The elevator doors opened with a low mechanical groan, and Rick Flag stormed into the lair like a soldier returning to a warzone. His boots echoed through the concrete corridors, jacket flaring behind him like the last flame of a blown-out candle.
At the far end of the room, Jonny Frost was slouched in a gaming chair, one leg hooked lazily over the other, phone in hand, scrolling like the world wasn't on fire. One of Joker's custom monitors played soft elevator jazz in the background—probably just to annoy everyone.
Rick's jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might snap. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw dark with unshaved stubble, grief still clinging to his every word like the last three months hadn't moved forward at all.
"Three months," he growled, throwing his arms up. "Three goddamn months and I've got nothing. No leads. No suspects. No answers. My mom was murdered in her own home, and I still don't even know who pulled the trigger!"
Jonny didn't look up from his phone.
"You try Joker's old system?" he asked casually, thumb flicking the screen. "The protocol logs? Might've flagged something, I dunno. Big Brother surveillance and all that jazz."
Rick blinked. His anger hiccuped.
"I forgot all about that thing." His voice softened just slightly, a breath of hope breaking through the rage. "That could actually work."
Jonny finally glanced up, smirking a little. "Glad I could spark the ol' memory banks. I'm ordering Chinese food, by the way. You want something or...?"
Rick waved him off, already moving toward the panel of flickering screens Joker called a "search nest."
"No thanks," he muttered. "I have to figure out who killed my mom."
Jonny shrugged. "Suit yourself. Hope vengeance tastes better than sesame chicken."
Rick didn't hear him. He was already typing.
The system booted up with a whirl and a series of eerie little beeps. Joker's "Red Queen Protocol" voice—sounding suspiciously like Harley doing a bad British accent—welcomed him with a cheery:
"Welcome back, gumshoe. Searching the void for secrets and sins. Access granted."
Rick dove into the archives. Surveillance pings. Project titles. Off-book mission logs. Some of it was redacted in layers that would make the Pentagon cry, but he kept digging. Kept following the trail.
Lines of text blurred past his eyes.
Project Sparrowtail... terminated.
Operation Black Peach... failed.
Classified – Eyes Only: Project Redvine.
Rick sat up straighter.
"...What the hell is this?"
He tapped the file. It stuttered. Glitched. Then opened.
And the first thing he saw was Amanda Waller's authorization code.
The room fell completely silent, except for the soft hum of a nearby vending machine and the slow crawl of betrayal unspooling on the screen in front of him.
He read aloud, voice flat:
"Project Redvine: Covert domestic execution protocol. Subjects deemed high-risk for leaks, blackmail, or emotional leverage. Authorized targets to be eliminated under silent classification parameters. Target: Brianna Flag. Status: Completed."
Rick stared. Eyes unmoving. Mouth just slightly open.
Then he exploded.
"AMANDA!!!"
He slammed his fist on the desk hard enough to rattle the monitors. One of Joker's old pistols clattered off the rack nearby. Rick grabbed it—then another—shoving magazines into place with practiced fury.
Footsteps pounded behind him.
"Hey, hey, hey—" Jonny called out, halfway jogging as Rick stormed toward the elevator. "You're really gonna do this now?! Like now-now?!"
Rick didn't even slow down. "She killed my mom, Jonny!"
"Yeah," Jonny said, still trailing him, "and she's also got, like, six satellite death beams, two meta squads, and a remote head-exploder button! Y'know—classic Waller stuff!"
The elevator doors began to close, Rick inside, eyes lit with righteous rage.
Jonny leaned into the gap and held up a finger.
"Well, good luck with this whole 'Waller vengeance crusade' thing, Cap," he said cheerfully. "I'm gonna go get this Chinese food before Harley stabs me in the kneecaps for taking too long."
The doors shut in his face.
Rick Flag descended into the depths of the Joker's armory, fully loaded, fully grieving, and more dangerous than ever.
Waller had no idea what was coming.
The club still looked like sin dipped in honey.
Four years hadn't touched it—at least, not in any way that mattered. The walls still shimmered in gold, still pulsed under low violet lights like the veins of a neon-drenched monster. The floor smelled like old champagne and fresh money. And that giant, custom tiger print couch? Still ridiculous. Still magnificent.
Joker reclined across it like a king lounging on a melted throne. His silver rings tapped a lazy rhythm against the rim of a lowball glass, the ice clinking softly in sync. His eyes, however, were razor sharp beneath the slow blink of his lashes. Watching. Listening. Calculating.
In front of him, two men—thugs, wannabes, peacocks in stolen feathers—stood like dogs too proud to realize they were on a leash.
"—I'm just saying," the first one was saying, short guy, twitchy hands, gold grill that didn't quite fit his teeth. "You got the stuff, man. The connections, the weapons, the tech. People don't respect the old guard no more, but you? They still flinch when your name gets brought up."
Joker raised an eyebrow slowly, then flicked his tongue over one silver tooth.
The second thug leaned in, bulkier, arms like tree trunks stuffed into a too-tight designer hoodie. "We're not askin' for much. Just a partnership. You give us some access to your supply runs, we cut you in on the deals. Real smooth operation. Real lucrative. Real clean."
Joker smiled at that. That slow, syrupy smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"'Clean,'" he repeated softly, like it was the funniest word he'd ever heard. "What a cute little fantasy."
The thugs chuckled nervously, unsure if he was joking or mocking—or both.
Joker swirled the drink in his hand and leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. "You know, I've had a lot of people come to me over the years. Begging, bargaining. Bragging." His eyes flicked between the two of them like a cat choosing which mouse to eat first. "And I just can't help but wonder..."
He paused. Tension tightened.
"...what makes you so special?"
They scrambled to answer at the same time.
"We—we're not like the others—"
"—we've got territory, reach, we're connected—"
"We respect you, man. Real recognize real—"
"Big mistake," Joker whispered with a grin.
The words stumbled. "What?"
He just waved it off. "Nothing, nothing, nothing... I'm just playing." He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, flicking his fingers like he was swatting away a gnat. "I like ambition. Really, I do. It's adorable."
He said "adorable" like it was an insult.
The first thug tried to rally. "So... is that a yes?"
Joker tilted his head, swirling the ice in his glass again. "It's a... maybe."
And he held the word in the air like a knife tip, sharp and shimmering.
The second thug smiled too quickly. "Yo, for real? That's all we need. A maybe? We can work with that—"
"But," Joker interrupted, voice silk-wrapped in static. "I'll need something from you first."
They both leaned in, practically wagging their tails.
Joker didn't speak right away. He just looked at them—looked through them—with that same glazed over, deadly sort of stillness that came right before someone got stabbed in the neck with a cocktail straw.
His phone buzzed in his coat pocket. He ignored it.
The thugs waited.
Joker just smiled again, this one bigger. Hungrier.
The French doors slammed open like a punchline.
Jonny Frost strolled into the penthouse, city wind still tangled in his coat, plastic bag of Chinese food swinging from his fingers. "Home sweet hellhole," he muttered, stepping inside with a smirk.
The golden lights of the chandelier glinted off the marble floors, casting familiar warmth over chaos. The smell of lo mein and egg rolls rose with the air conditioning.
He dropped the takeout on the dining table, the bag thudding with greasy confidence, then stretched his arms wide with a satisfied groan.
"Harley, babe, I didn't forget the spicy mustard this time," he called absently. "I even remembered Joker's stupid crab rang—"
He paused.
Something... felt off.
Jonny turned, already halfway down the hallway to his room. His boots padded across the plush runner, passing family photos—if you could call a gallery of armed psychos and neon-lit chaos "family"—when his eyes flicked to the master bedroom.
The door was cracked open.
And there, right at the edge of the threshold, was a streak of blood.
Dark. Thick. Too much for a paper cut.
Jonny froze.
"What the fuck..." he whispered, stepping toward it. The hallway suddenly felt longer. The light bulbs dimmer. The silence too loud.
He moved to the door and nudged it open with a hesitant push.
The room was wrecked.
Curtains torn like someone had tried to claw their way out. Dressers smashed. The vanity cracked down the middle like a broken heart. Glass glittered across the carpet. The massive mirror Joker had once laughed in with Harley was shattered, jagged edges still trembling slightly in the air conditioner's breeze.
