Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: This story is set during Chapter 17 of my story "Repression." If you have not read this story, I highly recommend doing so, to help you understand the origin of my version of Harley Quinn and her twisted relationship with the Joker.

Chapter One: Losing Control

The forecast called for a moonless night in Gotham. Business was rarely done at night anymore but when it was, the looming darkness that encapsulated the city was the perfect cover. However, the snow had just started to fall, blanketing the streets in white and creating a strange pink glow in the sky. As the glimmering flakes fell to the ground, they reflected against the unending lights in the city, turning the night to a stunning, perpetual dusk. Harley Quinn looked up to feel the cold snowflakes drop on her bare cheeks, sticking out her tongue to capture a snowflake on her tongue with a smile.

"Isn't Gotham beautiful when it snows?" She said to the empty street, shrugging when she received no reply.

Turning her face back to the entrance of the building and rapping loudly on the door, Harley tipped her head upwards, idly wondering how best to set the structure on fire. She pushed back the thought, knowing Mr. J wouldn't approve of it. It was the first time he'd sent her on a solo mission, and this deal was too important to cancel on account of arson, but she imagined the flame would have been stunning, licking up the side of the building. She could see herself dancing through the fiery ashes of the building, feeling the heat against her skin as embers collapsed and burned. A laugh bubbled up from her as she shook her head. No, Mr. J wouldn't approve at all.

Unlike her boss, her lover, she didn't feel the need to dress in uniform every time she went out, not that she was allowed out often. Harley Quinn didn't need an iconic image to intimidate. Despite her public persona of extreme violence and destruction, amongst the criminal circles, she was just another piece of ass, a woman to be used and eventually discarded. It was one of her best qualities, Mr. J had said, to be both dangerous and underestimated. Tonight would be no different. Her clothing was basic black, concealing the repugnance of her battered and scarred body from prying eyes. An ankle-length trench coat covered her tight-fitted clothing, turtleneck, pants, gloves and her long bleach blond locks were pulled into a ponytail that sat loosely at the nape of her neck. Harmless to the casual eye.

The door opened and a balding man poked his head out, "You Harley Quinn?"

"No, I'm your mom," she retorted, snidely, shifting a heavy briefcase from hand to the other. "Now let me in. It's fucking cold out here."

Baldy stepped aside, waving a hand to the interior in permission. She had no doubt he was checking her out as she passed, her hips swaying sensually with each step. Just another piece of ass, she reminded herself. No danger here. Another out of the blue laugh escaped her lips, making the doorman pause to stare at her. The look on his face saying that he wondered about her sanity. She could prove him right by gouging out his eyes but she refrained for the time being, remembering Mr. J's warnings as she left. Harley did not want to go through his punishments again. The moron didn't know how lucky he was.

The entrance led to a good sized warehouse floor, large painted pillars floating upwards to connect with the metal girders at the roof. Brightly lit, fluorescents hanging from the rafters. A large 18-wheeler truck cab was in the corner near a loading dock, dry. No snow. It had been here awhile. Pallets of what she was assumed were auto parts or truck parts had been lined up in a pattern around the room, some labeled with names of people, likely workers unassociated with the gentlemen she was here to meet.

Four men stood by a large desk towards the back, talking amongst themselves, only looking up when her boot made a squeaking noise against the floor, tiny amounts of water dripping from the soles, melted snow. Baldy was right behind her, she noticed when her head turned. That made five. Her eyes cautiously looked around for any sounds or signs that anyone else was present but nothing caught her eye, so she leveled her eyes on the men in front of her.

It was obvious who was in charge of the group when he looked her over, as if appraising her value. "Ah, Harley Quinn, welcome," he said, with the hint of an Italian accent. His dark hair was greased back and he had the olive complexion of someone of true Italian descent. An air of cologne came off him, musky and foul to her nose. He was stocky, some added girth around his waist, a glimpse of an expensive watch glinting from under the cuff of his expensive three-piece suit. It was clearly handmade just for him as it looked fantastic on his frame. The man had style, she had to give him that.

