[OPEN.] The City of Wonder ?

[Harleen Quinzel]

Harley had always thought herself the patient kind of gal. She never begged to see her gifts (as small, and insignificant as they were) before her birthdays or holidays. She wasn’t the type to sit in front of a hot oven for an hour, watching cookies and pastries puff up with each passing moment. She’d never tapped her toes in front of a the door, waiting for a date or the mailman to come. She was very patient. But a month in Arkham was pushing it.

It had been three weeks, 4 days, seven hours, two minutes, and thirty seven seconds since she’d been dragged back into the stink hole. Well, at least it seemed like that long. She wasn’t one of the patients who counted every last nanosecond of their stay. Did she look like an obsessive compulsive to you? She sat around a lot, she’d answered the doctors’ questions (usually with answers that were either not of any use to them or answers that had nothing to do with the questions they’d asked), she’d participated in common room activities, and she’s eaten that stinkin’ pile of slop they called a meal. But mostly she’d waited. No explosions, no goons, and no laughter. No one getting her out.

Harley had spent her common room time today off by herself for the most part, chewing on her lip in thought. Her fingers played with and stretched the red fabric jump suit that clothed her body. It was her color, which made it bearable. It itched, it scratched, and it removed and visible figure she had. She hated the full body suit. Her mind was racing with escape plans and everything she could remember from when she worked there. She had watched the other inhabitants of the room with little to know interest until her eyes had settled on the group of guards by the door. Someone was being patted on the back by a taller guard, a smaller someone. His gun was drooping slightly, not at attention at all. His eyes weren’t keeping track of the patient’s doings, but were wide as they took in the famed psychopaths he’d be telling stories to his buddies about later that night over cheep beer. Greenie. Her hands had jerked slightly, tearing the fabric she clutched just slightly, as she laughed. The light bulb had gone on.

When common room time was finally over, and the day light had finally faded, Harley’s plan went into effect. Maximum security hardly ever housed females, and never more then two or three at a time. Harley Quinn was the only one of her sex in her ward. When patients were permitted to wash, things changed slightly when it was like this. She’d been good, one of the nurses had insisted, and she was heavily drugged up. Greenie would be the only needed escort tonight. It hadn’t taken long to take both of them out, and it had taken even less time to worm her way up to Joanie’s office. She always went out for coffee before she started the nighttime shift. She also had a habit of keeping her filing cabinet unlocked.

Harley quickly pulled on her clothing and boots, hoping around as she struggled with the tight pants for a moment. Arkham food wasn’t just filling, it was fattening too. Or, Maybe she just wasn’t used to how clothing of the non-jumpsuit variety fit. She opted to go for the latter. She swept up her belt, please as punch to see her shiny silver pistols still encased in the leather. With one last flurry of movement she jammed her cap onto her pigtails and tossed the window open with her wrist. No grease paint, no luck. All things couldn’t go perfectly, of course. She climbed down the gutter with her gymnast’s ease and was out of the Arkham compound before the alarms went off.

Break of out of Arkham? Easy as pie. Dealing with the Narrows? Not so much. Harley’s stomach twisted slightly as she slipped into one of the many, darkened alleys. Most of the buildings had lost their top floors to the earthquake, and the lower floors with just as defunct and gritty as before- if not worse. Sounds of people screaming at each covered up her footsteps, her dark-colored-clothing hid her, for the most part, against the dark buildings.

Harley resolved to get out of the alleys as quick as she could manage; the main sections of the Narrows were bad enough, the alleys made her skin crawl. Left here, left there, a right, and another left had brought her deeper into the scum bag part of the city. All she wanted was out and he decisions on directions became even more frantic. It didn’t take long for her to become lost in the dark.

She stood at a dead end, the hair on the back of her neck standing on its end. A figure was looming out of the dark, coming towards her. Harley slammed her body against the brick wall behind her, trapped on three sides by the thick stone. Her hands, shaking slightly, grabbed at one of her guns and cocked it quickly. The shadow still neared. Her hands steadied as she closed on eye, aiming for the center of the figure.

“Back the fuck off, bucko! Don’t ya know who I am?” She demanded, trying to keep her voice from quavering. One of Gotham’s Rogues, scared of muggers and rapists in the city’s worst section. Something about the situation would have been amusing if it hadn’t been her.

