Chapter Four: Reasons to Die

"A traitor," Mr. J muttered to himself, his fingers tracing the beautiful slice on her cheek. Nothing would prevent the sensation for either of them. Flesh against flesh. Neither had gloves, makeup, nothing to impede the experience. And Harley was as pliant as ever, a doll in his hands. He was careful not to aggravate the wound. No scarring. Part of the charm of Harley was the contradiction, or as she called it, the hellequin. Face of an angel, body of a demon. The story she once told him in the beginning. He would preserve that tradition in her honor. And when the time came to end her life, Mr. J would attempt to leave the face unscathed, depending on the method of disposal.

Her news held minor interest. Harley wasn't likely to succeed on the first try, Falcone was too stubborn, but she opened a window to no surprise. One reason to keep her around. If he had regrets, losing her skill set would be on his list. She did have an uncanny ability to get into people's heads and not only make them do what she wanted, but also make it seem like it was their idea. Loathe as he was to admit it, she'd done it to him back in the asylum, not even realizing how her tendrils had infected him. Subconsciously, she wanted Mr. J to break her. Enticing him with her blank slate, her control. How could he refuse such an invitation? And like she had done to so many others, the idea planted by her was thought to be his own. For a short time. When he discovered her unwitting deception, he could have applauded. Brilliant. She was a perfect tool to be used.

"He's got a lot of people around him, but only a handful would know his whereabouts at all times." Harley's eyes closed in rapture as he prodded her fresh wound.

Rats were easy to find. Every organization had one, whether they were chatting up the cops or working with rivals. Greedy pigs growing fat on their ability to bow and scrape. In a town like Gotham, they didn't last long, hands caught in the cookie jar, but each one always thought they were going to be the exception. Potentials passed through his mind at lightning speed, narrowed down to the base four of any organization. Dismissed the fourth out of logic and knowledge. Couldn't play both sides and get the desired results. The statistical odds lay with one of the remaining three.

Her eyes opened, twinkling with wicked thoughts. "But I was thinking the bodyguard was a good bet, or maybe his son? Or one of the girls at his club? Information is the name of the game for a decent whore."

Ignoring her incessant blathering, his gaze searched beyond the surface of her façade. She blinked up at him with her baby blues, waiting for an answer to her questions. There was something more behind it all. A tell. Harley's blinks became more frequent when she was hiding something from him. Blink. Blink. Too fast. Secrets.

"Anything else you want to say?" Mr. J inquired, his hand spreading across the width of her cheek.

The blood had long since dried, tiny flakes dancing along his fingertips like rust. In response, she turned her head away from him, his fingers falling away from her warmth. Avoidance, something Harley didn't do often, or very well. He drew on his well-honed patience, watching her, knowing the conclusion to this dance. Harley already knew she was caught, knew what was in his mind. Dangerous to have someone so close, that knew him so well, but also a help at times like this. Dangerous for both of them. In a moment like this, he would have enjoyed seeing from her mind's eye. Did her mind shy away from his keen insight? Did she revel in the attention or think of the corruptive moments of true pain that he could inflict with her silence? Was he a monster or a god? Or to her, was he simply a man? A man who pierced her heart a thousand times and could see the very essence behind her mask. Love. Sentimentality. That would be Harley. One of the best jokes in the world.

With a total lack of grace, she flopped down onto a comfy chair, her legs sprawled over one arm, head resting on the other arm. He didn't move, eyes following her, his silent presence capturing her attention, demanding the unspoken truths. Only one option for the girl. A swallow from her, followed by the usual internal debate, and then the inevitable conclusion. Wasting both their time with such antics when the decision had been made the instant he realized there was more to tell.

"Thomas tracked me down by Falcone's hangout."

He lifted an eyebrow. Something unexpected. Part of the allure of Gotham. Despite most being lemmings and predictability was the order of the mob, the occasional surprise was what he lived for, craved. A piece of random news, throwing the curve ball and giving him something new to work through. "And what did the little prince want?"

He had been wondering why Harley wasn't bathed in the blood of her would-be rapists, especially in light of the new marking that lined her face. Blurred the story of the aftermath without detail and detail was key. He chalked it up to her flaws, not giving him perfection, the disappointment she was. But with the note that Elliot made an appearance, it clicked the night together. Meeting with Falcone, followed by the attack with Tommy interrupting. Stopped her from killing or distracted her long enough for the thugs to get away. Her attackers got lucky.

"He's involved in something with Cobblepot." Absently, she scratched at her neck, her other hand tapping erratically on her stomach. Another tell for her nervousness. "He, uh, wants us out of the way."

A smile crossed his lips. For some reason, the scenario amused him. "Oh, does he? Did he say why?"

