Chapter Text
“What qualifies as villainy?”
A titter sang from the phone. “Darling, so much wondrous evil has sprung from such a question.”
Harleen sighed, although her Legion of Doom appointed Lawyer fought, and won, nearly every battle since she’d awoken in Gotham General, Harley didn’t think she’d ever represented HER interests. “Poetic, but what do I need to do to keep my coverage...”
“Participate, Ms Quinzel. All the LoD ever asks of its members, is to participate.”
“Breaking in to another member’s hideout?” She swept her daughter’s bangs back... the daughter she had no memory of conceiving, let along giving birth to... trying to give it some semblance of style.
“Well, that would entirely depend. Though the LoD discourages in-fighting as much as possible, we are well aware that some situations, cannot be helped.”
Harley drifted into her bedroom, drawn to the spectacle of Gotham City in ruins, her three year old trailing behind proudly clutching a piece of toy she’d spent most of the morning violently deconstructing... her fancy LoD paid for Metropolis apartment, bathed in sun light; her former home, darkened by clouds... It was fitting, that the life she could not remember living, was spent in a city of seemingly perpetual darkness.
Over a year ago, she’d awoken cuffed to a hospital bed, assuming the reason was because of a reaction to Joker’s saliva. He’d spat on her during their first real session. But instead of an explanation of what happened, instead of the shop steward standing at her bedside assuring her someone would pay for her injuries, an endless month of interrogation followed... of Batman and Doctor Leland and Commissioner Gordon tormenting her... of them twisting bits and pieces of her shattered life into her guts... an entire month of no options, of no answers... the world of rights and freedoms, nothing but shadows dancing upon the wall. Then, on a random day, triggered by god knows what, a LoD lawyer descended upon her hospital room, barking laws and regulations, serving injunctions and orders... saving Harleen, restoring her as a US goddamn citizen, because apparently, villains had much better insurance than state employees.
“Can I assume, darling,” her counsellor continued, breaking the stretching silence, “that you plan on invading one of Joker’s former haunts?”
The bad guys just had better coverage; Arkhem Asylum, they disavowed her; workman’s comp, gave excuses not to cover her; OSHA, made nonbinding recommendations. The Legion of Doom however, put her on disability, handed her a list of apartments, reunited her with her daughter, and gave her a lawyer who joyfully crushed the municipality, the state, and the Arkhams. They also sent her a Youtube playlist: her former life, four years, nearly half a decade, lived in the blink of an eye, now a mountain of video clips and maniacal laughter. But at least they’d made an entertaining kid’s show out of her pain... with her being best friends with Batgirl for some reason. And Leeny Beeny, really? That was the best nickname they could come up with?
Lucy threw her hands up, emoting the universal sign for uppies, silently demanding attention.
Harley hauled her into her arms, guiding the kid’s head to her shoulder. “Yes. He has some of my stuff.”
“Unfortunately Ms Quinzel, I’m afraid that would not qualify. I would scarcely say it was illegal, you cannot steal that which belongs to you.” The woman paused a moment, no doubt letting her client stew with that information. “Have you considered our offer of the on staff psychiatry position?”
The lawyer had gotten all her credentials, certificates, and licenses, reinstated. The government and Arkham on the other hand, fought tooth and nail to keep her a nothing, fought to make her the architect of her own injury. Wonder Woman is mind controlled by Max Lord, tries to kill Superman: everyone rushes to forgive her. But the medical professional trying to help the criminally insane: her situation could not possibly have been foreseen, could not possibly been rectified, and a full recovery made her no less guilty.
“I’m considering it,” Harleen eventually replied; then, “what if I find something to discredit the mayor?”
“That,” the lawyer’s voice filled with joy and promise, “would qualify. But I must remind you Ms Quinzel, your doctors have declared you physically and mentally fit, so you must begin paying dues at the end of this month.”
Harleen’s founds where rapidly diminishing now that she was off pogey, but someone, hell knows who, had been depositing cash into her bank account, keeping her afloat.
“I already set up auto-pay.”
“Excellent,” the counsellor praised. “Remember, you do have access to the goon pool if needed, and as this will technically be your first caper, you are entitled to a mentor should you feel the need for one. And *I*, am always available to answer questions concerning legality, or,” her smile clear as a bell, “plausible deniability. I warn however, redonning the Harlequin costume, will destroy any such deniability.”
“I’m not the clown’s hench-girl,” Harleen’s rage flared.
“No one’s saying you are Ms Quinzel, but we do recommend a new persona if you wish to continue your former career.”
This was ridiculous... She’d succeeded at most everything in life, was the crazy cute girl next door, excelled in her field of expertise, then suffered a work place injury, and was being abandoned by society, but as a murdering chaotic sidekick, far more support.