[Harleen Quinzel]

Harley had been caught in all sorts of situations before. The painful ones and the annoying ones were her usual. The ones that gave her an adrenaline rush were quite the norm. However, with her lifestyle, it was very rare in deed that the blonde felt she'd been trapped into a frightening or weird situation. She spent most of her days amongst a bunch of loony bin boys and one purple clad bat-chasing anarchist, and all of them dressed like clowns. It was definitely not very often that she felt someone besides her had lost their marbles.

Heart racing, Harley eyed the figure as a mixture of moonlight and electric, man made light from the apartments (the ones still occupied) above washed over him. Her finger jittered on the trigger of her gun. Her bright blue eyes moved slowly over his form, taking in his figure and clothing - and especially that hat- before flickering nervously to his face. His smile, to Harley, was eery. His lips- full, making Harley wonder if he sucked on them far to often or if they'd been bruised and made large and tender-looking some other way- spread wide enough to show teeth, but not high enough t o reach his ears.

Alice? Who was Alice? Harley's eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. Was this all an easy, peesy mistake? She couldn't help but hope. She hadn't been involved with tea parties since she was a small child serving herself and a ratty old doll luke-warm water from pink plastic tea pot into little plastic cups while her grandmother was at work. Her mother had filled the pot with Gin once, the horrible creature, and that had ended the games after a trip to the emergency room.

She shook her head, the tiny bells on the end of her lilliripes jingling as she did so. “I'm not Alice.” She said, her voice firmer now then before. It had to be a mistake. “And I wasn't invited to any tea party.” She added as an after thought, her tongue flicking across her body lip to ease the pain that shot through her face as she stretched her chapped lips to speak.

He, the man standing before her, was wearing makeup. It wasn't her, or Mistah J's chipped greasepaint-warpaint, but it still caught her eye like a jealous little girl eying the pretty clothing the other girls in class were wearing to school. She could ask to borrow, but then everyone would know. They'd know that she didn't have what they did, that she was covering up what she really was; a plain little girl. She shook her head again, trying to clear the wayward thoughts.

Her eyes scanned the brick again, stomach starting to twist as she got the odd feeling this wasn't an easy mistake as she'd assumed. She didn't like being on the bad side of things, trapped in. Even if it was a harmless encounter, which it didn't seem to be either way, she wanted to be on the outside of it. Have him trapped, back against the wall. “D'ya know the way back to the City?” She asked, her voice as firm as she could get without sounding angry. She debated internally if she should add a tone of innocent curiosity. Men were less likely to attack naïve little girls, right? “Or Arkham? I just left the loony-bin, buttuh, I got lost.”

And with that Harley tucked the gun into her leather belt, diving towards the ground, preparing to spring back up into the air and sail right over the man. However, wind rushing past her as she moved into the air one more, Harley forgot to calculate one thing- the man had been hunched over. As high as she could get, she realized seconds too late, she could not get her small, lithe frame over his tall one. She let out a small cry as flesh hit flesh, hoping to at least knock him down and get back up to run before he did.

[Harleen Quinzel]

“I'm not Alice!” She repeated, calling behind her into the dark with just a slight turn of her.

Rabbit holes? Tea Parties? Who was this guy? Clearly, he was bonkers. Harley could appreciate a good dose of insanity every now again, wasn't her time at Arkham proof of that? But she hadn't been looking forward to another one so soon after escaping. She should have thought better about running blindly into the Narrows. Didn't they make a map o' this place? They could name all the different alleys after all of Gotham's former District Attorneys. There had been quite a lot, especially recently. She led out a giggle at this idea, turning down another path as she did so.

The only thing behind her was black darkness. Harley bounded a few more steps before pausing to take a breather. Maybe she'd lost him, maybe he'd given up. The name Alice rang in her head, making her unsure if it was him calling it, or just her imagination. The scenario made her bite her lip, hadn't she heard this all before? Read it somewhere? All of her Phych-lit courses had bored the girl to tears; she'd either sparknoted or cheated or slept her way out of a failing grade in that class The professor had been a wicked man, easily tempted. She'd guessed as much after the class studied Lolita. She'd watched the movie, but all the same she knew how easy it was to pass from that point on.