"No." A slight shift in her eyes.

"But you suspect something," he pressed.

Harley crossed her legs atop the arm of the chair. "It's Thomas," she said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "His entire life is focused towards one goal. The downfall of Bruce Wayne. I mean, he only targeted you because you prevented him from accomplishing that goal at the Harvey Dent fundraiser. He's vindictive, petty, and he will stop at nothing to bring down Bruce."

"Not exactly true," he said, moving to crouch down at her side. "He had enough evidence of your," he opened his eyes in mock shock, "scandalous affair with Bruce Wayne. But he chose not to use it."

During her time away, Harley had chosen to assist Thomas with his desire to bring down Wayne, starting with the famous family reputation. Again, utilizing her best attribute, she was able to get into the orphan's head, planting the seeds that Harley Quinn was yet another victim in the grand game of Gotham. Bruce had taken the bait and allowed her into his home, his life, giving her the opportunity to talk out all her problems, likely with the hope that he could convince her to turn herself in to the cops. Another bleeding heart. But it was merely a deception to get Bruce into compromising situations with a known criminal as well as tugging on his heart strings and making him care for Harley, so that when she faked her own death at the hands of Hush, Bruce would snap. Bring the killer out. A decent concept, if not for two big problems. One was Elliot himself, sacrificing her plan on the altar of revenge against Mr. J. The other was something Harley was entirely unaware of. The little things, the big things.

"Wasn't the point." She shrugged, dismissing any deeper thought like a child. "Why use them when it was all just a set up to get to you? They mean nothing."

Mr. J resisted the urge to slap her, wanting to knock some sense into that foolish head of hers. Blinders on both sides, a narrow path, only seeing what she wanted and not the whole picture. Pathetic. He stood and began to pace while rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand as he spoke. "Photographs of Bruce Wayne getting cozy with Harley Quinn. No, I'm sure you're right that it means nothing, and no reason for Dr. Tommy to send them to the press or anything. It wouldn't completely destroy Wayne's reputation to be seen with one of Gotham's Most Wanted."

"Not what I meant," Harley said, bristling at his obvious sarcasm.

"Care to elaborate, then?" He extended his hand in invitation.

"It's like this," she began, her head swiveling in his direction as she addressed him. "The thought was to bring Wayne down to our level. Get him rolling in the dirt, destroy his soul along with his reputation. Without that final act of him turning, the photographs are pointless."

His pacing ended at the arm of the comfy chair, his body hovering over her head, eyes scanning her reversed form. Blonde threads of her hair began to cling to the thighs of his black pants, a static effect. "Still damaging evidence and Elliot isn't one to waste a resource like that and you damn well know it." He bent over her, so his upside down face could fill her vision. "He was protecting you."

"Can't imagine why," she said, her blue eyes casting downwards to look at her body. More avoidance. "I don't give a fuck one way or the other if Gotham thinks I'm boning Bruce."

"Yes, you do," Mr. J said, placing a finger on her forehead and pressing down hard. She looked back up at him, her eyes brimming with epiphany from the unspoken words between them. Didn't need to be said. Mr. J was her world. Anything else would be a lie and that lie could not be tolerated anymore. Not even by her delusional side. It shamed her that Bruce Wayne knew her entire history, a tearful confession amidst her play-acting. All part of the plan. Wayne might have been discreet, not gone to the press, but he understood the why of Harley. Her past, her present, her decisions. That made him far more dangerous, because despite her focused conviction under Mr. J's control, she still clung to her wild uncontrolled side, the barest thread. Put that in Wayne's path and her world of Mr. J might crumble.

Another reason she had to die, as if he needed more proof.

A soft clearing of a throat brought him back. Lost, lost with Harley. Happened too often. She had that uncanny knack of pulling his full attention, causing the world to fall away, when he should be looking anywhere else. For a few minutes there, it was only him, Harley, and that damned chair. Only one other person could command his focus in such a way. And another reason added. Distractions.

"It's ready," a voice said, quiet, meek. Afraid to interrupt.

A turn of his head to scan the woman who had spoken. He rapped Harley's forehead with his fingers before he danced across the expansive room to his computer expert, Livingston. She rarely used her first name, Kristin, wanting to maintain a professional appeal to her many clients, and Mr. J respected that decision. Looking around as he walked, her apartment was an homage to all things electronic. Flat screen televisions fixed to the wall, three of them, a multi-taskers playground. The chair Harley was occupying sat in front of the TVs and her eyes were darting up to view the muted, closed captioned programming. A modern kitchen with all the latest gadgets. But the real focus of the living room was the large set up of computer equipment in the back corner. A large desk that wrapped around the user on three sides. Upright shelving that contained laptops, PCs, monitors, keyboards, each running scripts that he was unfamiliar with. The entire scene held beauty as this was truly Livingston's shrine.

