Title: Swing It Low: Chapter One

Pairing: Poison Ivy/Harley Quinn

Summary: A 'what-if' spin on the episode 'Harley and Ivy'. Kicked out by the Joker, Harley finds a friend, and possibly more, in Poison Ivy.

Rating: Mature.

Disclaimer: Characters © DC.

A/N: Revised as of 06/2009. Some parts have been edited, cut and added.

I got buttons bursting in the air
I got apple orchards everywhere
I got grapes swinging from the vine
Swinging in a line, lined up in the sunshine

I'm on time, fresh, fast
A sweetheart, I'll watch your back
Come on swing, a swing from the shoestrings
Right or wrong, to me it's the same thing

You especially you
You especially you
You especially you
You have my loyalty

You in wartime Love peace
I need to walk you down the street
I'm right here, I'll watch your back
In case the wind blows off your hat

You, you're on time
Your eyes are like a diamond mine
Deep and bright inside

I got buttons bursting in the air
I got apple orchards everywhere
I got grapes swinging from the vine
Swinging in a line, lined up in the sunshine

I got buttons bursting in the air
Ideas, run fingers through my hair
My shoes, they are ready to move
My shoes, they are ready to move

Swing it low, swing it low
Swing it low, low, low
Swing it low, swing it low
Swing it low, low, low

'Swing It Low' by Morphine

Harley Quinn really wished that she was surprised when the Joker had tossed her out of the Laff City club.

Quite literally tossed.

She was stunned for just a moment, the harsh texture of the asphalt hitting the side of her cheek, shoulder and ribs. She hadn't meant to hand Mister J the 'BANG' flag gun out of her purse, honestly.

Besides it really had been funny when he pulled the trigger. Apparently, only Harley thought so, since as soon as the Joker realized that the Bat Mobile wasn't going to have its windshield blown out by a shotgun sized blast, decided to throw the trick pistol at Harley's head, effectively destroying their own windshield as she ducked.

Speaking of purses, the Joker had just added insult to injury as he aimed her bag at her already abused head. It hit with a 'thud', knocking her back once more. Who know something full of guns, bombs, knives and other entertaining contraptions could hurt so much?

Harley certainly didn't know.

But it was something that would defiantly be imbedded in her mind from now on.

The little clown felt her cheeks grow hot with rising anger, burning beneath the white paint of her face. She dragged herself up quickly and with as much grace as possible, his criticizing words from just moment ago forcing their way into the front of her brain.

"Maybe you're a better crook then the rest of us here? Ha! Maybe you'd like to try to run this gang? When have you ever contributed a worth-while idea to anything we've done? All you ever do is get lucky!"

And then he stomped over to her and looked so frightening, she couldn't help but slink down and cower.

How could he accuse her of not contributing anything to the gang? That was so unfair! She always drove the get- away car, was a great spy, made a damn good pot of coffee and looked good doing it. How many other women in Gotham City had those sorts of credentials?

Oh, the nerve.

"You'll see! I'll show you! I'm gonna pull the biggest heist you've ever seen, and then I'll be laughing! You hear me?! Laughing! Ha ha!" Harley yelled and then stopped mid taunt.

The Joker had already slammed the heavy back door shut, drowning out any more she could have said. The exit door was thick and sound proof, but she could hear him cackling, mocking her every word.

Harley took a deep breath, the resolve in her face fierce and determined, but it faded as she turned around taking in the dirty alley that the exit had lead too.

Picking up her discarded bag she walked away, petite shoulders slumped. She felt defeated, disappointed and embarrassed that she had screwed up everything for her Puddin'. She had the perfect opportunity to make him proud, if only she hadn't grabbed that wrong pistol. If life was simpler, things like that would be color coded, because, who in their right mind would want a joke gun to look like a real gun? And if the Joker was so adamant about Harley keeping up with his things, the least he could do was give a simple explanation of what the hell she was carrying for him.

"An idiot could figure that out." She muttered to herself, than gave a quick look over her shoulder just on the off chance that the white faced man had heard her through the door. He hadn't and Harley bit her lip hard in annoyance. The Joker was probably already sitting at his desk, shoulders hunched over his latest scheme, green hair shining and slick with dried sweat due in part to the ungodly amount of summer heat, the rest thorough concentration, already forgetting about Harley.

