Harley's Escape:
Category: Uncategorized

The fluorescent lights of Arkham Asylum buzzed, a monotonous soundtrack to Harley Quinn’s fractured sanity. Ten days. Ten days she'd been locked away in this porcelain hellhole, stewing in a cocktail of rage and withdrawal. Rage at Batman, that sanctimonious bat-bastard, for putting her back in here. Rage at the Wayne family, those smug, entitled pricks who benefitted from his crusade. And withdrawal... from Mr. J. Sweet, chaotic Mr. J.

From her padded cell, Harley traced a lipstick-smeared Wayne family crest on the wall. "Oh, the Wayne family," she crooned, her voice a singsong rasp. "So high and mighty, so untouchable. Daddy's money, a hero's reputation… Wouldn't it be a shame if something… happened?"

Detective Harvey Bullock, GCPD

Bullock stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, the stench mingling with the cheap coffee clinging to his clothes. He hated Arkham. Hated the screaming, the staring, the feeling of crawling skin that always accompanied him inside.

He was here to interview Dr. Leland, Arkham's head psychiatrist. Leland had requested his presence, something about “unusual levels of agitation” from a certain Harley Quinn. Bullock knew the dame. Trouble with a capital T, wrapped in pigtails and smeared lipstick.

"Detective Bullock," Leland greeted him, his voice tight with controlled anxiety. "Ms. Quinn has been… difficult. She's obsessed with the Wayne family. Muttering threats, drawing disturbing images."

Bullock grunted. “What else is new? She's a psycho. A regular Tuesday for Harley Quinn.”

"It's more than that, Detective. She's… focused. This isn't her usual manic rambling. This feels… planned." Leland ran a hand through his thinning hair. "I think she's planning something. And I don't think it's going to be petty vandalism."

Bullock sighed. He had a feeling he was going to need a stronger cup of coffee.

Harley feigned docility during her therapy sessions with Dr. Leland. Buttering him up, playing the remorseful, reformed patient. The poor sucker ate it up. Slowly, subtly, she steered their conversations toward security protocols, weaknesses in the asylum's defenses. Leland, bless his naive soul, unknowingly provided her with the blueprints to her escape.

Her plan was simple: Escape Arkham, unleash a little chaos on Gotham, and find her Puddin’. She knew he was out there, somewhere, plotting his own brand of mayhem. And once they were reunited, Gotham would truly burn.

But first, the Wayne family. A little message, a little… reminder that even the wealthiest and most powerful were vulnerable. She envisioned a scene: a birthday party, perhaps, or a charity gala. Innocent faces, unsuspecting smiles. And then… boom. A clown-shaped cake filled with enough high explosives to level the block.

“Oh, Mr. J, you’d be so proud,” she whispered, giggling softly.

Bruce Wayne

Bruce stood on the balcony of Wayne Manor, the Gotham skyline stretching before him, a glittering tapestry of ambition and despair. He felt the city's pulse, its constant thrum of darkness. He knew villains like Harley Quinn were always lurking, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Alfred appeared behind him, holding a silver tray with a glass of scotch. "You seem troubled, Master Bruce."

"Just a feeling, Alfred," Bruce said, taking the glass. "A feeling that something is about to break."

He had received a report from Bullock about Harley Quinn’s obsession with his family. It wasn't unusual; he attracted the attention of Gotham's criminally insane like moths to a flame. But this felt different. This felt personal.

He took a sip of his scotch, the smoky liquid doing little to soothe his unease. He knew he needed to be ready. Harley Quinn, however insane, was dangerous. And she had a score to settle.

Harley Quinn

The night of her escape was a symphony of chaos. A well-placed scalpel "borrowed" from the infirmary, a guard drugged with a cocktail of stolen medication, and a whole lot of screaming. She slipped through the asylum's broken defenses like a ghost, leaving a trail of mayhem in her wake.

As she scaled the outer wall, a manic grin plastered on her face, she could almost hear Mr. J’s laughter echoing in her ears.

"Gotham, here I come!" she shrieked, the wind whipping through her pigtails. "Time to paint this town red!"

She knew the Wayne family would be expecting her. They were rich and powerful, but they were still flesh and blood. And Harley Quinn was very good at making flesh and blood… bleed.

Her first stop: Wayne Enterprises. A little surprise for the morning commuters. A few strategically placed explosives, a splash of green and purple paint, and a message scrawled in lipstick: "Ha Ha Ha! Harley was here!"

Then, the real fun would begin. The hunt for Mr. J. The reunion they both desperately craved. And then… the final act. A spectacle of violence and madness that would make Gotham beg for mercy.

The game was afoot, and Harley Quinn was ready to play. And she was playing for keeps.

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