Chapter Fifteen: Memory Lane

"Are you ready?" Harley asked of her bandaged companion.

Initially, when he presented his costume concept to her, she laughed until her sides hurt. But seeing Thomas' new look in person, she had to admit that it was perfect. At over six feet in height and a decent build, he was intimidating in his stature. But adding in his combat suit, a flexible but sturdy full body covering that had several loops and holsters for weapons, he became threatening. A brown duster gave the look a flair of style. In the end, though, the stripped bandages, that wrapped around his entire head like a mummy, made it clear that he was not someone to fuck with.

His blue eyes gleamed between the folds in the wrappings, glancing over to her from his position in the driver's seat of the van. "Yes."

He seemed strangely comfortable with the bindings around his head, breathing easily through the slits made at his nose and mouth. It looked constrictive and Harley pondered how hot it had to be for him under all that material. But it was vital to keep his identity a secret and anyone who tried to peel away the layers of bandages would need some time, enough to allow Thomas the chance to defend himself against curious fingers. A clever solution on his part with the limited time frame between her announcement of the plan and the enactment. Although she did wonder how he was able to procure the body suit on such short notice. It molded to his body in a way that made her believe it was a custom made piece. But considering he was a billionaire, Thomas probably just paid the tailor extra for the rush job.

Harley had pulled out her old costume and after a great deal of internal debate, she opted to wear it. It fit like it had never left her frame, tight in all the right places and concealing every inch of her skin, her HQ locket dangling from the leather strip that covered her neck scar. The blood splatters of yore were barely visible against the red and black fabric of her ringmaster's jacket. Much as the painted mask of Mr. J, her ensemble inspired fear in people, though she understood it was mostly because of the clown that escorted her. But even alone, her makeup, outfit, and crazed eyes distinguished her from the pack. Very few people in Gotham City would attempt a one-on-one with the insane Harley Quinn.

"Now, I have to ask," she said to her friend, leaning back in the passenger's seat. "Are there going to be any problems tonight? I know you're all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed to this scene, but I need to be able to rely on you, Thomas."

"Hush," he said.

"The fuck I will," she said, indignant that he wanted her to shut up. "I'm not fucking around here. I need to know that you will do what's necessary."

The bandages around his lips raised into a smile. "Call me Hush," he said. "And yes, I have your back." As he spoke, his voice lowered to a deep bass, effectively disguising him from vocal recognition.

She quirked an eyebrow at his chosen moniker and shook her head. " You know what? I don't want to know." Agitation and excitement filled her as she flipped the safety off her gun and held it on her lap, the barrel pointed away from Thomas. They had almost reached their destination. "Alright, you know your part. Don't fuck up. I really don't want to wind up in prison, or worse, Arkham."

The van came to a stop in front of an expensive, elite restaurant named Peach. Reservation only with food that could barely fill a stomach but looked very pretty on a plate The valets that waited out front were attempting to wave them away, as it was obvious the van didn't belong in such a proper environment. As one of them approached her side to demand the van vacate the spot, Harley opened her door hard, slamming it into the man's body and sending him tumbling to the ground. Then, with one last look to Thomas, she stepped out of the van in full view of everyone on the crowded street, brandishing her weapon and grinning wildly. The five minute window before the police arrived had started. Stepping over the injured valet, she strode though the entrance, leaving Thomas to deal with the riff raff outside.

The interior was modern, bordering on avant garde with strange paintings and art pieces that looked like some of the art therapy work she had seen by the inmates at Arkham. At the end of the entrance hall was a podium with the required snooty host in a tuxedo, who didn't even look up as she approached. "Name please," his whiny tenor made him sound like he was doing her a favor by letting her dine there.

People like him were the real problem with Gotham. Harley pointed her gun at him, cocking it. "Harley Quinn." The moment slowed as the dawning realization of how fucked he was crossed his features. She savored his every expression as he sputtered, looking up to her. The reason she loved her job. "Party of one." And she bared her teeth at him in a feral way, confident that he had just pissed himself in terror.