The man's words rang through the night once more, making Harley stand back up and move deeper into the narrows. However, she couldn't help it as her words slipped out faster then she could grasp them. “Late for what?”

Curiosity killed the kitty. Harley mentally bashed her head in, picking up speed as she rounded a corner The blonde wondered if she'd ever learn to keep her mouth shut when it came to important times like this. How many times as she asked questions or made jokes or even just hummed when it was entirely inappropriate? The Joker for one had often told her to shut...but she wasn't able to finish that train of thought before a better one invaded her brain.

Name dropping worked for celebrities and what not, why not here? People were scared lifeless by most of the big time, Rogue criminals running around the City. When Mob dealers wanted to scare each other, they told Joker stories after all. She giggled again. “Ya know, I don't think I can come to ya party. The Joker's expecting me.”

Perhaps, she hoped, this would do one of of two things. Either scare him off (to Harley, everyone feared her puddin'. Everyone. This had to work in her favor here, right?) or it was make him realize that she wasn't his Alice. Whoever the broad was, she didn't have very good taste in men clearly. Harley didn't know whether to pity her or give her a good beating if they ever met- didn't she know not to hang around with men like this?

A small smile crept onto her lips at her next thought; she couldn't blaim the man for stalking such a pretty girl, whoever this Alice was. She must look like Harley if he were to mistake them, which means she must be a real knock-out. A stupid knock-out, but one none the less. The happy little bubble in her chest lasted all of five seconds before she heard heard him approaching.

Harley crawled up one of the fire escapes, trying to be as quiet as she could manage. She bit the inside of her mouth as he came into view again, heart pounding so loud she thought he could almost hear it. She wondered vaguely if he had a gone on him, or even a knife. Harley once again pulled out her two-toned weapon and leaned over the railing, aiming for his head with ease. She wouldn't have noticed her hat, jauntily perched on her head, as it slid down her hair and fell through the air if it hadn't jingled so blatantly as it hit the ground.

[Harleen Quinzel]

Harley, from her bird's view perch on the side of the rooting carcass of a building, watched him with wide eyes. His movement flowed with an ease she found amusing on such a tall man. She bit her bottom lip hard, suppressing the giggled that threatened to burst froth from her lips. She had to double her efforts when she pictured her short frame next to his.

He picked up her jester's cap with a nervous adoration that caused her to lean forward on the fire escape. Her mouth parted and eyes narrowed slightly as he spoke, trying to distinguish her words. She wasn't sure if she caught the word Alice, or was merely just imagining it now. Her eye lids jumped wide open as he placed the hat upon his own head. The bells dangling from it muffled her indignant cry as he did so.

As he moved away, her hat still jauntily placed upon his head, Harley let out another frustrated and annoyed cry. She dropped the gun as she swung down from the escape. It didn't matter now, and neither did the noise from the metal colliding with ground. She had more at home, or could get another one soon enough. What she could not replace was her two-toned, gifted harlequin hat! Her chest heaved in anger and possible, nervous loss as she bolted after the cap-napper.

Harley bounded along as quick as she could manage, finally catching sight of the tall man. ”You took my -” she cried out, not finishing as she fell to the ground. Her heal gave a sickening crunch and she let out a squeal as her bare-palmed hands (she'd neglected to wear her gloves on the date of her latest capture, and regretted it) skidded across the pavement, protecting all but the bottom of her chin from scrapes. She sat up, assessing the damage. Harley let out a sigh of relief when she realized it was just the heal of her boot and not a bone that had snapped. She yanked off both boots, mourning their loss briefly before bolting after him, barefooted.

“Ya took my hat!” She half yelled, half hissed as she finally approached him.

She had been right, the height difference was comical. As she swung her hand up to grab at one of the dangling, jingling lilirpes , her fingers just managed to brush against the soft material and meta of the bell.

“I hate when people take my things!“ She declared, visibly becoming more agitated and distraught with each second she didn't get it back. Her eyes became glassy and she had to clamp her eyelids closed, shaking her head in an effort to regain focus. “People are always takin' my things.”

