There's something special about the moonlight the night after a breakout.
Harley Quinn is as free as a bird, back in costume and newly made up, free to walk where she wants and enjoy the view.
She hums a tuneless song with words she's already half-forgotten, stepping lightly through puddles glimmering black and starlit blue, interspersed with occasional threads of orange, barely seeming weighed down by the hefty weapon slung over her shoulder.
Mass breakouts aren't as fun of course, she muses, watching as plumes of dark smoke overtake lines of the sky from where she stands. They're lovely and chaotic and it's nice to see everyone working together – she steps over an unconscious body as the thinks this – but it's so much harder to pick out her puddin's handiwork.
Still, she knows if she only looks hard enough, they'll be together at last. She'll find her sweetheart – who's surely been missing her terribly, she knows it – and everything'll be as right as rain.
The sound of shouting cuts into her thoughts, and her smile widens. It's not the dispersion of shrieks that have been overtaking the city since Arkham's breach, but a burst of panic, all together, and close.
Just the place to start investigating.
Everyone in orange knows not to get between the harlequin in search of her beau, so she is unhindered, nearly skipping.
The shouting leads her to an alley – but here, she is greeted not by the sight of her beloved in tones of jewels, but a burlap-clad figure far lankier.
She pouts exaggeratedly and shifts her mallet discontentedly. Her sweetheart must have bigger plans, farther away, but she wishes he were here. He would so revel in this maelstrom.
Her movement draws attention, both from the figure in control and the ones at his feet.
One of those still-lucid, still-struggling – thug or former inmate, she can't be sure – takes the moment of apparent distraction to scramble up and bolt – straight towards her. A well-placed kick stops his momentum; a push with the butt of her mallet against his sternum sends him sprawling back.
"No, no, no," she chides, giving the man a not-so-gentle kick in the direction of the professor. "You can't leave now! You're going to miss the punchline!" She punctuates this with her knuckles against his temple, giggling in the moment before she realizes how unappreciative her audience is.
She's hit too hard, she thinks at first as he wavers, but then he stands, anger lining his face – forgetting the real threat here until a bony hand lands on his shoulder, and drags him back down.
She grins, and the Scarecrow grins back, the burlap seeming to stretch of its own accord, gas diluting into the air even from here.
The joke gets old after a while – the punchline never changes much – but it makes him laugh. It's just about the only thing that does.
And what kinda girl would she be if she denied him that?
[A/N: Cover image belongs to GabbyVee on DeviantArt, and is a part of the picture "More Arkham Fun Times."
Next word: Startle.
…this one was fun.]