And on the floor, near the bed—
A body.
Male. Unknown. Arm gone. Throat sliced open with such precision it almost looked surgical.
Jonny staggered back a step, hand on the doorframe to stay upright.
"No, no, no—what the fuck is this—Harley?!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Harley!"
Nothing.
The walls answered with silence.
Frantic now, Jonny fumbled for his phone, swiping to Joker's contact. The screen pulsed once. Twice. Ringing. Ringing.
No answer.
"Come on, come on—pick up—" he whispered, pacing over bloodstains and broken glass.
He called again.
This time, it clicked. Connected.
Joker's voice slid through like a razor dipped in honey.
"They run outta egg rolls or somethin', Frosty?"
Jonny's throat closed. His voice cracked like a shot glass.
"She's gone."
Silence.
He pushed forward.
"The room's trashed. There's blood everywhere. Your mirror's broken, there's a guy dead on the carpet with no fucking arm. Harley's not here."
Joker didn't say anything.
Then—
click.
The line went dead.
Back in the club, Joker stared at the phone in his hand, the glow of the screen now dimmed, meaningless.
Across from him, the two thugs were still talking, still selling their dream. But their words had become white noise, melting under the buzz of neon and the roar that had started to build in Joker's chest.
"Did you..." he said softly, too softly. "Did you keep me here as a distraction?"
The two men blinked, confused. "What? What're you talking about?"
"What's goin' on, man?"
Joker stood up slowly.
He tilted his head. His smile returned—but it was wrong now. Cold. Unblinking. Like a mask stretched over something screaming.
"You... prolonged this conversation," he said, walking toward them. "You stretched it out. Kept me here. That's why you kept saying clean. That's why you made it all so damn boring."
"We—we didn't, man. We don't know what you're talkin' about!"
"Yeah, we just wanted to work with you—!"
"You wanted to distract me," Joker said.
His hand moved fast. The gun was already in it.
They barely had time to react before—
BANG. One man dropped to the floor, clutching his thigh, screaming.
BANG. The other was hit in the shoulder.
BANG. A final shot buried itself in the first man's gut.
The screams echoed through the club.
Then Joker laughed.
Maniacal. Deep. Ferocious.
He walked between their writhing bodies, spinning once like a dancer mid-performance.
"You almost had me, boys!" he howled, eyes wide, wild. "Almost! But then guess what—ding-dong, delivery boy says my queen's gone and now you've got me very interested in your guts being on the carpet!"
The two thugs screamed louder, begging now, blood soaking into the carpet like wine.
And then—
BANG.
BANG.
Silence.
Joker stood over the corpses, chest rising and falling, eyes like glass in a fire.
He looked up. Exhaled.
"...I hate this carpet anyway."
Joker's body was still slumped, but no longer limp. His fingers twitched slightly, and though his chest still heaved in shallow, jagged breaths, he was coming back into himself—slowly, glitching, like a system reboot. His eyes remained locked on the floor, vacant, like he hadn't really returned to the room yet.
Ivy, face twisted with tension, turned away from him. Her gaze swept the disaster-zone of the room— shattered furniture, blood-smeared walls, overturned tables—and then landed on a cracked pot near the far wall. The plant inside it had spilled out, its roots exposed and tangled in dirt, wilting.
She knelt by it gently, her fingers brushing along the delicate leaves. Her voice was soft but steady.
"You saw it... didn't you, sweetheart? Show me. Please. I need to see what you saw."
Her hands began to glow—first a faint shimmer, then a full, radiant emerald green. Her eyes flickered with the same light, and a pulse rippled outward from her palms like a heartbeat of nature itself. The room shifted. The air became denser, charged.
And then—the holograms appeared.
Ghostly green images materialized before them like a living memory projected through the plant's eyes. It started quiet—peaceful. Harley was sprawled across a plush bed, seven months pregnant, belly full and proud beneath her soft tank top. She was scrolling her phone, humming something under her breath, legs kicked up. For a moment, it was almost sweet.
Then—a sound. Muffled. Sharp. From behind the door.
She paused, lowered her phone, tucked it into her waistband.
"Jonny? That you? You got my dinner?"
No answer.
She stood up slowly, hand instinctively brushing over her stomach. Her brow furrowed as she took a cautious step forward—BOOM. The door exploded inward with a violent crash.
Six men. Huge. Armored. Predatory.
"What the hell?! Get the hell outta my house!" she snapped, instantly shifting from comfort to kill mode.
One lunged.
Before he could touch her, her hand flew under the pillow—a gleam of silver. A knife.
SLASH.
Straight across his throat. Blood sprayed. He gurgled, fell to his knees, then flatlined on the floor.
Another came at her—she ducked, stabbed upward. Another slammed into a dresser, cracking the wood. She shoved one into a mirror—glass exploded in a glittering rain. Blood flew, chaos reigned. Harley was feral— protective—alive.
But then—too many. One caught her from behind and clubbed her hard. She dropped to her knees with a gasp, arm grabbing for the bedpost, the carpet, anything. They began dragging her by her arms, and she fought like a hellcat—kicking, scratching, screaming.
"Let me go! Let me go! You sick freaks—!"
She gripped the leg of a chair. One stabbed her in the arm.
Her scream echoed around the room, haunting and jagged.
They yanked her out of frame.
The holograms cut out.
Silence. Nothing but the soft hum of Ivy's power fading from the room.
Everyone—Rick, Jonny, Ivy—stood frozen, eyes wide in sheer horror. Even the plants seemed stiller, sadder.
Joker hadn't moved.
He stood idle, hunched, dead center of the wreckage. His eyes locked on the blood streak on the floor before him.
Her blood.
A long drag of crimson from where she'd been pulled.
He just stared.
Then, slowly, Joker turned on the balls of his feet. Not with a scream. Not with a roar. With terrifying stillness. Like a storm about to hit.
"J?" Ivy said cautiously.
"J, where you going?" Jonny called.
Joker didn't answer. He left the room.
They followed—nervously, urgently.
He reached the living room, snatched up a tablet off the counter, and began flicking through files with shaky fingers. His eyes darted across photos, security footage, and encrypted files.
His voice was a whisper. A growl.
"I know that face... that ugly son of a bitch..."
Tap. Tap. Swipe.
"There. Him. One of T's boys. His brother."
His lip curled. Rage flickered behind his eyes.
"T always ran his mouth about this one. Thought he was clever, stayed under the radar. That mutt's brother, son of a bitch was always sniffin' around the business after I iced his big brother for flirting with Harley." He zoomed in on an image—a security camera still—the man's face slightly blurred, but recognizable now in the light of his memory.
Joker's jaw clenched.
Images popped up on screen—old mugshots and some gang photos from back in the day. One of the intruders. Tall, bald, scar under the left eye. No doubt.
He zoomed in on a location. An old storage lot near the docks—one Monster T used to run drugs through.
"They got a base and I'm gonna burn it to ash."
The night was heavy—one of those nights that felt like it held its breath in suspense.
A full moon loomed behind torn clouds, casting an eerie glow over the massive, crumbling skeleton of an abandoned warehouse just on the edge of Gotham's industrial graveyard. Rust bled down its metal siding like dried blood on ancient armor. And walking straight toward it like a damn apocalypse... was him.
Joker.
Flanked on both sides like a king returning from war—Rick Flag at his left, Ivy at his right, Jonny Frost just behind him, and no fewer than fifteen armed-to-the-teeth goons trailing in black suits, green ties, and masks adorned with various twisted clown grins. Their boots struck pavement in a rhythm that sounded like death marching on beat. The streetlight flickered as they passed beneath it, like it knew better than to shine too brightly on them.
Rick side-eyed Joker as they neared the warehouse steps, his assault rifle slung but ready.
"So... do we got a plan for this?"
Joker didn't stop walking. He just grinned—lips stretching wide like he was tasting the blood in the air already.
"Yeah," he purred. "Walk in. Rip 'em apart. Get my girl. Get out."
Rick sighed. "Why do I even bother asking?"
BOOM. The front doors flew open with a thunderous kick from Jonny, and suddenly—chaos.