She'd show him. She'd prove that she was worthy of being his girl and he'd love her forever, oh yes he would. He'd stop being so rough and shower with her praise and gifts and they'd live happily ever after!

Her thoughts were interrupted as she reached the end of the thin, stinking alley, street lights casting sick yellow illumination and harsh shadows on everything. She ignored the disgusting puddle of whatever she had just stepped in and stomped towards the cracked sidewalk. In any other city, Harley mused, walking out of a wet, humid alley would be met with a breeze of fresh air, but not in Gotham City. The main strip smelled just as bad as the depleted crevice; unwashed bodies, wet dogs and piled up garbage. It was the simple results of too many human beings living completely too close to each other to be decent or even healthy.

This part of city, far removed from the upper classes, was the very definition of 'urban decay', good and fine Old Gotham. It was the perfect place for the local criminals to lay low; the cops were too scared, even with the Batman around, to come and answer the calls of these unfortunate enough to be born on the lowest of the social latter.

Everyone from Two-Face to the Scarecrow had taken up residence here, if not for a short time. They ran this place, a home away from Arkham Asylum. It offered every resource they needed to complete whatever plot that was being cooked up in their heads and it was all for sale obscenely cheap.

Yeah, the cops, they hated it here and the desperate needed them so badly, but they would never come.

But Harley had nothing to be scared of in Old Gotham. It was an almost charming place if you could look past the hookers, rapists, junkies and other colorful characters that inhabited the area, besides everyone recognized her, and they knew the company she kept.

They knew the things that she had done.

Oh yes, they did.

And if they didn't know and decided to press their luck with a pixie like girl in a skin tight jester costume, they would know, she could teach them fast and good.

However the inhabitants of Old Gotham weren't really on Harley's mind at the moment. She had continued stomping down the street, and now the left over water from that nasty brown puddle had found its way down her boots and was making her toes wet. Sweat was clinging to her pale powered brow and beneath the hood she wore, her hair felt heavy and itchy.

It had been a hot summer and earlier that night clouds had started to gather, before the failed caper, before the chase with the Batman. The humidity was now beating down, and cramped buildings were blocking any wayward air current that may have been offered up. It was at times like this that Harley wished her costume wasn't so stifling, clinging to her body, trapping her sweat. The damn thing just didn't breathe well, but Mister J, he seemed to like it, so she kept it on, even if was uncomfortable.

It had been a common occurrence for Gotham to be drenched in rain this season, and with the added humidity, the thunderstorms were intense.

A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and Harley looked up, her thoughts distracted, watching for lightning.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen seconds.

White branches of electricity ripped through the cloudy sky.

Harley saw trees for a moment and her breath caught in her throat.

She hurried her steps, not wanting to be caught up in the violent storm that was giving a warning to all those below. Her priority was finding a place to crash, since she clearly wasn't going to be sacking up with the Joker tonight, and considering his attitude, she really didn't mind.

If there was one good thing about Old Gotham, it was that the motels were cheap and for the most part clean, if your definition of clean was translated in a loose manner. Harley didn't mind the dirty windows, the gritty carpets or the always rumpled bed sheets, because dealing with those things were just the occupational hazards she had gotten used to.

She decided on the Lucky Star Inn, and for just a second, thought about going inside to the clerk at the counter and paying for a room. However, she was still miffed about getting tossed out all because of one tiny mistake; so she made up her mind to take her anger out on public property or on some passerby. Besides, she had no money, and unless the clerk wanted to be paid in the half melted candy bar that was smashed in her bag, it wasn't likely she was going to be getting a room in a legal manner.

Room 105 was on the second floor of the plain red bricked motel. The light was on, but there were no voices and picking the lock was remarkably simple. The neighboring rooms on either side were empty and there were no sounds coming from either of them. She glanced behind, double checking to make sure no one has seen her, and stepped into the small room.

Whoever this place had been rented out to was long gone, and it looked like they had left in a hurry. A small black purse laid on the nightstand, a wrinkled news paper sat on the bathroom counter, and various bits of women's clothing, a bra, panties and stockings, were thrown about on the floor.

Harley pulled the old wooden chair away from the table decorating the plain room and jammed it underneath the knob and then fastened the door with its chain lock. Next she drew the curtains as tightly as they would go, taking a moment to peek through them with caution. While she was positive that no one was coming back, it never hurt to be on the paranoid side, especially with the line of work she was involved with.

