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Harley Quinn was near manic with glee.
For the last few weeks they’d been laying low while Mr. J built his gang back up. It wasn’t easy—most of the muscle in Gotham didn’t care to work for a boss who might murder them at any time on a whim, on as little as one of his lightning swift mood changes. Harley’d learned to read his moods over the past few months, after she’d thrown away everything for him and broken him out of Arkham, her former place of employment.
Now her home was wherever he was, and so far, more often than not, that was one of the many abandoned buildings in Gotham which, given its horrific economy, were not hard to find. The Batman was hunting them, and so Mr. J was being subtle and laying low. A routine robbery a few weeks ago had gone very badly, and those of his crew who weren’t caught by the Bat Mr. J had executed in a fit of rage. Harley herself had only survived because, during the chase, Mr. J had kicked her off the back of the car and into the Batmobile’s trajectory, forcing the Bat to stop and buying him time enough to get away.
She knew her goose should have been cooked, but the Bat had zipped around where she’d fallen in the middle of the road and ignored her in order to continue the chase after Mr. J. It took her a day and half to check hideouts until she found the nameless warehouse he’d settled in. The crew was all dead, and when she’d come in she’d found him grimly dismembering one of his former favorites.
Harley was no idiot, she’d given him a wide berth. Mr. J ate very little, but when he needed to think he would chain smoke for hours, so she’d silently gotten him a carton of cigarettes and cleaned up the mess while he kept to himself. Within a couple of days he was back to his cheery self, and they’d set out to rebuild the crew together.
He’d done a few minor things with the new guys and left her out. She still had a sore cheek and some pretty purple bruises on her arm from nagging him to take her with him. He’d backhanded her and sneered ‘they didn’t need any skankwhores on this one.’ She wasn’t upset though. It was just one of their in-jokes. She liked the bruises—proof that she really loved him.
She cruised slowly, Mr. J in the passenger seat, his long legs kicked up on the dash and the window down, letting cool September air, laced, as always, with the reek of Gotham’s pollution, flow in. He had the Beastie Boys playing and was holding a .45 pistol, idly conducting with it. He was in a manic mode, his grin irrepressible, sexy and powerful. Harley loved him so much.
“Turn here, Harley girl!” he sang out, and she pulled a hard right. Someone in the back, maybe Gerrar, the morbidly obese peeping tom Mr. J’d recruited, growled in protest, because it sounded like a curse in Spanish. Mr. J laughed.
“Damn women drivers, amirite boys?” There were agreeing chortles. Harley laughed along with them.
They pulled up to a small chemical plant, a grimy little place with dim lighting in the parking lot. Prior to becoming Harley Quinn, she’d never have dared to get out of her car—the place was mugging and rape central.
Still, someone was here, because the lights were on. There was a low din of machinery working, clangs and grinding, and as she turned into the parking log, her headlights threw everything into stark, garish brightness. “Harley, back up to that loading dock. Mac-n-cheese,” his name for another of the new gang, a huge guy with a beetle brow and a leer that made her distinctly uncomfortable, whose name was actually Mack, “Get in there and get that dock door open!
She did as she was told with smooth practice. She’d never been much of a driver before, but working for Mr. J had forced her to learn skills she’d never really considered important—she had to make herself useful in order to stay in his orbit. She’d learned to shoot a gun and build a bomb, to drive, where to hit someone to do maximum damage. She was expected to protect herself in the hierarchy of Joker’s gang—Mr. J was as likely to laugh at her for getting herself beaten or raped as he was to protect her honor. It became quickly apparent to her, after that first night of breaking him out of Arkham, it was survival of the fittest in his aura of anarchy.
She’d stepped up to the plate.
She was along on this heist for the first time in months. She didn’t know the details, Mr. J only kept confidence with himself and she believed that was partially because he made some things up as he went. It was exciting—HE was exciting—and she was along for the ride. The guys jumped out of the truck, Mack going straight to the metal stairs that led to a door leading in, the others forming up as she put the truck in park and shut the engine off. The parking lot was empty save for a few empty cars. Watchmen probably.
The Beastie Boys were abruptly cut off and Mr. J got out. He was trim and handsome in a natty purple suit, shined shoes, fresh boutonniere. Harley didn’t know if this one was weaponized or just for looks. He slipped a purple fedora on with a bright green feather in the trim, cocked it rakishly sideways, and executed a bow to his assembled cohorts.
