A Kick In The Teeth Is Good For Some || Joker and Harley

He hadn’t brought any of her things. If she wanted her possessions back so badly, she’d just have to get in his car and hope for the best. It had unnerved him slightly to discover just how many things she’d snuck into their little hidey-hole. It wasn’t enough for her to simply take up space, no, no…she had to encroach on everything that was his with everything that was hers. His things didn’t take up much space, when it came down to it the items he owned were primarily knives and garish pieces of clothing. But he liked open space, the product of being caged his whole life, need space to roam and prowl. She was wise enough not to intrude unless invited, most of the time. He wasn’t even sure he wanted this.

The constant nattering about things that weren’t interesting, as if he was some sort of treasure chest in which she could store her anecdotes concerning trivial encounters with trivial people, general gossip. The only thing that interested him were the secrets she still dropped, let shatter like plates at his feet, rather than spilled. She seemed to be running low on them though, and had grown increasingly reluctant to hide information from him. He didn’t take well to being mislead.

But for some reason, here he was, standing at the foot of the same goddamn warehouse waiting on the same goddamn person. He wasn’t even entirely sure why he’d done what he’d done. He couldn’t remember what they’d been fighting about, only that he’d had a headache that day, wanted her to shut up. He might have hit her, she might have hit him back. He’d certainly had a good grip on her as he started pulling her towards the window, while she clawed and kicked and screamed. But she’d had no leverage, nothing to hold onto. He was the only counterweight available and it had been so easy to scoop her up, a little rag-doll in his arms and throw her out the window. There had been a gaping hole in the window too, he hadn’t even had to open it. He remembered the shriek, higher and more filled with more girlish terror than he’d ever heard her make before and then the thud that made his shoulder’s hunch in a most pleasant way. He’d walked down the stairs, out the door, walked right past her broken body as he departed. He hadn’t noticed she was still alive.

Yet here she was, swinging back towards him like a pendulum. She just couldn’t stop her momentum. You’d think she’d get bored—though, he wasn’t exactly prone to mundane patterns. But she was hardly the central priority in his life, she was constantly shunted to the side, neglected for long periods until he remembered that she was fun to string along like a kite that kept getting stuck in trees. He wasn’t particularly interested in a lot of the things she wanted him to be—sometimes they had sex, most times they didn’t, sometimes he’d tolerate her conversation, sometimes he’d slam the door in her face. He spent a lot of time cooped up with newspapers, reading voraciously, everything from stocks to sports to gossip columns. He found inspiration in the oddest places, and sometimes he would just pen notes to himself all over the paper he was reading. Sometimes they were to-do lists, sometimes random thoughts or hastily scribbled—so fast and pressed that the spidery writing almost ripped the page in places—notes to himself, flashes of genius that were often so illegible he couldn’t even read them later. Sometimes he just wrote one word over and over again: Ha ha ha ha…

He stamped his feet against the wind, grinding his heel into a cigarette butt left on the road. He looked up, the sound of boot soles on gravel pulling him from his reverie. She’d come, and she’d come on time. There was no pretense of keeping him waiting. He watched as she walked closer, she looked thin, frail, a waif—the Arkham crash diet was still in effect—let his eyes settle on her, his arrogant gaze travelling from feet to head with the single thought of possession. He was perfectly content to wait her out, make her say the first word. He wondered if she was ready for the second round, they’d been out, apart for a while, but he always slipped so easily back into the game.

Reality is Merely an Illusion || Harley & Andromeda (Flashback)

Arkham was full of mysteries. Andromeda hated mysteries. That was why she wanted to leave so bad.

“Will I get re-assigned again?” Andromeda asked impatiently.

“Yes, you should go to Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Maybe she would like to help you.”

The blonde took the card that was shoved in her face. She skimmed through it with a disgusted look on her face. Her name was scribbled there. Radke, Andromeda. She could only make out a few things on the card for the guy’s handwriting was terrible. It looked more like hieroglyphics rather than a human’s handwriting. Was it some sort of code that the employees were using?