"Lead the way, Jeeves," she said, waving her gun towards the curtain that separated the lobby from the restaurant proper.

With shaky legs, he stepped out from the minor protection the podium provided and took up a menu, as if she was actually planning on dining there. "Th-this way, m-madame," he stuttered, sounding like he was about to throw up. Harley had to admire his professionalism and dedication to his hosting duties. The man deserved a raise.

Keeping her gun pointed at his back, she followed him through the curtain to the tiny but well spaced room. There were, perhaps, only twenty tables in the entire restaurant, spread apart in a lovely arrangement that would give any diner the feel of some privacy. The tables were wood, stained black, with chairs that looked more like art pieces than furniture. More modern art clung to the dark walls. Even the lighting fixtures were lovely, mini-chandeliers with sprawling pieces of metal exploding from the center. The ambiance was strange but yet, Harley couldn't help but like it.

Her eyes immediately spotted the target, sitting in the furthest corner with a beautiful woman practically hanging off his arm. Thomas' intel had been accurate. A slow silence began to permeate the room as the nearest diners noticed her presence. She didn't need any fancy gestures or loud noises to make her presence known. Shoving the host away from her, she simply smiled at each table in turn, watching the fear and silent panic pervade everyone. And like a wave, every head turned towards her until his table, the last in the line, noted the quiet and looked up to see what was going on. Just as she had done to every other table, she smiled at Bruce Wayne and his date.

"I'm going to make this simple, everyone," she said, only raising her voice slightly to make sure everyone could hear. "I have no intentions of harming anyone. I just need to have a little chat with my good friend Bruce there."

With her free hand, she pointed at him, before turning her hand up and crooking her finger to indicate he should come to her. "No panic room to hide in this time, Wayne," she said.

Her eyes swept the small crowd to make sure no one was going to try anything and when she was confident in their resignation, she put all her concentration on Bruce. Gone was the casual, carefree look in his eyes. He became grim as he placed his napkin on the table. Bruce looked around the room, catching the furtive glances shot in his direction by his fellows, and she could see in his eyes that his bigger concern was for the safety of everyone in the restaurant rather than for himself. The selfish playboy had a noble streak, which was everything Harley had hoped for. His date had his arm locked in a death grip and was shaking her head with tears in her eyes, like some silly ditz, as if he was the love of her life going off to his death. The girl only loved his money and everyone in the room knew it. As he tried to stand, the girl kept pulling him back with a "No, you don't have to. She'll kill you."

A gasp ran through the crowd and Harley didn't need to turn to know that Hush was at her back with his imposing presence. Her internal clock told her this was taking far too long and just as she was about to grab a patron for some leverage, Hush strode past her and moved to Bruce's table, pulling a gun from one of his holsters. He aimed it at the ditz and watched, unmoved, as her tears began to fall soundly. Harley could feel his contempt of the girl rolling off him, delicious and untempered. And her uncertainty as to whether he would shoot the ditz didn't diminish her pride as she watched her friend turn from prey to predator.

"Remove your hands from him, you gold-digging whore." Hush's deep voice rumbled through the room, filled with distaste for the girl. And Harley was once again reminded of the most basic and repugnant aspects of her friend. Thomas didn't like most women he came across, seeing the lot of them as a lesser species. He could turn on the charm, be the good man, but deep down, whatever resentment he felt towards his mother carried on to nearly every woman he ever met. But he never once looked at Harley in that way, proving that he had some taste. Harley kept her eyes on Bruce, looking for any sign of recognition of his oldest friend, but there was none. Hush had passed the test.

The ditz dropped her hands from Bruce to start crying into them. Harley rolled her eyes and glanced at the tables as Hush grabbed Bruce by the back of the neck. The patrons were in fear but she could also see the relief in their faces. Typical, worthless people, worried about themselves first and foremost. As much as she desired to coat herself in their blood, the endeavor would be pointless and not nearly satisfying enough. Fish in a barrel. Instead, she leaned over one woman, who gasped at Harley's sudden intrusion, and grabbed the plate of desserts resting in the center of the table. "You don't mind, do you?" The woman shook her head, mutely.

