Chapter Twenty-Two

I'm the bitch you hated, filth infatuated.
Yeah! I'm the pain you tasted, fell intoxicated.
I'm a firestarter, twisted firestarter.
-The Prodigy, Firestarter

A malevolent eye stared at me from within. I recognized it as belonging to Javier. "Harley? What the hell are you doing here?" he asked incredulously, his glare fading, allowing the gap to widen just a bit more as he recognized me.

That was all I needed. I shoved my foot in the crack and slammed my shoulder against the door. Surprised, he let it go, and the door flew open with the force. I strolled in like I owned the place and looked around, taking account of the remaining men.

Chaz was missing. Javier was there, obviously, as well as Tommy, Jake, and Roger. There was also a group of four or five men who were mostly strangers, though one or two of them looked vaguely familiar. I turned and fixed Javier with a glare.

"Is this it?" I demanded.

He crossed his arms, looking unusually hostile, and I vaguely realized that I'd never spoken to him this way and he obviously didn't appreciate it. I felt a momentary twinge of misgiving as he glowered at me—after all, he was only a little shorter than the Joker and weighed even more, meaning that in a fight I'd be at a disadvantage—but shoved it aside. I couldn't afford to even think my doubts at this moment.

"Of course this is it," he snapped. "In case you didn't notice, the boss is out of commission. The only ones here are the ones who can't go home."

"Lost boys, I get it," I said, nodding abruptly and turning away. "All right, boys, listen up! Here's what we're going to do—"

"Excuse me!" Tommy had spoken up, and I looked attentively at him, raising my eyebrows. "Who put you in charge?"

I showed my teeth, the corners of my lips pulled up in the mockery of a smile. "I put me in charge. Now, sweetie, really—shut up before I bring Timmy out."

"Who the hell's Timmy?" Tommy muttered sourly. Jake, ignoring him, pushed forward like a bantam cock, all puffed-out chest and wiry biceps.

"Gonna have to agree with Tommy here, Harley," he said breezily. "The Jokerman threw you out. Or do you want us to believe that he beat the shit out of you just for fun?" He wiggled his eyebrows tauntingly.

I took a second to size him up. He was a little taller than Javier but didn't look quite as strong, and I'd been drawing even with Javier in our last few sparring matches. Taking advantage of the element of surprise, I lunged at him, going for the throat.

No, I mean I literally went for the throat. As he threw his hands up to fend me off, I grabbed his wrists, wresting them out and away from him, and ducked forward, sinking my teeth into his corded neck. He gave a quick, soft huff of surprise, which quickly extended into a scream as my jaw tightened and I felt flesh give out under my teeth.

I came away with a sizeable chunk of his neck in my mouth. I was rather relieved to see that I'd missed the jugular—I didn't want to deal with blood spraying all over the place—but I'd still made him bleed enough to serve my purposes. He screamed wordlessly at me as I let him go, stumbling back and grabbing his throat. I think I'd surprised him. I'd certainly surprised the other men, who stood completely motionless, making no moves to help their wounded colleague.

Come to think of it, I'd surprised myself.

I spat out the chunk of skin but didn't wipe away the blood on my lips. I figured it would give me a bit of an edge, that the crazier I looked, the warier they would be about trying to deal with me. I turned to the other men and bared my teeth for a split second. "Remember, boys," I said flatly, "Girls bite." I lifted my hand, curling the fingers into a claw. "We scratch, too. Anyone care to see?"

Nobody moved. I wasn't an idiot; I knew they weren't terrified of me or anything like that—if they swarmed me as a group, I'd have no chance, and everyone knew it. No, the mood had simply shifted. Instead of dismissing me as irrelevant, I'd earned some interest. I got the feeling that before, they had viewed me as an extension of the Joker. Now, they realized that I was just as crazy without him around to influence me.

"You crazy bitch!" gasped Jake, finally able to speak, examining the amount of blood on his hand. I shot him a slightly irritated look.

"Hey, you started it," I said childishly. He gave me the finger; I retaliated twice over.

Javier intervened. "Enough!" He glared then at me. "Harley, Tommy's right—I mean, most of us like you okay, but what the hell makes you think you're qualified to take over?"