As if paying homage to his thoughts, he noted Livingston seated like a queen in front of her computer bay, legs crossed daintily with a cigarette held between the fingers of her left hand. Her once-pink hair had been altered to a purple with black streaks throughout, hair pushed behind her ear to reveal the line of metal rings from cartilage to lobe. Skin-tight jeans, black tank top with no bra, nothing to hide the nipple piercings poking through the material. A flick of her fingers and the ashes of her cigarette landed in a skull shaped ashtray to her side.

Pointing towards one of her screens, she said, "They keep changing the codes but I've managed to back door a secret one that you can use at any time."

Stopping to the side of her and peering down at the indicated screen, he found in himself the desire to rip the girl's lip ring out, a ridiculous decoration. Violence would only beget violence and rile Harley up to dangerous levels. He could keep control when she never could. And Livingston was too useful to kill or main for entertainment. Annoying to replace her skill level. Years back, he saved her from an abusive father and she'd been working for him ever since, a debt never paid in her eyes. Her morals thrown out the window any time her survival was at risk. A perfect example of the grander message he was trying to convey, but if he showed her off, cops would descend too quickly.

His eyes squinted to read the screen in front of him. "Time frame?"

"If you don't let me know in advance that you're using it, I'll still get an alert once it's active," she replied. "I should be able to buy you some extra time, but I wouldn't think more than fifteen minutes tops."

"More than enough," he said, extending his hand out to Livingston.

She pulled a flash drive out of her laptop and placed it in his waiting hand. "Oh, and I got a message from your friend."

Harley, demonstrating her usual lack of attentiveness, had grown bored with the televisions and slithered over, folding her arms over the back of Livingston's chair. "And what friend would that be?" Her voice held a dark lustfulness, her eyes peering over at Mr. J, as if hoping for a new toy.

For her part, Livingston raised an eyebrow in query. Mr. J shook his head slowly, deliberately at the pair of them. Need to know and Harley didn't. More importantly, she'd fuck it up completely if she knew. Set assignments, that was the way to manage her. "Harley, go sit down."

A pout crossed her lips at his refusal. "The news is boring and repetitive, you know, since I already got the floor show on their top story."

Interest peaked. "Explain."

"Oh, some U.S. congressman died at Falcone's earlier. Heart attack. They keep saying he was the head of the transportation committee, which really just means he was selling his vote to the top bidder. Corrupt asshats." She waved a hand in dismissal. "I didn't think it was important."

Her flippant comment sent his mind into a spiral of fury, curbed only by the imagination that took over. All paths became clear, impersonal and private. Possibilities, infinite, beautiful, terror-filled. So many ways to die. Ways to kill. End it all, bring the thunder. Harley was destined to die but was this the perfect moment? Would her essence be accurately captured in this moment? Or was this to be a masterpiece played elsewhere, another time? His mind separated, flowing in many directions at once, the outcomes racing through his consciousness.

Freeze frame, slow it down.

Drawing the gun in his pocket, bullet speeding through the air, the bang too loud in the quiet of the room, drowning out the hum of the computers. The crowning shot to the head, her legacy preserved. Simple, fast, painless. Harley's dead eyes staring up at him, the surprise ever so clear on her face. Breathtaking artistry with such a basic statement. No, too sudden and not enough for her to understand. He needed to savor the moment and she needed to know what was happening and why.

Reverse, back to the moment.

Her flippant comment. Patience taking over, the eye in the midst of the storm. Waiting until they left, inside the elevator. Emergency stop, moving her to the wall, stripping the clothing off her body. Too many buttons, frantic groping. Giving her the final farewell that she would enjoy. Hands gripping around her throat as he took her to the heights of pleasure, strangulation as he originally intended. A change of mind. Snapping her neck upon his orgasm. Her body left for the doorman or Livingston to find. No, too mundane. It screamed banality and Mr. J was far more original than that.

Stop. Reverse.

Flippant comment. Gun again. A shot to the window, reminders of the past. Wind blowing in, too high up. One last kiss to bring her closer to the edge. Then, a simple push. No. Disaster as she grabbed his hand out of instinct, pulling him toward her. Trying to stay in place but gravity calls. The rush of air flipping his hair around as he witnessed her satisfied smile at getting what she always wanted. Together in life, together in death. The ground too close. Never this way. His death was destined for someone else.

Pause. Her face, so angelic with the sun shining upon it as she fell. No, this was not right. Reverse.