They stormed in like a tidal wave of violence and vengeance. Bullets sang. Glass shattered. Screams ripped through the air. Joker's men fanned out, wild and ruthless, spraying the room with lead and laughing like hyenas while the poor bastards inside scrambled for cover.
Twenty-five armed men didn't stand a goddamn chance.
Rick was a storm of precision, knocking them out one by one with military efficiency. Ivy let vines burst from beneath her jacket sleeves like green whips, yanking weapons out of hands and slitting throats. Jonny dual-wielded pistols, unloading with a calm grin and perfect aim. And Joker?
Joker was a monster.
Laughing. Howling. Ripping the jaw off one guy with a tire iron he conveniently brought. He stabbed another in the kneecaps before blowing out his head with a pearl-handled revolver. Every kill was personal. Artistic. One guy tried to crawl away—Joker knelt beside him, whispered something in his ear, and snapped his neck with a pop like bubble wrap. The floor slicked with blood and sweat and the reek of panic.
Meanwhile... just one floor above...
Harley still tied to a rickety metal chair, smirking at the sound of the mayhem echoing through the rundown warehouse walls.
The two guards flinched at every bang and scream. One cursed under his breath.
Harley, of course, burst out laughing. Wild. Delightful. Untamed.
"Ohhhhhh, you boys are soooo screwed now," she giggled with glee. "You hear that? That's the sound of my man clockin' in for work! He's here for me, and I told you, didn't I? He's gonna paint these walls with your intestines, rathead!"
BOOOOM.
The door exploded inward in a rain of wood and steel.
In they came.
Joker was first, eyes blazing, red-soaked and smiling like the devil. Rick and Ivy right behind him, weapons up, and the rest of the goon squad flooding in like a river of wrath.
The two guards spun around just in time for a bullet to pierce one of their knees—he dropped with a howl.
The other went for his gun, but Joker already had him by the face.
"Ohhh, you poor, dumb roach," he said, and then—snap. Joker shoved the knife into his gut slowly, twisting as the man screamed.
Harley burst out laughing from the chair, nearly rocking herself over.
"I told you, rathead!" she howled, giddy with adrenaline and love. "I TOLD YOU!"
The one with the blown-out knee tried to crawl away, sobbing.
Joker followed him with a calm, gleeful strut. He crouched down beside him, grabbing his hair.
"You touched my girl?" he asked sweetly.
"N-no! I swear, I—!"
Joker's grin split wider. "Liar."
And then he sliced off the man's ear and threw it onto the floor.
Ivy grimaced. "Jesus Christ, J..."
Harley was still laughing hysterically. "GET 'IM, PUDDIN'!"
Rick just stood there like, I don't get paid enough for this.
Joker stood up, licking blood off his fingers.
When it was finally quiet again—quiet, but for the blood dripping from the blade in Joker's hand—he turned toward her.
His eyes fell to her, tied up, bruised, blood seeping from the deep gash on her arm. And everything shifted. The manic edge softened. His face changed—just a little.
He crouched in front of her, one gloved hand resting gently against the swell of her baby bump. The other hovered just beneath the wound on her arm. His voice, when it came, was quieter than it had any right to be.
"They hurt you..."
Harley leaned forward immediately, resting her forehead on his shoulder. Her voice was cheeky, but low.
"You saw the guy in our room, Puddin'..." She chuckled, soft and dark. "He got off worse."
A low growl rumbled in Joker's chest—pride, pain, love all twisted into one snarling sound. With a flick of his knife, he sliced through the ropes on her wrists, then her ankles, never breaking contact.
She stayed right there, head on his shoulder. The moment the ropes fell away, his arms wrapped around her body, tight like he'd never let her go again. She curled into him.
"God, you're beautiful when you're homicidal," he muttered, pressing a kiss to her temple.
They stayed like that for a beat too long.
Then Ivy stepped forward, her presence like the calming scent of crushed leaves after a storm. She knelt in front of Harley, a gentle smile tugging at her lips.
"Let me check," she said, softly, already placing one glowing palm on Harley's bump. Her eyes slipped closed, the light from her fingertips bathing the room in green-gold warmth.
Everyone was silent.
A breath later, she opened her eyes, the glow vanishing.
"The baby's okay," she whispered.
Harley let out a breath of relief and sagged into Joker's chest, tears rising in her eyes—but not falling, not Harley. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, sniffling like a little girl who just got good news at the doctor's office.
Ivy tilted her head, then asked, "Do you know the gender?"
Harley shook her head.
Ivy smiled, gently, knowingly. "Well... I just saw. Want to know?"
Harley lit up like a damn firecracker. "YES!"
Joker tensed. Rigid. Nervous. This wasn't blood and chaos—this was new. This was soft.
Ivy looked between them, then said simply:
"You're having a girl."
Harley squealed. Full on, hands-clapping, bouncing-on-her-feet squealed.
"I'm gonna have a daughter?!" she screeched, turning to Joker, grabbing his stiffened shoulders. "Puddin'—we're gonna have a daughter!"
He froze.
Then a slow, stunned smile curled on his lips. His eyes flicked to Harley's belly, then back to her. He nodded.
"We're gonna have a daughter," he echoed, quiet. Maybe even a little in awe.
And for the first time in that bloodstained, bullet-laced night, it wasn't vengeance, or chaos, or war that filled the room—it was something warm. Something terrifying. Something tender.
Joker still kneeled next to her, holding Harley just a heartbeat longer as if his grip could fix what had been done to her. But then... the switch flipped.
He pulled back, those sharp icy blue eyes twitching with that signature twitchy focus. He tilted his head downward, and gave a soft, focused shake—once. Twice. Like something had just clicked in that cracked little skull of his. Then he turned sharply, trench coat swinging like a curtain at the end of a bloody play.
In the far corner, one of the guards was still breathing—barely. Blood dripped from his nose, and he was dragging in ragged, shaky gasps through cracked ribs and panic. His eyes went wide when Joker sauntered over, twirling his gold-plated pistol like it was a fidget spinner. Casual. Controlled. Psychotic.
Joker crouched beside him, resting his elbow on his knee. He leaned in real close, smile spreading slow like a wine stain.
"Hey there, useless," he purred, his voice soft. "Where's your boss?"
The guy coughed, spit out some blood and fear. "He's—he's in the basement... two floors down. Room's noise- canceled, he—he doesn't know you're here... please—"
Joker's grin widened as he echoed, almost giggling, "He doesn't know I'm here?"
A laugh ripped from his chest, loud and high and grating.
"Oh-ho-ho, this is delicious!"
BANG.
The guard's skull hit the concrete like a dropped melon.
Joker turned back toward the group—Harley, Ivy, Jonny, Rick, and his crew of goons standing like gothic backup dancers in a music video from hell.
"Well then," he grinned, slick and giddy. "Shall we introduce ourselves?"
Harley skipped forward, looping her arm through Joker's. "Ooooh, this is gonna be fun," she sang, licking a bit of blood off her cheek. "Let's go, sugarplum~"
They headed into the next hall—blood-smeared, flickering lights above—and stepped over the cooling corpses of the men Joker had already annihilated like they were trash on the sidewalk. They reached a thick steel door at the end, humming with some sort of security tech.
Rick tried the handle. Nothing.
"Locked," he muttered. "Needs a keycard."
Joker spun around to look at all the dead bodies that were ripped apart on the floor and then groaned like a bored teenager. "Ugh, this is so much work."
He turned to Ivy with a deadpan expression.
"Break the door down."
She squinted at him, a sassy eyebrow already raised. "Why do you always say it like I'm your personal wrecking ball?"
He smirked. "Because you're very good at wrecking things, Ivy."
Ivy rolled her eyes, but the vines at her fingertips pulsed with power. With one flick of her glowing hand, thick roots exploded from the floor, wrapping around the door and tearing it off its hinges with a shriek of metal.
It clanged to the ground, and Joker clapped sarcastically. "Bravo!"
They descended down the stairwell into darkness, boots echoing. Jonny clicked on a flashlight and swung it around. Rick kept his weapon drawn, sharp and ready. The tension in the air thickened like smog.
And there he was.