“I’m not,” she insisted.
“That is your choice darling, but we do require all our members to maintain some level of infamy, regardless of their standing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you Ms.” Harley stumbled, realizing something for maybe the dozenth time. “Why do I keep forgetting your name?”
“A gift Ms Quinzel, a gift. I’m available anytime.”
Harleen groaned, looked her daughter in the eye, then received a nose full of broken plastic and metal.
“This,” the girl’s slightly cartoony voice declared.
“And what is this?” She took the part carefully, examined it, but couldn’t figure what it was from.
“Is from mah toy! That one!” Lucy pointed to a pile of rubble down the hall in the living room.
“What was it before you took it apart?”
The girl smiled, giggling with embarrassment. “Don’ rememb’ah.”
Harley one handed cartwheeled down the hall, her daughter secured against her chest; then spun and faux somersaulted the girl to the floor. “That toy?” She toed the broken mess.
“Yea! May’ mo’ toy!”
“You made more toys?”
“Yea!” Lucy answered breathlessly.
“I think you made a bunch of choking hazards.”
She squealed in delight.
“You know there’s a reason I don’t get you anything expensive,” Harleen deadpanned.
“Yea!” The girl agreed enthusiastically. “More bad stuffies!”
She glanced over at the hundreds of dollars worth of headless thrift store plushies. “Anything else my little queen of hearts?”
“Poopies!”
“Did you go poopies?”
“No! I holded it!”
“That’s mah girl! Let’s go poopy!”
“Poopy,” Lucy screamed with all her might.
“Poopy from your bum bum,” Harley sang while dancing to the bathroom, “poopy from your bum bum,” shaking the girl like a maraca.
Covering her mother’s mouth the moment she summited the steps placed in front of the toilet, Lucy undressed, sat, finished, redressed, and washed, all without help. She could do most everything on her own, but tended to refuse to do anything by herself.
“Well then,” Harleen commented, watching her kid run off back to the living room, “I guess the days of needing mommy to wipe your butt for you, are gone.”
“Big girl,” she barked.
Maybe her baby was an exhibitionist, Harley certainly was; growing up, she craved audiences, and as the Harlequin, she seemed to crave cameras.
“That’s my carrot headed heartbreaker!”
“G’ween!”
“No baby,” Harley collapsed, gently folding up beside her daughter. “Carrot shoots are green, carrots are orange.”
The girl pointed to her hair. “Wed.”
“Alright.” She threw her hands in surrender. “I ain’t arguing.”
“YAY!” Lucy triumphed.
“You like winning don’t you?”
“Yea!”
Their waffling shattered into a fit of giggles when the doorbell rang. Presumably, it was the babysitter, Harley really was going to raid one of Joker’s old hideouts... one of HER old hideouts. Journals, diaries, they’d been a hobby of hers since she was a child, and she hoped she’d keep some sort of record during her time with the psychopath. Police reports, the Bat, Youtube clips, none of those things gave her much insight into herself, or why she’d behaved the way she did. Sure, she looked like she’d enjoyed the hell out of herself with her self-control and self-preservation almost non-existent, but what was motivating her? Had Joker Toxin really turned her into a joyful nut case? What were her thoughts moments after his saliva hit her? What were they after he threw her into the acid bath?
Pushing her startle and thoughts aside, Harleen opened the door, coming face to face with a woman who was absolutely not a babysitter: tall, dark skinned, pixy haired, green eyed, and dripping with bored contempt. She was a supermodel, sick of her photographer’s self-important bullsh*t.
“I’m Selina,” the woman purred, her whole demeanour slouching into tired annoyance, eye contact lost in an instant, “I’m here to sit with the child.”
Seriously? “Seriously?”
“Pretty,” Lucy shouted from Harley’s hip.
“At least the child possesses decorum.” Selina’s posture shifted from her right to left hip, somehow deepening her detached disregard. “And dare I say, good taste. This is obviously not my regular assignment, but my... supervisor,” she vomited the word, “wishes to impress upon you the importance of your continued... participation.”
“And you normally,” Harley moaned, mocking the other woman’s dismissiveness.
“I am a security systems expert.”
“So, not a runway model reject?”
Selina boiled slightly. “Certainly not. I would never debase myself with such shallow objectification.”
“And I guess,” Harleen mirrored the hip shift, “also not suffering from generalize social anxiety, intimacy avoidance, mild misanthropy, persistent depression, and,” she trailed off, vowel sound held as her thoughts and temper sharpened to a fine point. “Mythomania?”
“Excuse me?”
“Lack of eye contact, forced relaxed posture, dismissive attitude...”