Deciding it was safe she turned and made her way to the bathroom. Her gloves, shoes, headpiece and finally the skin sticking body suit made a neat little trail behind her. She couldn't suppress a squeal of delight when she noticed how clean the tub was, turning the water knobs with glee. The owners of this particular place must have actually paid their employees to do more than just stand around dealing with disgruntled customers. As the harsh stream of steaming water beat down her sore body, Harley felt some of her anger melt away. The generic hotel shampoo and conditioner actually smelt good and the tiny bar of soap lathered up nicely, and Harley scrubbed herself clean. Even after she had finished, she stood in the hot spray, enjoying the way the droplets of water slid down her belly, legs and back. She begrudgingly stepped out when a strong crack of thunder cut through the sound of running water.

Harley began running a towel through her blond hair with one hand, channel surfing with the old TV remote with the other. The local news mentioned nothing about the burglary (not that there had been one Harley reminded herself), but she did find it to be odd. Even though the cops hadn't been chasing them, as they normally did pathetically behind the Bat Mobile, she had been expecting something to be reported. Her erratic driving had caused a few car accidents after all.

She muted the television, bored with it.

The promising storm was now blowing outside and Harley listened to the rhythm of rain strike the glass of the window. From the ruckus it was causing, there just had to be sheets of it, nasty lukewarm stuff that would make the air thick and heavy. There was another flash of lightning and the lamp on the night stand flickered.

If the weather was so bad here Harley hoped that the Laff City was going to lose electricity, forcing the Joker and his idiot gang to suffer without air conditioning. It was nothing he didn't deserve for his quick temper and scything words… but then poor Mister J would be hot and uncomfortable and her cupid-bow mouth pouted at the thought of him suffering.

Trying her best to push that thought from her head, she sat on the edge of her twin bed, threadbare towel wrapped around her frame, other on the floor, too wet to use anymore. Grabbing the forgotten purse from the nightstand, she dumped the contents on the bed: pack of open Menthol cigarettes, lighter, fire-engine red lipstick, cheap perfume, keychain with no keys and pepper spray. There was no ID and no credit cards, absolutely nothing at all to link the items to any person.

Harley gave it one last hard shake and when that wielded no results, she brought it to her face. It was completely empty.

She put the items back in the clutch, then the clutch into her own bag. The items had her fingerprints on them; they'd need to be taken care of when she had the chance, maybe tomorrow morning.

She glanced at the cheap digital clock on the nightstand, its red numbers glowing bright.

It was 4:15 a.m.

It was tomorrow.

She tossed her hands up in a mix of frustration and disbelief.

"Christ, what a night." her high pitched voice breaking the silence of the room, "A failed heist, kicked out on my ass, and ending up in this crummy room at a two-bit hotel, all over a fake gun and that stupid diamond? This is ridiculous!"

She stood and threw the towel off her body, then flopped back down on the bed, the chilled air of the air conditioning feeling like finger tips on her naked body. She turned onto her side, and sighed.

The day must have caught up with her, as well as the realization of the time due to that offending clock, because Harley couldn't suppress a long yawn. It took quite a bit of effort to turn off the lamp and then crawl into the sheets. The blond didn't even bother with the TV, the soft glow offering comfort in the small, lonely room. She rolled onto her stomach and rubbed her nose into the pillow. It smelt very strongly of bleach, as did the sheets. It was harsh to her nostrils but within minutes she was sound asleep.

Harley was awakened from an uneasy dream involving a screaming woman and blood splattered flowers by the sound of a steady beat. She recognized it immediately as a fist banging on a door and it was getting quicker, more frantic. An angry male voice was now adding to the commotion and although he sounded muffled, his words were clear.

"Why the fuck is the door jammed?"

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes with the backs of her hands and willed her foggy mind to work, first glancing at the clock beside her. It read 6:54 a.m. and last night's fury came back to her with the force of a tidal wave.

Another voice was now adding to the symphony of annoyance that was Harley's make-shift alarm.

"I don't know! Don't you have the key? And why the hell does it matter? There's someone inside who shouldn't be!"

The conversation continued as the door knob rattled.