It was already 2 weeks into her time in Arkham. She already detest the place immensely within 1 hour she had entered it. She hated the feeling of being sent there; it felt as if her father thought she was mad, like every other people in this Asylum. She was never like that, but her father convinced her she was. Each night, she told herself that she wasn’t crazy. She was still normal. Her father was the delirious one.

Don’t be affected by the treatment they give you here. That was her mantra. She would chant it to herself before she lie down on the cold bed. If she wasn’t affected then her father would know what waste he had done by sending her here. She had no problem watching all of the fights, though. She actually enjoyed it.

However, there is this guy called the Joker. Nobody dared talk about him. The people only said he was a very dangerous guy, that nobody should come near him. That was the only time Andromeda would agree with the people. Whoever made the loony people scared here would mean he/she were not people to trifle with. She was actually scared of this guy.

She walked towards the room assigned by the man previously. On the door hung the name she was assigned to go to. At least, the doctor she was going to was a lady. It wouldn’t be hard to talk to her. Girls have this connection, right? It should be a breeze trying to talk to this chick.

“Good luck, Andromeda,” she told herself as she began knocking on the door. “Dr. Quinzel?”

Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship {Flashback} | Harley & Ivy

“Hey, Lily, what'cha doing still here? Don’t cha have someone waiting for ya at home?” Matt, an average-looking security guard, smiled and waved at the undercover scientist. Pamela quite liked Matt; he was a decent bloke, if not a little dim. He was committed to upholding the law, but he wasn’t just some foolish young man trying to promote justice. He had his heart in the right place- an increasing rarity nowadays. 

“Sorry Matt, gotta get back to work. Chilton wants the latest samples sorted through and finalised completely by tomorrow morning, y'know, for the new Natural America exhibition?” She lied smoothly. Dr. Isley smiled apologetically, plucking a clipboard from her temporary desk and slipping into a familiar lab coat. She almost felt bad for what she was about to do. Almost. 

“I probably won’t be done for a while…” She hesitated for a second, pretending to consider something. “You know what? How about you give me the keys to the laboratory and you take the night off? You can lock up the rest of the place, just leave the back door open for me. I know your wife must miss you terribly." 

"A-are you sure Miss Irving? I don’t want to leave you here alone… Besides, what if my boss found out?” Matt was visibly torn between the two possibilities- always the chivalrous one. 

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. Get home. You deserve a break! I’ll see you tomorrow, ‘kay?” Ivy went up to him and held out her hand, gesturing for him to pass her the key card. He deliberated for a second more, before reluctantly agreeing. 

“Well, if you’re sure… It’s not as if you’re going to blow up the place, is it? Ha ha.” Pamela winced internally at his poor joke, but forced out a laugh anyway. After quickly shutting down her computer, the woman began to walk down the long corridor which lead to the main botany facility. Her aim was beyond simple- as a specialist scientist, Ivy could be called into the Gotham Museum of Natural History at any time, to do temporary vocational 'work.’ For months she had held a part-time position there, slowly building up trust with her superiors, so that when the time came, she could help herself to a few choice samples. It was a win-win situation, really. 

The botanist glanced around, making sure that none of her co-workers were working late. Sure enough, not a soul remained. She quickly scanned the card past the recognition system and heard the familiar click of the door as it unlocked, granting her access to her usual workspace. One by one, the lights flickered on and revealed a path that wound its way through the numerous plant specimens. It was an impressive sight, but she had no time to sit back and admire the view. Time to get down to business. 

The museum directors didn’t know it, but the layout of the facility’s greenhouse had heavily influenced Ivy’s own building. Specimens were arranged (very sensibly) by geographical location, then within that spectrum, toxicity. Naturally, for her current task, the botanical expert headed right to the back of the lab- where the rarest and most poisonous American natural gems were kept. From deep inside her coat pockets, Isley drew out several medium sized bottles and her favourite pair of garden clippers. The plant in question was the Hippomane mancinella,otherwise known as the notorious South American Manchineel Tree. The shrub itself looked fairly unimpressive, however its chemical contents said otherwise. 