Nothing. Not yet, not now. Too soon. Plans had to be made. Waiting until the time when he could give her a real send off. Placing her in the correct line, the correct time. A warehouse. No, an apartment building. No, Arkham. Yes, too perfect. Back to the beginning. The connection made and severed at the same location. Harley would understand the irony. The entire place would become his newest piece of art. Explosives in the basement. No visual on the girl, none needed to imagine her body in flames, laughing as death took her, knowing Mr. J was her end.

Reverse. Back to the present.

His hand twitched and he let go of his inner restraint, moving to grab Harley by the back of the neck and slam her face into Livingston's desk. The skull shaped ashtray was knocked aside by Harley's flailing arms. The hacker choked out a surprised cry, before getting the hell out of the way, her desk chair flying backwards across the hardwood floor. Harley struggled fiercely, gaining leverage against his hold by pushing down on the desk with her hands. She should have given up, the idiot. With a snort of derision, he kicked her legs out from under her. Her knees crashed into the floor, a sickening pop audible through her enraged grunts. A shifting kneecap, one of her many flaws, would prevent her from moving until she jammed it back into place. Immobile and about to learn a lesson.

With her uninjured cheek smashed against the unforgiving metal of the desk, helpless, she snarled like an animal. "What the fuck did you do that for?"

Mr. J leaned down to her ear, his hand moving up from her neck to get a good tight grasp on her hair. "Didn't think it was important?" With a swift motion, he raised her head into the air and then slammed it back into the desk. "Not important?"

Her struggles ceased as the ecstasy of pain flooded through her. Shifting emotions, always in motion. Seconds, minutes, too quick. Agony to pleasure, anger to lust. A creature of desires never fulfilled. She was a magnificent experiment. Her breathing changed, deeper, drowning in the carnal impulses inside. He couldn't see her eyes but he knew too well the shrinking blue as her pupils expanded. She had lost the battle, giving in to him, as expected.

"Everything is important, Harley," he growled at her. "You never leave a single detail out." In truth, she was right. The congressman's death was nothing to him. She would be pissed to learn he had no interest in this matter. But she had failed to mention it, much to his ire, and that could not be allowed to stand. A point had to be made clear. No detail, no matter how small could be ignored. Too much happening. Anything could be linked. "Never. Understood?"

A pleased gasp escaped her. "Yes."

"Good." A question, that had lurked in the back of his mind since the previous night, floated back to the surface. "Now, while I have your attention, Harley, why don't you tell me your last thought?" His free trailed to the front of her neck to stroke the bruises there, stimulating memory.

The corner of her lip turned up. "Go to hell."

Not stubborn, not truly. She would break with the right actions on his part. Pleasure combined with strength often revealed the keys to her mind. He softened the grip on her hair, massaging her scalp. "You can't hold on forever, Harley."

"Probably not," she purred, the grin widening. "But I'll make you work hard to break me."

A rake of nails across the neck, drawing a hiss. "It wasn't hard the first time," he spoke in a soft tone. "What makes you think this will be any different?" His lips were pressed against her ear, words piercing into her.

"Uh, guys?" Livingston's voice broke their private moment. "I don't know if you're planning to fight or fuck, but can you please not do it on the desk? The equipment took a long time to get right."

Mr. J's eyes moved to take in the nervous hacker, a smile spreading across his face as he considered destroying the setup just for the hell of it. Harley, seeing her opportunity for escape, yanked downwards away from his loose grip, attempting to snake her body to the ground. Instinctive move, his hand tightened harder on her hair to keep her in place. But she was quick, a viper in human flesh, and her locks slid from his grasp, only a few yellow strands entwined with his fingers to mark her former presence.

His gaze shifted downwards as he debated whether to bring her back to heel, but she had understood his objective and he could always torture the other information out of her later. Below, Harley used her hands to twist her body into a sitting position on the floor, and with an annoyed look up at Mr. J, she jerked her injured knee to the side. Another loud pop echoed in the room.

"Ahhh," Harley sighed in bliss. "So much better. I like having working limbs." She stretched a hand out to Mr. J, a silent request for him to help her up.

He tossed her his usual 'are-you-fucking-kidding-me' look and stepped away, nodding to the hacker to indicate she should continue working. With a giggle, Harley hoisted herself off the ground, brushing her pants off. Livingston pushed her chair back into position, her eyes darting anxiously between the deadly couple as if waiting for them to start fighting again. With a shaky hand, she righted the ashtray and repositioned it, brushing ashes off the desk, careful to move them away from her equipment. Nervous, jittery, Mr. J understood why the girl hardly ever left her condo except for supplies and the occasional craving for human companionship.

