Gotham Limericks

March 05, 2018:

Jessica Jones meets Harley Quinn outside Gotham's gates, and takes advantage of the opportunity to get a new perspective on her nebulous case.

Arkham Asylum, Gotham City

It's creepy and it's kooky?

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions: Spoiler, Batman, Joker

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

There aren't a whole lot of places near Arkham Asylum where one may conduct anything like decent surveillance. Jessica Jones has managed to make do with a large tree just outside the gates, so far from the main building that nobody in the place could really much make use of it.

She's trying to figure out an approach more than anything else. The edifice is so silent and forbidding that she already knows her chances of learning much more about the institution that serves as an apparent revolving door for Gotham's most colorful criminals (literally, in some cases) from out here are fairly slim. She doesn't understand why certain faces keep going there instead of highly secured prisons, or how they keep wandering back out again. She's already contemplating a pull of the court documents that would let her get a better sense of the decisions being made, if, indeed, there are any.

Spoiler made it sound like Batman just sort of kept saying, "Send 'em to Arkham again" and everyone just sort of agreed like bobbleheads.

This city really is insane. Maybe it's something in the water?

She's not exactly a usual sight, nor is she entirely hidden. It's dark, it's night, an unpleasant storm smells like it might be on the way, but there she is. Unmasked entirely, a dark haired woman in a black leather jacket with a purple scarf, black fingerless gloves, jeans and boots just sort of sitting in a tree, watching the place. She's got one leg propped up and one arm over said leg, and an expression of furious concentration on her face. In some ways, the hard-boiled private eye with her give-no-fucks attitude slots right into Gotham, slides right into the atmosphere without much of a problem.

In other ways? She sticks out like a sore thumb.

“And stay out of trouble, Quinn!” The call comes from the guard who carefully opens one set of gates and then another laughs from inside his little guard house.

The death glare that the blonde walking through—a tiny slip of a thing in black jeggings, a baby doll tee proudly declaring ‘I know you are, but what am I?’, and a pair of ankle high, heeled boots—gives him is one that is both potent and well-practiced. But she doesn't say much, only shoves her small, angry fists deeper into the generous pocket of her leather jacket.

It’s not a release Jones observes, with all of its carefully choreographed procedure-book-dictated ceremony. No, someone has been visiting.

More catcalling continues, but something has Harley Quinn—clown princess and former Joker hench wench to those in the know, although most are wise enough not to call her that to her face—in a downright foul mood. She extracts her one hand and thrusts it skyward as her head ducks lower, walking through the second gate out. Upon that fist: a defiant middle finger stabbing up.

More catcalls. Harley mutters more as she walks to get herself some distance. But then she notices Jessica sitting so prettily under the shadow of the tree on this, a lovely Gotham night. An eyebrow arches over one of her pale eyes.

“Enjoying the crazy show from the nosebleed section?”

The woman's tone is dry, but by the end it's tinged with a hint of outrage. And on Harley's behalf.

"Enjoying is so not the word. Are those guys always such assholes?"

If there is one thing that Jessica Jones immediately resonates with, it's shitheels giving a woman trouble. Especially the kind of trouble that comes with catcalls. Dark eyes flash and brows furrow as if she's thinking of stalking in there and giving them a piece of her mind.

But it's part of her puzzle, anyway. The guards at this place are apparently not exactly fine, moral, upstanding and professional people.

And if she does not, in fact, go charging in there to knock heads, the sentiment is still there.

"Jones," she says. "Jessica Jones, PI. I'm investigating the place."

It's not like she thinks Ms. Quinn is going to be an enthusiastic defender of all that goes on within, after all.

Are they always assholes? Quinn shrugs, although most of her shoulders’ movement is lost in the stiffness of the leather she wears.

“Depends on who’s on shift… and who you are,” she offers freely, tilting her head as she lets it fall backwards lazily to look into the branches. With the pigtails she wears, curled and tipped in bright dye, the movement looks exaggerated.

“And how much trouble you give ‘em durin’ yer sabbatical, I guess. Break a nose or two, and… well.” Another shrug. “Round and round, ya’ go. Some of ‘em ain’t too bad. Fer guards. …I guess.”

They just are few in her experience. Of course, she is conveniently leaving off some of the very relevant details of that soured relationship.

Harley scratches at the back of one leg with her boot, contemplative. Then, “So… a PI lookin’ this way… You a tourist or you actually got business in there?”

