Leaving Arkham
Harley bounced from foot to foot, her pigtails bobbing in time with her step. Her orange jumpsuit was a little baggy, and the fabric added an excellent shifting rhythm. She hummed a series of random tunes, blending in and out of songs as she remembered different ones. The effect was adequately pleasing, and she was more than willing to keep it up all day.
They were letting her out!
This was gonna be fantastic. Harley was gonna do things, and do them right. No more mischief, no more stringing civilians upside down and sticking bombpies in their faces. She had some money tucked away in an account from an old heist with red; using that cash would be her last crime. She'd get on her feet, find a job in a department store or something, and get herself a guy who could tell a few jokes. Not a lot, just a few. Just right.
The large lady returned behind the counter with a plastic container. Like tupperware. If it were filled with a casserole, it would take a week to eat, and Harley was sure she'd be sick of casserole by then. So it was just as well that there was no casserole. The lady handed the box to Harley, who opened it eagerly, tossing the lid aside. She gave a little squeak of joy, and lifted out a pink dress. She'd bought it on one of her less successful releases (with her own money! She'd been trying to go straight for quite some time, now), and the price tag was still on it. The Asylum had provided a change of underwear, hoes and shoes, and though the shoes were a shade of violet that clashed miserably with the dress, Harley gave the lady a grin and said "But it's the thought that counts, right? I wonda if it was Mistah Wayne that bought it. The cutie was at my hearin'. I thought he was somethin' of a creep, but he turned out to be awful nice. Nah, couldn't've been him. He knows ladies, he'd have much more sense. I'm just on the lookout for a new guy, y'know? It gets too lonely in here, and this gal is-"
Harley could easily have chattered on for minutes, but the discovery of another outfit underneath the dress cut her off short. A velvetty combination of red and black fabric caught her off guard.
"What gives?" She asked the lady behind the counter. "I thought we didn't get our old costumes back! I mean, lookit the thing! It's bad for rehabilitation, havin' it around."
The lady narrowed her eyes, and responded "It's not my problem."
Harley looked irate. "Listen, I need to talk to the supervisor. They can't go around makin' mistakes like this! You're enablin' a relapse, here!"
She dug through the box, looking through possessions. "I mean, the whole thing is here. There's a note reinstating my license to practice medicine...and I think I see my popgun, too! That thing is dangerous! I'm not aloud to have weapons; I could get in serious trouble if they find me with it!"
The lady, who Harley planned to downgrade to "woman" as "lady" seemed too kind, shushed her, and pointed to the box. Harley got to the bottom, and found a thin, folded piece of green paper. Even through it, she could see that the writing was purple.
"Uh-oh."
The woman gave Harley another mean look, and she unfolded the letter.
Harl,
Congratulations on your appeal! I can't tell you how happy I heard that they let you out on your own. Great job, kiddo. It puts you in an even better position to help me with some business. Come on over to the old jellybean factory, and we'll celebrate. Paint the own red. And green. And orange. Whatever, Gotham could use a bit of color to cheer it up, don't you think?
-Mr. J
Harley's hands trembled. She murmured, all words but one caught in her throat. "Puddin?" It was so easy. She could find an internet cafe someplace, do a search for directions, and it was only a matter of time before she was back in his arms...
"More like a matter of time before I'm back on the streets! Or before I'm back in this joint!" Harley cried. "No way! No way I'm lettin' that slimeball dupe me again! I'm on the up and up! Bigger and better things, baby!"
She didn't look so assured. Her words were firm, but her tone was not. Her posture was slumped, she'd seemed to lose a couple inches along with her pep. She read the note again, and her eyes softened as they followed the sharp angles of the familiar handwriting. He wrote it himself, the big lug. He really wanted her back. And it made sense for him to wait and not bust her out. He knew how much this meant to her, how much it meant for her to get out on her own...
"Arrgh!" Harley shook her head. There she went again. It was too easy to think about that huge grin of his, and imagine the words of the note coming out of it, words of love spoken by her dear sweetie. But he was only acting in his own self-interest, and he'd only contacted her now because it had been too inconvenient for him to bust her out on his own. If he really cared, he wouldn't be trying to ruin all her hard work.
She needed to get out of Gotham. Right now. The little voice of her therapist was growing quieter in her head, and she could hear Puddin's, changing the words and pushing her closer to him. His distinct tones, the gentle lull and pause, the rise in inflection as he headed toward a punchline... If she didn't leave right away, she wouldn't make it past the jellybean factory. Wherever that was.
But first she had to make it out of Arkham. She retrieved the lid, put everything back in the box, and closed it up. The woman was still watching Harley, and Harley was sure by now that this was one of Mr J's inside men...errr, women. Harley gave her an unconfident smile, and said, "Well, that gives me somethin' to think about, doesn't it?"
The woman smiled back, her pallid face creeping Harley out miserably. "I'm sure you will." If nothing else, this gave Harley more drive to get away. It made her stubborn, and eager to show up the scary woman. She took the box and headed behind the changing screen, changing her plans. She needed to go straight to the airport, no time for dodging around. She'd take a plane to someplace conspicuous, like Metropolis or Boca. Then she'd get right on another flight to somewhere random. Something with a tiny charter plane. Maybe she could hit one of those islands off the east coast. Delaware? It might not be flashy, but that's what she wanted, right? Nothing showy or big, no more pyrotechnics or audiences or children screaming or Puddin's strong embr-
She slipped out of her jumpsuit, and pulled the tag off her new dress. This was going to be difficult.