I sighed, but because I liked Javier more than I did the rest of them, I gave him an explanation. "Because I might be crazy, but I've got a strategy beyond sit and wait for orders, which is more than I think any of you can say. Because you guys lost a boss, but I lost a partner." I emphasized the word, looking fiercely around, daring them to dispute this, but I didn't hear so much as a grumble. I produced my ace. "And, possibly the best reason of all in this particular case, I used to work at Arkham Asylum. As in, the building where he's being held. I know the ins and outs, and if we're very lucky, my boss hasn't realized whose side I'm on, hopes I might someday come back, and hasn't to revoked my access to… well, the whole building."

I could see the widening eyes, the shifting feet as the realization dawned on them, the understanding that they might not have to wait another few months to start working again. I grinned fiercely at them for a second, then, simply, I asked, "So, who's in?"

It took me several minutes of rummaging through the Joker's desk before I found the blueprint of Arkham I was after, and several minutes more before I found a suitable map of the Narrows (that is, one that was not stained with coffee, stuck to the table with candle wax, or scrawled over in red ink to the point of incomprehensibility).

Just a few of the other items my search turned up: a vial full of viscous green fluid (I hoped it was just a prototype of SmileX but by this point I knew better than to make assumptions. I did not open it), a blood-crusted piece of glass wrapped in a handkerchief, a meat tenderizer (it was wedged in the second drawer down, making it impossible to open until I managed to work my fingers through the tiny space and pry it out), and a tie with the mayor's face on it.

"We've got to kidnap a maid," I grumbled as I sifted through it all. I normally didn't touch the Joker's things—I didn't know if he would care or not, but as of yet, I hadn't been curious to risk asking, and I definitely wasn't going to do it without his permission. Now, though, things had changed. We were in a state of emergency, we had to act quickly, and if he noticed the disturbance when he got back (I didn't know how he could; nothing was organized, but he was a weird soul so you never knew), I'd just own up to it.

Finally suitably equipped, I returned to the main room, where the guys were waiting. I plopped the street map down on the table, smoothing out the creases and studying it for a second before looking up to address them.

"Roger," I said finally, seeking out our demolitions man. He stared at his feet, as usual, but gave a twitch of the shoulders that I took as a response. "Roge, I'm sending Javier, Jake, and those two—" pointing at a pair of faces I didn't recognize—"with you down into the sewers. Javier," I said, jerking my head to call him to my side, and he stepped forward.

I pointed to a line on the map. "This is where you want to be," I told him. "It's not exactly going to be pleasant work, but it's crucial, and you'll need to be fast. Lay the charges and be quiet, but definitely arm yourselves in case you're disturbed. There's going to be a lot of security right over your heads, so I'd prefer the use of knives if a fight is necessary—you won't call a whole brigade of police down on you, all right?" He made an affirmative noise, and I looked around at the little team. "I want this done by nine PM. Arkham staff switches to night staff at ten and there's always some confusion as everyone takes their places, so that'll be the best time to make this happen. That gives you seven hours."

Jake, who'd been standing in the background with his arms folded sulkily, suddenly slapped Roger across the back of the head and said, "You think you can handle that, dummy?"

My eyes snapped to him. He'd found a pad of gauze to tape over his gouged neck, but he still looked wounded—the evidence was in his apparent need to assert his power over someone lesser to restore the balance upset by my little scene earlier. I didn't like that. He must have been a short-term guy, new, not likely to last long—the ones with longevity, like Javier, knew that ego had to be abandoned completely for the sake of survival.

I decided to be kind, to point out his problem rather than shoot him and rid myself of the worry once and for all. The group of henchmen was small, after all, and as much as I didn't like admitting it, we could use his help, especially on a deadline. So, staring unsmilingly at him, I said, "Jake. Sweetheart. I'm sure you know this, but in case it slipped your mind, let me remind you. Roger is the best demolitions guy we've ever had. The plan hinges on his abilities, and I'm pleased to note that he has never let us down. So, please, for the sake of harmony and morale—don't try to pick on him. Because if you do, I will be wearing your eyeballs as earrings tomorrow, is that clear?"

This threat was delivered in the softest, sweetest tones, which seemed to throw him off even more than the threat itself. He blinked and looked even more wounded, but stepped back, and I glanced at Roger for a split second to see that he was actually looking up, looking at me. He looked away again almost before I could register it, but there is a remote possibility that he may have been smiling.