She has a lot of so-called friends behind the bars. She cares.

"I don't know anybody in there. Right now it's the institution I'm interested in."

Jones drops down from the tree, landing beside Harley. She smirks faintly at the comment about breaking noses, sliding her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. She tilts her head and looks for a tactful way to ask.

Sometimes she manages tactful, sometimes she doesn't.

"You been in there, in there?" she asks, with no particular judgment. It's not like Jess doesn't have her own brand of crazy, however currently under control it may be.

She has heard the name Quinn linked with this place after all. And heard a vague description of some of her activities. But this woman seems, on the surface, pretty alright right now, and, well. Jones is honestly less inclined to judge people's pasts than she might, on the surface, appear. Or even criminal acts, given her own sketchy relationship with both the law and law enforcement.

"Or just got people you see?"

“It’s a very interestin’ institution! Definitely worth investigatin’.” The questions put to Harley see the woman’s smile pull up askew, amused. “But yeah,” she says, unbothered by the inquiry. Perhaps it’s that lack of judgment that emboldens her, but she sounds vaguely proud as she continues. “I know that place like the back of my hand. S’why they don’t let me vacation there no more.” She pouts theatrically as she offers the thought.

Sorta kinda.

Her smile grows to bare teeth, although it’s not a particularly hostile one. A hand juts out to offer itself freely to Jessica, the blonde bowing ever so lightly as she offers more to the other woman with her Cheshire grin: “Y’might’ve heard of me!” Another note of pride as she chirps along. “Harley Quinn, atcher service. Nice to meetcha.”

"I have," Jessica agrees, taking the hand and shaking it just as freely. "It's nice to meet you, too." She doesn't bow, she's not so theatrical, but her grip is firm and friendly enough.

"So the place looks like a goddamn haunted house on steroids," she points out. "Not exactly like…I dunno. A bastion of modern psychiatric compassionate care." Because the more she's watched it, the more it's not just about corruption in there which might let dangerous people walk.

Which, of course, could include the person she's talking to, but something about her seems…maybe different? Jessica's gut, at least, warns her not to lump Harley into the same category as, say, the man she was purported to sometimes run with. She listens to it, even though part of her warns it's a reaction to finding something she likes in this woman.

She remembers when she didn't like anyone; it's very strange to notice liking people even now.

“Awwww,” Harley says, turning her curious gaze over her shoulder as she shakes Jessica’s hand just a few beats too long to be socially comfortable. It melts her smile. “Doncha’ worry ‘bout what she says about ya’, baby,” she tells the Asylum as though consoling a small child. “She doesn’t see yer charm like I do is all.”

Whatever vexation resided in her moments earlier has seemingly evaporated, and she bounces over the notes of conversation in an erratic and giddy cadence as she comes back to the conversation at hand. “It’s an absolute dive,” she tells Jones brightly once she turns around, “but if yer lookin’ fer some of the best examples of Gotham crazy—” the arms spreading wide show that Quinn counts herself among them “—there ain’t nowhere in the world that’s finer.”

A hand drapes over her clavicle as she continues. “Let me tell you, though, from personal experience: they have a serious problem with employee retention. They could really benefit from a proper employee appreciation program.”

Her nose crinkles as she rolls up onto the balls of her feet and then back down again.

“So, y’ain’t got a rewards program in that lousy job ya got? Ya make yer own. And the guards here have a really stellar program they built fer themselves, if ya get me.”

Her hands come up, fingers splayed by her mouth as she conveys a great secret of infinite pride: “It’s how I managed fourteen of the escapes and assists.” Then, lower, she reiterates in a whisper. “Fourteen.

"Jesus Christ," Jessica says, at the number, her eyes flaring wide. "Fourteen, seriously? So what, you just…bribe them or…?"

Is it a funding problem? Is it something the city knows about? The whole damn thing is Gotham crazy, forget the people in the asylum.

Jesus, if she gets arrested she's just going to tell Matt Murdock to try to get her sent here. Apparently it won't be hard to get out. Not that…in some cases she couldn't just. You know. Tap a wall really hard.

She looks and sounds impressed, and she is. Also deeply horrified, but she keeps that part hidden. This is definitely the type of insider information she'd hoped to gain, and Harley seems more than happy to talk about it, almost cheerfully gleeful about it. The PI is not going to look a gift source in the mouth.