They were letting her out!
This was gonna be fantastic. Harley was gonna do things, and do them right. No more mischief, no more stringing civilians upside down and sticking bombpies in their faces. She had some money tucked away in an account from an old heist with red; using that cash would be her last crime. She'd get on her feet, find a job in a department store or something, and get herself a guy who could tell a few jokes. Not a lot, just a few. Just right.
The large lady returned behind the counter with a plastic container. Like tupperware. If it were filled with a casserole, it would take a week to eat, and Harley was sure she'd be sick of casserole by then. So it was just as well that there was no casserole. The lady handed the box to Harley, who opened it eagerly, tossing the lid aside. She gave a little squeak of joy, and lifted out a pink dress. She'd bought it on one of her less successful releases (with her own money! She'd been trying to go straight for quite some time, now), and the price tag was still on it. The Asylum had provided a change of underwear, hoes and shoes, and though the shoes were a shade of violet that clashed miserably with the dress, Harley gave the lady a grin and said "But it's the thought that counts, right? I wonda if it was Mistah Wayne that bought it. The cutie was at my hearin'. I thought he was somethin' of a creep, but he turned out to be awful nice. Nah, couldn't've been him. He knows ladies, he'd have much more sense. I'm just on the lookout for a new guy, y'know? It gets too lonely in here, and this gal is-"
Harley could easily have chattered on for minutes, but the discovery of another outfit underneath the dress cut her off short. A velvetty combination of red and black fabric caught her off guard.
"What gives?" She asked the lady behind the counter. "I thought we didn't get our old costumes back! I mean, lookit the thing! It's bad for rehabilitation, havin' it around."
The lady narrowed her eyes, and responded "It's not my problem."
Harley looked irate. "Listen, I need to talk to the supervisor. They can't go around makin' mistakes like this! You're enablin' a relapse, here!"
She dug through the box, looking through possessions. "I mean, the whole thing is here. There's a note reinstating my license to practice medicine...and I think I see my popgun, too! That thing is dangerous! I'm not aloud to have weapons; I could get in serious trouble if they find me with it!"
The lady, who Harley planned to downgrade to "woman" as "lady" seemed too kind, shushed her, and pointed to the box. Harley got to the bottom, and found a thin, folded piece of green paper. Even through it, she could see that the writing was purple.
"Uh-oh."
The woman gave Harley another mean look, and she unfolded the letter.
Harl,
Congratulations on your appeal! I can't tell you how happy I heard that they let you out on your own. Great job, kiddo. It puts you in an even better position to help me with some business. Come on over to the old jellybean factory, and we'll celebrate. Paint the own red. And green. And orange. Whatever, Gotham could use a bit of color to cheer it up, don't you think?
-Mr. J
Harley's hands trembled. She murmured, all words but one caught in her throat. "Puddin?" It was so easy. She could find an internet cafe someplace, do a search for directions, and it was only a matter of time before she was back in his arms...
"More like a matter of time before I'm back on the streets! Or before I'm back in this joint!" Harley cried. "No way! No way I'm lettin' that slimeball dupe me again! I'm on the up and up! Bigger and better things, baby!"
She didn't look so assured. Her words were firm, but her tone was not. Her posture was slumped, she'd seemed to lose a couple inches along with her pep. She read the note again, and her eyes softened as they followed the sharp angles of the familiar handwriting. He wrote it himself, the big lug. He really wanted her back. And it made sense for him to wait and not bust her out. He knew how much this meant to her, how much it meant for her to get out on her own...
"Arrgh!" Harley shook her head. There she went again. It was too easy to think about that huge grin of his, and imagine the words of the note coming out of it, words of love spoken by her dear sweetie. But he was only acting in his own self-interest, and he'd only contacted her now because it had been too inconvenient for him to bust her out on his own. If he really cared, he wouldn't be trying to ruin all her hard work.
She needed to get out of Gotham. Right now. The little voice of her therapist was growing quieter in her head, and she could hear Puddin's, changing the words and pushing her closer to him. His distinct tones, the gentle lull and pause, the rise in inflection as he headed toward a punchline... If she didn't leave right away, she wouldn't make it past the jellybean factory. Wherever that was.
But first she had to make it out of Arkham. She retrieved the lid, put everything back in the box, and closed it up. The woman was still watching Harley, and Harley was sure by now that this was one of Mr J's inside men...errr, women. Harley gave her an unconfident smile, and said, "Well, that gives me somethin' to think about, doesn't it?"
The woman smiled back, her pallid face creeping Harley out miserably. "I'm sure you will." If nothing else, this gave Harley more drive to get away. It made her stubborn, and eager to show up the scary woman. She took the box and headed behind the changing screen, changing her plans. She needed to go straight to the airport, no time for dodging around. She'd take a plane to someplace conspicuous, like Metropolis or Boca. Then she'd get right on another flight to somewhere random. Something with a tiny charter plane. Maybe she could hit one of those islands off the east coast. Delaware? It might not be flashy, but that's what she wanted, right? Nothing showy or big, no more pyrotechnics or audiences or children screaming or Puddin's strong embr-
She slipped out of her jumpsuit, and pulled the tag off her new dress. This was going to be difficult.