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"For everyone to hear," Harley exclaimed, her voice echoing through the quiet November night, "I pray that may Mr. Freeze turn Joker into an icicle and smash him into a thousand pieces!" Quinn's declaration was delivered with a wild flourish, a toss of her pale hair and an exaggerated roll of her eyes. The bitterness in her words was impossible to miss—a sharp, venomous glint that revealed just how much her feelings had transformed in recent months. It was fascinating, this rapid reversal, this shedding of old loyalties. Once, she'd practically worshipped the clown prince of crime, her entire world spinning around his manic orbit. Now, her contempt for him shivered through her words like a cold wind.
Their break-up hadn't erased the past—no, those infamous misadventures, the chaos and danger, still haunted her. Harley had been his muse, his partner in crime, and his punchline. Their relationship was never "normal" by any measure; it was a twisted ballet of affection and manipulation, wild laughter and hidden wounds. What truly happened between them during those feverish years? The answer was still a mystery, cloaked in layers of darkness that Harley herself rarely dared to confront.
The riverside air seemed to thicken with memories; each step on the damp sand was accompanied by lingering ghosts. Yet despite all this, Harley was anything but beaten down. She radiated rebellious energy, her spirit untamed and her wit crackling with life.
"In general," she continued, her voice turning thoughtful as she gazed up at the starlit sky, "if I become world-famous, and travel everywhere, talking about how I've reinvented myself—how I stand for virtue and peace—maybe that'll earn me a place back in normal society." Her lips curled into a wry, lopsided grin. "Normal... just the sound of that word makes me feel sick. Who invented it, anyway? It's a terrible word."
Harley didn't realize she was dodging the real topic—the question of whether true redemption is ever possible, whether society's doors ever really open for people like her. But I understood; introspection is never easy, especially for someone whose life had so often teetered on the brink.
"If this is what you want, I'll support you," I said, my voice gentle but resolute. It wasn't just an empty promise; supporting Harley was a choice, a commitment.
Her eyes glittered mischievously as she spun toward me. "Excellent! My voice is strong and pleasant to listen to, my face is pretty, and nobody can say I'm lacking in character. My charisma is off the charts, and I'm overflowing with enthusiasm. Plus, I've got magical Alex on my side, which means my success is basically guaranteed!" The words spilled out in a rapid, delighted torrent.
I couldn't help but laugh—her conclusions were so outrageous and yet so undeniably true. It was impossible not to enjoy her irrepressible spirit. My admiration for her ran deep, especially because the entertainment industry was my home turf. It was the stage where I felt most alive, and where I could help others shine.
As Harley chattered on, I found myself making mental notes. It would be smart to talk with Dazzler soon, maybe even to draft a contract for Harley. With her looks, her voice, her complicated past, and the sheer unpredictability she brought to every room, Harley Quinn would be unforgettable on the music scene. In fact, she might be the brightest star our studio had ever seen.
This world, after all, offered second chances to unlikely people. Even former villains could reinvent themselves here. Lex Luthor, once the very image of corrupted power, had somehow managed to become the president of America. Anything seemed possible—for Harley, and for me. There was no reason to fret over her future; our path would be whatever we chose to make it.
After a while, we left the car behind and strolled along the shore. The riverbank was slick with fallen leaves and the ground damp, but the cold wasn't biting. It was mid-November, and the air held a brisk chill—but not the punishing cold we'd expected. The night itself was windless, perfect for reflection, and ideal for walking side by side. Of course, Harley proved incapable of anything leisurely; she bounced ahead, splashed in puddles, darted back to me, always full of restless energy.
"Harley," I asked, as she squatted by the water's edge, her palms splashing the icy river and sending ripples through the moon's reflection. "Do you think you'll be able to fit in with the company you've left behind?"
She looked up, droplets glittering on her cheeks. "What could be so difficult about it?" she wondered aloud. "Every person is crazy, in their own way, to one degree or another. The real difference is, only a few have the courage to admit it—to accept themselves, their madness, and to live by their own convictions, their own rules. Most people keep hiding—behind masks society gives them, masks crafted by culture, stereotypes, moral standards. They created these masks themselves, just to hide the truth. But me? I made peace with who I am a long time ago."
There was a serene confidence in her tone—a self-acceptance hard-won through years of turmoil. And honestly, when Harley Quinn, trailblazer and psychologist, speaks that way, you find yourself believing her.
She rose from the riverbank, walking toward me. "My job isn't to make people believe the truth. It's just to tell it," she said, her voice softer now.
Moments like this revealed the depths beneath her playful exterior. Her mood changed again—just like that. She ran her cold, damp fingers through my hair, chilled from the waters of Gotham River. Her gaze lingered, reflective and almost vulnerable.
"This evening is perfect," she murmured, stepping closer and wrapping her arms around my neck. "But something is missing."
I held her gently, feeling the thinness of her waist through her coat, and asked, "And what might that be?"
Her eyes narrowed in mock irritation. "Alex, don't annoy me! I haven't had sex in three whole years—ever since I became Harley Quinn." Her words hung in the air, a mix of exasperation and sincerity. For a moment, countless questions flickered through my mind—about the Joker, about past trauma, about her journey from abused sidekick to self-reliant star. But I held my tongue. I already knew the answers, at least the ones that mattered.
Harley's relationship with the Joker had always been anything but normal. Indeed, calling it abnormal scarcely scratched the surface; theirs was a vortex of manic highs and devastating lows, obsession and neglect. But now, none of that mattered. The only thing important to me was the woman in front of me, baring her heart with fearless honesty.
She was truly in love with me—a sentiment that hadn't come easily or quickly. For Harley, love was a long process, a cautious filling of trust over time. First came fleeting affection; then curiosity, interest, friendship. By degrees, that grew into something deeper, something lasting—a vessel gradually filled, drop by drop, with genuine devotion.
I understood her love language; it was "quality time." That meant giving her my full, undistracted attention—listening, being present, existing together in each moment without interruption. The world would fall away, and for a few precious minutes, it would be just the two of us. When you devote twenty minutes to your loved one—just sitting close on the couch, talking, or even saying nothing—you exchange pieces of your life that will never be repeated. These moments, however small, become profound acts of love—a powerful emotional transmission that binds hearts.
That night, the stars above were clear, the moon bright, and the river reflected it all like a silver curtain. Gotham's skyline shone across the water, distant, alluring, and full of possibility. Harley's laughter, carefree and vibrant, filled the darkness. She spun around me, draping herself across my shoulder as if we had all the time in the world, as if the pain and chaos of her past had finally faded.
We walked together, arm in arm, feeling the pulse of the city and the rhythm of our lives. Each step forward felt lighter, as if, with every shared story and every moment of genuine connection, the burdens of yesterday's madness could be left behind. The wind was gentle, promising change, while Harley's eyes sparkled with new dreams—of music, of fame, of second chances, and maybe even of love that wasn't complicated or broken.
In that glimmering oasis of quiet, we became just two people—no masks, no aliases, no Joker or Gotham. Just Alex and Harley, wrapped in the warmth of their own little world, determined to give each other undivided attention, one irreplaceable moment at a time.
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Hello all, hope you are all doing and that you enjoyed the chapter. 😁
Now-Now, don't go running, we have some serious things to talk about, specifically your power stones.
I can see that they are going to waste, so I want ou to put them to right usage and by that I mean I want you to use them on the new book.
So go DO IT.
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