And they were. her mind flooded with images of her parents, child bullies, professors, doctors, the Joker, and the Batman. Always, always taking her things. Whether they were physical or mental, it didn't seem to matter to them. She was always, it seemed, going to be the lost little girl who had her doll taken by the school yard bully, her heart snatched and broken by uncaring parents, and had her innocence stolen violently by so many others. And now this tall, eery man had stolen her hat.

Her eyes, still glazed with unshed, fought tears, jerked up. She covered her facial emotions with a layer of anger, making another swipe for the cap.

“It's mine!”

[Harleen Quinzel]

Harley had no idea what this man was talking about, but her was clearly loonytunes. Inner Harley quickly chided her, however. What right did she have to judge anyone for their lack of sanity? Everyone had their reasons, no matter how bonkers they'd gotten. She would have suddenly found him endearing at that point if he hadn't still had her hat. Something had sparked in his eyes when she'd looked up at them, wide with recognition. She really must've looked like this Alice character. Was she the reason he'd lost his mind? Something warm rose in her stomach but she quickly squished it down. No affection for cap-nappers! It wasn't doing anything either that he was insisting that it was his hat. She'd hardly registered the quick, stinging sensation as he smacked her hand like a naughty school child caught pilfering from another student's desk.

Unbirthday? Queen of hearts? Harley scowled something fierce. She was being toyed with or made a fool of or something. If she wasn't harboring a gut feeling this would end in embarrassment or danger she might have happily gone along with the game and starting spouting nonsense. She was about to tell him how unhappy he'd be on his next unbirthday (whatever that was) if he didn't hand over her cap to a certain angry Queen of Diamonds when she looked up into his eyes once more but he was suddenly much closer, whispering in hushed tones to her.

Her lips dried and she suddenly couldn't find the nerve to say anything back to that bit of nonsense. What had happened to his Alice? Harley swallowed slightly, but brushed off the sudden fear as her hat was once again returned to it's proper place. It gave a jingle as she titled her head back up at him. His smile was wide and had a different air about it then the ones she was used to receiving (though, they both came from tall, make-up wearing men of questionable minds). She couldn't help but smile back, she never was able to, no matter who smiled at her, and giggle slightly. The smile, the kneeling just to talk to her, the tap on the nose; it brought back that warm feeling. She hadn't had this sort of reaction in years. She wasn't sure if she liked it.

But Harley had no time to debate that because he was already talking again! The only word she caught was Cheshire. That sent her off on another mind train, for that was one of the words used to describe His smile. Cheshire, Glasgow, Manic. It all made her chest tighten in a nervous manner. Would he be looking? Would he be mad? Would he just think she'd gone off to Red's? She bit her lip, but was distracted when his hand encircled and grasped hers and pulled.

Harley tried to stumble along with him, so she wouldn't be dragged against the pavement. She wasn't sure if she wanted to play this Alice game especially with the haunting idea that He might angry with her about it. Maybe just for a little bit she resigned. However wherever he was leading her wasn't in the quality areas of Gotham, that was sure. But the time they reached the house, Harley was trying to fight the pain that was radiating from the soles of her feet. Had a glass bottle factory exploded across their path? It sure felt like it. By the time they reached the house she'd barely heard a word he'd said, but she was happy to breath again. His hands were on her again, forcing her to move across the rotting wood floor. She just glimpsed a blood-red set of footprints before the door was slammed in her face.

Dress? Did he really have an outfit up here for her? Harley looked up the stairs, tilting her head as she sat down on the wood and pulled out the bits of shattered glass from her feet. She left them on a pile before trodding upstairs, leaving another red trail as she did so.

The dress was there, hanging by a rusted metal hanger. Harley felt her stomach drop as she fingered the faded, moth eaten material. Alice's dress. As she held it against her chest and looked across the rest of the room a mixture of pity and childlike longing swept over her. He must've lost someone, she decided. A little girl? Or maybe his young first love. There was still a hint of her psychologist degree in her mind as she began winding a theory of a daughter killed or taken my a jealous wife. The Queen of Hearts? Harley bit her lip. Poor man. She was no good at good at cruelty when faced with this sort of thing. They were almost comrades! Give her a school fool of teenage children over gunning down a loony bin boy any day.