"Thank you," she said, smiling pleasantly to him. The other men in the room were not dressed as well. Suits bought off the rack, signs of thugs. Lower paid lackeys. They were at ease, currently, not seeing a threat in her, but she knew if she exhibited any of her usual behavior, they would have no problem dropping her.

"You got the information?" She addressed the stocky man in charge.

"So rude," Stocky said, shaking his head. "You didn't ask for an introduction to me or any of my boys. Women, these days." The boys laughed with him as he leaned down onto the desk, grabbing a small flash drive off the desk, waving it at her before putting it back down.

"Names get people in trouble," Harley said, ignoring the sexist remark and walking over to the desk. "That way, in the case a certain Bat swoops in, I can't identify you." It sounded logical enough to her. Honestly, she just didn't care who these guys were. Mob was mob. They were all the same worthless stains of existence, only useful from time to time.

"You're a smart girl," he looked over to his guys. "I heard she was smart. Carmine speaks highly of her."

Placing the briefcase onto the desk, she smiled. Dr. Harleen Quinzel had been Carmine Falcone's psychiatrist after a run in with the Scarecrow created a schism in his mind, a psychotic break that was fear-based. Suffering hallucinations and night terrors, he was near catatonic when she first started treatment with him, whispering the name of his tormentor. But slowly over time, due to a lot of medication, his mind began to repair itself. She found she liked the old man. His demeanor and brutal honesty reminded her a lot of her father.

"How is Mr. Falcone doing?" Harley asked sincerely, opening the briefcase to reveal stacks of twenties and hundreds inside.

Stocky leaned down to pick up a stack, looking through to assess its validity. "He's doing good. Enjoying rebuilding the business, I think, now that he's out." Carmine had escaped during the riot that was created in her honor, a distraction for Mr. J to free her from the lie she had once lived.

"Are you related to him?" Always good to know who she was dealing with.

"No, just another businessman looking for opportunity," he replied.

"And he certainly offers that." She leaned against the side of the desk. "Let him know if he has any Scarecrow problems in the future, he can contact me." Harley licked her lips, remembering the night of the riot. The way Crane's blood trickled down his pretty boy face as she cut into him. He had screamed oh so beautifully, a hidden opera singer within, belting an aria of pain. "I'd love to help out with that particular problem."

"I will," he had stopped looking at the bills and instead was watching her, interested, as her energy changed. Her smile had changed from business to near predatory as she entertained the thoughts of what she could do to Crane should they cross paths again. Her movements became more fluid, her eyes flashing to yet another emotion, unable to stop. The desire to inflict pain, create suffering was nearly overwhelming. Almost enough to break the leash that Mr. J had on her.

Her lion was coming out, but Stocky wasn't scared in the least. Instead, his eyes began to match hers, his own predator resonating behind the cool businessman exterior. Not as fierce or uncontrolled as hers but it was there, waiting to strike. Harley should have seen this coming and mentally berated herself for losing herself in her thoughts again, knowing all too well that her own desires could bring out the dark urges in others, like moths to flame. He would burn if he stood too close to her, but Stocky didn't know that. He merely liked what he saw in her and wanted to consume it. Harley could see it in his eyes.

"This isn't enough," Stocky said, dropping the bills on top of the briefcase. He hadn't counted, they both knew that. Wanting something more, he nodded behind her and she felt Baldy grab her arms tightly, forcing her wrists behind her and twisting her arms to near unnatural angles.

"It's what our bosses agreed on," she insisted, not feeling an ounce of fear, her energy changing again. The dull pain caused by Baldy's rough treatment was pleasant enough, causing her breath to hitch. "Don't do this," Harley said, trying to hold on to the last ounce of Mr. J's control of her, knowing that the moment she gave in to her insatiable desires, she would be taking so many steps back in her training.

Stocky took a step towards her, a hungry smile crossing his lips. "Things change and I want a little more."

Baldy's hands squeezed her arms again, making her gasp as the pain hit her pleasure centers. She gave up, letting her instincts take over, no longer caring about the repercussions of her actions. The metaphorical collar around her throat was removed and Harley reveled in her emotions, her urges, wanting everything all at once. Her eyes flashed to lust as she twisted her head to look at the bald man holding her. "Not nearly tight enough, there, tiger. I can still feel my hands."