"No shit. Maybe her pimp came by looking for his whore, and if that is the case, we'll do him just like we did her."

The door buckled with force, and Harley couldn't help but smile. She kicked off the covers, grabbed her bag and costume, and then headed to the bathroom. It was during her shuffle there that Harley began picking up on small details that she had bypassed during the night, such as a scratched up mirror with a light dusting a white power covering its shiny surface, and the dull razor blade laying next to it. Passing the white door frame leading into the tiled room, Harley noticed it was stained with small dots of red.

She slammed the door shut behind her, locked it and dropped her items into the shiny white tub.

Harley pondered her new situation with a mix of glee and anger. She had never been much of a morning person, which suited her lifestyle fine. Her internal clock was backwards, she was used to getting up around dusk or late afternoon, and using the night to plan various things with the Joker. The day was spent laying around, napping and generally being lazy.

These guys, now they had some nerve and they were just asking for it, and even if they didn't know that they had awoken a sleeping tiger, it was easy to see (or hear) from the snippets of conversation, that these men were not the kinds of people who needed to be walking the streets. Even in a city as horrible as Gotham, certain criminal acts were still looked down upon.

With her sleepy brain, Harley still had a pretty good idea of what had happened in this room before her arrival, especially with the banter between the two men outside the door, the contraband on the shoddy table in the corner and the bits of gore on the doorframe. It all made sense now and Harley placed the events in order.

Prostitution was the oldest occupation in the world, and it seemed that before the blond jester had shown up at Room 105, the two charming fellows pounding on the aluminum door had decided to indulge in that very vocation. Maybe they offered to pay their hooker in drugs, hence the left over residue of coke on the pock marked mirror, or they brought it along to liven up the mood. But, something must have gone array, because there was little doubt in Harley's mind that this unnamed woman, the owner of the purse she had found, was dead.

The incident had been one typical of a night in Old Gotham, and Harley felt something akin to sadness bubbling in her chest for the dead whore. The petite clown had done some bad things in her time, murder and torture being the two most common occurrences; you couldn't really avoid it hanging around the Joker, as he delighted in actions that invoked both terror and humor, though not necessarily at the same time and it was suffice to say that along the line that Harley had started to enjoy it as well.

But despite all of that, she had never killed a working girl. As if their lives were not difficult enough —they're just trying to carve out a living—and they worked hard, very hard for their money! They had a job to do, just like everyone else and Harley could not criticize that. There were an abundant number of despicable folks that deserved to die, but the streetwalkers that stood on the decaying corners of Old Gotham needed to be left alone to continue their business of choice.

From the bathroom, she could hear the voices outside of the hotel room, along with various sounds that came with trying to open a door with brute force, and at that moment Harley decided that the world would be a better place without these… these people.

The slamming of the front door and the grunting of the two men was now reaching a hectic pitch and a booming crack rang out as the door finally gave, the chair overturned and the knob embedded itself into the wall with tremendous force.

Harley glanced down at her bare feet, realizing she was still it the nude and decided that nothing really needed to be done about that. It would take far more effort than required to suit up and she didn't feel the gesture would even be appreciated. And what good would it do for her to dirty up her costume for people who simple were going to be dead soon anyway? She knelt down and started to dig through her bag, listening to the heavy footsteps that were becoming more pronounced. The blond pushed aside a lock-pick kit, glass cutter and a small handgun before she found what she was looking for.

Growing up, Harley never considered herself to be a home improvement type. Tools never held a fascination, dirty, greasy, heavy things that they were, best left to the large callused hands of men. So the irony was not lost on her the night the Joker had towed her to an abandoned warehouse to help him swipe some required chemistry for his next brilliant scheme, and a wayward cop had followed them in, caught them by surprise. He had pushed Harley down on the dust and gravel coved floor, and flew at the Joker grabbing him by the purple lapels of his jacket. Harley had done the only thing that made sense to her, grabbing an old rusty claw hammer off the ground and swung it at the cop, connecting with the side of his neck.

She had been shocked by her actions, still being new to the game at that time, but the Joker had simply praised her and patted her head. She had kept the hammer, a memento of her good work that night. It felt electrifying to be in her hands again now and her body was tingling with the dark deeds that were going to be carried out, and those two morons didn't even know what was going to hit them!