The longing, however, came from a neglected and vicious part of her soul. Little girls who were loved had nice dresses and nice dolls with nice dresses like this. Harley never did. Harley had been dressed in clothing two sizes too large for her bought on the clearance rack at a charity shop. Her toys has been broken never very nice. Surely, Mistah J wouldn't mind if she played, just for a little while? Both of them, she decided needed it.

She slid her clothing off, letting it drop to the floor nonchalantly as she pulled the dress on. She was small enough to fit into it, which made her giggle and spin around and a childish delight. Her feet still left small patches of blood where she stepped but that was quickly ending. She didn't even feel the slightest bit of blood loss! She gave another twirl, before fixing her pig tails. She wasn't letting that cap leave her head, however. Not for a single moment.

She moved back to the stairs, sitting on them for a few moments, moving the glass pile up against the wall for fear she'd step in it again. Finally she bit her lip, and knocked on the door. “I put it on!” The girlish excitement and slight pride in her voice couldn't be hidden easily. She hesitated a bit, unsure of what to call him. Tall man, as she'd been internally referring to him, didn't seem to work. She didn't have a name or anything to go on, so she quickly added a 'Sir' onto the end of her declaration.

[Harleen Quinzel]

Harley had sat on one of the stairs as she waited for the man to return once she discovered that the door was locked. He must've lost someone, she decided her fingers playing with the worn blue dress she'd donned. It came to a little past her knees, leaving her blood stained toes peeking out underneath. She wiggled them with a childlike glee before moving her fingers over the white stripes at the bottom of the outfit. She was just noticing a faint brownish stain on one of them when the door opened. Probably nothing to worry about she decided as she stood up.

The smile she received brought that bubbling feeling of pleasure back and she smiled back, ear to ear. She hadn't seen such a look in a long time; one of adoration and possible pride and something else. She was sure her Nana, the kindly woman who'd done her best to raise the already mentally warped Harley, had given her nearly the same look whenever she could manage. Her mother had given her nothing but looks of scathing and her father looks of pure hatred. Her mother had spent most of her life in a church, or simply in prayer asking why the Lord had sent her such a spiteful, evil little child. Her father's only real interaction with the child had been with the belt. She swallowed and followed the man across the attic room, trying to block out the questioning thought that he brought up the good and the bad in her childhood.

But as if he could read her mind and wanted to play with it his approval faltered. Harley's eyes were wide and her fingers went right to playing with the cloth of the dress again. It had been a long time since she'd donned a skirt or dress and her fingers had quickly adjusted her nervous ticks from tugging on her pigtails to playing with the excess cloth that swung around her body. “I didn't mean to!” She cried, a mixture of indignant and embarrassment. “My feet were-” But her words faded out as he moved on to something else.

Her own attention drifted over to where he stood, eyes scanning across the tea table. Her stomach hitched at the broken china, yellow from either disuse or constant use. The faux-gold lining had worn away in places and the sugar bowl had once belonged to a different, however similar set. The wood table it was settled on had long ago been a white child's table and she could almost see the flowered patterns that had gone around the edges. The dried out flower along with the 'friends' he'd produced from his pocket made Harley's heart melt and sink all at the same time.

Whoever this Alice was, she was adored like Harley had never been. Selfish inner Harley wanted to play Alice no longer for the aching man next to her, but for herself. It was a very, very occurrence indeed that her mind was completely free of what Mistah J would say about this. Harleen, buried deep under years of chaos, no longer wanted to play Harley but play Alice for a little while.

She ignored the fleeting feeling of betrayal as she 'met' the Cheshire Cat, large and chipping up on the wall. The smile was watching her, telling her that what she was doing was wrong. Harley Quinn, murdering jester and the Joker's hence wench, should not be sitting with a stranger to play tea party and pretend to be a little girl. Harley jerked her head against from the painting, forcefully ignoring the ideas it kept producing in her head.

Instead she smiled brightly offering “Hiya!” with a tone joyful tone towards the rest of the motley tea party guests before sitting down in the white spindle chair. She did her best to ignore the dead mouse in the tea pot. She was sure it was something this poor Alice would have done, or perhaps she had a habit of tossing mice into hot water? Anyways, Harley had fared far worse then drinking tea tainted with dead rodent.