Livingston was sheltered, always had been. Started with daddy dearest and then became a permanent mark on her spirit. As a result, the violence of Mr. J's world rarely penetrated her cocoon of isolation, even though she knew damn well that her inventions and intel killed many people in the end. She'd seen a few things in her time, but avoided as much as she could, each act leaving a psychological scar and adding to her desire to be a hermit. Behind the plastic of her computers, she saw the results of her work but allowed none of it to touch her. It wasn't real until it was up close, as she had found out. And here in her tower, she could deny her collusion.

"Harley," he commanded. "Go tend to that." He shook a finger at the cut on her cheek.

"Bandages are in the bathroom, down the hall," Livingston offered.

Harley narrowed her eyes in suspicion, but wouldn't test the limits of his patience when it came to her lack of submissiveness so soon. Mr. J didn't want her around and she knew it. He stared her down, making his intentions clear, and with a roll of her eyes, she sauntered down the hallway. Smart girl. Livingston waited a moment for the sound of the bathroom door closing. Then her fingers moved deftly over one of her keyboards, typing faster than his eyes could track.

A couple of seconds later, a screen displayed a decrypted message. It read, "Meet at third location. Usual day and time."

There was no name. Not anymore. Not since the first transmission. There was no need to compromise identities. Only Mr. J, Livingston, and the contact knew about the arrangement and it was best to keep it that way. The risk was high if anyone discovered the intrigue. He had no reservations of Harley's loyalty if she discovered the truth. Girl had little facts trapped in that brain pan, far more than she should and she'd die before spilling. No, the concern was that she'd want to assist, lending her helping hand. That was where it could fall apart. Manipulations and misdeeds destroying his carefully constructed foundations. Harley was closer to the situation then she realized and her emotional volatility could wreck everything.

"Should I send back a confirmation?" Livingston asked, looking up at him. "It's kind of short notice, I know, with it being tonight. But it could be important."

Mr. J frowned. It could also be nothing. Wouldn't be the first time his contact merely wanted to be in his presence, soak up the vibes, and get reassurance that this was the correct path. Indulgence was granted to keep the relationship alive, but with the events that had already occurred in the evening, he desired the chance to work through the pieces Harley had given him. Same time, the contact could provide further information that would illuminate the tricky parts. The answer was apparent.

"Set it up," he said.

Livingston nodded, typing quickly, her purple hair seeming to bounce in time with her finger motions. "If you get anything new, you can have Doc drop it off tomorrow." The words were non-nonchalant but the meaning was anything but.

The thought brought the smile back to his face. Doc had become fixated on Livingston over the past few months. When he had free time, he'd park on the street by her building hoping for a glimpse of his new paramour. Rare with her reclusive lifestyle. Mr. J didn't care to find out if Livingston knew about Doc's stalking, but it was likely she'd caught him on one of her many surveillance sweeps. Since Doc discovered his "love" for the hacker, he hadn't come up once when he'd drive Mr. J to her condo, too anxious to be in her company. He preferred admiration from afar. Livingston's suggestion would force a confrontation. If Mr. J had more time, or more interest, he might have probed further to see if she was about to snap from Doc's behavior and shut him down, or if she had her eye on the mad man in return. He did tend to attract the crazies so it wouldn't be a revelation.

He nodded acquiescence to her proposal. Business was done. Flash drive in his pocket, a guarantee for the future, and a meeting for midnight. Annoyed that Harley didn't anticipate the end of their visit, he strode down the hallway to the bathroom, opening the door without knocking.

"We're going." His eyes had to adjust to the brightness. It was a basic guest bathroom with nothing fancy, but the white tiling and blinding lights created a white room feel.

Standing in front of the mirror, Harley was in the process of cleaning the wound, a tissue and some peroxide in her hand. Her blue eyes darted to his reflection in exasperation. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Mr. J, it's been two minutes since you sent me in here. This shit takes more time than that."

Every so often, he found her mouthy retorts charming. This was not one of those times. He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her towards him, uncaring as the bottle of peroxide slipped from her grip and spilled on the floor. "Now."

Surprised by his sudden action, she stumbled into him, showing her clumsy side once more. Her free hand slammed against his chest in an attempt to steady herself. When she looked up into his eyes, she beamed at him, unable to help the joy and love she felt in his presence. He'd call her emotions pathetic but they were her groundwork and the source of her usefulness. Allowed him to mold and craft her into something worthy. And even though her value was coming to a close, he'd nourish her addictions to the end. The look of bewilderment, followed by acceptance, would be his reward for patience.