"Oh, so you like it rough," Stocky said, reaching forward to touch the side of her face.

Harley turned her eyes back to him, feeling her body tingle with delight. "Do you know why Mr. J keeps me around?" She pulled away from Baldy, just a little, to get closer to Stocky, her voice a sweet siren of passion. "I'm a complete nympho. Anytime, anywhere, any position." A knowing smile creeped onto her lips as he nodded to Baldy. The grip released from her arms. Time to play with her meal.

She sat on the desk, spreading her legs in invitation, crooking her gloved finger to Stocky. The lackeys watched as their boss accepted, moving into position between her legs. Her lips automatically going for his ear as her hands roamed his chest and sides. "I will make you scream for me to stop."

Harley couldn't stop the smile that spread across her lips as she grazed the hard mass at his belt. She licked his ear, making him moan against her cheek as she grasped the one thing she needed, pulling it out of his pants, swiftly. He gasped as she yanked but she quickly silenced him with a hard kiss, grasping his head, roughly, with her free hand, preventing him from crying out. Her eyes never closed, instead, seeking out the very excited eyes of his boys. Baldy wasn't in her line of vision.

It happened in the blink of an eye. The kiss, the look to the boys, and her firing three quick shots into the lackeys, from the gun she took from Stocky's belt. He pulled away from her roughly, only to have her clock him on the side of the head with his own gun. He went down, unconscious, leaving her body exposed to the one enemy still standing.

Without hesitation, Harley rolled backwards, across the width of the desk to land behind it as gunshots followed her motions, clipping the top of the desk where she had been. Baldy was certainly quick on the draw. Four down, one to go. Having assessed her surroundings, she swiftly moved behind a large pallet before Baldy could get another shot off. It took everything inside of her to stop herself from laughing with her excitement. The night was turning out to be far more entertaining than she could have dreamed.

She could hear Baldy's heavy breathing. He was out of shape and clearly a heavy smoker. His light wheezing was booming in the silence of the warehouse. Quietly, stalking around her pallet to another one, she listened for him and his location. A deadly game of hide and seek. Not too far away from her. Too close for comfort. Carefully, she slid between two pallets and crouched down, hoping the darkness of her clothing would blend into the shadows between the large objects.

A moment passed and she saw his foot come into view. Harley breathed lightly, preparing herself to move quickly out of the way if she was discovered, all her weight pressed onto one foot. But Baldy walked right past her hiding spot without even so much as scanning between the pallets. Carmine really had to get some smarter lower-tier lackeys if he wanted to stay in the game. Flowing with assassin stealth, she came up behind Baldy. She had no intention of shooting him. Up close and personal this time. Her hand dug into the pocket of her trench coat, pulling a blade. The anticipation was building up inside of her as she crept towards his figure.

Her boot squeaked on the floor again.

Time stood still for her as she watched him turn. Both their guns came up at the same time. A standoff as they stared at each other. Baldy was sweating, nervous. She was smiling, entertained. "First time a girl ever got the drop on you?" she asked him, a taunt in her voice.

Baldy sneered, his voice gruff. "I've still got a gun pointed at your head."

"Not for long." And she gave him the most unnerving smile she could muster. The one that set Gotham aflame when she tortured the police commissioner's wife on camera two months ago. Nothing natural about it.

For a moment, nothing happened as Harley continued to grin wildly at Baldy, but after a moment, she saw her opening. His arm drifted slightly to the left, no longer aimed directly at her heart. If his finger twitched, it would no longer be a fatal shot. Without hesitation, she squeezed her trigger. His body dropped like a stone in water, no jerking finger on his own trigger, creating a sense of relief and disappointment inside of her. It'd be so long since she last felt the harsh agony of a bullet inside her but she also knew that Mr. J would be pissed at her if she got herself shot.

Crouching down, she picked up Baldy's weapon, tossing the other one aside, and sauntered back to the Stocky, who was just beginning to regain consciousness. She snatched the flash drive from the desk, tucking it into her pocket and sat back down on the desk above him, right where he last saw her, aiming the gun at his head. His eyes cracked open and after the usual minute or so of confusion, he glared at her.