Harley swiveled slightly in the chair to turn towards the man, the small contraption in his hands holding her interest for a few moments before she smiled again and turned her head towards the tea set. She like every other patient at Arkham was given a choice of beverage with their morning meal. Most chose coffee, but with her over active nature Joan Leland had forbidden the blonde it.

She'd become accustomed to her paper cup full of tea every morning, much more sugar then liquid. Never in a bag though, for fear she might use the bits of metal holding them together or thin strands of string for something vile and dangerous. Her cup always came with a layer of crushed up leaves on the bottom, almost like a leafy mud. Harley drank them down, coated with lots of sugar without much notice. But the leaves on this table weren't bagged and they weren't crushed. Whole leaves,as if she was a real English princess. Harley squirmed slightly as her smile reappeared.

However, something was off here. She'd been about to reach for the pot, hands paused in mid air as she noticed there was only one china tea cup, just for her. There were plenty of leaves, but just one cup for her. Harley turned her head back to the man, her eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Aren't ya goin' to have tea too? There's only one cup.”

[Harleen Quinzel]

Harley didn't know where it had gone wrong. One moment she was about to enjoy dream of playing princess and tea party with someone who had seemed to adore every movement she (or the girl she was to him) performed. Whatever had happened, for she was sure it wasn't her simple little question that had set him off, was driving him up the wall. Some deep rooted anger or fear or frustrated and it was standing the hairs on her arm at attention. The voice that spewed from his angry mouth made it even worse, her eyes snapping wide as she stood from the chair, backing away.

She supposed, afterwards, that she should have known what was coming the moment that voice had echoed throughout the wooden room. That she should have recognized that stare or the hand movements. She'd seen variations of them time and time again by people she angered or frustrated. And, as it turns out, the ending was always the same for her- broken and bruised. Shattered pieces of glass flew across the room, making Harley throw her hands up over her face as she let out a mixture between a squeal and cry of fear. She felt a few hit her bare legs, but didn't have time to look down and asses the damage before she'd been slammed against the wall. Her head snapped back and smashed into the decaying wood and she was sure she could feel something sticky and warm sliding down her calf. She'd fallen to the floor before she could speak, unsure if he'd dropped her or she'd been standing and had just collapsed.

Nope, inner-Harley chided. She never did learn. Her stomach threatened to loose itself as she rubbed a hand over her leg, pulling out the few pieces of silver-painted glasses with ease she watched him. Something was making her head distort itself; blood loss? She had lost quite a bit early. And the pretty purple pills they gave her up at the Asylum were always most potent after injuries. Was the hour or two she'd been out of the place been enough to wash them from her system? Hmmm. Why was she here again? Oh right. Alice. Tea-party. Blood. Top-Hat. Harley jerked her head up as she quickly went planted her feet (so to speak) back into the scene. Had he spoken? She wasn't sure.

“I wasn't bein' trouble!” She hissed, her voice coming out more callous then she meant it. “I just wanted to know if ya were goin' to have tea with me!”

But it appears he hadn't noticed that she'd spoken. He was busy smashing apart the pretty-princes tea set and table. Splintered wood flew and the sugar spilled across the wooden floor boards like a grotesque albino man's blood. Was their blood white too? Harley had never killed an albino. She was about to mourn the loss of Alice's pretty things, her perfect little girl's room when Harley caught side of the body. Her eyes shot open at the site, but not for the usual reason upon seeing a body. She'd seen hundreds and could have really card less that the pudgy little blonde had spilled forth from the cabinet. It was that ringing name of Alice that set her off. Was this the original girl or another younger version of the fool Harley had been playing?

She didn't want to play anymore. Her fingers were already undoing the lacing and buttons on the back of the dress as he turned to her again. Off with her head? Who was this guy? A one mad man revolution. Harley wrinkled her nose and brought her less injured leg up and aimed a firm kick at his knees, using all of her strength to force him to the floor. When she stood up, the dress fell away from her body and into the small pool of blood that had formed where she'd sat. Where else was she bleeding from? No time for that now. Out, out now.