Tucking her gun under her arm, she smiled and downed one of the tiny desserts in one bite, tasting the flavors of white chocolate and peaches on her tongue. "Mmm," she said. "I always wondered what the fuss was about and damn, this is good. Want some?"

She held the plate out to Hush who shook his head. She could see the ghost of an amused smile on his face, though. Shrugging, she dropped the plate to the floor and giggled madly at the startled jumps of the patrons. Hush, with Bruce in tow, pushed past her and she turned on her heel to follow with a "My compliments to the chef!"

The valets were gone from their curbside stand and there were only a couple of random pedestrian witnesses to Hush shoving Bruce into the back of the unmarked van. Harley climbed in behind the playboy as her companion went around to sit in the driver's seat. The back had been cleared out of all seating so it was just Bruce and Harley on the dirty floor as the van began to move. "You know, I told him not to leave the engine on. Lucky the van didn't get stolen, eh? Nothing but criminals in this town."

She laughed at her own joke, while Bruce gave her that look that most people did, when they weren't crapping themselves. The look that said he believed she was completely out of her mind. Unlike Mr. J, that look never bothered her. All the pretty white sheep didn't want a black sheep like her wandering into their pen. But reality was, the rest of the world was mad, living their day-by-day boring lives and never having any real fun. Most people, when asked about their happiest moment in their life, would point to something primal, like giving birth, or bungee-jumping. Events that made them feel alive. And yet, they didn't strive to make those events an everyday occurrence, shuffling along like zombies and wishing for things that could only come true if they acted. No, she wasn't the crazy one. The rest of them were.

"What do you want?" Bruce asked, his hands gripping one of the straps on the side to keep from falling over as they rode along.

Harley expected him to sound sheepish, or even frightened, but his voice held the command of someone who had power and knew it. Her initial assessment of him from the Wayne Manor house-warming was proving to be accurate. False front to the public but behind the facade, there was something more to him than just money and women. "Exactly what I said. To talk." She pulled a needle out of her pocket. "But we can't do it here. So, I'll see you when you wake up."

He tried to stop her, his hands coming up in defense, but he wasn't fast enough for her quick reflexes as she jabbed him in the thigh with the needle and pressed down on the plunger. It was nice to see someone else being knocked out for once. Harley was getting rather sick of being the unconscious one. She waited a few moments after his eyes closed, and then opened them up to verify that the sedative had indeed taken hold. Propofol: Never kidnap a billionaire without it. She checked his pulse quickly, to make sure there was no adverse effect, and satisfied, she rifled through his pockets until she found his cell phone. Then she climbed into the passenger seat and rolled down the window, chucking the phone to the pavement.

"Fucking GPS," she muttered before looking over to Thomas. "Hey, you did a good job in there."

"You really think you can pull this off?" He voice betrayed his nerves.

"If anyone can do it, I can." Harley smiled at him, pulling her bag out from under the seat. Still, she didn't give him positive confirmation. She wasn't entirely sure that her plan would work. It would expose so much of her, and Bruce's reaction might not go the way she hoped. She pulled out the towel from the bag, flipping down the mirror in the visor to look at her greasepaint smeared face. "This makeup is so messy."

"Then why do you wear it?"

"Because, my dear, life is a stage and the costumes we wear determine our role."

As she wiped away the paint from her face, she became serious, knowing her role was about to change drastically. It was time to put on a show.

There was a certain irony in utilizing the same office building that Crane used in order to perform her own little experiment. But after doing some scouting, she discovered the space had been cleared of all police interference and tape and decided, why not? In the same office that held her deepest secrets, Harley sat in front of an unconscious Bruce Wayne. Poetic, really. His hands and feet were strapped, with zip ties, to her old chair, his head slumped forward in sleep. She sat where Thomas once did, her legs crossed, ringmaster's jacket wrapped around the back of the chair, makeup removed and hair down. It made her appear more human. And in the corner where Thomas ended a man's life, stood his alter ego. The carpet still bore the mark of the kill, but Hush's boots stood over the area in defiance of any guilt. Her pride in him swelled even more.