"See, now, this is what I don't get," she said, amiably. "Your boss and my boss make a deal. And then you try to change it, why? I know my tits are spectacular but, seriously, are they worth your life?" She pushed off the desk, keeping him in the sights of her gun. "I'm not just any girl, you know. I belong to Mr. J and he's a very possessive man. Imagine what he'd do to you if he found out what you tried."

A groan from the floor next to her feet made her pause, seeing one of the lackeys moving slightly in a pool of his own blood. Tilting her head to watch the motion, Harley idly wondered how long the goon would live with the gaping wound in his upper chest, piercing the lung. His ragged breathing, gasping, brought her a sense of joy, like staring at a beautiful piece of art. But her impatience took over and she shot in him the head, the loud crack of gunfire whipping through the air. With practiced motion, she did the same to the other two lackeys near her feet, just in case.

"How rude. I hate being interrupted. Where was I? Oh yes. Of course. Mr. J." She glanced down to see the open briefcase on the floor, stacks of bills scattered around it from when it fell off the desk. "But I'm not going to tell him what you did, sweetheart, because your inability to keep it in your pants allowed me to have a hell of a good time." She waved the gun towards the cash on the ground. "Now go, take the money, and tell Carmine I said hi."

His glare never wavered off her. "You think I'm scared of you or that clown freak that you fuck?" His accent became more prominent as he sat up.

Harley laughed, the shrill noise echoing through the warehouse. "You're a fool if you're not. Don't think for one second that I wouldn't flay the skin from your body" To emphasise her point, she waved the knife in her left hand. "One tiny strip at a time, your screams only exciting me further as you beg for death. I could pluck those pretty eyeballs out of your sockets, watching the tiny trickles of blood stream down your fat cheeks. And that 'clown freak I fuck' would watch, laughing with me the entire time, as you plead for your pathetic existence."

"You're one fucking crazy bitch" Stocky said. She continued to keep her gun trained on him as he stood fluidly, dusting off his suit in the classy way that only Europeans could pull off.

"I'm not crazy," she said. Her finger squeezed the trigger a final time, a mark appearing in the center of his forehead. His face betrayed no surprise, merely a sneer of superiority, as his body collapsed to the concrete of the warehouse floor.

"I'm free," she said to the corpse, laying the borrowed weapon on the desk with a sigh.

The sound of someone clapping ripped through the warehouse, followed by a distorted, twisted laugh. A sound that tightened her body and made her smile, despite herself. Harley wanted to be pissed, wanted to scream at him for not trusting her to handle the transaction on her own. But the laughter that never seemed to end as it floated through the warehouse space filled her with a sense of peace.

"A wonderful show, Harley," Mr. J said, as he stepped into her view, the greasepaint of his makeup reflecting against the florescent lighting of the room. The painted red smear that followed the lines of his Glasgow smile only emphasized his frown more. "But you lost control."

His rough voice didn't betray any anger, but she could see it behind his eyes, as he stepped closer to her, moving around the bodies and blood that littered the otherwise pristine floor. The sweep of his purple coat, the fluid nature of his movements reminded her of a shark as it scented blood. Danger, destruction, all part of his very core. Harley loved it all.

"So you would rather I had let them fuck me?" she asked, casually, as he moved within arm's reach of her. She lifted her chin to look him in the eyes, ignoring his mask of war, the black, red, and white, seeing past it all. "Let them run their hands all over my body? Feel my scars, break me, use me?" Harley felt the lust rise in her, taking a step forward to grasp Mr. J's vest. "I would kill a thousand men to ensure only you can touch me."

He lifted his own hand, covered in a purple glove, lightly stroking her face. "I know you would, Harley," he said, his fingers lowering to her neck. "But it never should have gotten to that point." The uncaged predator inside of him took hold, suddenly, as he grabbed her by her throat and pushing her backwards until the desk stopped the momentum. She expected him to squeeze, but he merely held her there, picking up the gun she left on the desk, pointing it at her head.

"You lost control," Mr. J repeated, pushing the heated metal against her cheek, still warm from her last kill.