I shrugged it off. "Now that our dicks have been measured," I said pointedly, clearing my throat, and indicated another spot on the map. "You three," I said, vaguely gesturing to three more strange faces. "I want you on traffic detail. Starting at nine, disturb the streets. Steal cars, wreck them, set up fiery obstructions. Draw police patrols away from the Asylum, if possible, but I want you focused on obstructing the streets leading away from it more than anything else, and I want you to leave this one clear." I traced a fingertip along 17th Avenue, which would lead down to the underbelly and get us out from under the eye of air support, hopefully before they even got the choppers up and running. "That's our escape route. At ten, be ready and waiting in case we need to switch cars, but I don't anticipate a lot of cops chasing us—at least, not initially.

"Tommy," I said, glancing up at him. He started a little bit, chewed on his fingernail, and I said, "You've got the easy job. You're going to be on lookout duty. You can drive me out to Arkham, and when I go in, you're going to stay in the car and keep an eye out for any police coming up through the garage. We've got like a thousand burners; I'll carry one and you call me if there's anything I need to know."

I straightened up, taking stock of faces. Aside from Jake (and Tommy, who only gnawed more worriedly on his fingernail with the revelation of his task), everyone looked compliant—in the case of the guys I'd put on traffic duty, they actually looked excited. "Any questions?"

"Yeah," said Jake, still sounding surly. "What happens if your access has been revoked?"

"That's a good question," I said, corner of my mouth hitching in amusement. "What happens then is that we wait. Arkham's regular staff switches at ten, but the night doctors don't really arrive until ten-thirty. If need be, I'll take one of them hostage. See? Backup plan."

The surly expression didn't really abate, but I was done with him. I folded up the map and said, "Okay. Demolitions, go to work—except Javier; can I talk to you for just a second?"

As the guys shuffled and cloistered together loosely according to their groupings, I took Javier by the elbow and we retired to the hallway. I didn't waste any time. Keeping my voice low, I said, "I assigned you and Jake to the same group for a reason."

"I gathered," he said wryly.

"Exactly," I said with a nod. "We can't have him screwing this whole thing up just because his feelings got hurt. If he starts making moves like he might sabotage, I want you to take him out right away. We could use his help, but I am absolutely not going to risk failure for him."

"Should I take this as a compliment?"

"Sure, if you want to," I said. "You're my favorite, though if you tell anyone else I said that I'll deny it up and down. Just don't get fresh," I added, cuffing him very gently on the chin, not wanting to trigger any explosive responses.

He shook his head, but he couldn't hide a little smile as he turned away and started rallying his guys, making sure they were ready to go. I watched for a second, but when I was sure the men understood what they were doing, I returned to the Joker's room. They'd been given their objectives. It was time for me to work out the details of mine.

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. I took in the sight of the room at my leisure—I knew I'd only been gone for a short while, but it felt like so much longer. This had become a sort of home for me. Not the physical location itself, but the evidence of the Joker's presence that was scattered around—luridly-colored clothing that only he could wear without looking like a complete fool, molding food and dirty coffee mugs ("We really need a maid," I mumbled again), self-help literature (he sometimes read it for the laughs), mutilated newspapers, unmade bed, mismatched argyle socks…

The ache in my chest from missing him seemed impossibly strong, given that I'd only been consciously absent from him for a few hours. I didn't count the forty-five hours I'd spent under the thrall of the fear toxin; it had faded into the background like so many nightmares before it. I skimmed the surface of the memory and moved on—I didn't feel like reliving the hours I'd spent poisoned, thinking about the things I'd seen—

J, broken and dying, twisted on the pavement under spotlights, grin frozen and broken—

I tossed my head to the side. "No, Harley," I told myself firmly. "It wasn't real. It wasn't. Real. Don't dwell on it." I forced that image, along with many others that had followed, out of my head. It wasn't real. No use lingering over that pain.

Now. A suitable outfit for tonight.

The Joker took more than a little care with his self-presentation. The purple greatcoat, the lurid, tailored suits, the odd color combinations, the war paint, emphasis on the scars and the green hair—it all served to make him a character, inhuman, much larger than life. The guys wore their clown masks, also dehumanizing, powerful in that they were simply creepy, but where did that leave me?

I wasn't a henchman. I wasn't the Joker, either. Neither look was going to work for me, so I was going to have to tailor my own—and a dramatic approach was needed. If Jonathan Crane got a signature look, I damn well was going to craft one. I was well aware that I was about to make my debut as the Joker's accomplice. No masks for me tonight; I was blowing all cover I might have had by waltzing into Arkham to free Gotham's most notorious criminal, and I definitely didn't think it was going to go so well that I would simply be unseen.