Harley’s paranoia was peaking, sending screaming tendrils of hot ice streaming down her shoulders. This woman was out of place, should not be here...
“Nah.” She shut the door.
Selina, on the other side of the peephole, blinked, not noticing or caring about being observed. A moment later, she walked away.
Harleen turned to Lucy. “That changes plans, doesn’t it?”
“Yesh.”
“Do you even know what I’m talking about?”
“No?”
Kids, an endless source of entertainment.
What the lack of a babysitter meant, was that Harley was going to have to take Lucy with her, or reschedule her plans. Taking the kid, would be a huge risk: Joker, or even her old self, could’ve set booby traps, there could be half rotten bodies, unexploded munitions... anything... Bringing a child to a super-villain’s lair, was the hight of irresponsible parenting. Rescheduling, meant more waiting, more days of no answers... it meant drowning in impatience.
“You remember Darkwing Duck?”
Lucy’s entire body swung side to side. “No.”
“Let’s get dangerous?”
The girl stared blankly.
Throwing up her hands, Harley pretended to claw at her own face. “I show you these cartoons for a reason Lulu,” she growled, “I show you them so you can understand.”
“Funny!”
Harleen dropped the act. “Seriously Lucille, how are you and mommy ever going to share a culture, if you don’t pay attention to her ‘toons?”
“’no’no?”
“You don’t know? But you know what *I* know?” Picking her daughter up, throwing her lightly into the air, spinning her tightly before catching her easily, Harley considered, there was no one in the world she trusted with her baby. “I know a little girl who gets to wear face paint tonight.”
“Yay!”
“And black pants, and a black hoodie, with itty bitty kitty ears, and black glovies, and those really comfy booties, and we’re going to be super sneaky and never tell that awful case worker what we did.”
“Bad Ben’da!”
“Yeah baby, bad, mean Brenda! And you know what else I know?” Harley boopped the kid’s nose. “Mommy’s gonna wear all those things too! We’ll match!”
“Yay,” Lucy clapped excitedly.
“Darkness falls across the land; The midnight hour close at hand; Creatures crawl in search of loot; Ready teh vandalize dah neighbourhood!”
The girl once again, stared blankly.
“You and I kid, when you get older, we gonna have problems.”
Getting ready was quick and painless. For Lucy, Harley applied a thick layer of black greasepaint on her peachy skin, allowing it to smear and transfer when it was time to get her clothes on. The kid’s hoodie, she’d modified to include several long narrow pockets on the inside, perfect for freezies to keep her cool, comfortable, and sugar laden. Her pants, she’d sewn a place for a cell enabled GPS tracker... not that she’d made them specifically to take Lucy on illegal adventures, it’d just been a spur-of-the-moment idea to keep her own hands busy. A black corvette plushie wearing a tutu completed the ensemble. Harley did not question. For herself, she went with wax paint and a nearly identical ‘we’re going robbing’ outfit. They looked conspicuous as all hell.
“Ready to go spelunking in a bad man’s cave?”
“Yesh,” Lucy gave a thumbs up.
“One last thing.” Harleen raced into her bedroom to grab a couple pacifiers, one regular sized, one adult, then speed shuffled back, showing them to the kid. “Our quiet dummies. When they’re in?”
“We quiet!”
“Yea,” she mimicked the kid.
Back in her closet, Harley grabbed her mission load-out kit, filled with all the essentials she strapped to her person: Revolver, taser, knife, mace, electronic flasher/chirper, burner phone, pick kit, and a custom mini rapier wired with a powerful zapper. Then her mission backpack: rope, collapsible white cane, kettlebell, tape, extra knives, first aid stuff, ammo, explosives, glitter, homemade napalm, as well as a bunch of other miscellaneous stuff. If Lucy were old enough, she’d’ve handed her a taser... the girl would probably be ready for the weapon, long before being left alone.
On the way out, she checked the cameras and motion sensors, grabbed the lithium battery, her daughter’s hand, and headed to the elevator, humming jauntily as they marched. She was weighed the f*ck down, and the pack was over stuffed, and her shoulders already burned, but she’d much rather be safe and uncomfortable, then sorry and dead... how she managed to survive as a mostly naked chaos clown with only a bat to swing, she’d never figure.
The doors parted, and the lift, of course, had someone in it, who lasted all of ten seconds before opening their yap. “Mother daughter thieving trip?”
It was a joke, hopefully, or they were LoD, but Harley couldn’t help snorting derisively, lying easily. “Theatre. I’m a stage hand tonight, and my baby girl’s helpin’ me out, aren’t you?”
“Darwin Duck,” Lucy parroted happily, ten minutes too late.