Her fingers clutched the material of his t-shirt, gripping it tightly to pull him down for a kiss. Though, it seemed she was demanding, she gave a light tug to seek his acquiescence. He permitted the gesture, granting her the right to let loose her instincts and indulge her need for affection. Her lips were moist, hiding the slight chapping due to chewing on them. The slight hint of blood from her cheek wound touched his tongue. Contrary to any novelist's poetic prose, there was no definitive taste to a person. No cinnamon or emotion or flowers. Whatever crap they make up to create romance. Reality was far harsher. Mr. J could always taste the decay behind the disguise of toothpaste, breath mints, garlic, whatever. It was the essence of every person. That delightful decay. He didn't hide his rotting core. Harley sucked it in every time she placed her lips against his, a willing slave to his blight. And he reveled in her desiccating atrophy.

The kiss was brief but Harley kept her lips close to his as she spoke. "What would you do without me?"

An unanticipated question, though it didn't seem random. He wondered what thoughts were playing themselves out inside her head, and if she had somehow become privy to his own. "Be less annoyed by stupid questions." he responded.

She pulled back further, her eyes moving slowly over his bare face, taking in the crinkles, the scars, the color of his flesh. "Don't be purposely obtuse, Mr. J. You know damn well what I mean." She extracted her wrist from his earlier hold. "No Harley around to give you a way to release all that tension. I'm not talking about fucking since you can do that with anyone. But those women wouldn't be able to understand why you do what you do, or why you do it to them. Not like me. There are no replacements."

She released the grapple on his shirt, trailing her fingers down his body, softly stroking the scars she knew lurked underneath the thin material. "So, knowing that, what would you do without me?"

Mr. J stared hard at her, unsure of how to answer for once. The question had merit and that troubled him. With all his musings, he had yet to consider what life without Harley would evolve into. While he had functioned well prior to their meeting, some aspects of life had become much easier with her around. For one, her daredevil nature meant that no job was too risky for her and his work could be done without leaving a trail of dead henchmen behind. She had no compunctions about using her body to get what she wanted and would kill with little provocation or remorse. Intelligent enough to grasp his desires and not ask too many questions. A tool but by far the most useful.

Yet, he was loathe to admit, she was more than that. Harley held significance, not just as an achievement to his manipulation, but as the beacon of what he was striving to create inside each individual. No, there was even more. Not the physical. Her screams were entertaining, especially when they came from a place of fear or true pain. Infrequent for her, but others could provide that amusement if so desired. And sex was sex, nothing new. With her, though, it held creativity which spurred his mind into new directions not considered. A muse of sorts. He pushed beyond the surface and look deeper. In the darkest parts of his mind, Mr. J could see his tears, her arms comforting. Those times never truly existed. But they did. Harley embodied trust and undying loyalty. She would give up every part of herself rather than give up the secrets whispered in the dark. She was the other half to the whole and other such sappy, romantic crap. For a brief moment, he could understand it.

That tiny spark flared up for the second time. Emotion. Reminding him of the danger that Harley posed. Another reason. He pushed that wretched feeling down while simultaneously pushing her physically away from him, as if her mere existence was setting his body on fire with bitter pestilence. The corner of his lips turned up, his tongue tasting the inside of his cheek as she worked to maintain her balance. Harley returned his stare, unafraid, silently requiring his answers. He was more than happy to oblige.

"I'd move on."

In the silence of the bathroom, he could almost hear her heart break, a beautiful mental image. The energy changed and a sorrow took hold of her insides, filling him with satisfaction. Her face didn't show this but her eyes were desperately trying not to fill with tears. Deplorable emotions, useless and foolhardy. Mercurial insides, shifting, changing. Mr. J didn't contain his urge to mock her openly for her display. His cackling laughter filled the tiny room, only further shaming her for asking such a question. She would never do so again. Never invoke that spark inside of him, twisting, gnawing.

As he exited the bathroom, his laughter still echoing against the tiles, he said, "If you're not downstairs in five minutes, you can walk home."

Five minutes later, he started the car and left. No Harley. Annoyed that she made him wait needlessly when he could have been moving, always moving, getting the work done. Yet another reason. Harley, it seemed, was making his decision easy. Still, he needed to work through the how and when, but the why was shored up. With Livingston's building becoming a ghost in the rearview mirror, one thought was resolute in his mind. Sooner was better than later.

"If you're not downstairs in five minutes, you can walk home," he said.

Harley heard him but she wasn't listening. She was inside her own head, going through the answer to her question. Unbeknownst to Mr. J, she'd asked him the very thing that haunted her mind before he almost killed her. What would he do without her? The thought that he'd been so insistent to learn. And if he had figured out that she'd given him those words, he would have said, thrown it back in her face. He didn't know. One-up on her lover, for once.

