, like a bad horror film actress. Mindful of what would likely be his next action when he received no response, Harley moved behind the door. When it swung open towards her, she slammed it back forcefully, right into his face. The blow knocked him down and she jumped on top of him, grabbing the gun out of his loosened grip. Crane really needed to hire some better lackeys. She pushed the barrel against his lower chin and smiled, all teeth, feral.

"Get up," Harley hissed.

The great thing about hired help was that they always worked for the highest bidder. Not getting shot by a psychopath was clearly the current highest bid, so he stood at her command. Harley walked him towards the office where she had been held, and told him to open the door. Beyond the threshold, Crane was pontificating at Thomas, a speech that cut off as soon as he realized the door was open. What he was saying, Harley couldn't hear, but from Thomas' unhappy expression, it was probably personal. Both their eyes shot up to the door. Thomas let out a whoop of delight at the sight of her holding the goon hostage. Crane looked pissed, a sight she had never seen before. His glasses gone. No longer Crane. Scarecrow had finally come out to play, it seemed.

"Cut him out of those bonds," Harley said to the goon, waving the gun in Thomas' direction. Again, the goon did what he was told, pulling a small blade out of his back pocket. She kept an eye on him, in case he decided to play games with Thomas' life, but she suspected he was smart enough to resist the urge. She would shoot him dead without a second thought.

"What are you planning, little Harley?" Scarecrow asked, the hatred dripping from his voice. Interesting. Scarecrow used her preferred name, a nod to her true self. Different and might have been out of some sort of respect.

"I don't really plan these things out, sweetie," she smiled to him. "They just sort of happen."

His blue eyes seemed different, not the cold apathy of Jonathan Crane. A hard anger resonated from him, his body slouched, his demeanor fluid, less rigid. And such darkness inside. A desire to see her scream again. Across the room, Thomas was flexing his wrists, gaining back sensation as she had. As soon as all the duct tape was cleared, she spoke to the goon, "Now give the knife to Thomas."

Thomas looked at her in askance as the blade was handed to him. The goon moved to the corner of the room, signaling he knew damn well that this fight was between Harley and Scarecrow, and he wanted to stay out of the line of fire. Two massive giants going head to head and the minions ran for the hills. Licking her lips, she gave no answer to Thomas' unspoken question as he attempted to stand, leaning heavily on his chair. Like her, he'd need some time to adjust. So she waved the gun at Scarecrow.

"Take off you clothes, muffin," she continued to smile at him, knowing her loving nicknames were getting under his skin. Jonathan wouldn't be so put off by it, but his darker side obviously detested the platitudes of familiarity.

His voice had even changed a bit, longer, more sing-songy words as he spoke. "And why would I do that?"

"Because I don't want to get blood all over my new clothing, pumpkin." She pointed the gun at his leg, her intention clear. "However, I will, if you force my hand."

Seeing no other choice, Scarecrow slipped his suit jacket off, tossing it on the floor. Another sign that Crane wasn't in control. He probably would have folded it neatly and laid it on the cart or chair. His tie followed suit, although she stopped him from taking off his shirt, claiming he should have some dignity. Unsurprisingly, he wore boxers under his pants. Classic repressed persona of his clean image.

"I already know your darkest fears, girl," he said, throwing the trousers on top of the jacket. He showed no outward signs of humiliation but she knew, deep inside, Crane was cringing with every motion.

She chose not to respond, instead craning her head to look at Thomas. His equilibrium and muscle motion regained, he nodded to her, holding the knife unsteadily. "What are you going to do with these two?"

"Geoffrey's dead," Harley stated, simply. She had waited some time to deliver the bad news, knowing his emotions would get the better of him and she needed him lucid for escape. Now, the reason to wait was moot. Thomas' mouth formed into an 'o' of shock. The two had been together quite some time, Geoffrey becoming his butler after his mother's death. They were friends, so much as one can be when employed by the other. Probably the closest person that Thomas had to family for his adult life. "I'm sorry."

It took him a couple seconds to digest the news before he asked, quietly, "What happened?"

Another turning point. Time to see if all her work on him had paid off. If she wasn't going to be trapped, neither was her friend. "He," she pointed at the goon, "shot Geoffrey, executed him, just because he could."

"I almost forgot to thank you," Harley said, holding his hand stable under her grip. "I haven't had this much fun in a decade. You brought me back to life and I truly appreciate it."

She was perched, again, in his lap, staring at his perfectly manicured nails. It was a wonder that he could maintain such a polish while in lockup but being the good boy meant Dr. Arkham gave him some perks. Like a nail buffer. They were neat, clean, and short. No signs of biting. Crane was barely conscious, blood running down the side of his face, the cuts on his chest still bleeding. So much pain for one man to endure, yet he hadn't given in yet. It spoke of his resolve. Or his inner fire, the Scarecrow. She had yet to meet him face to face but perhaps one final incentive would pull him to the surface, let her see the evil lurking inside. No doubt, he would be a match for her intensity.

"Now this is going to hurt," she said, as if talking to a child. "A lot. So please try not to move too much. If I mess this up, you might lose the finger."