Standing in the center of a soundproof room surrounded by monitors and a bloody, makeshift control panel. Muscles like a tank, face scarred from years of fights he almost lost—Monster T's younger brother.
Darius Trent. Fit. Strong. Brutal. And stupid enough to kidnap Joker's pregnant girlfriend.
Darius turned slowly, and the second he saw them, he froze.
"Shit," he muttered. "You actually came."
His eyes landed on Harley, still bruised, still beautiful, standing proudly next to Joker like a goddamn war goddess.
Joker's smile was lazy, dangerous. "Ohhh, don't look so shocked, cupcake. You touched my Harley. You didn't think I'd come?"
Darius clenched his fists, growling, "You killed my brother. For her. So I made a message outta her. Simple math."
Joker tilted his head. "Y'know, math wasn't your brother's strong suit either. But neither was common sense. Or keeping his pants zipped."
Harley giggled, twirling a knife between her fingers.
"You want revenge for that waste of oxygen?" Joker hissed, stepping forward. "Your brother was a sloppy, pathetic manwhore who tried to touch what didn't belong to him. I warned him. Hell, I gifted him that warning. And you? You thought hurting my girl would be smarter?"
"You gifted her to my brother!" Darius yelled, "You gave her to him saying she belonged to him"
Joker laughed. "He was making comments I didn't much appreciate, I was just making him think he was getting what he wanted." He chuckled, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth.
"Big talk," Darius spat. "You ain't the only monster in this city."
"No," Joker said, raising his gun and shooting him in the leg. "But I'm the original."
Darius howled and dropped to one knee.
"Let's see," Joker mused, circling him. "One leg down... how many more pieces do we want to take, boys?"
Rick cracked his knuckles. Jonny was already pulling out his knife. Ivy stood back, arms folded, not wanting to get her hands dirty unless she had to—but oh, her smirk said she'd enjoy watching this one.
Harley leaned in and whispered in Joker's ear, her voice sugar and smoke.
"Can I get a piece, Puddin'? Just a lil' piece for me?"
Joker looked at her like she'd hung the stars.
"Baby, you can have his spleen."
A few hours later...
Julian's apartment was dim, cozy in a curated, sterile kind of way—more "designed by money" than warmth. He lounged on the velvet gray sectional, leaned against the armrest with a pillow tucked between it and his ribs like a prince with delicate bones. His bare feet hung lazily off the side, legs stretched, whiskey glass balanced in his right hand, and his left hand resting over Sophie's chest like she was just another trophy to show off.
She was draped over him, scrolling aimlessly on her phone—TikToks flashing past with dopamine bursts of cats, filters, and trending chaos. Then—ding. A breaking news alert lit up her screen.
Her thumb paused mid-scroll. She blinked. And then—
"Holy shit," Sophie muttered, her whole body tensing as she snatched the remote from the table with purpose.
"Hey, what the hell?!" Julian barked as the TV cut from his comedy rerun to the loud sting of breaking news.
"You know I hate the fuckin' news," he groaned, dramatic as always.
She ignored him. Completely.
The anchor came on, breathless:
"We have developing news out of Gotham tonight. Harley Quinn—yes, the Harley Quinn—is confirmed to be seven months pregnant and was abducted earlier this evening by a known low-level drug lord named Darius Trent, brother of the late gangster Monster T, who was famously killed by the Joker in 2016..."
Julian sat up straighter, the name alone souring the whiskey in his mouth.
"Sources confirm Darius and his men kidnapped Quinn from her penthouse and took her to a warehouse in Gotham's east district. Joker responded shortly after—and what followed was a complete massacre. Several dozen bodies were found by police when they arrived at the scene... and in the basement, behind a soundproof security door ripped clean from its hinges—thanks to Poison Ivy—Darius Trent was found in pieces. Not dead. Pieces."
Sophie's mouth hung open.
"...Holy fuck," she whispered. Not in fear. Not in horror. But in awe.
The way Julian snapped up was instant, like a puppet yanked by its strings. He tossed the whiskey down and stood with force—forgetting she was still laying on him. Sophie was launched sideways, slamming into the coffee table, a sharp edge biting into her arm. A thin line of blood bloomed along her skin as she hit the floor with a gasp.
"What the hell?!" she barked, scrambling up, one hand clutched to her cut, the other bracing on the couch.
Julian didn't even look. He was pacing now, teeth grinding.
"Fuckin' Joker. Every damn time. How the hell does he keep getting away with this shit? And Harley— Harley— always dragged into it like some... some damsel in distress. Or worse, some fuckin' queen."
Sophie staggered back, seething now.
"She's your ex, Julian. You have me. Right here. Why the fuck are you still obsessed with her?"
Julian spun, unthinking, uncaring, pure venom dripping from his tongue.
"Because you're not her. You never were. And you're not enough."
The silence cracked.
Sophie stared, stunned. Her chest rose in a shaky breath. Then—
"You're disgusting," she said, voice trembling but sharp, slicing the air like glass. "You really are."
Julian's ego recoiled like a live wire. He stormed toward her, boiling red and wild.
"Don't you talk to me like that."
And then—crack.
The back of his hand collided with her face.
She stumbled, almost fell. One hand shot up to her cheek, lips parting in shock and pain. Her eyes flashed, not with fear, but rage.
"FUCK. YOU." She growled, backing away with fire in her bones.
She spun, grabbed her shoes, and shoved them on so fast she barely got them all the way on. She bolted for the door, throwing it open.
Behind her, Julian scoffed.
"She's so dramatic," he muttered to himself. "If she knew half the damn whores I was fuckin' on the side, then she'd have something to cry about."
He took another swig of his whiskey and collapsed back on the couch, utterly convinced the world owed him everything—and then some.
The streets near Gotham's upper east skyline were quieter than usual, though the air still smelled faintly of gasoline, wet pavement, and bad decisions. Sophie clutched the neck of a half-empty bottle of whiskey, its glass cold in her hand, the burn of it warming her throat in uneven sips. Not drunk. Not sober. Just... blissfully uncoiled enough to stop thinking about Julian and his venom.
Her cut stung against the night air, but it didn't matter. She just kept walking.
And then—
"Well, shit," she muttered aloud, louder than intended.
Because there, not twenty feet ahead, bathed in the neon pink glow of a nearby club sign, stood Harley Quinn herself.
The infamous, the unpredictable, the dangerous... and—for the briefest second—Sophie thought she looked almost... normal. Her blonde pigtails framed her face, her baby bump noticeable even under her jacket, and her boots scuffed from God-knew-what kind of chaos. Harley turned at the sound of Sophie's voice, her sharp blue eyes catching her instantly.
Harley smirked. "Well, look at this... Little Lost Bird."
Sophie froze. "You're... Harley Quinn."
Harley spun dramatically on her heel, spreading her arms. "The one and only, sugar."
Sophie blinked, then staggered forward, gripping the bottle like a lifeline. "You... used to date Julian, didn't you?"
Harley's entire posture shifted. Her shoulders stiffened. Her smile faltered. And then—gag. Like, an actual gag, loud enough to echo down the street.
"Regretfully," Harley said, wrinkling her nose. "Yes."
Sophie exhaled a bitter laugh. "Was he... was he as bad to you as he is to me?"
Harley tilted her head but didn't answer right away. So Sophie kept going, her words spilling out faster than she could stop them.
"He's always coming home late," she said, voice raw, "and he's stupid enough to think I don't notice the lipstick on his collar. The perfume. I might be young, but I'm not fucking blind. He's always complaining about how you left him for some—" she made exaggerated air quotes—"'clown.' He hit me today. And then—" she swallowed hard, her grip tightening on the bottle— "he told me I wasn't good enough because I wasn't you. So... I left."
For a moment, Harley just... stared at her. Quiet. Measured.
Then Harley sighed and tilted her head, a little softer this time. "Don't go back, kid." Her voice lost its usual bite. "He hits you once, he'll hit you again. I went back. And I got hit a hell of a lot more than once."
She looked away for a moment—past Sophie, toward the curb, where Rick Flag stood leaning against a sleek black car. Cigarette in one hand, phone in the other, multitasking like a man who had seen too much shit to care anymore.
Sophie followed Harley's gaze, then back to her. "...I want revenge," Sophie blurted suddenly.