Absolutely. It’s all in the plannin’, ya see. I mean, ya can’t bribe ‘em all the time to just leave the door unlocked or to take yer bracelets off fer a minute or two. Juuust long enough. Naw, sometimes it’s an extra blanket. Or the extra meal that yer roomie wants to trade somethin’ for. Some of ‘em are just idiots.”

A pause. A shrug. “It also helps when ya’ worked there and know where all the service corridors are, and the rotations.”

Fueled onward by someone who is listening and paying such wonderful rapt attention, the blonde clown just keeps on going.

“I heard I was responsible for several changes in the rotation times. Can you imagine? Changing a whole institution’s schedule, ‘cuz the dumb crazy blonde keeps makin’ ya? That’s the good stuff ya can hang yer hat on.” It makes her laugh. Loudly and gracelessly.

Jessica's lips twitch in amusement, at this bit about the stuff one can hang one's hat on. "Uh yeah, I'd say so," she says. "Damn, lady."

But something else has caught her attention. Harley Quinn worked there?

"What did you do when you worked there?" There as an inmate, patient, visitor, with catcalling moron underpaid guards who don't have enough benefits or give enough of a damn, or who might be half-crazy themselves from the environs. No wonder she spoke to the place as if it could hear Jessica's not-so-faint criticisms, as if it could get its feelings hurt.

But if Harley likes a rapt audience, well, Jones' fascination is growing by leaps and bounds.

And sure, service corridors and assists help explain a lot as well. She wouldn't have to bribe for an escape directly; she could make opportunities nobody would even know about. And of course, anyone she ever assisted would then start knowing the same information, at least about the corridors.

The lean Harley lifts up her hands to touch middle fingers and thumbs to each other in an oval. She uses said oval to frame her face, despite obvious cropping issues. “I was an intern, workin’ on a book. Woulda been published under Dr. Harleen Quinzel, PsyD.

A pause, and then Harley shifts her hands to settle her makeshift frame in a place centered over her left eye. It blinks once.

“Ended up gettin’ a change in perspective.”

Her frame is split as she reaches her arms up behind her head, holding onto her elbows and lazily stretching.

“Why settle for famous when you can be infamous?

Yeah. Because that’s why she left her career. The infamy.

Jessica can't help the way her eyebrows shoot up. Right into her hairline. As she tries to reconcile this bouncy, slightly-off-balance, criminal and/or former criminal with the glasses-wearing doctor of psychology she indicates. She tilts her head. She hadn't assessed this woman as stupid by any stretch, not with 14 escapes and assists behind her. But neither had she exactly necessarily mentally catalogued her as smart, the smoke-screens she's presenting are very effective in that regard.

And for some reason a change in perspective runs straight down her spine, icewater in verbal form as this woman lazily stretches before her, looking about three seconds away from turning a coquettish pirouette.

He gets into your head, Spoiler had said, and Jessica's stomach does a flip flop; it's a big leap to assume he got into Quinn's, and she reminds herself she doesn't know that, she doesn't know a damn thing, she is leaping to that because of trigger words like it, because of Kilgrave, because of her own experiences.

Maybe the only thing that got into her head was the place she was working. Maybe her head just wasn't screwed on that straight to begin with, because Jess has heard that psychiatrists often get into the business to try to resolve their own shit.

Instead, she resolves to dig into the woman this woman was, to find her papers or anything she might have published and read them, to find her drafts if she can.

This is not the need of a straightforward investigative line, but then, nothing about T'Challa's weird orders in regards to this city and its protectors are straightforward. Wrapped in poetry and metaphor, they have left one Jessica Jones to just sort of try to crack the nut and understand Gotham to the best of her ability, looking in whatever dark corners suit her fancy at this point. It's almost akin to going to Wakanda itself and trying to understand it, though in this case the place is foreign-yet-familiar. Almost a funhouse mirror version of the city she calls home. If nothing else, she intends to see how Gotham and its people tick to satisfy her own curiosity, and perhaps her own sense of justice and need to protect others, at this point.

After the initial reaction she shoves it all aside. "Would it bother you if I asked what the book was going to be about?" she asks, curious about this as well. Really, this is the best kind of person to talk to; she tolerates, incredibly well, Jessica's endless, perhaps even incessant questions, and every answer peels back new layers and rabbit warrens for the PI to go wandering down. And if it all seems to have less of a clear-cut resolution and 'end of investigation' point than anything else she's ever worked on, there is nevertheless plenty here to fascinate her.