"Sure you don't want a chair?" she asked him.

"No," he said, in that low tone, keeping in character.

"No, you're not sure or no, you don't want a chair?" Harley winked at him, enjoying the chance to tease him before things got serious.

"No," was all he said again. Harley gave him a dismissive wave with a roll of her eyes and turned her focus to the other handsome billionaire in the room. Bruce's brown hair was almost perfectly coiffed, except for one lone strand of hair that fell over his forehead from being manhandled. His suit was a little rumpled from her search of his pockets. Nothing that struck her as out of the ordinary so she left the contents alone. But despite his tousled appearance, he still looked damn fine and she could understand why the ladies liked him. Even unconscious, he was like a sculpture that represented the American ideal. Handsome, rich, powerful. Ripe for the picking.

And yet the parallels between him and Thomas were undeniable. While she completely understood how it felt to be in someone's shadow, she wondered why Thomas couldn't just be happy with second place. Harley was perfectly content with her own standing. Whether poised at Mr. J's side or working on her own, she could never compete with the clown. He was smarter, more devious and stronger than she could ever hope to be. And while Harley was fine with her place in the world, not everyone could accept theirs. The drive to succeed was strong in so many, and jealousy was one of the ugliest and most destructive of emotions.

After a few minutes of quiet, Bruce began to stir, his muscles tightening under his shirt. She leaned back against her chair, throwing one leg up over the armrest. "Give it a couple of minutes, hun. The drugs take time to wear off."

Just as she had done a few weeks ago, he tested his bonds, looked around the room groggily, his eyes warily observing Hush for a moment before settling on her. "Who's your friend?" His voice was raspy, forcing him to cough a couple times.

Pulling a bottle of water out of her bag, she walked over to him, tipping it towards his lips. "You're going to have some dry mouth as a result of the sedative. Drink up." Some of the water dribbled down his chin but he drank a few swallows without reservation. If she had wanted him dead, he'd be dead and they both knew it. "Don't mind my friend. Strong and silent type, I tell ya. Hush is a little intimidating but he's only here to keep you in check." She gave Thomas a poignant look, making sure he understood the unspoken direction to keep quiet. She didn't want him to interfere in the least. A nod in return.

Pulling the water away, she sat back down on her chair. "Sorry about the whole tying-you-up thing. Can't have you running off right now."

"If it's money you want-" he began.

Harley held up a hand. "No, no. This isn't about money. I wasn't lying when I said I wanted to talk with you."

Bruce was still tense, understandable under the circumstances, but his demeanor told her that he was worried about something. Death? No. Torture, maybe, but then he wouldn't have taken the water. Maybe he had some illegal dealings on the side and believed she was hired to chat with him about it. Or had some skeletons in the closet that haunted him. She pondered several other options but couldn't nail one right off the bat. Time would give her more indication of his inner concerns.

"What did you want to talk about?"

"Me." And she smiled brightly, extending her arms out above her in a voila gesture.

"No offense," he said, his syllables lazy and carefree as he spoke. "But I don't really know you. Except for what the news has said." He was lying. She spotted his tell right away, a slight crinkling of his nose. That meant he had already taken an interest in her, at least enough to look her up in other forms of media. Curious, but not curious enough to follow that line, yet.

"I don't expect you to know me, Bruce," she said. "We only met for like two seconds at your house-warming."

"I remember. You were there with Tommy."

She shook her head. "Actually, Thomas and I ran into each other at the party and were getting reacquainted when you made your grand entrance. But I'm glad you remembered because that party is why we're here tonight. It's all about legacy."

Bruce looked confused. "What?"

Harley leaned forward in her seat to grab his attention further. "I watched you as you gave that speech about the manor and the legacy of your family. You looked like you were just phoning it in, paying lip service to the masses. But I'm not like the rest of the sheep. I'm a psychiatrist. I see through all the lies that people tell others, as well as the lies they tell themselves. There was something real about what you said." She smiled, warmly. "The Wayne family has been the backbone of the city for a long time, providing jobs, transportation, security, and so on. Even though you put on this guise of being some rich kid who blows his inheritance, there is something deeper to you that not everyone else sees."