Harley blinked. "Huh?"
"I want revenge," Sophie repeated, her voice steadier now. "And I feel like you're the only person who can help me get it."
Harley chuckled low, the kind of laugh that promised trouble. "Revenge in my book, kid, is a whole lot nastier than most folks can stomach."
Sophie smirked, raising her chin. "Good. I've had my fair share of dark already. Not just Julian." She shrugged casually. "I stabbed a couple kids with pencils when I was ten because they wouldn't stop calling me Four-Eyes. Didn't get caught. Didn't care."
Harley's brow arched, interested.
"And," Sophie added, cracking her knuckles, "I can hack into just about anything. Pentagon, government databases, private security firms. I've done it a dozen times for fun. Nobody knows it was me, so I don't even have a target on my back."
Harley's grin sharpened. "Oh, I like you."
Before Sophie could react, Harley looped her arm through hers like they'd known each other for years. "C'mon, Little Bird. Let's get you outta the gutter and into somethin' a little more... fun."
She whistled sharply. Rick's head lifted immediately. Harley gave him the universal "get your ass over here" finger curl.
Rick groaned, shoved his phone into his pocket, took one last drag of his cigarette, and crushed it under his boot before stalking toward them.
"Great," he muttered. "Another stray."
Harley just smirked.
And for the first time all night, Sophie felt like maybe—just maybe—she wasn't lost anymore.
The lobby of the building was all marble floors, gold trim, and chandeliers that looked like they cost more than Sophie's entire life. She hugged the bottle of whiskey close as Harley—arm looped with hers—practically skipped across the room.
"Evenin', Lou!" Harley chirped, waving at the receptionist like she owned the place.
Lou, a man who had seen everything from Joker's midnight blood-soaked entrances to Harley waddling down here at 3 A.M. for pickle runs, gave a cautious nod. "Evenin', Ms. Quinn."
Sophie noticed the way he said it—half respect, half fear—but Harley? Harley just winked at him.
Then the elevator doors slid open, and the three of them stepped inside—Harley, Sophie, and Rick, who was trailing behind with his usual "I'm too old for this shit" face. Harley smacked the button for the 105th floor like it was nothing.
Sophie stared. "You... live on the 105th floor?"
"Yup!" Harley grinned proudly. "Whole thing's ours. Fourteen thousand square feet, baby. Spanning across two floors, but the elevator don't go up to the second floor 'cause, you know, 'security.'"
Sophie clutched the railing. "I—"
"Don't think too hard about it," Rick muttered.
When the elevator dinged open, Sophie half expected the gates of hell. Instead, she found herself in a minimalist entry space that felt like the airlock to another world.
Harley strutted to a sleek black panel beside the massive French doors, pressed her thumb against it, and the screen glowed with an almost alien hue.
Sophie's jaw dropped. "Is that a biometric thermographic dermal-scan lock?"
Harley blinked. "... Sure, puddin', if that's what it's called."
Rick smirked behind her.
Harley shrugged. "Puddin' had the boys put it in a few hours ago. Doesn't want me gettin' snatched again, especially with the lil' peanut in here." She patted her bump with a soft smile before swinging open one side of the enormous door.
"Home sweet home," she sang, pulling Sophie inside. Rick followed, shutting the door behind them.
"PUDDIN', I'M BACK!" Harley yelled, her voice bouncing off the walls.
From down the hall, Joker emerged. Sharp purple jacket, gold chain glinting under the lights, his smile a little too wide. He stopped when he saw Sophie.
"... Who's this?"
Harley grinned and tugged Sophie forward like she was showing off a new puppy. "This, my dear, is Sophie. She—safe to say—used to date Julian. But now? She's lookin' for revenge. And get this, Puddin': she's a hacker. Pentagon-level hacker. They don't even know it was her. Ain't that neat?"
Sophie, still reeling from the literal size of the place, blinked. "Uh... hi."
Joker tilted his head, his stare sharp but curious. Then he chuckled low. "Useful."
Sophie swallowed hard but pushed past the nerves. "I want revenge on Julian," she said flatly. "And... I want in. Whatever this little circle is that you've got going. I'm done being miserable. I've got skills I've never used for anything fun. I'll burn the world down if it means I get to watch him choke on the smoke."
For a moment, Joker just stared. Then he laughed—a wild, manic sound that made Sophie's pulse spike. He strolled toward her, gave her a slow once-over, and grinned.
"First thing's first, newbie," he said. "We're gettin' you some clothes that don't look like you shoplifted 'em from a community college library. Harley, baby, show our guest the room. When you're done, bring her down to the lair."
He twirled a knife in his hand, gave Harley a kiss, before heading out the door.
Rick sighed.
"I'll come with you, J." Rick ran after him and caught up with Joker at the elevator, making sure to shut the front door behind him.
The second they were gone, Harley's face lit up like a firework. "Eeeeeee!" she squealed, doing a little wiggle because seven months pregnant or not, she was still Harley Quinn. "C'mon, Little Hacker, lemme give you the tour!"
Still arm-in-arm, Harley dragged Sophie forward.
The entryway opened into a half-mudroom, half-wardrobe lined with polished cubbies for shoes, racks of jackets, and even a glass display case of... baseball bats? Sophie blinked.
"Oh, those are mine," Harley said sweetly.
From there, the place exploded into luxury.
To the left: a massive living room, bigger than Sophie's childhood home. Fireplace, velvet couches, a TV so huge it looked like it could double as a drive-in movie screen. Sliding glass doors led to a balcony that wrapped around the entire floor, Gotham's skyline glittering like diamonds in the distance.
To the right: a chef's kitchen that looked like it belonged in a magazine, all stainless steel, marble, and gold. Just beyond it, a formal dining room with a table long enough to seat an army.
Straight ahead, Harley pointed out the powder room—"Mostly for the goons," she joked—and a storage closet. "That one's where we keep the emergency guns," she added with a little giggle.
Next came the security room. Harley flung the door open, revealing wall-to-wall screens, servers stacked in neat towers, and enough high-end tech to make the NSA cry. Sophie's jaw hit the floor.
"Oh, I'm gonna live in here," Sophie breathed.
"All in due time, Little Hacker," Harley teased.
They moved down the hall, passing guest suites, each one bigger than Julian's entire apartment. Sophie kept staring until Harley stopped at a pair of French doors, smirking.
"This is me 'n' Puddin's room." Harley pushed them open, revealing a 1,000-square-foot master suite complete with a bathroom so big it could've been its own zip code. Sophie whistled low.
"This is insane," she muttered.
But then Harley grabbed her hand and dragged her down the hall to another door. "And this... is yours."
She threw it open.
Sophie froze.
It was a 900-square-foot guest suite, complete with a California King bed, a sprawling desk with a full tech setup, a cozy reading nook by the window, and a closet big enough to get lost in.
Sophie laughed—just a little, breathless. "This is... this is bigger than Julian's whole apartment."
Harley threw her head back and laughed manically. "Even better. That means you're already winnin', sugar!"
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Sophie grinned.
Harley didn't give Sophie a second to breathe before grabbing her by the wrist and tugging her toward the enormous French doors inside the guest suite.
"Now, Little Hacker," Harley said with a wicked grin, "you wear a small, right?"
"Uh... yeah," Sophie replied, still spinning in place, trying to take in the size of the room.
"Perfect! Then everything in here's gonna fit ya."
With a dramatic flourish, Harley threw the doors open. Sophie's jaw nearly hit the floor.
The closet wasn't just a closet. It was a boutique. Floor-to-ceiling racks of clothing in every shade and style imaginable, walls lined with drawers and displays, and a massive glass island in the center glittering with accessories. On the far wall, there was an entire section dedicated to shoes, each pair in its own pristine glass case, like art.
"Oh my god," Sophie breathed, laughing in disbelief. "This is insane."
Harley just smirked and wiggled her brows. "Oh, honey, you ain't seen nothin' yet."
Letting go of Sophie's arm, Harley dove headfirst into the racks like she was on a treasure hunt. She rifled through leather jackets, glittering tops, and dresses with tags from designers Sophie had only ever seen in magazines.