“Not at all!” Harley exclaims amiably. Just as surely as she leads Jessica along the trail of her thoughts, Jones leads her, too.

It is so refreshing to have someone who wants to know about her. Who is actually interested in her, not…

“Extreme personalities. Was workin’ on my psychiatry degree, thought I could publish in a journal or two along the way, yanno? And Arkham… Well!”

Jones predicted the pirouette and it comes, Quinn’s arms wide with adoration and a ballerina’s grace. “Like I said… Ain’t nowhere finer.”

Planting her hands on her hips, the young woman continues admiring the foreboding gothic architecture and falls into what has been—so far—an uncharacteristic sort of silence.

—-

The uncharacteristic sort of silence serves as, perhaps, a warning. Jessica senses a precipice looming, a moment where she's about to trip into dangerous territory. She is no psychiatrist, and she suspects there are pieces of this puzzle that will be found in the other tools of her trade in regards to this woman. Still, Harley is right: Jess is interested in her, and for more reasons than one.

She regards the place in silence, with her, and considers her next line of approach. There is nothing more, she thinks, that she'd best safely ask about this place. It may be that she ends up following the trail of her curiosity into an orderly's uniform and a look for herself, but for now that's pushed aside.

Because she also has questions about at least one extreme personality, one that keeps putting people in this place when he knows damn well they're just gonna walk back out again.

She taps out a cigarette; she has been unable to resist them, and she's found if she spaces them out it doesn't really hamper her flight any. She silently offers Harley one, it's just simple courtesy as she digs for her lighter. At last she just lays it down straight.

"Batdouche seems like sort of an extreme personality." Unless something really drastic happens, and she meets this guy and her assessment of him as an arrogant, bigoted dickbag is reversed, he will just forever and ever bear that name to her. "Kind of ironic that he seems to like throwing people in there. Seems like he could use a tour himself."

She's not even offering that last opinion, as smoke curls around her face on a greedy inhale, out of any particular pretext. As best as she can tell his proteges are wonderful human beings, the two she's met, at least, and he himself has no other credit to his name than accidentally training some wonderful proteges.

She won't count Azalea Kingston; he left that young woman out to dry in every conceivable way as far as Jessica is concerned, something made all the more unconscionable if he was aware of the creeping malice of supernatural darkness coiled up inside the young woman's spirit. Jess gets to claim Az as her protege, thank you very much, at least until the moment she became…something more. Now Jessica, half the time, thinks she's more like Az's, but that's okay too.

No, her initial assessment to T'Challa (he's a dick), still stands, but that doesn't mean she doesn't want to hear a bit more from someone who will have a wholly different perspective than Red, or Spoiler.

Harley is a little more conflicted on the subject of the Bat, and it shows as a new wariness tints her expression when she half turns back out of her ever-darkening reverie to the investigator and waves off the cigarette. She then lifts her gaze skywards as a hand dives into and rifles around her pocket.

The Gothamite pulls out a large piece of grape-flavored bubblegum, unwraps it, and promptly shoves the chunk in her mouth. The sickly sweet perfume of her confection is an odd counter to the acridness of her interviewer’s vice, doomed to be swiftly lost beneath the cloying puffs of smoke.

It doesn't bother her, the burying.

Now, she chews like a cow—loudly smacking as she works her purple cud into place to be mauled by her back molars—as she continues, looking down at the toes she’s presently lifting in pulses. She carelessly rocks back onto her boots’ spiked heels and takes moments balancing on them. The Queen of Overshare seems fascinated by their descent into the dirt as they alternate driving down and widening the holes. Minute excavations and burrowings of endless interest. “Me and Batsy have an understandin’ fer right now,” she says more quietly, albeit not really quiet or subdued. “But we’ve got history, yeah.”

Jessica notes that conflict. Interesting. She also notes the purple bubblegum; people's preferences is sometimes a thing it's smart to keep track of. She moves so she's standing politely downwind of the lady clown with her secondhand smoke, the Marlboro's emissions drifting away so they don't mess with the candy.

She cocks an eyebrow, ventures a guess. "You're not running around and doing anything he'd feel he'd have to respond to, and he doesn't try to throw you back in there for round 15? Or somewhere similar?"