12-deoxy-5-hydroxyphorbol-6gamma, 7alpha-oxide, hippomanins, mancinellin, and sapogenin, phloracetophenone-2,4-dimethylether, physostigmine- these names were enough to pique the interest of any adept scientist. The tree’s fruits weren’t nicknamed little apples of death for nothing. 

As she approached the dangerous shrub, Pamela felt a wave of overwhelming gratitude for her naturally acquired immunity. None of this would have been possible, otherwise. The woman dragged a step-ladder over to the tree and slowly climbed upwards, stretching her arms out to their full length and delicately snipping off a tiny sample into her gloved hand. By taking only minuscule amounts from each branch, she would hopefully not arouse any suspicion. 

Several minutes later, three flasks had been completely stuffed full of plant cuttings. She was just about to start draining sap from the tree trunk, when an ear-splitting noise rang out through the lanes of the laboratory. The alarm bells startled her so much that Ivy almost fell off the ladder! As it was, a (thankfully empty) bottle hit the floor with a smash, signalling the end of that particular exploit. Ivy nimbly jumped down onto the ground, not bothering to return the ladder to its original place. Matt must have forgotten to leave the main alarms off for her, so now the police were surely on their way. Great. Just great. 

Frame A Show | Lazlo & Harley

He hadn’t been taking his medications- this was simple to see- simple from the look that crawled its way into his eyes as he observed the world before him- wild and haunted. Now, that wasn’t to say that he wasn’t taking any medications- no, that would be like saying he hadn’t been thinking, that he hadn’t been breathing, that he had ceased to be.

They didn’t work- he didn’t feel them working, his own medications of course. He wasn’t feeling everything crawling away like when he medicated himself- no. He felt dull, he felt dumb, he felt sick, he felt wrong- he felt like he had when they’d kept him locked away at the testing facility. He felt like someonesomething else- something ugly. Something imperfectThat wouldn’t do.

He’d found himself walking- at first it felt aimless, coat pulled close to his body, feeling as though he was protecting himself, not that he knewwhat from, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. It was like a security blanket at this point- the fabric pressing against what little flesh he had exposed. Prim and proper- that was the only way he could see himself dressed- clothing did very well make the man… and what a man he was- in his mind at least. But that wasn’t important- not right now- now was the sense of the security- and the sense of wandering (of wondering).

Oh… but what was this?

His feet finally stopped, and the rest of his body with them- the carnival- the fairground- his Circus of Strange. It had been some time since he’d seen this place- since he’d been incarcerated, in fact. But it all looked just like he remembered it- the abandoned rides, the darkened big top, the ghost town of stalls geared up and ready serve to cotton candy, corn dogs, sno-cones- all your standard circus fair.


A smile started to curl on his face- he followed the midway- eyes darting from ground to stalls, his head tilting backwards haphazardly as he felt memories and sensations flowing into his mind.


He remembered the night they’d swarmed the grounds- remembered the feeling as they tackled him to the ground- as they took away his beautiful little ladies one by one.


They were all gone, but as his footsteps stopped again- he found himself standing center ring in the big top- the realization crawling and curling into his mind- straining any other sort of thought. All of his work- all that perfection- gone.

He’d made them perfect- absolutely perfect. Why couldn’t they understand. He was helping- helping to make them all look beautiful! All the pain and the suffering he was ushering them through-

‘Because they weren’t good enough.’

'Try harder, Lazlo. TRY HARDER.’

She was here still, mother was here still- he had to find her- had to talk to her, she would know what to do. She could direct him, shecouldhelphim. He felt anxiety building in his chest- felt the crushing grip of pressure as he began to get frantic- he turned on his heels to head back the way he came- maybe… maybe… maybe it was still there too. Maybe they didn’t take it.

