The transition from Harleen Quinzel to the Queen of Crime is a story of desire, surrender, and madness. ♦️ A new take on the birth of Harley Quinn and The Joker. ♣️ M for romance and violence reasons.
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Cover image: http://fayrenpickpocket.devi...
The sound echoed off the walls and sucked the breath from my lungs. A dark splotch bloomed across his victim's white polo shirt. The man's eyes widened. He clutched his chest. His knees buckled.
My heart jumped into action, pounding against my ribs. This was happening. No messing around. I didn't know whether to be scared or exhilarated.
My body chose an entirely different reaction. That guy's death was a moment Jay and I shared — a secret, a bond, intensely personal. Jay had chosen me to be the person he trusted enough to murder with. No deeper connection could exist between two people. We would always have it. He was mine now, and I was his.
My ears rang from the gunshot. Anyone on the floor would have heard — and maybe the floor above.
We waited, but no one came running.
"Leave that here," said Jay, pointing at the pizza.
I obeyed.
Jay sauntered into the brightly lit atrium, revolver up by his ear, shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. I followed. I sensed his heightened energy like an electric current flowing between us.
He stopped at the directory in the centre of the atrium and studied it quietly. I checked over my shoulder, wishing I had a revolver too.
"There," said Jay abruptly, making me jump.
He used the revolver to point to the north wing on the map. There, on the third floor, were the words Chemical Firearms.
"Chemical?" I said. "What does that mean?"
He waved his arms. "It's experimental science, Harley."
I followed him to the north elevator at a jog, glancing around.
"What do you do with a dead chemist?" he said, pushing the up button.
I shrugged.
"You barium."
I giggled. He gave me a sidelong smile.
"First floor, going up," said the elevator serenely.
We stepped inside. My stomach swooped as we rose.
"Third floor," said the elevator.
We exited to an empty hallway. Jay turned right and walked purposefully.
The door was, of course, locked. Jay flashed the keycard. The box blinked red. Jay tried again. Red.
"Blast," I said.
"My thoughts exactly."
Jay aimed his gun at the handle. I plugged my ears.
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The bullet ricocheted. He fired several more times in the same place. The handle snapped and an alarm started wailing, filling the hallway.
Jay kicked the door open. "Pick your weapons and let's blow outta—"