Why is it always Arkham? She really is going to have to dig into the funding and prisons and jurisdiction issues in this city to try to even get a handle on it, she decides.

"I'm not out to hurt anyone," she adds. Which is true.

Maybe a little debatable in the uneasy corners of her own conscience. She has no idea what Wakanda's king will do with any of this information. Which. Is why she won't return to him until she has an HD-clear picture of this place. Anything else really would be unconscionable. The man rips arms off when he decides he must. And the parameters which tell her he would make that decision are not always that clear.

But Sizani's panther-tooth necklace hangs at her throat. The oaths she took are oaths, and while Jess doesn't promise much in this life it has a lot to do with her taking promises so seriously. She doesn't break them, not if she can help it. She swore to act as an Agent of the nation, a place where she patently does not belong and yet sings to her soul, a place whose waters she has gently drunk from, bent her hand to the rivers without fear in honor of her sister's words, not as one born to it but as one who found a love for it.

But for the most part, anyway, it's true today.

Harley’s wry grin carries more weight than it should, twisting up in response to the arrangement with Batman. “Oh, honey,” she says, chuckling. It’s not a particularly comforting sound. “I don’t get to try for number 15.” She leans forward onto the balls of her feet, pulling her heels out of the mud.

“I’ve moved on to much better vacation destinations. Just go nuts, and they send you to all the best places, expenses paid.” It’s not always Arkham. Arkham is convenient, until it’s not.

She shrugs, and then her hands go back down into her pockets to stay as she chomps some more on her gum, hard. It’s desperately obnoxious.

“And it’s okay if ya hurt people. Sometimes ya get a choice. Sometimes ya don’t.

Jessica is immune to some forms of being obnoxious. She can be pretty obnoxious herself, when she wants to. Her smile is wry; she knows that pretty well, sometimes you don't get a choice to hurt, but it's true for right now.

But okay. So after a ridiculous number of escape attempts they apparently try something else. Yay? Jess still doesn't get it, so she leans against the wicked wrought-iron fence and takes a drag, then lifts her eyebrows.

"So this may sound like a stupid question, Q., but I mean…no offense, but if I were interested in shutting you or anyone else down, and I knew you could get out of there with one hand tied behind your back— maybe two— probably two— I think I'd have tried that one once. Maybe twice if I were hard up. But you went back way more than that. So how does that shit work? Someone got tapioca for brains, or are they just sentimental?"

“The first few weren’t fer me.

The words come quietly, and then Quinn narrows her eyes. “Are ya tellin’ me true, Jones? Ya really don’t know all this? Ya really ain’t from around here, are ya?”

Looking skyward, Harley stares there for a minute as she keeps talking and talking and talking. She bends knees and unbends, swaying this way and that as she continues absently stretching her limbs and chomping away.

It’s just so nice to be listened to, and it’s been ages since there wasn’t someone trying to fix her, not that they “fix” to help. It’s just a badge her therapists can wear, like their keycards. She wore a similar one, once. “Us loons… they don’t know what to do with us. Not really. So they keep us close for a while. Pet projects, stoolies, favorites. I mean, you get Mister Freeze in yer mitts and where do you actually put ‘im?” Another shrug. “Also, I’m pretty sure that most judges in Gotham are lazy slobs, so, there’s that, too. Maybe just as crazy as us. I mean, the definition of insanity…” She gestures for Jessica to fill in the blank, but doesn’t afford much time before she lifts her eyebrows expectantly and stares at the other woman. “Right?”

"From Hell's Kitchen," Jessica says with a smoky chuff of a laugh. "I've been in and out of Gotham a few times, got some friends here, but like any other tourist, I don't know shit."

She tumps a few ashes off, and nods her head in understanding. "Same shit, different day, thinkin' the different day is gonna get you a different result. I gotcha."

Corrupt and crumbling infrastructure, lack of understanding of what to do, some funding issues maybe…yeah. She's starting to see how this Cauldron of Crazy might have been born. If it really isn't something in the water. Something downright spiritual about the place, but then if it were spiritual or magical, wouldn't Zatanna be aware of it, with her desmenes right on Crest Hill, the way that it is?

"So what do you keep yourself busy doing these days then, Q?" She's not a shrink anymore, sounds like she's not a criminal anymore, so what does the lady clown do with her time? This is just real curiosity about the woman herself; it has little to do with Gotham or her mission here.