"Aha!" Harley popped out of the racks with a dramatic gasp. In one hand, she held a deep, rich purple crop top. In the other, a tight black skirt that screamed power and danger.
"Oh, and shoes—can't forget the shoes!"
She hustled over to the wall of heels and plucked out two pairs: one in the same dark purple as the top and another in sleek, glossy black. "Hmm," Harley hummed, tapping her chin. "Which one, which one...?"
Sophie tilted her head, smirking. "The black ones?"
Harley gasped like Sophie had just kicked a puppy. "No, no, no, sweet cheeks—we're takin' a page outta my 2013 book." She grabbed one purple heel and one black heel, clapping her hands together like she'd just solved world hunger.
Sophie blinked. "Mismatched?"
Harley grinned wide. "Chaotic, cute, and criminally underrated. You'll thank me later." She placed everything; clothes, shoes, and accessories—on the island. "Alright, Little Hacker, you try these on. I'll give ya a sec." She wiggled her fingers like an old-timey villain and backed out of the room.
Sophie chuckled, shaking her head. "What is my life right now?"
She peeled off her shirt and was just reaching for the top when Harley slammed the doors open again.
"Oh! I almost forgot!" Harley waddled in fast, moving surprisingly quick for seven months pregnant.
Sophie jumped, standing there in her bra. "Uh—"
Harley didn't even blink. "Don't mind me, sugarplum. I'm grabbin' somethin'." She darted to the far side of the closet, rummaged through a drawer, and came back holding a sleek black lace bra and matching underwear.
She plopped them onto the island with a wink. "Gotta be fresh, right?" She tapped Sophie's shoulder, gave a little giddy wiggle, and trotted out again like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Sophie just laughed under her breath, shaking her head.
A few minutes later, Sophie was dressed: dark purple lace underneath, the matching crop top snug against her skin, the tight black skirt hugging her hips, and the mismatched heels—one purple, one black—tying it all together. She stared at herself in the mirror for a long second.
"Damn," she whispered.
When she stepped out, Harley gasped so loud it echoed down the hall. "Oh. My. GAWD. Girl, you look criminally good. I'm talkin' felony-level fashion!"
Sophie laughed, actually feeling lighter than she had in months.
"C'mon!" Harley looped their arms together again. "Puddin' doesn't need us yet—let's finish the tour!"
They headed for the grand staircase. It wasn't just stairs. It was luxury incarnate—wide, sweeping, with a central landing before splitting left and right.
"First floor's all livin' essentials," Harley said, leading her up. "Up here? This is where the fun happens."
They veered right, and the first door they hit made Sophie's jaw drop.
"Our movie theater!" Harley announced proudly, swinging the doors open. Plush reclining chairs, a screen big enough to rival an IMAX, and a full snack bar—popcorn machine, slushie maker, even an ice cream station.
Sophie grinned. "This is ridiculous."
"Uh-huh," Harley said smugly. "Wait 'til ya see this."
Next came the art corridor. It stretched on forever, lined with priceless masterpieces. Monet. Van Gogh. Da Vinci.
"We even got the real Mona Lisa," Harley said casually.
Sophie stopped. "Wait. What?"
Harley grinned, twirling a finger. "Yup. The one in the museum's faker than Joker's court-ordered psych evaluations."
Sophie snorted, "I'm not even surprised anymore."
Two more massive rooms followed:
The Game Room: wall-to-wall arcade machines, poker tables, pool, VRs, gaming computers, and even a retro pinball collection.
The Party Room: Harley opened it like it was a candy shop. Shelves upon shelves of thousand dollar liquor, luxury furniture, and enough liquor glasses to serve hundreds.
Then came the gym, state-of-the-art and stocked like a professional training facility.
And finally, Harley led her to the left wing and into the pool locker room.
"This is where it gets good," Harley whispered like it was a secret.
She opened a glass door to reveal an Olympic-sized infinity pool with a hot tub, skylights above, and walls of glass overlooking Gotham. Harley hit a button on the wall and—
FWSSHHHH.
The far glass wall split open, lifting seamlessly into the ceiling, letting the water stretch out into the open night air.
"Now ya can swim inside or outside," Harley said proudly. "Feels like you're gonna fall off the edge, but ya won't. Promise."
Sophie stood there, speechless. "This is... insane."
"Eh," Harley shrugged. "Ya get used to it."
She hit the button again, sealing the pool back up, then grinned. "Alright, Little Hacker... now for the best part."
Sophie blinked. "What's that?"
Harley smirked and tugged her back toward the stairs.
"The lair, baby. Time to meet the family."
The elevator doors clicked shut behind them with a soft hiss, the sound of Harley's thumb pressing against the panel echoing in the metallic silence.
Sophie glanced at the rows of buttons—penthouse, lobby, garage—when her eyes landed on one that didn't match.
A Joker smile.
"What... is that?" Sophie asked.
Harley smirked like she'd been waiting for the question. "That, sugarplum, is the fun button."
She pressed it.
With a faint click, a panel in the elevator wall slid open, revealing a sleek, high-tech hand scanner. The kind of thing Sophie only ever saw in classified military leaks.
Harley slapped her hand down on it casually. The scanner glowed green, and an automated voice purred:
"Welcome, Harley Quinn."
Sophie's brows shot up.
The elevator lurched. Not up. Down.
And it kept going. Down, down, down—past the lobby, past the garage, past anywhere a normal person should be. Sophie's ears popped. Harley just hummed a tune and tapped her fingers against her bump like this was completely normal.
When the doors finally slid open, Sophie's jaw fell open with them.
The lair was... breathtaking.
Steel and glass blended with velvet and leather, a perfect clash of menace and decadence. Screens lined the walls, flashing security feeds, maps, and plans that Sophie would kill to get her hands on. Weapons were displayed like art—rows of guns and knives glinting under soft light. On the far end, sleek sports cars rested under spotlights, each polished to perfection.
"Holy..." Sophie whispered.
Harley smirked, leaning closer. "Oh, and by the way," she whispered like she was sharing a state secret, "we could've stopped in the garage first. Puddin' had it built just for us. Fifteen cars. Each one's got a lil' button that opens up a secret entrance disguised as a flower bed off the road. You drive right under it—poof. Invisible."
Sophie stared at her. "...That's insane."
Harley giggled, linking arms with her again. "Welcome to another Tuesday, Little Hacker."
As they walked in, Harley waved dramatically toward a familiar figure leaning casually against a table: Rick Flagg.
"You've already sorta met this grumpy soldier boy," Harley teased, elbowing him lightly.
Rick just sighed and shook his head, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "I'm not grumpy. I'm realistic."
"Yeah, yeah," Harley chirped. "Anyway, this is Rick Flag—one of my best pals. Used to be military, then realized I was way more fun than Waller."
"She's not wrong," Rick admitted with a tired chuckle.
Harley tugged Sophie forward toward a tall, sharp-dressed man with a wolfish grin. "And this handsome devil? Jonny Frost."
Sophie tilted her head. "Drug lord turned... Joker right-hand man?"
Jonny laughed. "Best friend, thank you very much."
He elbowed the man standing next to him.
Joker.
He was studying Sophie like a predator sizing up new prey. His sharp blue eyes dragged over her from head to mismatched heels, and then he tilted his head slightly, scheming.
"The outfit," Joker said slowly, his voice a low rasp. "Yours, baby?" he asked Harley without taking his eyes off Sophie.
Harley beamed. "You know it, Puddin'."
Joker hummed in approval, lips twitching into a faint grin.
Sophie, to her own surprise, held his stare. "What? You're not gonna make me dance for my spot or something?"
Joker's grin widened, razor-sharp. "Hmm... I like the sass."
Harley slid her arms around Joker's waist briefly, giving him a kiss on the cheek before tugging Sophie toward another figure—a tall, elegant woman with fiery red hair, tan skin and a calm presence that contrasted sharply with the chaos around her.
"And this," Harley said proudly, "is Poison Ivy. Our resident green goddess."
Sophie blinked. "The Poison Ivy–wow–uh it's a big pleasure to meet you!"
Ivy extended her hand with a faint, amused smile. "The one and only."
Sophie shook it, and smiled softly at Ivy.
Then Harley pointed toward a massive steel door on the far side of the lair.