The blonde moved over to the other corner of the room as fast as she could, pulling on her clothing at an almost comical speed. She was almost grateful she didn't have shoes to bother with. If only she had her gun, the girl mentally cursed. Her hat was too close to him for her to simply skip over and snatch it up. Her eyes flittered around the room until something caught her eye. By the dead carcass of the other Alice, pretend or otherwise, had fallen a rusted, bloodstained hammer. Her fingers wrapped around the worn wooden handle as she approached him. Her footsteps were uneasy as she padded across the glass and wood chip strewn floor towards her cap and the earlier cap-napper.

As she knelt the pick up her bell-dangling harlequin hat, her eyes met his. Curiosity had fled her blue yes, instead replaced with a mixture of fear and self defense. She turned the hammer over in her hands, letting the pick like end face him as she used her free hand to grab at her hat.

She wanted to say something witty before she returned to her full height, as short as that was, but couldn't think of anything before she straightened up and began to move backwards towards the door.

[Harleen Quinzel]

Harley still hadn't moved from where she stood, debating the repercussions of any of her next movements. She was sure she could make it all the way down to the streets before him, though his legs were far longer. She'd had a lot of practice getting away with unsavory figures, and she was getting better at it. With every chase she spent less and less time in Arkham- she couldn't be tossed in if they didn't catch her, right? However the footing throughout the entire house had been less then safe, her foot almost falling through a patches of weakened wood or holes in the floor while he'd dragged her up the stairs. However his words echoed in her head as she shook her head.

“What if I don't wanna play?” She asked as he began peeling away the layers of his old-fashioned outfit. both hand now clenched the hammer, her fingers pale as could be as she held onto the wood for dear life. He didn't pause in his motions, continuing to count to his ridiculous number She stood stood there, her heart beat racing as she began to back away once more. The clown in the box made her stomach leap as her tone became frantic with her next words. “What'll happen if I go farther down?”

It was the laugh that spilled forth from his lips that finally set her off. She dropped the hammer to the ground before turning on her heal and running from the room. Her feet scrambled down the worn wooden stairs from the attic, her eyes racing around each of the rooms. Surely there was a way out without technically going down the stairs; she was sure he'd done something awful to them if she even tried. No one used that tone of voice if they were only bluffing.

Harley found nothing but broken furniture in the first two rooms, the windows either nonexistent or boarded up with no intent of letting a prisoner or guest escape. The third was a bathroom with an antique porcelain, claw-footed bathtub. The white had been stained with blood a few times too many and the wood around the large brown, red, and white monstrosity was stained where it had flooded. A broken mirror hung from one wall, blood edging the cracked and broken pieces. On top of the sink sat a tube of black lipstick without a lid. It was partially dried out and Harley was ready to leave it there when she looked back into the mirror.

Twenty-Four, Twenty-Five

Blue, slightly red-rimmed eyes stared back at her. Her pupils were dilated in fear. But what did Harley see? A girl playing pretend again. A scared little girl who'd gotten in deeper then she should have. A sad, scared, pathetic little girl. She sneered at the image, her stomach twisted in disgust. She would show inner-Harley that she was not just Harleen Quinzel playing dress and up and trying to better then she was. She grabbed the lipstick and drew it across her lips, using her fingers to wipe and smudge at it. She rubbed the excess black cream in and around her eyes. She looked back at the mirror again, Harley Quinn glaring back at her.

Better, but almost a waste of time. Thirty-Nine, Forty

Escape was futile, inner Harley taunted. There were no windows she could open and jump out of, no dumbwaiters for her to crawl in, and there was still the nasty threat and idea of what lay before the door to the downstairs rooms. Her time expired and Harley was sure she heard the man above crow in delight as he set off to find her. She swallowed and turned down the hall way, shaped like an oddly proportioned 'L'. Her eyes met the door , scanning the chipped and bare walls for anything.

In the shadows of the corner between the high ceiling and the wall was a barely visible pedestal. The Quinzels had had one when she was a small girl. Way back when, when several families were first sharing these types of homes and they were usually filled with religious immigrants, these little shelves were used to house pictures and statues of religious people. Her mother had kept the good liquor up there so that when her father had been too drunk to notice the fine quality of it, he was also too drunk to get it.

Harley jumped up, scratching desperately against the wood. She pulled herself up, curling into a ball on the small wooden stand. She held her breath, closing her eyes. Surely this would hold her. Surely the dark would hide her. Surely he couldn't reach up even if he did find her.

