AN: Late but big chapter 2.7k words. Too many things are going on in here at the same time, so it was kinda hard, even for me lol. Anyway, hope you like it.
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[FAWCETT CITY – NOON] [Downtown]
The sun burned overhead, indifferent to the chaos below.
The black armored truck barreled through Midtown, sirens off, windows tinted. Bloodsport sat across from Joker inside, his finger hovering near the panic trigger. Joker was strapped to a steel chair, mouth gagged, head tilted like a broken puppet. His eyes twitched slightly.
Then came the first shot.
The reinforced windshield spiderwebbed. The driver slumped forward, dead.
Two more shots punched through the front tires. Rubber exploded. The truck lurched. Bloodsport's body slammed against the wall as the vehicle lost control. It skidded sideways, tires shrieking across pavement.
A magnetic disk that was lying on the road flew up as if someone knew exactly where the car would skid.
Booom!
The explosion lifted the truck like a kicked can. It flipped twice, metal clanking, until it slammed roof-down into the intersection.
Smoke poured from the wreckage.
Bloodsport dragged himself out, ears ringing, ribs screaming. He saw his escort team, what was left of them. Six trained men, reduced to silence in seconds inside the vehicle. Precision kills, headshots. No wasted ammo. He then quickly dragged Joker out of the burning truck and threw him on the road.
Then the shooter stepped into the light.
Deadshot.
Leather, armor, the signature wrist cannons. His mask caught the sun like a mirror. His eyes were fixed on Joker.
Bloodsport spat blood, rose to his feet, and unholstered two compact rifles from his back holster. He said nothing. Deadshot tilted his head.
"I figured they'd send a pro," Deadshot said. "Didn't think they'd send you."
Bloodsport fired.
Bullets zipped before words did.
Deadshot dove sideways, wrist cannons lighting up mid-roll. Bloodsport countered with a burst from his twin rifles, the recoil kicking through his bruised frame. Shattered glass and ricocheting lead tore through storefronts as civilians scattered, ducking behind burning cars and overturned food carts.
Deadshot vaulted over a sedan, landing behind cover.
"You always follow orders like a good little soldier?" he called out.
Bloodsport moved low, switching mags without looking.
"I follow smart orders. Joker dies, we lose the map to every bomb he's planted."
Deadshot popped out and fired a tight spread aimed at the knees. Bloodsport slid behind a mailbox, rounds biting the metal inches from his leg.
"Not my problem. Someone paid me enough to save that clown."
Bloodsport lunged from cover, spraying suppressing fire. Deadshot ducked behind a wrecked police car, his mask tracking every shot. The bullets chewed through the car door, glass cracking and metal popping.
Deadshot rolled out low, arm raised. His wrist cannon launched a small grenade.
It clinked once on the pavement.
Bloodsport swore and dove sideways as the grenade burst in a flash of light and concussive force. The shockwave knocked him flat. His rifles clattered away.
Deadshot moved fast, sprinting through the smoke, stepping over broken glass and bullet casings. He fired short bursts to pin Bloodsport down as he closed the distance.
Bloodsport shook off the daze, blood dripping from his temple. He pulled a blade from his boot and flipped up, knife ready.
Deadshot reached him.
They collided hard. No words. Just fists, elbows, and knees. Bloodsport slashed, Deadshot blocked with his armored forearm, and countered with a knee to the gut. Bloodsport grunted but didn't go down. He swung the knife again, slicing Deadshot's side.
Deadshot twisted, grabbed Bloodsport's wrist, and drove his head into Bloodsport's nose. Bloodsport staggered. Deadshot tried to go for the finishing shot, wrist cannon to the chest.
But Bloodsport grabbed his arm and forced it upward. The cannon fired into the sky.
With his free hand, Bloodsport slammed his knife into Deadshot's thigh.
Deadshot cried out, staggered back, ripping the blade out. Bloodsport tackled him into a newsstand. Wood and paper flew. They rolled through the wreckage, each trying to get the upper hand.
Deadshot got there first.
He slammed his gauntlet into Bloodsport's jaw, once, twice, then pinned him with a knee to the chest.
Joker, still gagged, still strapped, watched from where he lay on the pavement, grinning beneath the muzzle.
Deadshot turned toward him.
Bloodsport used that second to grab a broken plank from the ground and crack it across Deadshot's head. The mask held, but it knocked him sideways. But this flicker second was enough for Deadshot to throw an electric disk on the ground near Bloodsport's feet.
Both men drew their guns at the same time, creating a tense standoff just ten feet apart. They stood still, their chests heaving with heavy breaths.
Then... sirens. Distant, but closing in.
Deadshot didn't lower his weapon.
Bloodsport stared him down.
"You walk now," Bloodsport growled, "or we both die here."
"I don't think so," Deadshot put his guns and...
ZZzappp!!!
...the electric disk under Bloodsport's feet lit up.
A pulse of blue energy exploded upward.