“Missed your chance kiddo, missed your chance. You don’t wanna watch mommy’s ‘toons, mommah ain’t gonna watch yours.”
The woman pulled a judgmental face. “You watch cartoons?”
“Of course I do, only a fool would dismiss an art-form because of preconceived notions of childishness. Most have way more talent scratching away in the writers’ room than say, a soap opera, or god forbid, a reality show.” The doors opened; she pulled her daughter through. “Or the talent of the voice actors, who stand staring at a jumble of words, emoting their hearts out.” They closed. “Bitch.”
“Bish!”
“What did I tell you about swearing?”
“E’uh’ca,” Lucy tried.
“Right,” Harley nodded forcefully, “enunciate. If they can’t understand you, they won’t know they’re being insulted.”
The kid giggled.
“You’re my best little girl.” Harleen combed the kid’s bright untamable locks back under her dark hood, then retook her hand. “We’re off to see the wizard, the fraudulent wizard of Oz.”
They skipped outside, slamming the glass doors against the walls, carrying on as if it were 10am instead of 10pm, singing at the top of their lungs and kicking mounds of dirt, until at a random moment, only making sense to Harley, she popped a pacifier into Lucy’s mouth before stuffing one into her own; casting silence onto the two human sized pixies.
Approaching Delaware Bay, they followed the shoreline toward the sea, slipping past trees, rounding boulders, skulking in the black of night to their destination: a patch of nothing in the middle of nowhere... at least from land. Up close, bobbing in the bay, one might see a slight gash, only a few inches tall were the water met the land. From it, Harleen yanked a small aluminum boat from under the grass loaded plywood. She mounted the electric trolling motor already laying in the craft, connected the battery, secured life jackets to herself and the kid; then, pushed away from the shore, clicked the motor on, and set off across the estuary.
After a few minutes, Harley pocketed their pacifiers to resume singing. “Yar har, fiddle de dee, being a pirate is alright to be! Do what you want 'cause a pirate be free! You are a pirate!”
“Bay’ bay’ shar,” Lucy countered, “doo doo doo.”
“No!” Harleen pointed an aggressive finger between her daughter’s eyes. “I will drown us both if you start that.”
The girl stuck her tongue between her teeth, shining a cheeky gap tooth plastic smile.
“You want hours of The Cat Came Back? ‘cause I’ll give you hours of The Cat Came Back.”
“No!”
“Baby Beluga?”
“No mommy, I good,” Lucy promised.
“Better be. I got twenty years of obnoxious practice on you kiddo.” She thought a moment. “Chris de Burgh?”
The girl shrugged.
“Don't pay the ferryman! Don't even pick’s’a price. Don't pay the ferryman! Until he gets you to the other side.”
“Snack,” she interrupted.
Harleen pulled a ziplock of chocolate covered pretzels out of a side pocket, then handed them over.
“Than’co mommy.”
“You’re very welcome my baby girl.”
Lucy pointed. “Big boat.”
“Yeah.” She’d spotted the cargo ship long before they’d even pushed off. “They can’t see us, so we’re going to have to be careful or get run over.”
“Meep meep,” she chirped, following it with a wet pth sound.
Harley gasped with glee. “You remembered Bugs and Tweety! I love you so much baby!”
“Love you mommy.”
“Okay, quiet now, we’re getting close, and if you don’t want to trade in your snacks for the quiet dumb dumb, you’re going to have to have self-control.”
Lucy crammed three pretzels in her mouth to prove she did, Harley inserted her own pacifier because she knew she didn’t.
Drifting under the fun pier, the magnitude of Harley’s task came into sharp focus. It had to be at least two, three stories high... maybe four. She’d know soon enough because she only brought fifty feet of rope, some of which she had to use to secure the boat to the pole, which had no handholds, no divots, nothing to help the once gymnast, not climber, up the long skinny length of wood. She’d have to resort to spur climbing, something she’d watched hundreds of times on the discovery channel.
Rope tied around the kid’s chest, she signalled to stay put, then measured and cut a few feet off the other end before loosely securing the remainder to one of the backpack straps. Next, she pulled two knives from her pack, duct taped them to her shoes, wrapping them until her feet were nothing but balls of grey, then whipped the cut length of rope around the pole, catching the other end as it came around.
Harleen had been an Olympic level athlete; she could do this. It didn’t matter that she took a dive during selections and never made it any further; didn’t matter the she was fifteen years out from being in competition condition; what’s the worst that could happen? Falling into the boat, breaking or capsizing it, killing both herself and her kid? NO WAY! THIS WAS GOING TO BE FUN!