Her grip tightened around his hand, extending his forefinger towards her. Like trying to cut a cats claws, his fingers against her but she kept him in place. Once a solid grip was formed, she slide the sharp point of the knife under his fingernail, lifting upwards in a tearing motion. A torture that would define pain in his book, the removal of the fingernail. The anguish passed over his face, his screams still muffled by his gag. Every little motion amplified his pain and she watched his agony grow. Simply breathtaking.

A pinch in her neck. A needle sliding into her. She felt the liquid pour into her veins. Turning, she saw his smile, his malicious intent, Mr. J at his finest. Darkness closed in, her ears muting out the sounds of Crane's screams. Or maybe it was her own silent screaming. Her mind clawing upwards to stay afloat. She didn't want to go to sleep again. No more being pushed down by the controller. But the medicine was taking hold, pushing her back into the darkness. Back to her worst nightmare. Mr. J was truly a cruel man.

The last thing she heard before she passed out was his sinister words. "Goodnight, Harleen."

The screams that penetrated the quiet office building didn't bother her, as she kept her eyes on Scarecrow. This was Thomas' fight and she wouldn't interfere. He had to make his choice and he would live or die by the decision. The rage that consumed him when she made her pronouncement was enough to fuel that fire of carnal instinct. The first sin. And as much as she enjoyed the violence, the sounds of flesh being sliced open, she willed herself to turn away. His moment, not hers.

In front of her stood the lanky doctor, a scowl deeply embedded on his face. "You didn't answer his question," Scarecrow noted, his eyes occasionally glancing over shoulder at whatever carnage was happening behind her.

Harley shrugged, holding the gun on him. "I did, in part. Your henchman is going to die, one way or another." Another scream from the goon confirmed to her that Thomas was lost in his temper. "As for you, I'm not going to do a damn thing."

Her statement surprised him. "Very unlike you."

"Call it tit for tat, if you like," she said. "You may know my darkest fears, but now, so do I. That's twice you've given me a wake up call. So I thank you."

Scarecrow's eyes narrowed. "I'm still recovering from your last thank you."

She raised her other hand, defensively. "Hey, don't blame me on that one. It wasn't anything personal. Besides, you got your revenge."

"Hardly. Only a taste of what I had in store."

The screams in the background died out. She turned her head briefly to see Thomas standing over the dead goon, bloody knife in his hand, his breath rasping from the struggle and the deed. Another barrier broken. Every step in the right direction towards a future full of fire and blood. Thomas would never be like her, but it was a start. And Mr. J's words faded from her mind. It was no longer about corrupting him. It was about freeing him.

She turned her eyes back to Scarecrow. "I consider us even, honey. I got my rage and desire out in torturing you. You got me to scream in fear. We both got what we wanted out of each other. So, really, there's no point in being petty."

"He's not going to stop, Harleen," Thomas said from behind her. "He'll keep coming after you until he kills you with your own fears. Men like him never can stop themselves." Oh Thomas, always relating everything to his father. And yet, there was truth in the statement. She could see the fury, clear as day, waiting to strike, inside her enemy.

After a moment, she nodded. "I wish he was wrong, but you will never forget the damage I've done to you, will you? Or rather, the way I made you feel. I'm not talking about the humiliation, or the anger, but that side of yourself that actually enjoyed what I did." She hooked her leg around the cart, pulling it in front of her.

"Hold this," she said to Thomas, handing the gun off to him when he drew closer. Covered in blood, he took it without question, pointing it at Scarecrow. With careful hands, she took up a needle, sliding it into one of the vials on the cart. "You don't think I know, Scarecrow, but I do. You've lived your life as a target, always berated by those who are stronger. Bullies as a kid, Batman, even me. And the only pleasure you get in your pathetic little world is when you bring them down. When you get them to scream. When you know that they are just as weak as you are."

A wicked smile crossed her lips as she approached the man known as Scarecrow, his body tense, seething anger curling off of him. "You get off on it," she said. "I get that. So when I brutally massacred you, you were just itching to get your hands on me. To prove how weak I am, just to get your blood pumping. To get hard."

Harley delivered a swift kick to Scarecrow's abdomen, his body dropping to the ground as all the air whooshed out of his lungs. She leaned down next to his gasping form, plunging the needle into his neck. "In all seriousness," she said, whispering in his ear, "you really need to get a girlfriend." Then she pushed the liquid into him. "See you later, dear."

Laughing, she grabbed the clothes from the floor and stood up, waving her hand at Thomas. "Let's get out of here."

The screams didn't start until the door was closed. Slipping on the clothing she had procured from her kidnapper, she had to laugh. Everything was going so well. Thomas had proven he could be just as swayed by his emotions as she, murdering Geoffrey's killer in a fit of rage. Crane wasn't going to be bothering her anytime soon and she was looking forward to the next time he came knocking. And most importantly, she had rediscovered herself, determined to make a change in her life. It felt damn good to be Harley Quinn.

After dressing and exiting the empty office building with Thomas, she turned to observe the address. In the pocket of the jacket was a burner cell phone. Smirking at Thomas, she dialed the police. Before anyone could speak, she said, "Yes, hi. I've left Jonathan Crane at 1253 North Ashland, in office 345. He's currently suffering from the effects of his own toxin, butterfingers that I am and all. You should probably send someone to pick him up before it wears off and he gets away. Toodles!"

Harley threw the phone on the ground and looked to Thomas, a twinkle in her eye. "One down, two more to go."

A/N: Next Chapter...the return of Mr. J! Yay!