Unfortunately, his snide answers didn't give her the peace she was craving. She watched his face as he thought about it, mentally rolling through all the ways that she affected his life, the good and the bad. But in the end, he gave her a biting retort. It pained her to hear him bat away her serious question. The words didn't matter. It was his blatant dismissal. A disregard for her, completely. For a short time there, she had begun to believe they were equals, or the closest equivalent to Mr. J's viewpoint. Any such thoughts were shattered tonight. Equals knew what was important to each other.

Leaning down, she picked the bottle of peroxide off the floor and set it on the sink, tossing a towel over the spilled contents. Harley could have cleaned better but it wasn't her house and she didn't give a shit. Livingston could deal with the rest. She meandered out of the bathroom and approached Livingston, who was in the process of lighting another cigarette.

Livingston seemed more at ease with Mr. J gone, her personality and energy changing, and she glanced Harley, her eyebrow raising in question. "Not going with him?"

"Fuck him," Harley said, with a smile. "I'd rather hang with you."

"Don't put me in the middle of any fights you have going," Livingston responded, taking a drag off the cigarette, the smoke clouding the room. "I value my life far more than yours."

A bitter smile. "Then we have something in common." Harley leaned against the desk, mindful of the fragile computer equipment behind her. "You ever want to quit?"

"Smoking? Who doesn't?"

Harley laughed. "No, I mean quit working for Mr. J."

Livingston leaned back in her chair, turning it slightly to face Harley, her brown eyes thoughtful. "Once. Only one time that I really considered it."

"What happened?"

There was a slight pause, eyes glazing over in memory. "It was before his first major spree here in Gotham. He needed me to design a remote detonator, accessible via a phone call." Another drag. "Wasn't the first time he had that kind of request. So when I finished it, I met him to deliver the prototype as usual, and he had this guy with him. Marshall was his name. Nice bloke. He'd been with Joker since the beginning of his planning."

Harley rolled her eyes at Livingston calling him Joker. Someone who worked so closely with the man should have had something better. Doc called him "boss." Harley called him "Mr. J." Livingston didn't need to resort to using the media's nickname. At the same time, if Mr. J never gave her a name, Livingston wasn't the type to rock the boat and make something up. Then again, with her computer skills, she might have gotten curious and discovered his real name and was taking pains to keep her knowledge secret. As much as Harley wanted to pry open that brain and dig out the secrets, she figured that was a conversation for another night.

"I explained how the trigger worked and how to attach to a bomb. Simple delivery mechanism but some complicated software so it needed some testing and tweaking. And he-" Livingston inhaled her smoke slowly, a counter for her nerves. "-he took it from me, handed it to Marshall, who walked it over to what I assumed was a controlled blast area. Nothing but the explosive that I could see. Marshall started attaching it and that's when I noticed Joker pulling out a phone and entering in a number."

"The number for the trigger?" Harley asked.

Livingston nodded. "It took me a moment to understand that but I figured he was just readying himself for the test. Across the warehouse, Marshall shouted that he thought he had it. Joker didn't wait for him to clear the blast radius. He just hit send and watched Marshall blow to pieces." Her face was blank as she spoke, as if reliving the shock and horror all over again. "It was close enough that some splatter hit us. Pieces of Marshall. And then Joker turned to me, that sick smile on his face as if he got off on my reaction, and said 'I'll take three.'" She shuddered. "Yeah I wanted to quit."

"But you didn't."

"No, but I made it very clear that he wasn't to bring me around that stuff again. I'll help but I don't want to see the results." She held out the cigarette to Harley, who in turn took a drag before passing it back. "I know, I know. I see it on TV but it's not the same as real life. I'm sure you, of all people, get that."

"Yeah I do." Harley smiled. "But I got desensitized early. You witness a few more Marshalls being blown sky high and you'd get there too."

"I don't ever want to get there." The hacker pulled a keyboard onto her lap. "So, why did you really stay here? I doubt it's for my amusing anecdote. And if it's for sex, you're S.O.L. because I've seen what you do to your lovers. You're like a praying mantis."

A shrug. "I usually don't bite their heads off. Not into Hannibal Lector-ing them." Harley stuck out her tongue, scrunching up her face in disgust. "But yeah, you're right. I was hoping you could do me a favor."

"Depends on the favor."

"Can you track down what Thomas Elliot's been up to lately?" Harley asked.

"You mean this?" Livingston opened a file cabinet drawer inside the desk and pulled out a large manilla folder. Harley's eyes widened in surprise which only made the hacker smile wider in pride. "After that whole deal with him earlier this year, I figured you or Joker would eventually ask for something like this. Early bird and all. I set up a program to track him. It covers all the basic stuff, financials, work reports, any time he's pinged one of my systems, but it's not super in-depth. One pager every week, essentially. If you need more information on any item, let me know." She handed the folder to Harley.

