HOLY FUCKING SHIT! CHAPTER FIFTY!!! We have come so so so far...I don't know what to say other than THANK YOU 🙏🙏🙏
*cough* now, on with the story!
***
Managing a sniffle of 'good morning', the blonde slid in to her seat at the kitchen island, head ducked, nose pink. Drawing her rugged locks about her face so as to attract the least attention possible (a fruitless endeavour), the once boisterous, animated character was reserved to no more than a shameful recluse, begging to be hidden from the limelight she once basked in.
Wide, cautious eyes darting to the digital clock resting on a nearby counter, she releases a shaky breath. Drawing the borrowed cardigan tighter about her battered frame, the woman lifted her head like a kicked puppy, her unstained, split lips forming a natural pout.
She observed the two seated opposite her with childlike fascination, her eyes following their every gesture. Subtle glances. A light nudge of the shoulder. A lifting of the corner of the lips. Easy, free-flowing conversation.
They were an elegant pair: both of them harsh lines and practiced poise, carrying unnerving airs of regality that the lady was unaccustomed to. Something lay behind their simple, yet inhumanly graceful, movement: something disconcerting; something fascinating. Something that made her eyes not want to leave them, lest this strange spectacle escape and be lost forever.
They felt like...more. Like with each move -each manoeuvre- their muscles were laughing at the idleness of others. Like the flick of a finger, or the raising of a mug, held more power than the united roar of a crowd comprised of the entire human race.
In a single glance at her, the two had proved themselves to be as unnatural as the woman had thought. His eyes...her eyes...the woman had never seen those shades -and she'd seen her variation of eyes, gauged out the most unique of them with her bare hands.
Without a doubt, they were two of the most enchanting creatures the blonde had ever come across.
Then again, that could have been the mere musings of a deranged woman, holding no merit to them whatsoever.
"Ms Quinzel,"
Harley fixed her state on the man who'd spoken (an elderly fella with an English accent, dressed to the nines) not knowing how to respond. That was her, wasn't it? Ms Quinzel? Huh, Harley- no Harleen- Harleen Quinzel. Dr Harleen Quinzel.
Me! Oh, that's me, I'm Harleen. Dr Quinzel. I-no Harley Quinn, that's who-NO, wait-
"Would you care for a cup of tea and a slice of toast?", the butler offered.
Surprised to find that she still had a voice, the blonde croaked an, "Alrighty...if it ain't no trouble..."
Face marginally creasing, the man's lips lifted (a smile, a good smile), "I assure you ma'am, it's no trouble at all."
Unbeknownst to her, the two majesties opposite had been watching the exchange, the purple-eyed one with empathy, the green-eyed one with keenness. They had a conversation before-hand, in the confines of a bedroom, about Harley's state of mind, exercising all their talents in human analysis to decide whether she could be trusted.
Robin and Raven (and everyone else in the house for that matter) would find no issues with her. Her mind was an electric band. It could be stretched and stretched and stretched, but eventually, rubber bands snap.
And Harleen had snapped something awful.
***
"Where is he?!", the Redhood growled, fists glinting in the pale lighting, spiked knuckle-dusters finding their mark.
"Answer me!"
BAM!
"Answer me!"
BAM!
"ANSWER ME!"
A sobbing, bloody heap, the man spat a globule of red saliva to the floor, a chunk of tooth flying with it. Breaths breaking through his shattered chest his half-formed sobs, the man pleaded to whomever in the sky would want to listen to the prayers of a cheating, lying, thieving scoundrel.
"I...do-don't nnn-know...please...mmmmmercy- AAAAAH!-"
Red sprayed the room like morbid graffiti. Gruesome artwork that people in white coats holding official badges would later hope to decipher the meaning of.
Blood dripping off the metal decorating the Redhood's knuckles, he knelt, lips curling beneath his mask.
"For the last fucking time, you son of a bitch, where's the Joker?", he dragged the man up by the sweat-slick hair on his head. "Don't fuck with me, I'm not playing. And with those broken teeth, I don't think you want to be eating your own junk."
The man trembled, not speaking.
Jason yanked his head up, forcing the man's eyes open, "Spill you motherfucker, or your guts will. WHERE IS HE?!"
A bloodier fist later and the man spluttered for all he was worth.
"Down...t-town...the-the-the old pppplace...d-don't kk-kill-"
The Redhood unclenched his hand. The man hit the floor like a plank of wood, chest heaving with white splinters protruding from his sides (ribs so far broken, they had slashed through his flesh, spewing gooey crimson mess over the already unsanitary floor).