She peeked one eye open just as a shadow began to move around the corner. In that same moment all of her hopes about her hiding space disappeared as the wood collapsed and sent her falling towards the ground, which promptly gave way and let her fall until she hit the second floor (which appeared to be slightly sturdier and better maintained).

[Harleen Quinzel]

Harley decided from this point onward she would avoid sticky situations like this. Her eyes scanned the next batch of rooms in search of any means of escape as she squished inner Harley back to the corner she normally filled in her mind. Harley Quinn reveled in danger and laughed at death. The harlequin girl could get out of anything if she wanted too and no one (especially a mad man) could stop her! So it was without trepidation that she kicked the third door on the left inward.

No windows, she was unhappy to see. Was this man under the assumption that he was a vampire? Or perhaps, she reasoned, it was more likely that he’d done it to keep girls like herself from jumping out of them. It wasn’t the way she would have killed herself, but if they could make the jump it might be worth a try. The bed probably was once impeccable a long time ago. The white sheets had gone grey and the down comforter had lost its fluff and lay dejected on the floor. There were two pillows, stained yellow, red, and grey. A large, ornate mirror stood half broken across the room. An abandoned tea cup and small plate sat on the bedside table. Mold tinted jam covered the small knife sitting besides it. Harley snatched the lackluster weapon before letting her eyes do one last search across the room.

In the bed was a book so aged and worn she’d looked over it. Diary? Nope. Harley skimmed through the torn pages but quickly dropped it to the ground without much interest. There had been scribblings and doodles in the margins of the book, and she was sure she might have glimpsed the name ‘Alice’, but she couldn’t be sure what exactly it meant. She never was much of a reader. Harley slipped from the room as soundlessly as she could manage. She kicked another door in and suddenly paused as she heard movement from the upstairs floor. She was glad for the distraction as she witnessed and entire box full of razor blades and a few mice imbedded in them fell to the floor with a noisy crash. Harley couldn’t help but gasp at the site, covering her mouth with her hand.

Shivering slightly she stepped over the pile, eyes roaming over the room. In the middle of the room was a fainting couch once a deep black, but worn to a grey. Blood stained the part where a head would be placed and a butcher’s cleaver lay abandoned on the floor next to it. Harley, still clenching the kitchen knife in her hands, retreated from the room. She decided, at that point, to stay away from any of the other rooms.

When she found the doorway to the stairs, as she remembered it, bashed in slightly Harley was wary of trying the handle. What next? Bombs in a bucket? Thousands of needles falling from a tea cup? She went to try the door handle after a few seconds of heavy breathing only to discover it locked. Footsteps could be heard not so far off and Harley moved back into the room she’d just been horrified at. She pressed herself against the chipped, hole-riddled wall behind the door.

Harley’s heart raced as she heard him move closer and closer. A pause here. A cry of anguish? Perhaps it was just the house groaning under the weight of insanity. She gripped her knife tighter. Her stomach heaved in a nervous anticipation she hadn’t felt since the first time she’d killed someone. The guard at the Asylum hadn’t counted because she hadn’t been paying attention. She’d been on mission mode, killing and forcing her way through the metal doors to get Him out. She’d never experienced that sort of rush when murdering again. However this reminded her of the time she killed her Gotham U professor. She hadn’t remembered the reasoning for it, she was sure it had been one of Mistah J’s bits for a greater chaos. Maybe it had something to do with seeing how decrepit even the smartest people in the City were.

She’d stood in a fine office that time, but now she leaned against an almost abandoned Victorian dump, And her victim wasn’t the least bit sane and apparently didn’t give a shit. And, of course, her soon to be victim was just as eagerly trying to break her. The door concealed her slightly as she watched his shadow enter the room. As quick as she could, before he had a chance to find her or turn around she dove at him, wrapping her legs about his waist and arms around his shoulders. Her fingers reached up and yanked on his hair, pulling the pale head to the side. Her other hand, busy with the mold knife, pressed it firmly to his neck.

“I don’t wanna play no more. Gimme the key to open the door." She growled at him, her lips pressing up against his ear as she clipped each word. For good measure she gave another tug on his hair. Her breath was racing as she move the blade up slightly to dig into the crevice between his neck and jaw.