But he didn’t make it far- movement right at the flap to the back door- buthewastheonlyperformerleftinthisshow. He felt crazed, lucidity draining from his mind- something that was plainly audible in his voice-

Who’sthere? WhatdoyouwantYoushouldn’tbehereperhapsyoushouldleave.

He took a few steps back, ready to flee if it came to it- he had no way to defend himself- neither weapon nor state of mind. Mind was rattled and cloudy- he hadn’t recovered from what he had been prescribed- he wasn’t prepared. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be there, but it felt so right to be- he belonged. He didn’t want to go back- he wouldn’t go back.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished || Harley & Cass

Cassandra was exhausted -her muscles burning and uniform torn.  It felt like each time she had managed to secure just one corner, to prevent one more stabbing, there was a shrill scream in one direction and a cry for help in another.  It wasn’t enough -she wasn’t enough- but it would have to make due.  As far as she knew, she was the only operative currently in the Narrows and she would be damned before she allowed it to be consumed by this madness.

Throwing a glass bottle at a would-be rapist, having run out of weaponry about an hour ago, she quickly grabbed the would-be victim and pulled him into the nearest building.  Not bothering with any sort of instruction and just hoping that the boy would have enough sense to stay indoors, she made her way back to the alleyway where she had left the assailant. 


Slamming a fist into the wall before running out into the streets once again, she grimly realized that she really shouldn’t have been surprised. How many other criminals had she let run off or merely left unconscious, not willing to leave them tied up in the darkness, as the night passed? She had no way of holding them and even with the comms being semi-operational, she had nowhere to escort them to.  They had just managed to take back Arkham (and by that she meant rounding up as many escaped prisoners and knocking them unconscious as quickly as possible) and she knew they did not have the manpower to take on any more criminals.  

Pushing her way forward, grateful for the semi-light provided by all the car fires, Cass tried to squelch down all her frustration and anger.  She knew that her primary objective was to prevent as many civilian casualties as possible, but as the night when on and the darkness continued to weigh down upon them all, she knew that Gotham would continue to suffer from this night for days to come.

And maybe it was her grim thoughts or her exhaustion or the next explosion that rattled the windows, but Cass was left completely unprepared for the sudden chill she felt run down her spine as she heard slightly maniacal laughter floats towards her.


Cover My Eyes (And Hope It Disappears) || Dick & Harley

Every morning half an hour past from when the sun rose and disappeared under Gotham smog, Jason Todd came down from the roof and, provided Dick was even there, nudged and corralled his tiny charge out of bed and into the Raptor. From there, the half-asleep acrobat would watch with mild disinterest as the nicer buildings of Downtown Gotham thinned out and disappeared to turn into the rundown and ragged structures that made up the Narrows. It did not matter if the weather was terrible or if Dick was completely drained of energy, every morning the two were available, Jason would drop Dick off and then drive home to prepare breakfast. Should the twelve year old not make it back by himself before breakfast went cold (or soggy,) he was not allowed to eat.

So far, Dick had only missed breakfast three times before he decided that it was never going to happen again and so, he went along with the training regimen without complaint or protest. (There had been times when Dick had not made it back because of his own choosing, having met someone that had sparked his interests. When that happened, he usually called or shot off a quick message to Jason saying that he would not be returning and to give his breakfast to their dog. Those instances were few and far between as he was a growing boy and liked when Jason cooked any manner of food so long as it was not tasteless and burned.)

Today was no different and as the sun hung low in the sky and the blue-gray clouds floated along to create a dusky haze over everything, the Red Hood’s Raptor rolled to a stop in the middle of a dank backroad between two crumbling brick buildings. The boy flipped the hood of his jacket up, mumbled an “I hate you so much. See you later,” and dropped down to the cracked and dirty pavement. Rules were that he had to wait until he could not longer see or hear the truck before he could move from his position and so, with his hands shoved into his pockets, the boy leaned against the bloodstained wall with his eyes shut until he could not longer hear the rumble of the familiar truck engine.