“Boys, you’ve got your lists. I even helped the mentally challenged among you by sketching the location of the drums we need in the warehouse part of the plant. Chop chop, we don’t have much time. Tonight’s not about the Bat…tonight is just prep work…tedious, I know,” he held up a gloved had, his smile magnanimous, “but every great performance needs rehearsal, right?” There were murmurs of agreement. Harley was melting. “Now, let’s get this over with, smooth and painless, unless Harley gets lippy,” he paused for laughter.
There were chortles. Harley sighed dreamily, “Sometimes I get pretty mouthy, Puddin.” She half expected to be belted, but Mr. J was in a good mood, and he ran the backs of his knuckles down her cheek. She’d dressed for him today—a tank top that had a big yellow smiley on it, a jacket that had ‘Property of the Joker’ on the back in stylized writing. Cut off jean shorts ripped fishnet, thick-soled Demonia boots, locked into a collar that said, ‘HA HA HA’ on it, a holstered Colt Python on her hip and a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire slung on her shoulder. Her blonde hair was in pig tails, purple and green streaks in it—his colors. It all seemed to amuse him, and that’s all Harley ever wanted.
To be useful. To be wanted. To make him happy.
Then everything came to a screeching halt. Mack’s voice came from behind them, from the door to the warehouse. “Hey boss, I think ya need to see dis.” Something in his tone made her whip her head around to stare at him, made the smile die on Mr. J’s lips. Mack was—scared. That was the only adjective that applied. Suddenly they were following Mr. J in.
The plant itself was dim, old. Everything was covered in dust and cobwebs, and there was a chemical reek that she couldn’t place. The whole place felt like neglect. Just inside the door, to her left, the dock door was still down and there was a propane fork lift parked near it. The thing was rusty and dented, like it was a fossil sticking out of a rock in Mongolia. Mack stood to the side to show Mr. J and the assembled gang what he meant.
Mr. J had warned them back at the lair that guards might be present—told the guys these shlubs didn’t want to die for just over minimum wage, but kill em anyway if they acted in the least bit aggressive. There were six of them all told. Five of them were sitting, their backs to the dock door. They were awake, or at least conscious, but they were staring blankly forward, like they were in some kind of trance. Not one of them had so much as looked their direction. It was like their souls had been sucked out and she was looking at their fleshy shells. Empty husks left over. She felt a shiver run up her spine.
Mr. J’s smile was gone now. There was an odd look on his sharp, handsome features. One she’d never really seen before. On anyone else, she might have called it fear, or at least anxiety.
“What’s wrong wif ‘em, boss?” Mack rumbled. Mr. J had already approached the nearest one and snapped his fingers in front of the guy’s face. No reaction.
“Alright boys, I don’t know what their problem is, but we don’t have time to care. You’ve got your assignments, Harley and I are headed to the control room. If one of these guys wakes up and loses his head, you know what to do.” With that, the guys all scattered, pulling out the printouts Mr. J had passed out. Mack was opening the dock door and getting the truck ready, and she followed Mr. J as he picked his way through the dark, cramped factory. All around her was metal scaffolding and machinery, metal stairs and ladders. It was a maze, and if she hadn’t been skipping along behind Mr. J and his near photographic memory, she’d have quickly become lost. One of the guys, Joe-Joe, was a few paces behind her, his glock out. He looked a bit spooked. Harley felt safe enough, but she left her spare hand on the handle of her gun and was ready to swing for the fences.
They climbed a metal staircase, Mr J’s wingtips making sharp, tinny noises as he took them two at a time, and at the top of stairs he pushed the door open. She was right on his heels and nearly ran into his back because he froze. She was close enough she heard his mutter. “Oh, damn it.
She leaned to the side and craned her head to see around him, see what he was looking at.
There was a woman in the control room—a woman who had beaten them here. She was turning as the door opened and Harley got a good look at her as she whirled on them, her long, lush, gorgeous hair swirling—a deep red, the color of blood with streaks of fire running through it—it was mesmerizing. It fell past her waist, thick and healthy curls framing her heart-shaped face. She was…beautiful. It wasn’t an adequate word, but Harley had trouble thinking of a word that actually described her. Tilted eyes, eyes the color of jade but more than that, they almost looked like they were lit from within. Perfect, arched brows that gave her a wicked and seductive look and thick, sooty lashes. Full lips painted a sinfully dark red, lips made for kissing or things even more naughty. Her makeup was flawless—she looked like she belonged on a red carpet, or maybe in a centerfold, or even attending the Oscars in the 50s. Like a screen siren, complete with a beauty mark on her left cheek. Winged eyeliner, gorgeous smokey eye, cheekbones you could cut glass with. She was pale, but completely flawless.