With one last look at Lucy, who was contentedly munching her snacks while watching her mother’s antics, Harley flicked the rope hard, driving the loop upwards, then stabbed into the wood with her spiked shoes and lifted herself up into thin air. She repeated as quickly as she could, trying to outpace the fatigue already burning in her arms and legs, trying to outpace her fear of falling, or the kid deciding to jump off the side, or wrenching on her end of their tether for no reason. And why was she doing this again? Who cared what motivated Harley f*cking Quinn? Harleen had a clean slate, she could have a practice, take a position at some desperate rural hospital. Why was she climbing into a super-villain’s lair with her three year old in tow? And why was she berating herself now, instead of an hour ago? f*ck, becoming the harlequin again, really seemed like shorter a fall then the one she was staring at now.
Rounding the boardwalk was a practical breeze compared to the shimmying and hopping over crossbeams. There was even a railing to latch onto. The kid’s tether, still had a little slack, so not higher then fifty feet, but close, maybe forty. It felt like a vertical god damned mile; had she done this sh*t for fun as a villain, sidekick, whatever? She hauled Lucy up with out delay, fearing a complete collapse of her strength if she didn’t; the kid wearing an ear to ear grin.
Removing her dummy just enough to speak, Harley whispered, “mommy needs a break,” in Lucy’s ear.
Lucy returned the favour, except with a mouth full of soggy pretzel, “’kay.”
Death, came easily, or at least a short little nap did, her body contorted into the fetal position, wrapped around her daughter, clinging to her backpack to form a corral around the girl. And laying there, near the end, or just really tired, she wondered if her daughter was exhibiting normal behaviour for a three year old? Harleen had zombied her way through early childhood development, totally uninterested in kids in the slightest. She yearned for the big personalities, the truly disturbed, the fringe members of society hacking away at the wet biomass of the human species; not for little kids with delayed development disorders. As a result, she barely understood her own kid, and had almost no inkling of what was going on behind those ice blue eyes.
She risked removing her pacifier to quietly ask, “whatcha thinkin’?”
“Like pet’zels.”
“You do?” She hummed. “Mommy’s having a bit of a breakdown, but baby likes pretzels?”
“Yesh,” Lucy nodded emphatically.
“Can mommy have one?”
The girl unceremoniously shoved several pieces into her mother’s mouth.
“Yummy, thank you.”
“Welcome.”
Kids, an endless source of oxytocin.
Staring into the cloudy night sky, Harleen listened for disturbances; agonizing over her Lulu. She shouldn’t have brought her, a couple of mindlessly spoken words from the kid, and Harley could lose her, have her ripped away by the same assholes who’d hung her out to dry. That Selina though, she’d oozed mistrust, practically whispered ‘you’re so beneath me’ with every exhale, she could not leave her child with that woman. But Harleen, had no one, no one to rely on, no one she’d leave her kid with for even five minutes. They were alone, trapped under the rubble of the Harlequin, stuck between a hard place called the government, and a rock called Joker.
“Mommy?” Lucy touched her mother’s face gently.
“Yes baby?”
“More snack?” She waved the pretzel bag around.
Guided away from her thoughts, Harley took her first good look around. The fun pier, was a pile of rotting garbage: burned out lights, missing siding, broken rides, smashed windows, infested snack carts, general filth... She’d called this sh*t heap home for years? How f*cked in the head had she been? She barely stood living in her parents’ house, and it was average. This was homeless with a touch of post apocalypse. She liked chaos, loved making messes, but hated living in either, she needed TV and clean sheets, bright dining rooms and cold drinks, warm beds and hot showers... What did this place provide? Dysentery and tetanus? Was f*cking an emaciated psychopath really worth living in this... kingdom of dirt?
No, it f*cking was not. Harleen loved her daughter more than anything in the world, but the kid could’ve just as easily been conceived during an immoral therapy session, not this; or during an over night hostage siege, NOT THIS! Harley absolutely did not have to live in this sewage dump for five years just to have her baby girl. The Harlequin, was f*cked up gutter trash, and Harleen would strangle her to death in a heartbeat if she could.
“No thank you my little Lulu.”
“’kay.”
“I love you-lu.”
“Love you mommy.”
“Just the same.”
More blank staring.
Harley groaned. “So aggravating. You could at least fake it.”
“Mommy funny.”
Mind grinding to a halt, Harleen’s eyes narrowed. “If this is psychological warfare, you win this round kid.”
“YAY!” Lucy clapped.
No effing way was it deliberate, the kid was just responding to energy and phrases... she could not be being intentionally obstinate, she was a child. It also, didn’t matter, because rest time was over. She cut the makeshift crampons off, wound the rope, stowed everything, removed the white cain, unfolded it, then pulled her revolver from its pocket holster as she stood.