When the silence of early morning was all he could hear, Dick kicked off the wall and started the near six mile walk back to the Complex. Walking at a brisk pace with his head tilted downwards, he wasn’t too terribly out of place. (Once he was back over in Downtown, he would start running, if only to wake himself up from bleary sleep.) Most who lived in the Narrows didn’t want to be there and knew it was a bloody, grimy place to be, so it was apparent in their demeanor that they wanted nothing to do with anyone else in the area. 

Still, the place was dangerous, much like all of Gotham was, and the child was not about to be caught unawares, even if he was tired and a little bit grumpy. The people here were Gotham’s worst and most, if not all, were involved in some sort of criminal activity. Originally, long long ago, the Narrows had started off as a nicer area, serving as a pathway between Downtown and Midtown. After the Asylum had been built, its rot had spread like poison and the Narrows became a wasteland of drugs and prostitution. The people here were not kind and it was not safe to be unguarded for even a second.

He was attuned to everything happening around him and should anything raucous break out, the knife in the kid’s boot was but a reach away. Having been trained by the Red Hood for over two years now, he knew how to defend himself and escape from any sort of peril. Nothing would happen to him unless he went along with it. That knowledge was enough to keep his irrational fears of being alone in a city so scathing well at bay and so, it was with confidence that Dick continued his trek through the Narrows.

He was a few blocks away from the bridge he usually used to get to downtown when a shifting, struggling movement caught his eye. Bouncing from foot to foot, the boy was split in his decision. Should he go see if the person was okay or should he keep going onwards and be on time for breakfast? The gnawing feeling in his stomach had him moving past and it took all three steps before the sinking feeling of guilt was too much. Dick backtracked, cautiously starting through the trashy alley. 

There was a man slumped against a rusty dumpster, booted feet touching the other wall, one ashen hand weakly gripping a Jericho 941. The other was broken, swollen and purple, smashed repeatedly by something big and heavy. He was slack-jawed and bleeding out through wounds in his chest, arm, and thigh, barely even breathing. The blood against the wall and dumpster was fresh, smeared downwards as if he’d collapsed or been dumped there in a hurry. Crouching in front of him, Dick nudged away the gun from his hand and the guy snarled weakly in protest, but he was too far gone to move much. The boy’s eyebrows furrowed in tense worry and he frowned as he checked the magazine, finding it nearly empty. He sighed, skittering backwards to place the weapon against the wall. It was too late to call an ambulance and the service in this place was terrible anyway. 

“You’re in a pickle, huh? Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to get in deep with the bad guys?” The boy smiled sadly at the crook and continued idly chattering about stories of his own mother and father until at last, his eyes grew dim and his breathing stopped. There was a faint grin on the man’s bearded face and whether that was from fond annoyance or gratefulness that the pain was finally gone, Dick didn’t know. Reaching over, the acrobat closed his eyelids and stood, tucking the gun into the back of his cargo shorts. 

Slight footsteps behind him were all the warning he had before Dick was drawing the gun back out and steadily pointing it at a woman. Guns were not his weapon of choice, but he knew how to use them. They were less likely to provoke a fight than a knife, the threat more obvious and upfront. Knives could be hidden and slipped around into ribs and pulse points before the victim even knew what had happened. Guns were direct, precise in their lethality. They kept the less determined people at bay. Too often, people did not respect the power a gun gave them and so abused their rights to carry, killing over petty wrongs and broken hearts. Dick was not like that and he knew that should he ever fire at someone, it would be with the right intentions. 

The woman was not at all phased and stood there with a dark expression on her face. She was not unattractive, but her eyes were dark shadows and her shoulders were tense, light blonde hair tangled and streaked with inky grease. Without the domino mask and the trademark outfit, she was unrecognizable as Harley Quinn, but Dick had come face to face with the same sort of unbridled and chaotic madness found in Gotham’s most famous residential clown and so he knew her just from the similar, primal glint that flashed in her eyes as she stared at him. 