Her line of thought was interrupted with heavy steps stopping in front of the bathroom door.

"Close the door, Larry. I found our little burglar."

She heard the muted sound of the front door closing and a set of dragging boots and then:

"Hey, asshole, found you."

The doorknob turned in an experiment to open the door.

"Locking yourself in isn't going help! Where do you think you're gonna go?"

Harley pressed her palm to her mouth in an effort to keep her quiet giddy laughter in check. There was a time in her life that she would have been intimidated by something like this, but not now. Not with what she had become, and a part of her wanted to milk this out, wanted to torture them for hours, but another part just wanted to get this over with, because she was dog tired and growing more agitated by the minute.

"Open this door now! Or it's coming down and you won't like that if it does! Do you know who you're screwing with, bitch!"

The blond grit her teeth, and just then a sort of blinding rage shook through her. Looking back, she'd acknowledge that they had no idea there was a woman behind that thin bathroom door, and had only uttered that word as a means of insult, but right then, Harley didn't care, because she wasn't a bitch and neither was that poor prostitute who they had murdered and fuck them, she was going to open their skulls.

Harley ran the flat head of the hammer on her cheek, down her neck, between her breasts and gripped it tightly with her left hand readying if for its death blows. She shuddered when she pressed it against her flat stomach and her breathe hitched in her throat in excitement. She took a step forward then threw openly the door harshly, revealing the two men.

There was nothing remarkably horrid about them, at least not physically; they were normal guys, somebody's brother, son or dad. Both of their faces were stained ruddy with alcohol consumption and they stank.

They froze when the saw her and she was glad for it. Harley wanted them to look at her, to take in her features, her round face, pink mouth, bright blue eyes and gold hair. She wanted their eyes to see her fair body, her breasts, waist, hips and everything in between.

A smile flashed on the face of the man on the left, opening his mouth to say something degrading, and that's when Harley came forward, bringing the hammer up over her head and delivering it down onto his cranium before a word left his mouth. Blood dripped from the top of his crown, it was dented now, and then she brought the heavy tool across his face, claw first, his nose breaking, a chunk of cheek ripping revealing the muscle underneath his skin.

He screamed, dropping to his knees, his hand coming up to his face. His nails were dirty and ragged, and Harley felt a wake of revulsion in her stomach.

One more rise of the hammer, putting all her force into the swing, connecting with his head again, round bone creaking like an egg.

The other male stood there in shock, mouth agape, looking at his now dead friend.

Harley turned to him, smiling wide.

"Ain't it neat how a small girl like me can swing a heavy thing like this so hard? Force amplification and all that! I mean, I ain't that heavy and just look at what I did right there!"

Her voice must have snapped him out of the daze he was in.

"Fuck you, fucking bitch!" he stuttered out.

He turned to run, and Harley jump forward, closing the distance in the small room.

"I got something your nice dirty mouth!" she yelled as he brought the claw down on his head. She had to yank to swing it back; the silly thing had gotten stuck.

He tripped and a piercing cry escaped his mouth. His falling weight brought her down too, and she landed on his back, gripping the handle and pulling. The resistance was annoying, so was his flailing.

"Stop moving! A girl is trying to work here!" she commanded and with a wet pop she managed to get it out, taking a fair portion of hair and bone with it.

He calmed done quickly after that, moaning and crying, but not moving. Harley reckoned she may have hit a nerve.

She stood up over him and used her foot to turn him onto his back.

Her resentfulness towards the Joker was now draining away and she watched the blood spread through the blue rug. The channel she had left the TV on from earlier was showing cartoons and casting vibrant, colorful reflections in the growing pool of thick red. It was pretty, Harley decided.

The dying mans breath was shallow, but weak sobs still bubbled out of his mouth. The blond wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"You know, a lot of people commit murder in Gotham and don't get caught. Too bad for you, huh?" she sneered at him, letting the anticipation of adding another act of cruelty fill her. "I mean, how stupid are you? Stupid enough that I'm gonna need a souvenir to remember you by. And I have just the thing."

She walked back to the bathroom where her bag lay, but not before turning around, blond hair whipping about her face.

"Now you stay put."

She felt amazingly good walking away the death scene, joyful and pretty, as sense of fulfillment and satisfaction gripping her heart. She rummaged through her things one more time and then squealed when she found the item she wanted.