"And over there," Harley said cheerfully, "that's where you'll find several hundred of our goons. Big room. Lots of beds. You'd think it'd be cramped, but nah—they say it's nicer than an apartment. Some of 'em rotate in and out, but most stick around. Safety in numbers, ya know?"
Sophie blinked. "...Hundreds?"
"Yup," Harley said with a casual shrug. Then she spun back to Joker, Rick, Jonny, and Ivy with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.
"Alright, boys and girls," she said, throwing an arm around Sophie's shoulders. "What do we need our Little Hacker to crack into first?"
Joker hummed, low and thoughtful, the sound curling in the back of his throat like a predator circling its prey. He tilted his head, those ice-blue eyes narrowing slightly on Sophie.
"Tell me something, Little Hacker," he rasped, pacing a slow half-circle around her. "Do you think you could... crack into the security feeds in Amanda Waller's office?"
The lair went still.
Rick's head snapped up from where he'd been leaning against a table. "What?" His voice was sharp, incredulous. "J... that's a black-site government facility. Nobody just hacks their way in there—"
Sophie shrugged. "Yeah, sure."
Rick blinked. "I—what?"
Before anyone could stop her, Sophie slipped right between Jonny and Joker with a casualness that almost felt like an insult to how serious this test was. She brushed past them sideways, flashing Joker a sly little smirk that said watch me, and walked straight to the row of glowing computers against the far wall.
Without waiting for permission, she cracked her knuckles, slid into the chair, and started typing.
Her fingers flew across the keys, a rapid-fire rhythm. "Alright, first, government facility access points," she muttered to herself. "Isolate their primary feeds... oh, look at that. Amateur hour encryption."
Jonny leaned against the wall, grinning. "I like her already."
Sophie didn't even look up. "Filter that. Strip the junk code. Cross-reference with internal badge scans..." She spoke fast, like she was speaking a second language only she fully understood.
One by one, windows bloomed across the screens: maps of secured facilities, floor plans, ID logs.
"Alright," Sophie said, pointing at one of them. "She scans her card here the most. Building Four. Makes sense. High clearance." She drilled down further, her eyes sharp, quick, alive. "And this—" click "—is her floor. Fourth level. Office corridor."
She smirked at the screen. "Room 415. Cute number."
Joker's head tilted. A low, approving hum escaped him.
Sophie kept going, breezing through firewalls that should have been impenetrable. "Wow," she drawled, wiggling her shoulders like Harley, "twenty-five firewalls. That's adorable. For most people? That'd take... eh, months. Me?" She looked over her shoulder at the group of people behind her. "Twenty-five seconds."
And she wasn't lying. Her hands blurred on the keys. Then—click.
The screens lit up, and there it was: Amanda Waller's office. Multiple live feeds from different angles. Empty for the moment, but real. Crisp. Undeniable.
"Boom," Sophie said, leaning back in the chair. "Fully live. You can record, motion trigger, replay—whatever you want. Oh, and just for fun..."
She shifted to another screen, sliced her way back into the facility's internal scans, and found Waller's most recent keycard swipe.
"Laboratory wing," Sophie murmured, smirking. "Let's pay her a little visit."
A few more keystrokes, and suddenly, on another screen: Amanda Waller, standing over a reinforced glass enclosure watching a very violent prisoner. And that prisoner...
"Killer Croc," Jonny muttered, low. "No way."
Joker's lips stretched into a sharp, delighted grin. "Ohhh... I like her."
Harley squealed, clapping her hands together and bouncing in place as much as her belly allowed. "I knew it! I told you, Puddin', didn't I? I felt it! But hot damn, I didn't know she was this good!"
Rick just stood there, staring at the screens, jaw tight. "That's... all her," he muttered. "Every move, every clearance. Holy shit. I knew she'd relocated her ops. I just... couldn't pin her down."
He let out a low growl, sharp and dangerous. "That bitch is dead."
Rick turned on his heel, marching toward the armory.
"Ricky!" Harley called after him. "At least wait 'til morning!"
He grunted. "I'll wait five hours."
"That's my boy!" Harley laughed, then turned back to Sophie, looping her arm through hers and grinning ear to ear.
"See, lil' hacker?" she purred. "Told ya we were gonna have some fun tonight. No booze for me—" she patted her belly "—but we're gonna party anyway. And Puddin'? Looks like she's family."
Joker chuckled low, stepping closer to Sophie, that sharp grin never fading. "Welcome to hell, kid."
And just like that, Sophie smirked back—because damn if it didn't feel like she'd just passed the most dangerous job interview on Earth.
The next night, the lair was still buzzing with the aftershocks of their little "welcome party."
Rick was sprawled across one of the couches, a bottle dangling from his hand, snoring like a war machine. Harley sat nearby, perched on the arm of a chair, rubbing her belly while Sophie—absolutely hammered but weirdly functional—poured herself another glass like it was water.
"Damn, Little Hacker," Harley said, eyeing her with wide, amused eyes. "The amount'a booze you've put away tonight could wipe out an army, and you're not even stumbling."
Sophie grinned and downed the glass like it was nothing. "High-functioning drunk. It's a gift." Then, as if the thought had just hit her, she smirked and leaned toward Harley. "I want my stuff from Julian's apartment."
Harley raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly. "Oh, this is gonna be good."
Sophie nodded, hair falling into her face, but her eyes were sharp. "I want to make a statement. Plus, I need a few things. Pictures of my mom, my phone charger, some important files... but clothes?" She smirked and gestured down at herself. "Thanks to you, I'm set there."
Harley cackled, clutching her belly. "I like you."
Fifteen minutes later, they were standing outside Julian's apartment. Harley leaned casually against the wall, smirking like she was about to watch her favorite episode of trash TV unfold in real life.
Sophie, bag slung over her shoulder, cracked her neck and straightened up. "Wait here," she said with a wicked little smile. "I want a dramatic entrance."
"Oooh, I love drama," Harley whispered back. "I'll add some fireworks halfway through." She winked, leaning against the wall. "I'll be listenin'."
Sophie nodded, pushed open the door, and left it just barely ajar.
Inside, Julian was waiting.
"There you are!" His voice was a sharp bark the second he saw her. "Where the hell have you been? You haven't answered your phone—"
"I was out having a good time," Sophie cut in smoothly, her tone calm but edged with venom.
Julian's gaze dropped, raking over her outfit. His face twisted. "What the hell are you wearing?"
"Better clothes," Sophie shot back without missing a beat. She brushed past him, heading for the cabinet where her things were still kept.
He followed, bristling. "Have you been at another man's house?!"
Sophie chuckled, pulling open drawers and shoving things into her bag. "Technically," she said airily. "But I wasn't sleeping with the man."
Julian's face flushed hot. He grabbed her shoulder, spinning her to face him. His fingers pressed into her cheek, pushing just enough to sting.
"You don't get to just leave and—"
Sophie's smile didn't budge. "Oh please. It's not like you're any stranger to spending the night in some whore's bed."
Julian's nostrils flared, and then—smack. He struck her across the face.
Sophie's eyes narrowed before she smacked him back. Right in the face.
Julian roared in anger before he could raise his hand again—
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Julian froze. His head whipped around.
There she was. Harley Quinn, leaning in the doorway, grinning like the devil herself, one hand resting casually on her hip.
"What the hell are you doing here?!" he snapped.
Harley sauntered in like she owned the place, looping her arm through Sophie's. "I'm with my girl now," she said sweetly. "Newest bestie. Ain't she cute?"
Sophie smirked at Julian. "The cutest."
"Got everything ya need, Little Hacker?" Harley asked, tilting her head.
Sophie turned back, grabbed three more things—her mom's picture, a small jewelry box, and her laptop—then zipped the bag shut. "I do now."
Harley smiled wide. "Good girl."
As they strolled past Julian, his face red and trembling, he pointed after them. "You can't leave! I own you!" He jabbed a finger at Harley. "And you! I used to own you until you gave up your life for a clown!"
Harley snorted. "And that clown treats me better than you ever could. Which is real sad, 'cause one of he's a serial killer and you're well a professor."