“Okay Louie Louie, mommy’s gotta go.”
Lucy smiled brightly. “’kay mommy. More fun?”
“Yeah baby. And I need you to sit here, don’t move, and don’ make’a soun’.”
co*cking the revolver’s hammer, Harley crept deeper into the wrecked park; probing where she’d be walking with the cain, poking for traps, focusing around the tip for any abnormalities; scanning the horizon every few seconds to update her situational awareness. The place was little more than a spruced up county fair. She passed a decrepit cotton candy cart, and wondered if she’d eaten from it, or made dogs in the mould riddled fryer a little further away. Then a high striker came into view; was that were she’d gotten the hammer she’d seen herself running around with?
She glanced back at Lucy, now twenty feet away, snacks gone, but still sitting obediently, watching her mom as if it was the most entertaining TV show.
A water blaster racing trailer, those were neat, then she nearly jumped at the sight of the fun house entrance. It was an absolute f*cking shocker: a huge slightly stylized Joker head with his mouth as the entrance. If his proper diagnoses was a distant star, the light from it would’ve past narcissism ten million years before spending the next ten reaching earth. Deflating as she regarded the monstrosity, she wondered how in the hell she’d fallen into the wacko’s orbit, remembering him as frustrating... aggravating... infuriating... He made up stories about everything, constantly; used group therapy as a mine for sob stories, even using Riddler’s about working for Wayne enterprises almost word for word. Why’d she break him out? And why the f*cking f*ck did she f*ck him!? Did the acid really do that much to her mind? If there wasn’t some giant reveal in this place that explained everything, she just might go insane... again...
Easing the hammer, Harley grabbed Lucy and moved her to near the entrance of the fun house. Close enough so they could hear each other, and close enough to scoop her should something happen.
“Mommy’s going inside for a sec, okay?”
The girl nodded. “Drinkies?”
She handed over a Kool-Aid Jammer. “Strawberry kiwi okay?”
“Yea, give.”
“You’ve been mommy’s superstar. Keep staying put.”
Attention beginning to wane, Lucy threw back her hood to play with her hair; she’d be fine for a little while longer.
Revolver re-co*cked, Harleen slid into the building, sweeping both it and the cain left to right rapidly, searching for movement, practically smashing the floor. “Hey mooks, it’s Harley?” She toed in a little further. “Harley’s home,” she shouted.
The air stank of death, the lights were half dead, the floor was decayed. No one had been here in years, there was nothing, not a peep, not a squeak, not even the scurry of a rodent. She assumed that meant the entire place was probably toxic, that nothing could live here for very long. Then a bark filled the room with ricocheting sound waves, smashing Harley’s ears and almost sending her to the ground. She dropped the cain, cradled the hand holding the pistol, stared down the sights.
It took a moment for Harleen’s mind to catch up, for her to realize, she’d pulled the trigger. She’d reacted without thinking, aiming for the centre mass, taking out the threat... A dishevelled homeless man laying in an alcove, his blankets and sleeping bags layered. He was still alive, fidgeting and rocking, bleeding out onto the floor.
Pocketing the revolver, she approached the man, calm and official. “I’m sorry sir. I’m a doctor, let me help you.”
He moaned and groaned as she rolled him, his breath drunken, incoherent.
Lucy appeared at her side. “Loud.” She was nearly in tears.
Harley gently swatted her away. “Can you show me where it hurts sir.”
He pointed to his right side, around the kidney area. She checked for an exit wound, there wasn’t one. She got him flat on his back. Crossed his arms over his chest. Knelt on his wrists. Pulled her mini rapier from her left pocket. Transferred it to her right hand. Aimed in and upward from the lateral canthus. Smacked the grip as hard as she could. Shoved her full weight into sinking her blade into his skull. She pulsed its button. Electrical current flashed into his brain. His body went into seizure. She backed off, waiting for the movement to stop. She checked for a pulse, found one. Tapped the button more. Muffled zaps echoed from his skull. His heart stopped. She cleaned and re-pocketed the rapier. Went for the med kit. Cut his jugular. There was little spray. Then rolled him over onto his side, removed the bullet.
Quietly, unobtrusively, and from a safe distance, Lucy manoeuvred herself to observe her mother’s work, deeply interested in each deliberate movement, mesmerized by the fluidity and economy of motion. It was like a dance, pretty, harmonious; her mommy’s hands beacons of white in a sea of black and dim; her eyes focused, intense.
When every thing’s put away, the girl pointed at the man. “Dead.”
“Yes baby, he’s dead.”
“Bye bye, so’we, no heaven.”
Harleen rolled her eyes. “How do you laser in on the exact wrong thing I say, to repeat.”