Bloodsport screamed as the charge shot through his body. He dropped like a brick, smoking, shaking, nerves fried. His guns clattered across the ground.
Deadshot stepped forward, limping from the knife wound in his thigh. He kept his gun trained on Bloodsport, but didn't shoot. Not yet.
Sirens were louder now. Police drones buzzed in overhead.
Deadshot glanced up. One minute, maybe less, before they had eyes on everything.
He looked over at Joker, still tied up, still gagged, lying on the hot pavement like a corpse at a crime scene. Joker's eyes danced. Even gagged, he was laughing.
Deadshot walked over and grabbed Joker by the straps.
"You better be worth it," he muttered.
He pulled out a small black beacon, pressed it. A silent signal.
Above, cloaked in clouds, a stealth transport decloaked just enough to reveal itself. A cable dropped. Deadshot snapped it to his belt.
He gave Bloodsport one last look.
"You'll live."
Then the cable yanked him and Joker upward. Fast. Like a ghost vanishing into the sky.
Seconds later, the transport was gone.
The sirens finally arrived. Squad cars screeched in, doors flew open, and armed officers shouted commands. Drones hovered, scanning.
But Deadshot was gone.
Bloodsport lay on the street, coughing, burned, and pissed.
He looked up at the smoke trail in the sky.
"Damn it," he muttered.
Then passed out.
[Inside the stealth jet]
Deadshot cut the Joker's restraints and then slumped against the metal wall, leaning back for support.
A door slid open, and Lex Luthor walked in. He was wearing a black suit, and his face showed no emotion as he glanced at the Joker and then at Deadshot.
"You brought him in alive," Lex said.
Deadshot nodded as he checked his wounds. "Just like you paid for."
Lex turned to Joker and stepped closer. He studied him for a moment.
"This is your big plan?" Lex asked. "Blowing up a city to kill Superman? You think some bomb will be enough to kill him?"
Joker tilted his head. He started laughing. "Heheheheh! Ahahahaha!" Loud, high-pitched, unhinged laughter.
Lex didn't flinch.
Joker leaned forward, grin wide, eyes gleaming.
"Oh, Lexie, don't be so basic. It's not about blowing up a city. It's about turning your god into a monster."
Lex raised an eyebrow. "Explain."
Joker spoke slowly, clearly enjoying every word.
"The bombs are real. Big, nasty things. But they won't go off unless someone touches them. Someone fast. Someone brave. Someone like Superman."
Lex frowned. "He'll try to disarm them."
"Of course!" Joker said, almost clapping. "He'll see the timer, hear the ticking, and like the boy scout he is, he'll grab it and throw it into the sky or fly far away."
Joker leaned in.
"And that's when it explodes. You see, each bomb has a tiny winy camera with Supes' face and suit as a trigger mechanism."
Lex narrowed his eyes.
"What's inside the bomb?"
Joker smiled wider.
"Just a little dust. Kryptonite. Enough to weaken him. And a pinch of fear toxin. Not enough to kill him. But enough to make him see things. Feel things. Things he can't control."
Lex was quiet.
Joker giggled.
"He'll go crazy, Lex. He'll lose it. Punch holes through buildings. Maybe a few people. And then your precious Justice League? The Justice Society? They'll have one choice."
Joker mimed a gun with his hand and pulled the trigger.
"Put him down."
Lex looked at Joker for a long time. Then he turned to Floyd.
"Keep the clown alive. No matter what."
Deadshot grunted. "Yeah. Got it."
Joker leaned back, still grinning.
"It's gonna be a hell of a show."
The aircraft flew into the clouds, disappearing into the sky.
...
[WEST DOCKS]
[Joker's Old Hideout]
The building was a half-rotted warehouse tucked between a meat processing plant and a burned-out car lot. Seagulls circled overhead like little winged judgment machines. Rust coated the exterior walls. The front gate hung by one hinge. If buildings could sigh in disappointment, this one would be doing it hourly.
Harley Quinn stood in front of it, chewing bubblegum and twirling a crowbar. On her back was a big school bag that she might have stolen on the way. Her expression was thoughtful, like she was trying to decide if she wanted to rob the place or set it on fire. Maybe both.
"Alright, Mister J," she muttered to herself. "You went off the deep end. Again. Left your toy chest wide open. Shame on you. Now I gotta clean up after ya."
She kicked open the side door.
It swung wide with a creak straight out of a horror movie.
Inside, the air was stale and smelled like gunpowder, old greasepaint, and betrayal. A crooked lamp buzzed in the corner. The place was mostly empty now, someone had already swept through and taken the weapons. But Harley knew better than to think Joker kept all his goodies out in the open.
She walked across the floor, boots echoing, eyes sharp.
"Money, money, money," she sang quietly. "C'mon, puddin', where'd you stash your piggy bank?"
She yanked a curtain aside. Nothing.
Pulled open a file cabinet. Just clown makeup, old photographs, and three jars full of teeth.
"Gross," she said, slamming it shut.