“I do like the rest of this city. I survive. Professionally. And stay out of trouble.”

Harley’s features for a brief moment are so solemn. So sincere and sympathetic. It was never destined to last.

She breaks the moment’s spell with a loud guffaw and a lazy, dismissive wave of both hands.

“Naw, I’m just kiddin’. I make plenty of trouble. But I do try to not get caught.”

As her hips bobble back and forth, forward and back like a rag doll, she fixes her wide-eyed gaze with a renewed brightness on the smoking brunette.

Inquisitive.

“Yer turn, Jones. Tit for tat. Why does a PI from Hell’s Kitchen give a rat’s patootie about anythin’ behind those walls?” A thumb jerks roughly over her shoulder to indicate the asylum.

“I mean, really. One of ours give ya’ trouble?”

Jessica finds herself laughing too; it was a good performance. Brown eyes sparkle in appreciation, and she takes another drag.

"Well, once, sure, but I didn't come poking at it. It was over a year ago. The Joker menaced my sister, but he also put my adopted mother on a collar and stabbed her, and since I legit hate my adopted mother, it was almost a wash."

She's 100% serious there. She is really not as strong on the morality scale as she'd even like to be some days. "Since he didn't touch Trish I decided why poke the bear? But in this case…I got a ambassador client with an embassy close enough to here, that it makes him nervous."

For whatever given value of nervousness T'Challa expresses, anyway.

"He asked me for…I dunno. A sitrep? To help him get it? To help him decide how likely he was to get a gas canister thrown over his walls? Honestly, I don't understand him for crap, Q, he likes to talk in poetic metaphors, practically in iambic goddamn pentameter, so it's sometimes a guessing game on what he actually wants. But I also owe him, so here I am, basically just…trying to get the picture I guess. Not exactly the most straightforward thing I've ever done."

She sees no need to lie about it, any more than she did to Spoiler, really. She only protects the identity of the client, which is pretty standard.

Her efforts to amuse appreciated and affirmed, Harley smiles brightly for it.

All is wonderful and gaily tinted, until That Name escapes Jones’s trap. And, compulsively and suddenly, there’s a sharp, if subtle, twitch of the blonde’s head as her entire being suddenly tenses.

Of all the places the conversation could lead, that was not the place that the clown princess was expecting. Her smile thins to a tissue paper fragility in an instant, superficial. Hollow. It retreats from her gaze, heralded by a laugh made suddenly nervous. It is degrees tighter, higher. Eventually, it quiets down a little.

“Yeah, Gotham, heh heh,” she deflects, laughing more. “She’ll keep ya guessin’. Good luck with that. Yer better off if ya just consider the unexpected part of her charm. Maybe you can tell yer guy in a limerick so he gets it?” She starts in a bouncing cadence demonstratively, “‘While once in the City of Gotham…’, yanno?”

She notices, and she decides not to address it. Nope. That's a hot button. Nope, nope, nope. But she couldn't tell the truth and not go there, sadly, so she did, if only for a moment.

"I'm not sure anything rhymes with Gotham. Except…I dunno, got ham? And that just leads to all sorts of weird places. Maybe…in a place called Gotham City, things were looking rather shitty?"

She just kind of keeps her own body language completely non-threatening. It's not that hard, if not much is known about her…she's tall but a slip of a thing otherwise, and it's not like she's that inclined to violence to begin with.

Better to pass it all off with a joke.

And to offer a card.

"Anyway. You've been pretty helpful, Q. Need a PI sometime, or just some help with various assholes, give me a ring."


The business card is taken between two fingers and then read, upside down. “Ha!” Quinn then lifts two different fingers - one from each hand - to come up on either side of her head, like little antennae, as she warns: “Don’t let the Bat hear ya’ say that. He gets territooooooorial.”

A pause, and then her smile fades. “Like, really. He’s the city’s biggest party pooper. Jes’ ask pretty much anyone that’s fun to be around.”

The card’s shoved into her coat pocket, and then she’s up on the balls of her feet a few more times as she wiggles her fingers in farewell. “Have fun stalking Arkham! If ya’ see any of my old roomies, tell ‘em I said ‘hi’, okay?”

That is not actually recommended. But Harley doesn’t really seem to acknowledge the reality that she is not universally beloved. It’s a flaw.

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