As they neared the door, Harley's sharp gaze landed on Julian's liquor cabinet. She stopped, snatched an expensive bottle of rum off the top shelf, and tucked it under her arm.
"Puddin'll love this," she said, then tapped her belly. "Not me, obviously."
Sophie laughed as Harley ushered her out. But before she left, Sophie turned, smirked, and flipped Julian the bird.
"Don't be surprised if you see me on the news," she said. "Y'know... after I ruin your life."
SLAM.
The door shut, leaving Julian stunned and shaking in the wreckage of his own ego.
The double doors to the party room swung open with a loud bang. Harley and Sophie stumbled in, laughing their asses off, practically leaning on each other for support—even though Harley wasn't drunk, she was just drunk on the sheer fun of the night.
The sight that greeted them was... well, peak chaos.
Rick was passed out on the leather couch, one boot still on the table, mouth hanging open like he'd lost a battle with gravity. Jonny was perched at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey and looking like he'd seen this all before. And Joker—oh, Joker—was sprawled sideways across his oversized throne-like chair, drunker than a sailor in a storm, holding a glass that was mostly just ice at this point.
He blinked slowly when he saw Harley and Sophie walk in, their laughter echoing against the walls.
"What's..." he slurred, struggling to sit upright, "so funny, hmm?"
He made a clumsy attempt to get up, but his knees didn't get the memo.
"Oh, puddin'," Harley giggled, already right next to him in a blink. She caught him easily, steadying him before he faceplanted into the floor. "Now, now—no breakin' that pretty face of yours tonight."
He grumbled something incoherent as she guided him back into his throne-chair. Harley smirked, then swung one leg over him and plopped herself onto his lap like she owned the world—because, in this room, she kinda did. Joker's head fell against her shoulder, drunkenly satisfied just having her there.
"Now," he murmured, eyes half-closed but still sharp enough to track her. "Tell me... why you're laughin' like you just blew up a courthouse without me."
Harley giggled again, tilting her head until her nose brushed his. "We left," she said, drawing it out for suspense. "Went to Julian's."
That got Joker's attention. His head popped up, his glassy green eyes suddenly wide. "Julian's?" His voice cracked sharp with interest, but his drunk body wasn't quite on board with the drama—he swayed in his seat.
Harley nodded innocently. "Mhm. Our Little Hacker wanted her stuff back. So, we made a trip."
Joker's lips curled into a slow, mischievous smile... but then it faltered, his brow furrowing. "Tell me..." He tightened his hold on her, arms wrapping protectively around her, hands resting right above her bump. "You brought a goon with you, didn't you?"
"Nope!" Harley sang, popping the p with her usual sass.
Joker's drunk smile instantly dropped. "Nope?" He looked betrayed. "Nope?! Harley, you... I..." He squeezed her tighter, holding her like she might vanish. "I don't wanna lose you again, doll."
Harley chuckled softly, the sound warm and unbothered as she rested her forehead against his. "Oh, puddin'," she cooed. "You worry too much."
That made Joker drunk-smile again, softer this time, almost vulnerable—though he'd deny it in the morning.
Jonny snorted from the bar, sipping his drink like this was his late-night soap opera. Sophie was grinning, clearly living for this dysfunctional brand of affection.
"Now," Joker slurred, nuzzling against Harley's cheek, "you better finish the story before I have Frost here burn down Julian's house for fun."
"Oh, I'm gettin' to it!" Harley laughed, settling herself comfortably in his lap, looping an arm lazily around his neck. "So picture this: me and Sophie, strutting into that creep's apartment, snatching her stuff, and oh—" She tapped Joker's chest with one perfectly manicured nail. "I might've stolen a bottle of rum for ya."
Joker's entire face lit up like a firework. "My girl," he growled, grinning wide enough to look half-mad, half-lovesick.
Sophie chuckled from across the room, leaning against the wall. "You should've seen his face, though. He didn't know what hit him."
"Shoulda been a bullet," Joker muttered, but there was a lazy satisfaction in his voice. He tilted his head back, glaring at nothing in particular. "Frost, make a note: Julian dies screaming."
Jonny raised his glass in salute, unfazed. "Already penciled in, boss."
Harley kissed Joker's cheek with a laugh. "Aww, ya big softie. Don't worry, puddin', we humiliated him good. Right, Little Hacker?"
Sophie grinned wickedly. "Oh yeah. He's probably still screaming into his throw pillows."
Joker's laughter was raw and sharp, echoing in the room, drunk but delighted. He tightened his grip around Harley, pulling her closer, almost protectively.
"Good," he purred, eyes half-lidded. "Now tell me the best part again... the part where you stole the rum."
Harley rolled her eyes fondly. "Only for you, puddin'."
Joker had his arms wrapped around Harley like a koala, pressing sloppy, rum-soaked kisses against her cheek, jaw, and even the tip of her nose while she giggled uncontrollably.
"Puddin', yer makin' me all sticky with your rum breath," Harley teased, but she was still scratching lightly through his hair, nails grazing his scalp in the way she knew he liked.
"Mmm," Joker hummed drunkenly against her skin, unbothered. "Yer soft... mine."
Sophie, perched on a barstool with her legs criss-crossed like it was a sleepover, was in the middle of an animated rant about hacking government satellites or maybe just the ethics of popcorn machine maintenance—honestly, Harley wasn't sure anymore, but she was eating it up.
"Oh, Little Hacker, you're a riot," Harley said between giggles, pointing at Sophie with the hand that wasn't tangled in Joker's hair.
Sophie just smirked and kept going.
Meanwhile, Joker tilted the rum bottle back one last time and drained it. Harley raised her brows, impressed, but he just fell back into the plush throne chair with a loud, dramatic groan.
"Uuugh..." He slouched down, head tilted, hair a glorious mess. "I am... so drunk it's... uncomfortable."
Harley laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, puddin', you're a mess." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Two A.M. already? Yeesh. Alright, party animals, bedtime."
Jonny, ever the loyal right-hand man, stood from the bar, stretched, and strolled toward the couch where Rick was dead to the world. Without ceremony, he hoisted him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"I'll take this one to his room before he starts snorin' loud enough to crack the windows," Jonny muttered.
Harley grinned. "Thanks, Jonny-boy. You're a peach."
Then she stood, balancing herself as she coaxed Joker up from his throne.
"C'mon, puddin', let's getcha to bed before you decide the floor looks more comfortable than a mattress."
"Could nap anywhere," Joker mumbled, swaying but letting her pull him along anyway. "Even on the—hic—stairs..."
"Don't even think about it," Harley warned, smirking as Sophie followed behind, amused.
After what felt like wrangling an overgrown toddler with genius-level cunning and zero balance, Harley successfully got Joker down the stairs, through the hall, and into their massive master bedroom. She half-dragged, half-guided him until she could plop him onto his side of the bed. Joker just grinned stupidly up at her like she hung the moon.
"Stay," Harley ordered playfully, brushing herself off.
Joker saluted clumsily. "Aye aye, capt'n..."
Harley rolled her eyes fondly and stepped out to walk Sophie down the hall. When they reached Sophie's room, Sophie paused at the door.
"Hey," Sophie said softly, genuine now. "Thanks... for everything today, Harley. I— I didn't think I'd laugh this much in one night."
Harley's grin softened into something warmer. "Anytime, Little Hacker. You're one of us now. Get used to it." She winked.
Sophie smiled back, a little teary-eyed, and nodded before slipping into her room.
Harley headed back to her own, stepping into their massive walk-in closet to change into her comfy pajamas. When she padded back out, Joker was already sliding down into the center of the bed, arms lazily reaching for her.
"C'mere, doll," he mumbled, voice slurred but soft.
Harley crawled in beside him, and the second she was within reach, Joker pulled her back against him, spooning her protectively. He nuzzled his nose into her shoulder, sighing like he'd just found peace in the world's loudest, craziest life.
"I love you," he murmured in that unguarded, sleepy way he only ever used with her.
Harley smiled, squeezing his arm where it draped over her bump. "Love ya more, puddin'."
He hummed happily, and she pulled his hands to her face and kissed his knuckles.
"Goodnight, my crazy clown," she whispered.
"Goodnight," he slurred, already half-asleep with that wicked little smile still on his face.