Gotham's idle rich is a funny old crowd, made up of men and women with nothing more to take up their time than playing the stock market or going to various soirees' thrown by other members of the social elite.

Most of them are happy in that existence. To have life handed to you on a silver platter is something they all take for granted; living in the lap of luxury and doing no more than what is absolutely necessary to ensure their continued lifestyle of excess. They'll be gracious with each other because it guarantees their social standing in the community; they'll give to charity because it is the fashionable thing to do; they marry their children off to each other in hopes of increasing their net worth and think nothing of treating their sons and daughters as livestock to be sold off to the highest bidder.

Of course, every once in a while, there is one who finds the life of a millionaire dull--not often, but sometimes. One who finds the idea of spending the rest of his life lounging by the pool positively repugnant and thirsts for a life of adventure, danger and, occasionally, crime.

Vincent Vreeland was one such individual, born to one of Gotham's most influential families, schooled in the best academies the world had to offer and spoiled within an inch of his life. A boy who'd had everything in the world handed to him the moment he expressed even the most fleeting interest in it.

Yet, he wanted none of it.

He found Gotham's upper class to be shallow, worthless drains on society and was much more intrigued by the more…interesting side of Gotham.

The uglier side of Gotham.

The criminal side of Gotham.

Without rules and regulations--without laws or morals or ethics--what he really wanted couldn't be bought in a store. He wanted anarchy. He positively reveled in it.

Of course, no one knew he did. He was very good at hiding his little thrill seeking activities that gave him a rush that drugs never possibly could. While his schoolmates were attending keggers and slumming with drunken college girls, he slipped off into the night and jammed guns in innocent tourist's faces, snatching wallets for the thrill of it, only to throw them in the nearest dumpster a block away. Petty theft wasn't what really intrigued him: it was fun the first few times, but in Gotham, a mugging was kid stuff. He wanted to taste the big time.

He watched the big name villains in the city from the sidelines whenever he could, masking his interest in the darker elements in Gotham behind philanthropic pursuits.

Donating money to build another wing on Arkham Asylum so that security could be upped? Oh yes, all the papers had heralded him as being the next Bruce Wayne.

Never mind that he only did it so that he would have an excuse to pop by the asylum every now and again to 'oversee things' without rousing suspicion. That was the underlying reasoning for his charitable donation…it gave him an explanation for why he was hanging around an insane asylum watching the inmates in morbid fascination.

During those months when the 'hospital' was remodeled, Vincent had managed to slip away several times and into the more…dangerous area of the place.

It was there that he first saw her.

Her.

Harley Quinn, formerly Harleen Quinzell.

As surely as Harley had become obsessed with the Joker, Vincent became obsessed with her.

But he didn't love her…no, he knew he didn't…he didn't even bother pretending that his lust for her was anything more than that.

He wanted to possess her…make her his…

After all, that's how people raised like he had been saw the world. You were an owner or you were a possession. There was nothing that money couldn't buy…the women who fell at his feet on a regular basis were proof enough of that. Wave a shiny bauble in front of their faces and they would profess to be yours forever.

But Harley…Harley was different than all those bottom feeders. So different that she could hardly be counted as the same species.

That fact made her all the more appealing. A woman with her sense of loyalty was a rare thing indeed…and as a man brought up to appreciate the worth of uncommon things, he realized her true value.

Naturally, he knew the idea of making her his was a pipe dream: she belonged to the Joker. Much as he may have wanted her, Vincent wasn't about to make a move as long as that madman was in the way.

That was no longer a problem though, was it?

Staring down at the unconscious form of the woman he'd spent over a year yearning for, Vincent felt that what he'd wanted for so long was finally within his grasp. With just five thousand dollars, he'd bought his way into a 'job' at the clinic, trading places with a real male nurse who'd just been transferred from Metropolis General, and now he could come and go as he pleased and interact with the very object of his obsession whenever he wanted.

The whole world thought she was dead…all but the Bat, of course…everyone in this very hospital thought her nothing more than a Jane Doe.

It would be so painfully easy to spirit her away one night…

But not yet.

No…not yet.

Vincent ran a finger over Harley's forehead tenderly.

He had big plans for her, yes, that much was true, but he'd make her his willingly. He'd make certain she'd be as faithful to him as she had been to the Joker…

Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

There was still much to do before any of his plans would come to fruition. Many obstacles to push out of the way…and many more things to accomplish before he did what he set out to do…

The Clown Prince was gone…but with Harley Quinn at his side, Vincent would become the heir apparent.

Gotham would fall before him on its knees and he would lay waste to the landscape as ruthlessly as the Joker ever had.

Not yet…but soon.