His tension increased tenfold and he couldn't stop the look of surprise that came over his face. "And what is that?" He asked, as if he didn't want to hear the answer.

"You care about the legacy of your family."

Bruce's relief was evident, as his muscles relaxed a bit and it was Harley's turn to be confused. His reaction was odd, the nervous energy flooding the room. Mentioning that he held something deeper inside him set his tension higher, which meant there was something more to the billionaire. Skeletons, as she suspected a couple minutes ago, and not ones that he would want to see made public. So concerned that she might be aware of his secrets. Mr. J would probably have had the answer by now, his ability to make connections was something unique, but she needed more time. So she locked away the information for a later date when she could analyze it more.

"What does my family's legacy have to do with you, then?" he asked.

"Because I'm your sister," and she laughed as his eyes widened, nearly doubling over at her own joke. "Oh, the look on your face is priceless." Harley caught her breath as her laughter died down. "But no, seriously, your family's legacy doesn't have anything to do with me at all. It has everything to do with you. Like I said, you have this whole fake thing going on, but deep down, you give a shit what happens to this city and what your company does. I've done a lot of research on you, Bruce, and you have a hand in almost every positive thing that happens under the Wayne name. It's admirable, and more than that, it shows that you're willing to overlook the grime and corruption of Gotham City when so many others would give up. This city is filthy and crime-ridden, but you try to make a difference as best you can and give people hope, even if they don't know it. And that's why I picked you."

"You want me to give you hope?" Again, the confusion.

"No," she said, her smile dropping into a more earnest expression. "I just want you to listen to me with an open mind. I honestly think you're the only one who can do that, without trying to force me into some agenda. I need someone to talk to."

Bruce's face became softer, as if he started to understand his purpose. "Ms. Quinzel, there are better people out there who can do that. I'm not a therapist."

"I'm not looking for one. Hell, I used to be one and I know what we do. Pigeonhole me into some diagnosis that can be medicated, but that's not what I need." She turned her big baby blues on him, widening them to make her look younger, sadder, desperate. Her voice became quieter, as if scared of rejection. "Please, Bruce, can you just listen?"

A pause as he collected his thoughts. She was silent, letting him process her request. Then, making his mind up, he nodded. "I can do that."

Harley almost expected him to make her promise to turn herself in, or to not hurt anyone else, but perhaps her desperation got through to him. A good sign. He was thinking with his heart rather than his head. Playing right into her hands, like putty. Inwardly, she was delighted that her analysis of the man had proven accurate. And giving herself over to her own emotions would sell everything completely. Truth was, Hush was standing in the room, not only to observe his enemy, but also to keep her under control if she lost it. She was about to let her emotions take absolute domination of her mind, body, and soul, to make herself vulnerable. But it could go very wrong if the darker impulses decided they wanted to play instead.

"Thank you," Harley said, mustering up as much sincerity as she could. "This means more to me than you can possibly know." She took a sip out of the water bottle she had offered to Bruce earlier and closed her eyes, preparing to unlock her mind for the second time. It may not have been a chilly night at Gotham General, but she remembered the words flowing out of her as black eyes swam in the depths of her spirit. No candlelight. Only the hum of track lighting. But still, she transported her thoughts to an earlier time where there was nothing to soothe her but the harsh reality of her inevitable destruction at Mr. J's hands. The dance ending the only way it could, with a tale. A tale of Harleen Quinzel.

When Harley opened her eyes again, she began to speak, losing herself in memory and emotion. The story of her life was long, strange, deadly and at times oddly erotic, but she could see Bruce's eyes follow her every motion with interest. And why not? It wasn't every day that a mass murderer confessed her sins. The one thing she could say, in pride, about her life was that it most certainly wasn't dull. Nearby, she was aware of Thomas' presence watching, giving her strength, as he learned her story at last. As much as she wanted to look at him, to let him know that she was expressing herself for his sake as well, she couldn't. Not only would it break their illusion, but she feared the look in his eyes as he heard the details of her sordid history. Very few could stomach the things she had done.