The clothes I'd brought from home were stuffed into the closet (which, I gathered, the Joker didn't use unless he had a hostage that needed to be kept—lucky for me, that hadn't happened since I'd joined him). I had a certain look I thought might work, and so, keeping that in mind, I dove in and started digging.

I started with the legs and feet. Those heavy combat boots Pam always made me wear out in the woods I would wear over a pair of ripped back leggings, chosen for their practicality—I had a skirt in mind, and this job was physical; the idea of flashing all of Gotham wasn't one I relished, hence: leggings.

Over those, I buckled a red-and-black plaid Lolita-style skirt, so fluffed up that it was practically a tutu, that I'd bought on a whim a year ago and had never worn. It gratified the little kid in me, and with any luck, would disarm my enemies into underestimating me. I was just a girl, after all.

I topped it off with a red corset I'd bought for clubbing purposes (right after the purchase I promptly outgrew the desire to go to clubs except to socialize with friends, so it was also scarcely worn), and finished up with the elbow-length red gloves that Pam had given me. The diamonds J had carved on my arm were mostly healed by now—they hadn't quite reached the white of fully-formed scar tissue, being more reddish brown in color, but I figured it would only be a matter of time. They complimented the look.

No sooner had I gotten dressed than I realized that I was utterly exhausted. You could argue that I'd been resting during the hours I'd been under the influence of Crane's toxin, but emotional trauma wears on the body as well, as I certainly knew. As soon as I acknowledged this, I realized that I was barely on my feet, barely had enough energy to crawl towards the bed. I'll work up the makeup later, I thought drowsily, and the second my head hit the thin pillow, I was asleep.

I woke to a pounding on the door.

"Harley! Harley, let's go!"

For a second, I was disoriented; thought I was being addressed by my father. Quickly, though, memory flooded me, and I stretched painfully. I'd been having a nightmare, the specifics of which I didn't care to remember.

"I'm coming!" I snapped irritably, rising from the bed and stalking towards the door.

It was Tommy. He opened his mouth to snarl at me, shut it with a snap when he realized what I was wearing, gave me a not-so-subtle once over, and then returned his eyes to my face. I lifted my eyebrows and crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe in sarcastic patience. He actually blushed.

"They're back," he mumbled, dropping his gaze to his feet.

I winced. "What time is it?" How long was I out?

"Around nine. We gotta get moving pretty soon."

"No shit," I said dryly. "Start some coffee, would you?"

His jaw jutted out stubbornly, but I paid no attention. I went back into the room, tugged on my boots, and then found a lab coat that could pass for the regulated doctor's coats at Arkham among J's diverse wardrobe and threw it on. I then fished my wallet and my knife out of the pockets of the jeans I'd been wearing before I'd donned the skirt—the wallet was important; it had my ID and access card. I put them both into a pocket, then went to the desk and pulled out the drawer where I'd seen some guns earlier. Out of the dangerously cluttered mess of weaponry, I fished out a revolver and made sure it was loaded. It joined my wallet, and I started towards the door, but then paused and turned towards the bathroom.

I went in quickly, almost guiltily, and found the tins of greasepaint. I took the white and black and slipped them in my pocket, leaving the red behind. Then, I shut out the lights and went into the main room.

The demolitions guys were back and the street detail had disappeared. I noted that Jake was still among the living, and I nodded in acknowledgement before asking softly, "How did it go?"

"It was beautiful," Javier volunteered. "Roger's a genius."

"Good." My eyes swept over to Roger, but he was watching the floor intently. I looked back resignedly at Javier. "Very good. Do you have something for me?"

He pulled a little switch out of his pocket and handed it over. "Be really careful with that. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

"Not until we want them to, anyway," I said wryly taking it from him and slipping it into a separate pocket.

Tommy had started the coffee despite his sullenness, and I patiently waited for the pot to fill up halfway before pouring myself a mug and drinking it black—I was drinking for function, not for taste. Wincing at the bitterness, I leaned back against the counter and looked at the gathered men.

"Thanks," I said simply. I finished most of the coffee off, ignoring the burn and the increasing fluttering in my stomach as the caffeine went to work, and then set the mug down and gestured towards Tommy. "Come on, kid, we're up." I walked out of the apartment, and he trailed in my wake.