The little jester walked back out to the bedroom, stood over the paralyzed man and held up the needle nose pliers for him to see with a face splitting grin.

"Open up the hanger door cause here comes the air plane!" she sang bring them to his mouth.

He struggled a bit: refusing to open his mouth, eyes wide with fear, but Harley was clever and reached into his pocket to get his wallet. The hooker may have not have had any identification or credit cards but it would be absurd that this man wouldn't at least have a license.

He did and after Harley had crammed the card of hard plastic in between his front teeth, it made work a lot easier.

In the back of her mind she wondered if the Joker was having as much fun as she was right now.

She sort of hoped not.

After she had yanked out her pearly white treasures, she had decided to catch up on the sleep she lost. And it wasn't like the newly toothless man and his buddy they were gonna run out and start yapping to the police about what happened. She had cranked up the air conditioner high, so it would be at least tomorrow until they started to stink out the place.

She woke up around 6:00 p.m. and stretched her body, holding her arms above her head, rolling her shoulders and letting her back pop.

Harley had been too tired to shower away the blood and bits of other things, especially after she had taken her time going through the pockets of the dead men. She wielded nothing of interest until she hit the cash in their wallets and two keys, which she was sure was connected to the dead woman's keychain in her bag.

The first looked like a car key, and that was going to be very useful in the scheme of things, if she could find the right vehicle.

The second was marked with the Lucky Star Inn's logo, along with the numbers 105.

Harley was also $200 richer.

As her feet hit the floor, she cringed with how cold and wet the carpet was. These smucks sure didn't know how to handle their bleeding and with each step to the bathroom she gagged at the squishy wet noise. The pressure of her weight was forcing the soaked in blood of the carpet to come up.

The blood on her feet made walking into the bathroom slick and had to throw a hand on the door frame to keep from falling on her rump.

Harley pulled her costume out of the shower, laid it across the commode, and stepped in, pulling the vinyl curtain closed.

She used up the rest of the small bar of generic hotel soap, along with the tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner. The hot water felt exquisite on her body, and even after the water dripping off her arms, tummy and legs had gone from red to clear, she lingered a few more moments.

It was almost a shame she had to get out, but she had some serious business to consider.

She dried herself quickly and pulled on her costume. The boots came next and then the ruffle cuffed gloves. She would deal with the head piece and make-up after she had brushed her teeth and did her hair.

And it was when she had opened the plastic wrapped toothbrush that the hotel had provided that the newspaper that had been laying there caught her attention.

It had a few dots of blood on it, but the headline was plain to see:

Rare and Beautiful Harlequin Diamond Visits Gotham Museum

An article about the precious stone followed in smaller text, but Harley had no interest in that.

That damn diamond, the very thing they were trying to steal, was mocking her in the face!

During the whole exchange of events leading up to Room 105, and the two men, a way to get back at Mister J had been nagging at the back of her mind. It needed to be good and deliver the message of: "Ha ha! I told you so!"

The Joker would try to steal the diamond again, Harley was certain of that, but she would get it first and rub it in his face.

She spat the minty foam out of her mouth and grabbed the paper for a closer look. The Joker never gave directions in the sense of an address when she chauffeured him around; he'd just point and say things like "Turn here! Turn here! Harley, turn!" And they'd somehow end up in their location.

She got the impression that he liked to be jerked around in the back sit, because, in a weird way, it probably felt like a carnival ride. Harley didn't quite feel the same, as the Joker was the worst backseat driver in the history of the automobile and on more than one occasion had almost gotten them both killed because of his reckless directions.

It didn't matter last night though; the Bat had been waiting for them as soon as they crossed the bridge that would have led them to Monolith Square and stayed on their tail for a chase around the city.

Finding the car that the stolen key lead to would be important now, getting all the way back to the Square would be a long trip on foot, and she wanted to beat the Joker out on the gem.

As it turned out, the stolen car key belonged to 1984 Mustang, silver in color, with a cherry red interior.

She had always loved the color red and it wasn't in bad condition, not by the standards of Old Gotham, and it saddened Harley briefly as her mind wandered back to the prostitute who had been murdered.

How many tricks had she pulled to get this car?

Did she have a family?

Did she know that when she woke up yesterday morning that she would be killed that very night?