The story wasn't the same one she told Mr. J, not exactly. Some things never needed to be said aloud again. But Harley was open about most things. Her early days as a gymnast, her life with Guy, his experiments upon her, her career as a psychiatrist, and finally her nights of chaos with Mr. J. All of those secrets slipped from her tongue as tears fell down her face. She tried to capture the horror and the ecstasy of her mind, the uncontrolled wild side that permeated her being. Digging deep to find the part of herself that hated everything she had done, she displayed that for Bruce, making him believe her a victim of the condition forced upon her. Outwardly blaming herself for all the evil she had done and yet instilling that single shred of doubt in Bruce that she couldn't help herself. Another innocent corrupted by the evil of others.

Nothing demonstrated her point more than when she removed her shirt, allowing Bruce to see the markings that shred her flesh, remnants of Guy, Mr. J, and her own dark impulses. His face couldn't contain the horror he felt as he scanned her battered and scarred body, the ugliness of her nature permanently branded into her skin. With more tears, she explained each visible imprint's origin. Marks of love, passion, and hatred. And the ones out of guilt, the hash marks on her upper left arm that marked her kills so she could always remember the lives she stole. Bruce never spoke, despite the emotional turmoil that radiated from him. And Thomas, she wished she could let him know that she was fine with what had happened to her but she had to play to a different audience. It killed Harley to feel him shifting uncomfortably in the corner. Whether from rage or the need to comfort his friend, she didn't know. Her focus had to be on Bruce.

Replacing her shirt, Harley continued her story by explaining Mr. J's form of training, the nights locked in his basement with no food, no water, everything at his command. The beatings, the sex, his strange way of controlling her. And while she did speak of Barbara Gordon's shooting, she intentionally left out her feelings about the action, believing the primal side of herself might be a little too much for the billionaire to handle. As her story grew closer to the present, she omitted all references to Thomas and their friendship, but did speak of Crane opening her mind to her fears of being trapped. All leading up to her final confrontation with Mr. J, where she left him bleeding on his own doorstep as she walked away from him for good.

"I haven't seen him since. I thought I loved him, but it was a lie. Love is supposed to prevent this kind of messed up stuff from happening, you know. But Guy, Mr. J, both of them were just cages around me." She met Bruce's eyes while wiping away her tears. "I haven't ever known the kind of love that people write songs about and I never will. Because who would want to love a freak like me? I'm a complete fucking disaster. But it's all fair in the end. After everything I've done, I don't deserve any happiness."

She shrugged and turned her face away, letting her exposed emotions cool down before she looked back up at the silent man before her. "Thank you for listening, Bruce. It can't have been easy to hear all that, to know that my hands are responsible for so much evil. But I needed someone to know my tale and it's been very cathartic."

Pulling her jacket off the back of her chair, she slipped it over her shoulder, sliding a knife out of the pocket.. She walked back over to his seated form. A couple quick slices and his bonds fell away. "You're free to go, now."

"That was quite a story," Bruce said, rubbing his wrists and looking up into her eyes. "I feel like I should say something but I just don't know what to say."

Looking down at his handsome face, Harley felt all the emotion deflate out of her and smiled bitterly as she passed into her internal void. "There's nothing left to say." And quick as a viper, she extracted the gun from her pocket and placed it against her temple. Her trip down memory lane was finished, and she felt nothing but calm as she pulled the trigger.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this latest installment. It would have been out earlier but I had minor surgery earlier this week and was too drugged to consider editing this sucker. Although I imagine, this chapter would have been funnier if I had. :) And a note, if you haven't read my first story "Repression" some of the content in this chapter might have confused you, so go check it out.

Please leave a review and let me know what you thought of this chapter. This one was difficult on so many levels, you have no idea, so any feedback is appreciated. Thanks!