Her body matched. She was tall—tall enough Harley would have had to tilt her head up to look into her eyes. As tall or taller than Mr. J in those ridiculous heels she was wearing—stiletto-heeled latex boots that came up to her knees and colored a dark, forest green. They were shiny in the dim light. The rest of her long legs was covered in green lace, thigh high stockings complete with garters that attached to a corset in the same color, low cut, making her already small waist even smaller and emphasizing her luscious hour-glass figure, giving her deep cleavage. She was wearing long opera gloves, that same green latex, and fitted skin tight. She whirled on her heels with practiced ease, striking a pose that was powerful and sensual—feet together, hands on her shapely hips, bare shoulders back, chin up. She was wearing a choker of green lace, and it made her look like a goth fetish fantasy come to life.
“Oh. It’s you. What do you want?” Her voice was soft and sexy, deep, raspy, with a hint of an accent Harley couldn’t place. It dripped with contempt, without even the slightest trace of fear. She’d never heard anyone talk to Mr. J like that. Harley held her breath, expecting Mr. J to kill her on general principle.
“PAMMY!” Mr. J poured false friendliness on so thick Harley almost wondered if he meant it. She turned in shock, amazed at his tone, and saw his fixed, wide grin that did not in anyway match the look in his eyes. His smile was forced. Eyes burning. Tension in his body that was so at contrast with the woman’s relaxed, confident posture.
My god, she realized with shock. He’s afraid of her.
Harley hadn’t thought anything frightened Mr. J. She’d seen Batman from a distance, had seen how terrifying the figure was, and Mr. J was always eager to face him down. This woman who looked like she was expected on a porn set made Mr. J proceed with caution?
“Pammy, Pamalicious! What a pleasure!” Mr. J continued, and the woman stared at him like something gross she’d stepped in, just shy of a dramatic eye roll.
“I’m busy and I don’t have time for your nonsense. What do you want?” She idly brought one slender, gloved hand up and brushed her thick curls behind an ear. Harley could see it was pierced several times—dangling earring, studs, rings.
“My associates and I,” and Mr. J indicated her so Harley stood up straight, snapping her attention back to the woman’s face, rather than stare at perfect ear, “were just here to borrow a few things from Spencer chemicals.”
The woman glanced at her, dismissed her, than replied, “Good Goddess, you have groupies now?” She rolled her eyes. For some reason, that stung. She drew her Python and leveled at the woman.
“HEY, watch who yer callin’ a groupie, sister.” The woman didn’t even look at her, she was already turning back to the laptop she had siting on the office desk, a cord connecting it to the mainframe unit in a cabinet sitting in the corner of the room. If she was intimidated by the hand cannon Harley was holding, she showed no signs of it.
“I actually don’t care. You’ve got about twenty minutes. Tell your troglodytes to leave the guard alone spreading the big pods around,” she idly indicated a green lump under the desk she was working. It looked for all the world like a giant, fat green bean and yet, something about it looked alien and unnatural. Harley suppressed another shudder—the hell was that? “If you and yours are still here in twenty minutes, you’ll be a part of the landscape,” the woman continued.
Mr. J bowed dramatically, a flourish with his hand. “You are as merciful as you are lovely, m’lady!” He pronounced. The woman didn’t even look back. He turned to Harley, no humor or friendliness—false or otherwise—in his voice. “Watch Ivy. If she starts to leave early, shoot her. Don’t just shoot her once, empty that fucker into her.” She stared at him, knowing her blue eyes must’ve been big as saucers. He gave one last sneer at the woman’s back and swept off, his own list inside his fascinating skull.
It was quiet after he left and Harley kept her gun leveled at the woman, who seemed to be studiously ignoring her. Instead, she was tapping away at her laptop. She was bent over, and Harley found herself staring at the woman’s ass, the bikini cut briefs she was wearing displaying her curves like a swimsuit model. What was she doing anyway?
“I don’t like guns. I don’t like them pointed at me. If you’re going to be in here, put that away.” The woman sounded mildly irritated.
“I’m not a groupie,” Harley blurted. Screwing up her courage, she continued when the woman’s turned to look at her. “I’m Mr. J’s partner. His driver. I’m not a groupie.”