The gun wobbled slightly as Dick fought to keep his nerves under control. If this meeting had happened a year from now, it would still be too early to face-off another crazy clown. His shoulder twitched from phantom pain and he resisted the urge to reach up and massage the muscles. With false bravado, he shot a bright grin at Harley. “Goodmornin’, Miss. Kind of early to be skulking about, don’t you think? I don’t suppose we could both just turn around and go our separate ways, yeah?" 

Flashback | Effugiat Risus | Barton + Harley

It was a long day- there was no denying that… the new patient had been admitted and so far- no claims as to who was going to take him for psychiatric evaluation. That was quite the shame- Lazlo was quite an interesting case. Then again… maybe Barton was a little biased.

He shuffled amongst the doctors and nurses in the cafeteria- scanning amongst the faces. Thinking and considering far harder than anyone probably should have… finally his eyes landed on a friendly face. He made his way to her with a purpose, pace picking up the closer he got; he slid into place with a cheerful grin- though it didn’t last.

It didn’t matter who he was speaking with- didn’t matter who they were to them. He needed to be careful- needed to always be careful.

“Harleen, is this seat taken, dear?”

“I of course don’t mean to intrude if it is.”

Enter the Sirens {Harley, Ivy and Selina}

Ivy was inexplicably glad that her idea had been well received. Harley seemed to be one of those people who always needed a purpose, even if said purpose was merely a vague goal for her to aim towards. Ivy could relate to that completely; by focussing her attention on something specific, the botanist found herself able to rationalise her thoughts in a more carefully controlled manner.

It was absolutely vital that Harley remained in high spirit; Pamela dared not think about what the result could be if such great energy should ever be kept idle. In many ways, her friend was like an excitable puppy. However, if provoked, she could and certainly did turn hostile.

Apparently, Harley had not acted hostile enough. She had arranged to meet up with Selina to chat about life and other menial topics- with the full intention of swaying the catwoman to participate in their heist- but alas, Miss Kyle seemed to have it in her mind that she could turn over a new leaf. Harley had returned home, sadly unsuccessful in her recruitment mission.

After a second of thought, Ivy plucked the mobile out of Harley’s hands and pushed away from the table, in search of her phone-book. She flipped quickly through the pages until she reached the letter K. Finally she found it- third entry on the page- the name, address and telephone number of one Selina Kyle. With one hand she entered the digits into the old Nokia, whilst with the other she took hold of a nearby pen and notepad.

“I actually want to talk to her in person. This is getting ridiculous.” Ivy explained, apologetically. She hadn’t interacted with Selina in what seemed like forever, but she hoped that the cat would deign to speak to her. “Wait here a second, I have to discuss something with her in private. I’ll put the phone back on speaker as soon as I’m done, don’t worry.“ On that note, Ivy threw the TV remote to the blonde, giving her permission to channel surf for a while to amuse herself. No doubt Harley would want to catch up on missed news.

She hit the ancient dial button and immediately left the room, randomly strolling through the house while she waited for a response. After five or so rings, a click sounded from the other end of the line and a quiet voice inquired as to who was speaking.

"Hello, is that Selina Kyle?” Isley waited for a second, before adding: “It’s Pamela Isley here. Remember me?“ She laughed drily. “Poison Ivy, yes that’s right. I do believe we haven’t spoken for months.” Where on earth had the time gone?

Ivy sensed an argument was about to begin. “Look, I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to right now- with maybe a few exceptions- but this is important. Yes, I know you made your stand on the matter clear earlier, but justlisten for a second, won’t you?” Silence. “I need a word, concerning a mutual friend of ours, Harleen Quinzell.”

Considerable thanks were in order, and Ivy decided it would be best to get the matter out of the way quickly, before conversation turned sour. The next objective was to ensure that the three women were all on the same wavelength.