Having taken what he needed, Jason rose, striding to the door, leaving the man in a sorry pile on her floor. As he passed the threshold, the Redhood turned, changing his mind. With a twisted grin plastered to his face, he withdrew a gun from its holster, firing a single, satisfying round.
The bullet punched the man (a recent accomplice of the King Clown) but it didn't kill- nor did Jason intend it to. He just watched. For seconds. Minutes. Not an hour though. As the man bled to death, slowly but surely.
Gun warm in his hand, Jason slipped from the building, leaving behind a bloody carcass, takin with him a solid scrap of information.
Downtown. The Joker's old hideout.
***
"No word of Jason?"
Dick shook his head in response to Batman's question, munching thoughtfully on a sprinkled donut. Forehead lined and still dressed in his officer's uniform (he'd just finished a quick shift), Dick stared at the wintry scene out of the window, wondering how they spent New Years Day in such a panic.
No one knew where Jason had run off to; Tim had left without a word, though the Young Justice had called within a few hours to reassure that he was with them; they had a dangerous madwoman living in the manor; and the Joker was on the loose.
Dick tuned back in to reality as Raven entered the living room. Closely followed by Damian. And Jon. And Adyn. And Donna. And Stephanie. And Cassandra. And- oh, you get the gist!
Befuddled, Dick took a sceptical chunk out of his donut, eyeing the group warily. The last he checked, no one had announced any kind of meeting for the manor residents- yet here they were.
"Wha...?"
"Look,", Bruce stood straight, addressing the room as he would the Justice League, "There is something that has to be dealt with. A matter we cannot pass over. That is, of course-"
His introduction was interrupted by the panicked voice of one Harleen Quinzel as she barged in to the room, bandaged arms raised, "Alrighty, alrighty, I get it. I know what's comin' so spare me the grief, I'll go!"
Harley's eyes welled as she proclaimed to the large group, arms waving, "I know, I'm damaged- no one wants damaged! Heck, there's enough of ya in here ta take the government! One more's too much. I'm a hassle. So I'll go, I'm sure some a' my old friends 'll take me in. Ya've been too good, but I'll be on my way."
Concluding her monologue with trembling lips, Harley un-scrunched her eyes, wincing at the group before her.
Puzzled beyond comprehension, Dick have another, "Wha-?"
(Sorry, I couldn't resist 😉)
Before Bruce could issue a perplexed stamens proclaiming, 'What are you talking about?!', the living room doors swung open. The merry whistling that issued from the room's newest occupant dwindled as she overlooked the congregated individuals.
"Hey, no one told me there was a-", the black-haired beauty froze, seductively slanted eyes widening like a cat's in street lights.
Tentatively, the feline female pranced forwards, nose scrunched like a panther sniffing the rainforest air. Keen gaze pinning the woman standing before the large group, Selena Kyle tilted her head, fine brows arching.
"Harley...?", sensitive eyes noting the pale, shimmering lines streaking down the blonde's face, Selena's face relaxed and warmth flooded her aura. "Oh, Harley."
With that single, heartfelt phrase, Catwoman enveloped Harley Quinn, takin her in to her arms in an embrace as familiar to them as breathing. Selena hadn't gotten word of Harley for many a month, and when, at last, she did, what she saw broke her diamond-encrusted heart.
Something had shattered Harley from the inside. She'd gone over the tipping point. Someone had pushed her one too many times.
And Selena figured that someone was The Joker.
That son of a bitch had slandered, tortured, raped and beaten Harley for years on end. And she'd survived. Selena and Pamela had seen Harley through the worst- when she'd been reduced to an insane mess of babbling nonsense; when Harley had been beaten within an inch of her life; when she was trained to no more than a common prostitute working for the sick pleasure of Gotham's filthiest. And those two had helped her climb out of the gutter.
Inch. By. Inch.
Selena was forced to watch as The Joker shoved his 'love' back in to the sewers over and over again. This time, however, Harley might be of two extreme situations: eternally drownings in Gotham's waste; or free from the infested sewers of despair.
Whilst the two were caught in their longing, sisterly embrace, Bruce had made plain to the others, with a single, commanding look, that they ought to make themselves scarce. One pro of working in a superhero team is that you eventually learn to follow orders (even if your name is Damian Al Ghul Wayne) hence, the living room was rendered vacant bar three people: Bruce, Selena, and Harley.
Releasing the blonde from her grasp, Catwoman lightly squeezed her shoulder, and attempt the instil confidence in the woman.
"There's clearly much that we need to discuss,", Bruce shattered their moment, "and there's no time like the present."
Exhaling with a heaving chest, Selena released, "Please, just tell me what happened, Harley."