The woman’s full lips quirked up on one side, like she was fighting a smirk. “No, groupie implies sex, and we both know THAT’S not gonna happen.”
Harley glared at her back. Stupid fetish lady and her stupid perfect ass. Who was she, anyway?
Ivy. That’s what Mr. J called her… And then it hit Harley. This was Poison Ivy, former resident of Arkham.
The woman didn’t even look up. Harleen glanced back down at the manila folder. Isley, Pamela L, the case Dr. Leland had handed her an hour ago. After weeks of badgering Leland to give her a real case, heavily implying she wanted THE case, the Joker, Leland had finally given her one. Harleen’d glanced through it and been disappointed—she really didn’t have much interest in a Black Widow case—this Isley woman was just a plant themed seductress who used sex to get close to powerful men and then killed them. Not really what Harleen wanted. Still, maybe it was a stepping stone? A test?
She tried again. Adding the woman’s title in—maybe that would help. “Dr. Isley, hi. I’m Dr. Quinzel. Harleen Quinzel. I’m going to be your new case worker.” There was no sign the woman heard her. She was sitting on her bunk, elbows resting on her knees, head down with her incredibly long red hair serving as a curtain. She couldn’t see her face.
“Look, Dr. Isley, I know you haven’t had the best track record with your therapists. With your permission, I’d like to start over with you. How about it, what do you say, fresh start?” No movement. Impulsively she stepped to the glass, shifted the clipboard with her casefile to her other hand, and stuck her right hand through, palm open, offering a handshake.
“All relationships start with a foundation of trust, Dr. Isley. I’d like for us to establish that.” Slowly, the woman’s head rose. Cloaked in shadow and still framed by the fringe of her red curls, all Harleen could make out of her face was her gleaming green eyes. Hatred. The woman hated her. The woman’s head lowered and Harleen fled back to her office.
She needed a cup of coffee. And even though she was trying to quit—a cigarette.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Harley asked quietly. The woman tapped the keys a bit more, and then she glanced back.
“’Property of the Joker?’ I know everything I need to know about you by that alone.”
“Yeah, I know. You got me figured out I guess.” The woman turned. She narrowed her eyes, and then she turned and walked toward Harley, hips swaying dramatically on her heels. She stared down at Harley, towering over her. As she came closer, Harley licked her lips and kept the python trained on center mass.
“I thought I told you to put that away.” The woman said.
“You did, yer just not the boss o’ me.” Harley replied.
The woman was fearless. She reached over Harley’s gun. Close up like this, Harley could smell her—sweet and floral, like honeysuckle. It was incredible, the whole package. Harley couldn’t take her eyes off of the woman. She ran an idle finger over Harley’s collar…Harley couldn’t breathe.
“I suppose he is?”
“He…no…I mean…it’s complicated.”
The woman’s expression softened and she withdrew her hand. “It so often is, when men are involved.” She sighed. “What’s your name?”
“You really don’t recognize me?”
“Should I?”
“My name is Harley Quinn—” She saw the recognition cross the beautiful woman’s face. It surprised her, and that sexy, unreadable expression dropped for an instant. “I see ya figured it out? I’m surprised ya didn’t hear the story, the gossip?”
“I don’t pay any attention to gossip and I’ve no interest in Joker or anything or anyone involved with him.”
“Oh. Well, I—”
The woman held up her hand. “Let me stop you there. I don’t care about him. I know you were a doctor there and now you’re here, dressed like a groupie. I can guess the rest.”
“I’m NOT a—”
“Groupie, I know.” She seemed to consider Harley for a moment. “My name is Ivy.” She pronounced it, like declaring herself a goddess.
“Yeah, I’d guessed.”
Ivy tilted her head, pursed her lips. “I wasn’t kidding, Harley. Please put the gun away. It’s the weapon of cowards. It’s the weapon of men.”
Harley holstered it. “Sorry, Mistah J told me… Know what, nevah mind.”
“See?” Ivy smiled. “You’re a fast learner. Smarter than wearing that terrible jacket would lead one to believe.” She turned and walked back to her laptop, swaying her ass like a runway model.
“Nice, coming from a lady who dresses like one of the girls down in the East End.”
Ivy turned, flipping her hair, and smirked at her. “It gets the job done.”
“What’re ya doin’, anyway?” Harley walked over to her, and glanced at the screen.