Then she noticed it. A smear of red on the floor. Smudged like someone dragged something heavy. Or someone. Her eyes followed the trail to a corner wall where a clown poster hung crookedly.
Harley narrowed her eyes.
"You cheeky bastard."
She ripped the poster down, revealing a keypad hidden behind a fake electric box.
Four digits. No labels. No hints.
But she didn't need them. All of Joker's safe has the same number, and she knew it.
She punched in 0401.
The keypad beeped. Green light. The wall clicked.
The secret panel opened.
Behind it? Jackpot.
Stacks of bills bundled with Joker cards. Gold bars. Some stolen Wayne tech. A duffel bag of diamonds the size of marbles. And tucked in the back, a mannequin wearing one of Joker's old purple suits, complete with a rose in the lapel and a tiny pin that read Kiss Me, I Bite.
Harley gave a low whistle.
"Hello, retirement plan."
She tossed aside the mannequin and started shoving cash into the bag. Her hands moved fast. Bills, coins, a couple of small vials of fear toxin, and one very confused wind-up penguin toy.
She zipped the bag halfway when something caught her eye.
Her very first hand-made Classic Harley costume. She took it and examined it for a few seconds before stuffing it into her bag.
Harley spotted the metal barrels in the far corner as she zipped the duffel shut. Her eyes squinted through the gloom. Faded yellow labels. Black hazard symbols.
"Jackpot number two," she muttered.
Gasoline.
She walked over, pried the lid off one, and gave it a sniff. Her nose wrinkled.
"Yup. That's the stuff."
Harley grabbed a broken mop handle from the corner and used it to knock over one of the barrels. The gas glugged out in waves, soaking into the concrete floor like it was thirsty for revenge. She kicked over a second, then a third, dragging the trail across the room like she was painting with destruction.
She walked to the center of the warehouse, pulled out a lighter from her jacket, and flicked it open. The flame wavered for a moment, then held steady. Her face glowed in the soft light.
She looked back once. The old safe. The purple suit. The mannequin.
"Goodbye, you manipulative, giggling asshole," she whispered. "No more rewind. No more shrine."
She dropped the lighter.
Flames erupted instantly. A wave of fire roared across the gasoline. It sprinted up the walls like it had been waiting for years. The air filled with smoke, heat, and the smell of Joker's legacy turning to ash.
Outside, Harley stepped into the street as the windows blew out behind her. Glass and smoke poured into the air. She slung the duffel bag over her shoulder, her silhouette lit by orange firelight. She didn't look back.
High above the city, a satellite feed picked up the bloom of heat.
Inside the Batcave, Batman stood in front of a massive screen, his jaw tight.
The image zoomed in. The figure was unmistakable. Blonde pigtails. Red hoodie. Duffel bag. Flames behind her like some chaotic goddess.
"Harley," he said quietly.
He tapped a command into his gauntlet.
"Flash," Batman said through the comm.
"Yo," Flash answered. "You see the warehouse fire?"
"Already on it. Harley Quinn is on foot. Alone. West Docks. Knock her out and bring her to the cave. Do it fast. Don't engage her in conversation."
"You mean don't flirt with her."
"I mean don't waste time."
"Copy. Fast, quiet, and unconscious. Got it."
Batman closed the feed and turned back to the array of monitors showing Fawcett City. The bomb alerts were blinking red across the map. He found ten bombs. One had just been confirmed by the worst possible source.
Superman's voice came through the encrypted channel, tight and urgent.
"I found one."
Batman turned. "Location?"
"Tony's Pizza. Downtown."
He paused, then added with a hint of something colder.
"It's live."
Without another word, Superman shot into the sky, breaking the sound barrier as he flew. Behind him, the clouds rippled, parting as he disappeared toward the heart of the city. Toward the first bomb.
[A few minutes earlier]
Inside Tony's Pizza...
John has a talk with Tony about the messy explosion at the delivery place, and how he lost the bike there. That place was sealed. Tony said he had already talked to one of the local police. John can go there and pick up the bike, and he'll also get proper compensation for the dangerous situation he got caught in.
But John asked for another job instead of the compensation for Harley. And well, he got one. She'll be in charge of cleaning the place. Then, he walked out of the shop and felt a weird, uneasy feeling. It's been a while since he felt this way. He looked around. His eyes darted everywhere.
Then...
A guy came riding on a bike, stopped near the shop, parked the bike, and simply ran away. He looked scared and was sweating buckets.
John wanted to go after that guy, but his instinct told him that bike was bad news. There was a small bag strapped to the back seat. He quickly ran over there and carefully unzipped the bag and...
"Fuck!"
Inside was a bomb with a vial of green glowing liquid. A couple of wires and a timer. It was a freaking bomb.
Anyone in his place would have run away in fear. But he maintained his calm. Green liquid. Could it be Kryptonite? Or, some kind of toxin? Virus? Then he squinted his eyes and saw a tiny camera above the timer.
Superman, at the same time, landed behind him.
Everything was in motion now.
And time was running out.
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