“I ‘no‘no.” She pointed off into the clubhouse. “Look’t, clown”
Beyond the entrance, in a very large room dominated by a boy’s clubhouse set of things, plastered on one of many doors, a cartoon version of herself as the Harlequin: dressed in a red and black checker-board patterned unitard, inverse coloured diamonds on the sleeves and pants, a black masquerade mask, a white frill, and a stupid smile... The thing that’d swallowed half a decade of her life. But what drew Harley the most, that aggravated the hell out of her, was whoever did her tit*, made them way too pointy. Who was she supposed to be, 80s Madonna? And did they really have to give her a seat at the head of the itty bitty titty comity? And why did cartoonists insist on taking one’s boob endowment, and shoving it into their hips? Ridiculous!
Taking a moment, and swallowing her annoyance, Harleen listened to the world around them. It remained still, despite her f*ckup. The homeless man had been a surprise; from what she knew of the Joker, she assumed the place would be uninhabitable, it certainly smelled like it was, but desperation had drove someone here, or he’d been one of their lackeys, hiding here because he’d nowhere else to go. She didn’t mourn his death though, even if there was the possibility she knew him, he was gone, his suffering ended. Not that she wanted to take his worthless life, it was his to live or waste, she was not the arbiter of such things, but she had, and it was time to move on.
Harley stole Lucy away from the dead body, then while shielding the kid’s face, kicked in what she assumed was Harlequin’s bedroom door. Like everything else, her room was mostly empty and falling apart. It had no bed, a closet full of identical jester suits, and a large wooden desk, but no pictures, no art, no plants, no beanbag chair, no play things, just a place to work.
“This was my existence?”
Lucy shrugged, seemingly equally disappointed.
“Can you believe this was mommy’s life?” She sat the girl on the desk.
“Boring.”
“Yes baby, very boring, almost like I had an office job I hated.”
Tearing the place apart, Harleen opened drawers, tapped on walls, stomped on the floor, wrenched on the door jam, looking for a secret hiding spot. She always had one, every place she’d ever lived, she had somewhere to keep her private stuff, somewhere to keep what little money she had away from her brother... from her father. Quickly, it became apparent how surprisingly loose the floorboards were. They were those thin, tongue in groove cheapo hardwood things, but they wiggled around like they weren’t nailed down. She couldn’t pry any of them up though, or even move them more than a few millimetres. Someone, probably herself, went to a lot of trouble to make sure they were loose, but wouldn’t go anywhere, and it felt like this was the answer, felt like this’ was where she’d hide her stuff from an observant and calculating psychopath. The oddness might draw attention, but poking, prodding, pounding, revealed nothing, nowhere weak, nowhere hollow, and was ultimately, unsatisfying. Perfect to stifle someone with little patience.
“Any ideas Lulu?”
“Din din?”
Chuckling, Harleen pushed the kid’s hair back into place. “We had dinner, remember those nice wraps?”
“Yea! Yum, yum! More!”
“Maybe we have a little midnight munch when we get home?”
“Yea!”
Then it hit her, it’s a sliding-block puzzle. Testing each slat individually, she pushed on them one after another, until one slid a good foot under the wall, revealing... nothing, a sturdy subfloor. She pulled down the line of boards lengthwise, hoping something would open up between the slats, but again, nothing, just more underlayment on top of MDF. Another idea. She went along each hardwood piece, trying to pull them apart in the middle. She found it: a strip that looked the right length to be a single manufactured piece, came apart at a random point with some effort, opening a void.
“Crazy me was kinda smart, huh, Lou?”
“Yea, mommy smart!”
“Thank you baby.” Harley kissed her kid’s grease covered head, then used her shoe as a rubber mallet to force the opening larger.
A tressure trove! Tons of cheap ass note books, taped up blocks of cash, weird modified guns, strange coloured bullets, a gold freaking bar, clothes, pictures, hand written notes... an entire life, stashed away.
“Jackpot baby girl!” She set the kid on the floor to see for herself.
Lucy pointed at their obvious prize. “Look’t.”
“Yeah, mommy did it, mommy found her old life.” Harley’s hands waved aimlessly. “Or at least part of it.”
“Happy!”
Kneeling, this time beside her daughter, Harleen threw up her hands in celebration. “Happy! And I’m so glad you’re here with me baby.”
She grabbed the first note book she could get her hands on, the cover decorated ostentatiously with her villain name surrounded by diamonds, hearts, doodles, buzz words... a mess. Bubbling with anticipation, she opened to the first page, and deflated. It was written in crazy. Each page was in a different style, some were run on sentences starting in the middle of the page, spiralling outward, some were upside down, sideways, multi-coloured, some the words formed pictures, some had oversized words making up parts of multiple sentences... it was all random. She was too exhausted to make any sense of her old self’s chaos.