“I’m downloading every bit of information I can get about Spencer chemicals. I have a worm scouring all their files for certain keywords.” Ivy’s tone had changed as she warmed up to her subject. Harley could see her laptop was scrolling code, a progress bar working. “Once it’s complete, my little presents will bring this whole building down.”
“Which is why you told M—Jokah to hurry up and get out?”
“Exactly. Under other circumstances I might have just killed that grinning Neanderthal, but I may have a gentleman caller soon and he could prove useful as a distraction.”
As she spoke, she turned to Harley. “A gentleman caller?”
Ivy grinned, a wicked grin. Conspiratorial. “Batman, Harley. Batman will be here soon. By now the silent alarm has gone out and he’s seen me on the camera.” She turned and glanced up at the corner, blowing it a kiss.
“Wait, the Bat is on his way? I gotta warn Mistah J, he didn’t think the Bat would be here tonight” She stepped away, fishing her phone out of her shorts pocket.
“Do you?” Ivy’d turned, crossing her arms. She favored Harley with a challenging look, one perfect eyebrow arched.
“Well, yeah, it’s part a’ my job,” she started but Ivy’s expression didn’t waver.
“Leave him. Let Batman throw him back in Arkham. Lose the outfit. Do your own thing.” Without warning, she grabbed Harley’s arm. The bruises. “And do it before that psychopath kills you, Harley.”
Harley looked in her eyes, her weird, green eyes, and again, she could swear there was a light burning from within them. There was concern there. Concern for her. Harley couldn’t remember the last time anyone had cared what happened to her.
“I…I can handle it. He loves me, Red,” Harley didn’t know where the nickname came from, maybe that gorgeous hair, or those red, red lips. Ivy didn’t seem to mind. “He plays a little rough, but he’s a great man. He needs me.”
She sighed. “I don’t have time to argue with you. It won’t end well, Harley.” She then plucked Harley’s phone from her hands. Harley started to protest, but Ivy was fiddling, and then she raised it and snapped a selfie, throwing a sexy smirk at the camera. She handed it back.
“You’ll eventually need a friend, Harley. Call me.” Harley glanced down, at the new contact Ivy put in.
“Thanks.” It wasn’t adequate, but it was all she could think of, and then Ivy tilted her head, as though she were listening to something.
“Oh, he’s here.” She said simply.
Harley didn’t need to ask. Ivy was closing her laptop down and slipping into a duffel bag. She dialed Mr. J.
“WHAT?” he snarled at her.
“Puddin, Ivy says he’s here.”
“Ivy? What, you two girl-talking?”
“The Bat is here, Puddin!” There was a pause.
“Alright, get to the truck, get it started. We’ll go with what we have so far.” He hung up.
Ivy’d slung the bag and was strolling out. Harley hurried after, now noticing the pulsing green beans. They were beginning to swell.
By the time she hit the doorway, several of the guys were in the truck already, and Mr. J was climbing in. “Come ON, come ON, Harley, we need to get going.”
Harley was climbing aboard when she spotted Ivy walking toward a small car in the parking lot, heels clicking smartly on the asphalt. She started the truck when she saw him.
Batman.
It was like the darkness came alive. One minute Ivy was nearing her car, the next shadow itself dropped from the sky and loomed over the redhead. Harley gasped, a thrill of terror shooting through her.
They were too far away to hear what they were saying, but she put the truck in gear and pulled out. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Mr. J staring. Riveted at the scene playing out. Batman suddenly stepped forward, and then he was crushing Ivy to him, kissing her. Harley gasped, and could feel her smile threatening to split her face. Ivy’s arms were wrapped around the back of Batman’s head, one leg hooked around the Bat’s, and he was pressing her into her car—kissing her, kissing her neck, his hands exploring her body and she was gasping, her head thrown in back with such...passion. Batman couldn’t get enough of her, like a dying man in a desert finding an oasis.
Harley glanced at Mr. J. And she knew. She knew she’d never have that with him. He’d never desire her like that.
But the truly terrifying thing, the part that worried Harley the most—when she glanced at Mr. J she realized he was staring at the couple with an expression Harley had never seen on his face before and that part of her brain that still thought like Dr. Harleen Quinzel could only describe it one way.
Jealousy.
And not because he wanted to be kissing Ivy.
Mr. J didn’t speak as they drove home, and for once, Harley was quiet as well.
Thinking.
About her new friend.