***A***Later***Time***
***The***Blue***Dragon***
Damian regarded his glass with distain, swirling about the amber liquid with contempt written in his eyes. Narrowing his eyes in contemplation, the ex-assassin considered allowing the bitter liquid to taint his throat and burn a tiny, figurative, hole in his chest.
It would somehow be worth it, he conceded.
That was the issue with whisky concocted by Dark elves. And their beer. And vodka. And any other form of alcoholic beverage. They were crafted too brilliantly. Just searing enough not to be scorching, just bitter enough not to be unsavoury. Damian would never allow the contents of human liquor to reach his lips- he wouldn't stoop so low- only Dark elvish, possibly Dwarvish. An odd preference- not as odd as him drinking in the first place, but odd enough all the same.
Human spirits were...impure. And they didn't nearly have the impact that Dark elvish spirits had. The balance of the Dark elvish drinks had been so perfectly stabilised and interweaves with pure, undetectable ribbons of magic, that they only were intoxicating if one wished them to be so.
Besides the intrigue of Dark Elvish practices, Damian liked the taste.
Raven, on the other hand, much preferred Dwarves' mead. A strong, sweet drink, enjoyed once by all manner of godly creature before the division between Light and Dark. Dwarves' mead was a drink that carried the weight of thousands of years in a single, honey-like sip. Like all other Dark intoxicants, if one carried any shred of magical blood, the results of drinking it were up to the drinker- from having no damaging effects after fifty tankards full, to falling in to a hallucinogenic fit after a single gulp.
Azerathian cloak hanging from her shoulders (its ends almost meeting the floor), Raven sat with her legs crossed on the bar stool, a mug of the Dwarvish drink squatting on the counter. Besides her lounged the green-eyes demon, playing with the golden liquid glinting in his glass.
Shaping the atmosphere of the preternatural hangout, a sensual Elvish melody issued from hidden speakers. The sound surpassed any created by humans: a blend of serenity, despair and provocation. This mirage of emotion (conveyed through the siren-like hums of Dark Elves and their trance-inciting instruments) brought those writhing in the sweaty mess -of bodies swaying- on the dance floor to tears whilst inspiring a surge of sexual greed.
Escaping the influx of aroused preternaturals, a man (rather boyish actually) chucked himself in to the seat besides Damian, casting its previous sitter to the floor. As the floored individual rose to challenge the newcomer, the youthful man shot him a dark-eyed glare in warning. Naturally, the hierarchy of preternaturals prevailed and the shamed person (a Dark shifter) slinked off, head ducked.
Snorting his amusement at the man, Damian raised an eyebrow, "How mature of you Jackson, truly inspirationally powerful of you."
Raven leaned forwards to add her input, "Quite so. You are certainly honouring your noble family name."
Jackson waved them off with a toss of his tight curls and a flippant wave of the hand. His eyes- coloured like his hair: sooty black- met those of his companions.
Subconsciously rubbing the angular tips of his ears (an indicator of his Elf heritage), Jackson posed to the part-demons, "Why did you want to meet me?- not that it's a bad thing of course, I haven't seen Raven in a long time. But it's a little odd." He snickered, "At least they've finally decided to let me back in here- I had to sign an official contract not to drink aged Elvish wine though...sheesh..."
Fast forward a few friendly jibes and personal insults (the standard comments) and three finally reached the topic of them contacting Jackson.
"You will have heard by now that we're looking in to the Council,", all three showed faces of distain at the mentioning of that organisation, yet Raven continued, "we believe that your talents and connections could be of use in this situation."
The half-Mage furrowed his brows, black, intelligent eyes processing the pros and cons of taking his fellows up on the offer. Jackson would have to assess the full extent of what he would be doing, however, he wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to strike the Council- gods above and below knew he'd suffered enough at their 'blessed' hands.
Lips twisting in a sly, Damian-worthy smirk, Jackson explain as much to Damian and Raven, concluding, "It would be more than my pleasure."
Satisfied, Damian tipped the whisky glass back. A minor victory, it was. The two part-demons were a step closer to wounding the Council, the ends would tie up soon.
A.N:
Hello my lovelies!
WE HAVE REACHED CHAPTER FIFTY!!!
Fuck.
That's incredible.
You guys just...shit...thank you. Thank you so much.
I've already expressed to you guys how much you've help me through dark times, but I just can't show enough gratitude.
I can't do anything but thank you all for supporting me, and thank God for all that I have.
Oh, and in other news, today (13th December) is my birthday! So that's nice- I got pyjamas! 😂
Ugh...I've rambled like a bloody idiot, but I think you get it.
Just...yeah...thanks ever so much!
-Batool ^-^