The neon letters loomed above them, casting shifting red and blue shadows across the metal walls. CARS R US BLACK MARKET. Below, in gleaming cursive with a spinning gear logo, another sign flickered: Subdivision: The Undercarriage.
Pamela tilted her head back, her green eyes narrowing at the spectacle. Barbara stared with open disbelief. Harley spread her arms wide as if unveiling a masterpiece.
"Yep," Harley declared, her boots clanking against the steel floor as she strutted ahead. "This is the Cars R Us Black Market Subdivision. We call it the Undercarriage. Think about it—the dirty part underneath your vehicle nobody talks about, but it's the only reason the damn thing runs."
Vendors lined the walls of the massive chamber. Stalls glowed under neon strips. Shelves sagged with rifles, drones, chemical canisters, even racks of body armor labeled with names of defunct Gotham gangs. A low mechanical hum carried through the tunnels, mingled with the sharp hiss of welding torches from a vehicle bay at the far end.
Barbara turned slowly, eyes wide. "I can't believe this. I mean, I knew Cars R Us cut corners with their 'technically legal' cars. But this—this is something else entirely."
Harley gave her a side glance and winked. "Of course you didn't know, doll. Nobody blabs about this place. Not unless they've got a death wish."
Pamela crossed her arms, suspicious. "What happens if someone does?"
Harley's tone shifted into something flat and businesslike. "Then Batman doesn't have to worry about 'em. Cars R Us takes care of it themselves. Full service means just that. Vehicles, weapons, IDs, even hit squads. Everything a budding empire needs."
Pamela's lips twitched faintly in acknowledgment. "Efficient. Ruthless. I approve."
Harley patted her shoulder with mock pride. "You're learning fast, Red." She turned, clapping her hands once. "Now, first stop—hench recruitment. And since you two brought three hundred grand in cash, you'll get top-tier muscle with benefits."
Barbara reached behind her and swung a heavy duffel bag off her shoulder, letting it thump onto her hip. Pamela blinked at her. "When did you grab that?"
"I sprinted to the car while you were paying the bill," Barbara replied smoothly.
Pamela shook her head with a quiet sigh. "Of course you did."
Harley's eyes glimmered. "Cash? Honey, that's the best news I've heard all week. No contracts, no promissory notes, no paper trail. Trust me—notes in this place are a curse. Cash talks, notes get you killed."
They pushed deeper into the market until a wide steel booth came into view. A holographic display spun behind the counter, casting floating blue light across the walls. Above, a sleek sign read: Human Resources Department – Acquisitions Division.
Behind the glass desk sat a tall woman in a dark suit. Her hair was pulled into a high bun so tight it looked carved. Navy-blue lipstick gleamed under the light as she adjusted her glasses and tapped something into the air keyboard. A plaque on her desk read: Astra Vane – HR Director, Undercarriage Talent Services.
She glanced up—and her cool, professional stare sharpened. "Well, well. Harley Quinn. Here to browse the free pool for Joker again? We've had a fresh intake since last quarter."
Harley leaned casually on the desk. "Nope. I'm here on behalf of paying clients." She jerked her thumb toward Pamela and Barbara. "They want premium henchwomen."
Astra's brows lifted, interest sparking. Her gaze swept over Pamela, then Barbara, and lingered. "Pamela Isley. And Barbara Gordon. Commissioner Gordon's daughter, here with Harley Quinn. Fascinating." She straightened in her seat. "Well then, let's get down to business."
She folded her hands together, voice cool and sharp. "Do you prefer male or female?"
Pamela and Barbara answered without hesitation, voices overlapping. "Female."
Astra's lips curved faintly. "Of course. I should have guessed." She turned back to the terminal, fingers gliding through glowing controls. "And your budget?"
Pamela exchanged a glance with Barbara. Barbara tugged the zipper just enough to reveal stacks of bundled bills. Pamela said evenly, "Two hundred thousand. The rest is reserved for weapons and other necessities."
"Wise," Astra murmured. Her hands danced across the keys. At once, the television screens overhead flickered, cycling through dozens of profiles. Each frame carried headshots, statistics, past employers, weapons specialties, loyalty ratings, and contract lengths.
Barbara stared up in awe. Pamela's expression remained measured, but her fingers tapped rhythmically against her arm. Harley jabbed a finger at one screen and leaned closer. "That one? She's good. Used to work for Black Mask before he blew half his face off. Total professional."
Astra's voice was clipped, efficient. "These women are vetted. Former mercenaries, failed villains, disillusioned freelancers. They want pay, stability, and anonymity. You'll get what you pay for."
Harley tilted her head toward Barbara with a grin. "Hey, Babs. Why don't you do the honors? Pick the first soldier for Midnight Mayhem. Let her be your henchwoman.
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