I stared out of the window as the car moved through the almost-silent streets of Gotham, more than a little restless. Not for the first time in my life, I wished for a teleporter—that way I could just poof inside of J's cell, grab him, and poof out.

Aw, but then you would miss all the fun!

I rolled my eyes and absently fished around in the center console, looking at the collected CDs, electric cords, hair ties, makeup…

Hmm. Makeup. That's right.

I ran my fingers over the collected mess, and then grasped a tube of lipstick. I pulled off the cap and twisted the bottom, pushing the lipstick up.

I'd always found the color too dark for everyday use. It was red, theoretically, but when worn, it looked black from certain angles. Beforehand, the color held little appeal to me—I was more likely to wear bright red lipstick than muted or darker shades. For now, I slipped it into my pocket, next to the tins of greasepaint.

I grabbed a couple of hair ties from the console next and started to put my hair up to keep it out of my way, but halfway through, an idea struck. I split my hair and put it up into pigtails instead. I'd spent my entire college career and afterwards trying to look serious, to look professional, to look less girlish… why? Because cute little women like me couldn't expect to be taken seriously unless we hid our figures and pulled our hair severely back and wore glasses and light makeup, if any?

Fuck that.

I was through playing by their rules. I was going to be pretty, I was going to be feminine, I was going to be sweet, I was going to embody the characteristics they thought must signify weakness—and I was going to utterly destroy anyone who made the mistake of underestimating me because of it.

It was a win-win, really.

Traffic bubbled up and then slowed to a crawl outside of Arkham. There were news vans, police cars, pedestrians… an unusual amount of people for this time of night. I directed Tommy into the appropriate lane and kept an eye on the traffic.

Sure enough, as we reached the gate to Arkham, I spotted the flashing blue lights. The road cleared up a bit, the news vans in front of us having pulled off onto the side as though waiting for something, and I stared at the parasites as we passed.

Once we reached the gate, a cop approached Tommy's window. Tommy's breathing quickened as the cop tapped on the window with his club, and I said, "Don't be scared, Tommy, I'll handle this. Just roll down your window."

He did, and I leaned over to peer up at the cop—a thin man that looked a little too old to be out here at this time of night. "Arkham is closed to visitors right now, Miss," he informed me.

I put on a disarming smile. "Oh, I'm not a visitor, Officer. I'm a doctor."

"Yeah. You and every other reporter this side of the ocean," he scoffed, eyeing me suspiciously.

I pulled my Arkham ID out of my wallet and passed it to him wordlessly. He eyed me suspiciously, and then clicked on his flashlight and looked over the laminated card.

"Dr. Harleen Quinzel?" he asked finally.

"That's me," I said breezily, surreptitiously crossing my fingers and hoping that the cop didn't pay attention to the news—or at least, that he didn't remember stories a month old.

He looked at me again, then glanced back at the badge. "Says here you're a resident."

"Yes, sir?"

"What's that mean?"

By sheer force of will, I kept myself from rolling my eyes. I anchored the smile to my face and said, "It means I'm new, Officer. It's generally considered normal for psychologists freshly out of school to work here under supervision of more experienced doctors for a few more years before going off on their own somewhere."

He looked at me again, more suspicious than ever. I began to suspect that he just didn't like me. "It's pretty late for you to be coming up here, don't you think?"

"I agree entirely. I was at a party," I said, leaning back and letting the fold of my coat drop open, exposing my outfit. He stared a little longer than was necessary, finally lifting his eyes back up to mine. "I was called in," I spelled out for him. "May I go through, please?"

He stared at me. Keeping the smile on my face, I thought, I swear, if he asks me one more question I'm going to lunge out of that window and scratch his eyes out of his face.

Luckily for him, he handed my ID back and stepped away from the car. "You have a good night," he told us.

"You, too!" I called back, and as Tommy rolled the window up, I muttered, "Douche bag."

The gate drifted open. By the time we got through, Tommy was gripping the steering wheel so tightly I thought he might manage to crush it, and I shot him a brief, annoyed look. "Settle down," I told him. "He barely looked at you. Go to the employees' parking garage; the visitors' entrance leads to a metal detector and I'd like to avoid that, thanks."

With that bit of direction, I settled back in my seat, counting the seconds until the start of the game.