Beyond the point of no return, their fates intrinsically linked. Mr. J could easily kill her right now and be done with her. And just as easy, she could take the blade that still rested in her left hand and stab him in the heart. No second thoughts by either. No regrets. A deadly dance that both of them enjoyed, wondering if the other would take it to the next level. But the truth was that neither of them could ever kill the other. Not because of love or trust, but because the empty place, left by the death of the other, could never be filled by anyone else. And they both knew it.

Their eyes met, the spark of excitement coursing through both of them. With a smile, she twisted her head so the heated barrel of the gun touched her lips. Not hot enough to burn, just a slight discomfort that sent a shudder through her body. Not looking away from Mr. J, her tongue darted out the lick the hard metal, tasting the sulfur and oil that coated its surface. Harley pushed against his hand at her throat to take the rough cylinder into her mouth, fervidly, licking up and down its jagged surface, sensually. She observed his gaze drop to her lips as she sucked the barrel into her mouth fully. One small jerk of his finger and her brain matter would be dripping off the pallets, but that possibility only added to the eroticism of the moment.

"Christ, Harley," he said, a fever in his eyes as he sighed her name, his hand releasing its grip on her neck. "What am I going to do with you?"

She pulled away from the gun, licking her lips, the foul taste of gun oil. "Whatever you want, Mr. J."

Dropping the gun back on the desk, he stepped back from her, extending his gloved hand to her. Without hesitation, she took his hand. With careful steps around the slowly expanding pools blood, he led her back to the entrance. "You will not be eating tonight," he said.

Her punishment, Harley knew. As soon as the words left his lips, she felt her hunger rise, stomach rumbling. Damn him. He knew all too well how to manipulate her and make her suffer. She looked over at him with doe eyes, innocent and wide, hoping to change his mind. "But Mr. J…"

"You heard me," he said, cutting her off. "Be lucky that's it. Or did you want to spend more time in the basement?"

"No," she said, quickly, looking down at the floor as he opened the door. Playing the submissive for him, as he needed her to be. Harley was an alpha female, no doubt, but she would always bow down before him, her savior. Once upon a time, her life had been about control, to prevent her from going off the deep end, from enjoying her destructive impulses. She was the embodiment of the psychological concept of the id. The part of the human mind that is ruled completely by instinct and desire. And her iron clad lock on her mind started to fade the moment she met Mr. J.

He offered her a better way, a better life. No more waking up in the middle of the night, hearing the screams of the innocent people she sent to their graves. No more worrying each day that she would lose control and go on a rampage that would destroy her soul. He offered her the control she needed, to stop her when she couldn't stop herself. With his grip firmly around her mind, she could let go of it all, and simply float on the ocean of existence, tethered only to him. Harley loved him for it. And she also hated him because her myriad of emotions wanted to lash out without his interference.

Rock and a hard place. Her head was a brutal place to exist.

As he sauntered out the door, she followed, the cold blast of air hitting her face and chilling her to the core. "I wouldn't worry about what happened, Mr. J," she said. "We got what we needed."

Mr. J stopped, looking around, holding a hand up to her to indicate silence. Harley became instantly alert, glancing around her. Mr. J was right. The night was too quiet. The taste in the air didn't feel right. Someone was watching them. Someone with malicious intent.

A movement from the corner of her eye was the only warning she got. For reasons she didn't entirely understand herself, she flung her body in front of Mr. J, shielding him from whoever waited in the dark. A gunshot rang out, the crack echoing against the surrounding buildings. Delectable agony flooded through her and Harley looked down to its source. Below the edge of her belt, above her bikini line. Blood flowed out of her, dripping from her lower stomach onto the whitened sidewalk. The red made a pretty design as it expanded, euphoria filling her as the intensity of the pain wracked her body with pleasure.

Harley smiled and looked up to the shooter, not quite seeing a face as her vision blurred. "God, aren't you're a crap shot," she said and laughed, the sound muffled to her ears.

A second later, she collapsed to the pavement.

A/N: If you have read my first story "Repression", this story is set after the shooting of Barbara Gordon but before Harley is sent to Arkham. If you have any questions, comments, or feedback, please review. Thanks!