Harley opened it, glancing through its contents. Exactly as Livingston said. "Damn, you're good."

"I know."

With Mr. J gone, she had become cocky, a hint to her real persona. So scared of what Mr. J would do when in reality, the bigger monster was Harley. Livingston may have seen proof but she was a woman who had to witness it with her own eyes. It was tempting to think of what she could do to the skinny woman, but she kept in check, Mr. J's mental voice telling her no.

"Thanks," Harley said. "There's one other thing. I want to know who Mr. J's contact is."

"Oh, hell no," Livingston said, crushing out the cigarette. "If he wanted you to know, you'd know."

Harley smiled, pushing off the desk to kneel in front of Livingston in supplication. "Please?" She put her hands together in a pleading gesture.

"No amount of prostrating will help you, here, Harley."

"I need this, Kristin." Using her real name was a risk but Harley wanted to establish kinship between them, make her more pliable. "I need to prove that I can be trusted with this kind of information and not say a word, then maybe he won't do this anymore" Her fingers brushed her throat, an attempt to use her bruises for her own gain. "Maybe he'll see me on the same level and start treating me better." Harley willed her eyes to water a bit, to sell the abuse victim story.

Livingston sighed, a sign that she was softening to the feminine plight. "If he finds out-"

"I promise," Harley interrupted, "he'll never know you told me. I'm good at keeping secrets."

A pause from the hacker as she pondered the situation, tapping her nails against the keyboard in a bolero rhythm. "Alright, alright. I'll help you this once. But this better not come back to me."

Harley nodded solemnly, drawing a cross over her heart. "Hope to die." Sucker.

Livingston typed a few commands into her computer, pulling forth a file. As soon as the opening image popped, Harley instantly recognized Mr. J's contact. Her eyes widened in amazement, not expecting such a huge betrayal. It explained so much of what had been happening in the city, and her own part in the chaos. And slowly, she began to put the pieces together, seeing the past, and what the future might hold if the path was steered correctly.

"Holy hell," she said in awe. "Gotham is fucked."

Livingston could only nod in reply.

No light except for the moon. His contact shied away from the light like a vampire. Understandable, considering her history. Mr. J stood at the pier, watching the river roll in the light breeze. Though his mind was constantly working, there was a sense of calm to be found with the lack of distractions. Only the buzz of white noise, humming of electrical lines, the occasional car passing near. Rare times to be alone with his mind. His fingers strummed against his lips, considering the many options that lay before him.

He wore no makeup. Not for this occasion. Bare skin kept the connection, allowing for the so-called human condition to take its course. Clothing was loose, black, blending in with the darkness. Multiple exits and the river for cover should anything go awry. The dirty river water could give him cancer but he doubted he'd live long enough to be a bed-ridden geriatric with no teeth, crying out in pain. No, if Mr. J had his way, his favorite knight would see to his ending long before then.

The sound of a car. Lights illuminating the wooden boards of the pier and casting his shadow against the water below. He didn't turn, waiting for the engine to shut off, headlights to dim. Only when the night was still again did he push away from the railing and walk towards the car. Big grin settling on his face. Unnatural but the role had to be played and he could be the finest actor. The car door opened, interior lighting for a brief second to brighten the figure shrouded in black. Head covered with a low brimmed hat that concealed the face. The shape that exited the vehicle was feminine, hips swaying back and forth as she approached him.

Gloved fingers rose to her head, gently removing the hat and exposing her to the darkness, a comfort for someone with her condition. Very few could look at her without flinching, the skin on her face horribly disfigured from burns and failed attempts to use skin grafts to cover the worst of it. The lid of her left eye drooped permanently, eyebrows missing. Her nose was intact, if pinkened from the scarring. The fire had changed her facial frame and she looked alien to many eyes, which was why she wore the hat and continued to wear the shoulder length wig. The shadows were her ally and her only true companion. Except for Mr. J.

Before he could speak, she wrapped her arms around him in a big hug, her face pressing against his chest. "Oh, Jay. I missed you."

With a smile, Mr. J returned the affectionate gesture, his arms circling her frail frame. A soft kiss to her head in greeting before he stepped back with his wide grin. "It's good to see you, Sofia."

The scarred skin that surrounded her mouth cracked as she raised her lips in an unnerving attempt to smile. Mr. J didn't fault her. It was the best that Carmine Falcone's daughter could manage.

A/N: I hope the content of this chapter more than makes up for my longer-than-usual absence. I'm going to try to update more frequently, but I'm not promising anything. It's more important to me to product high quality work. In any case, lots of things happening in this chapter, big reveals, and some things that will come into play much later in the story. I hope you all enjoyed it. Cheers!

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