Pulling a canvas sack from the bottom of her backpack, she rearranged her junk, making room in the pack for the important stuff like the journals and shoving the money, gold, the rope, other stuff, into the sack for later. But she wasn’t done just yet, that sh*t grinned f*ck stole years of her life and knocked her up, she wanted her back-pay, so continued searching. She found Joker’s room, but didn’t try opening it on account of the heavy stench of death wafting from behind... she remembered seeing herself in several videos with a pair of hyenas.
A little off to the side of the main room, in an alcove that shouted ‘I’m a trap’, sat a Wells Fargo safe, just like the ones depicted in Loony Tunes. Thinking quickly, she moved and flipped the pool table in the middle to in front of the alcove, forming a barricade for Lucy to hide behind in case the safe exploded. Then she sat beside the barricade, her daughter and her goal in sight, pondering.
Turning to Lucy she asked, “what’s funnier, a bomb in place of a tressure? Or a tressure you never open because you expect it be a bomb?”
The girl scratched her lip in thought, or to get rid of an itch.
The safe was welded to a plate underneath the floorboards, presumably it couldn’t carry it off. But the raised feet keeping the box off the ground and giving it a feel of isolation, separating it from the contiguity of the hideout as if it were a last minute addition, was deceptive. The safe was central to the room, drawing attention, creating anxiety... enticing... It beckoned fools and intimidated the prudent... It was the punchline.
“All of the above,” Harley shouted. “It’s a decoy, a trap, and the real deal!”
Lucy fisted the ground excitedly, exclaiming breathlessly, “yea!”
The alcove was the setup, so what was the tension? On closer inspection, the thick steal plate, had seams butted right up against the raised floorboards... a hidden door... the real safe.
“But how do you release the tension?” She gazed manically at the kid. “You hit ‘em wit da punchline!”
Shrugging, Lucy burst her mother’s excitement bubble with indifference.
“Thanks Lulu, you really know how to kill a mood.”
“Welcome!”
For the joke to be truly a killer however, the combination would have to be simplistic, something so obvious that not trying it first, made you the fool. HA, HA, HA, on a calculator, was 44, 44, 44. Overthinking ruined jokes, and a joke no one got, wasn’t funny. She spun the dial, entering the obvious, then wrenched the handle in the wrong direction, releasing the tension, popping open the tressure chest, and triggering a Hallmark card style recorder with the Joker giggling on a loop. Because of course he would.
In the floor safe, even more bricks of money and gold, trays of sealed test-tubes filled with coloured liquids, more guns, more weird ammo, trinkets, and junk. She stuffed it all in her sack. Then the absurdity hit making her wonder, if she was really completely clear of Joker Toxin? Was her brain actually healed and normal? She was literally filling a Hanna Barbera style cartoon sack of loot, and about to throw it over her shoulder to slink away into the night; the only thing missing, a painted on dollar sign.
“Lou? Do you think mommy’s a cartoon character?”
“Yea,” she answered emphatically.
“Thanks Lulu, you really know how to make mommy secure in her sanity.”
“Welcome!”
Kids, an endless source of self-doubt.
Loaded down, because paper money, and gold, was heavy, Harleen grabbed her daughter’s hand and hobbled back to the side of the pier, feeling mostly in the clear. Her single gunshot into the night, still hadn’t attracted attention... no one was coming, no one would find out about her criminally irresponsible parenting. Or her accidental murder. What was probably worse, and even more telling, was that she’d enjoyed Lucy coming along, and would totally do it again. Yeah, Joker was the real threat to their daughter, not Harley herself...
Using a Bellringer's knot, she first lowered her cartoon sack onto the boat, released it, then lowered her backpack. Next she used a real knot to gently place Lucy on the deck of the craft. For herself, she jumped, slamming into the water hard, but not suicidally so, causing the kid to laugh hysterically.
“You think that’s funny, huh?” She pulled her sopping wet self out.
“Mommy silly.” Lucy snorted, falling over in delighted madness, kicking wildly and slapping her cheeks deliriously.
“I honestly don’t know who you take after more baby, and I have no idea which is scarier.”
Harleen untethered the boat quickly, turning round to head back toward Metropolis, flipping Gotham off as they left, singing as they glided along. “Just sit right back and I'll tell our tale, our tale of an ill thought trip.”
Lucy continued giggling, the sound ringing into the night like frantic church bells marking some celebration.
“That started from this gothic port, aboard this tiny ship!” Harley Quinzel’s voice mixed with the blunted discord, creating a chaotic cacophony of noise.