In the end, it wasn't important.

She was gone, and so were the people that had done her in and it seemed right that her vehicle was in Harley Quinn's hands. The petite jester grinned to herself and reminded herself that Karma was a very real thing, and this was simply fate's way of repaying her for the justifiable deeds she carried out.

Harley Quinn, avenger of the Gotham City whore.

Pimps and johns beware.

There were only a few cars in the parking lot, and when it finally got dark, she emerged from Room 105, face powered white to perfection, small black mask around her eyes and head piece in place.

She took to the lot quietly and tried each car until the Mustang's door had opened with her key. She slid into the driver seat and investigated the rest of the car. There was a brown paper bag on the passenger side and she dumped the items out. In it she found a half empty bottle of whiskey, black electrical tape, an old hacksaw and a bulky bundle of rope.

It was quite the mini murder kit, not half bad for a bunch of amateurs, but they were missing all the really good stuff, namely a screwdriver, piano wire and a Mozart CD, but if given the time, they would have learned, too bad they were dead and bleeding out on the rug.

She put the key into the ignition.

It was hard to decide what to do with the car when the time came to get rid of it. Harley was five miles away from the museum and decided that it wouldn't be smart to take it any closer. She had really become quite fond of the car in the short time she had spent in it, the sits were worn in and soft and the speakers didn't sound half bad.

It was too old to have a CD player, but the tape deck worked and she found herself singing at the top of her lungs to the cassette inside.

With hopes of reclaiming the car one day, she parked it next to a meter that had run out of time. Unlike Old Gotham, the city council kept Monolith Square and its surround areas extremely clean, and had installed parking meters to generate extra money to keep improving it.

Getting caught with zero time was a $25 head ache, then a tire boot and lastly, a tow to the Gotham car impound and that's exactly what Harley wanted. She'd be able to break into the place, the security there was minuscule, and get her car back at a later date.

The trip on foot was a quick one and it provided her with a small warm-up before the main event of breaking and entering.

She felt positively bouncy with nervous energy as she neared the glass double doors of the building, and she tapped the toes of her short boots on the ground in an effort to displace some of it.

Harley circled around to back of the museum, noting that there was a plain blue car in the parking lot, no doubt the night patrol's transportation. If the city was cocky enough to only hire one person to look after their precious treasures, then she'd need to pay extra attention to any other security measures that were possibly hidden.

The Harlequin Diamond was the newest addition to the museum's natural history department and that meant it would be in the center of the building, where the ceiling was made with glass, letting in the sunlight during the day. This allowed all the patrons to view the finely cut edges and shimmering beauty of the hundreds year old stone without the ugliness of modern, artificial lighting, something the collectors were obsessively anal about.

Harley wasn't quite sure how she would be displaying her soon to be gem. It would probably look nice next to her television, especially at night when she enjoyed watching Cartoon Network or the local news, either one always made her laugh. Maybe her babies (Oh, how she missed Bud and Lou!) would enjoy playing with it. She could see the two hyenas in her mind, running around, chasing the diamond on the floor, sliding this way and that, barking and then prancing back up to her with it in their jaws, tails wagging, waiting for the next toss.

She hoped Mister J had remembered to feed them.

The top of the building was easy enough to get on, it required little effort at all, thanks to the fire escape stairs on the three story structure and before Harley knew it she was standing on the glass ceiling staring down at the large room below.

The diamond was in a locked glass case, which stood in the middle of a web of blue lasers, the obvious motion sensitive alarm.

There was no need to break the glass panel she was looking through, the piece popped out easily and she set it aside quietly. She had liberated the rope from the Mustang before she dumped the car and tied it tightly around the base of a steel weathervane. She dropped it to the floor, then stood over the opening, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

It was game time and she couldn't afford to mess this up.

If she didn't land properly during the drop, not only could she get caught by the cops, but (and more frighteningly) could risk getting an injury so bad that paralysis was a real possibility.

That was not an option, no thank you.

Gotham City was never quiet, the sound of traffic, music, voices, construction and sirens (always sirens) were just something you got used to, and they faded as you lived there longer, but as Harley slowed her breathing and focused on her task ahead, her world became silent.

She slipped down it, quickly, but with control and landed lightly. The little clown was just outside the barrier of lasers now, and it only took a few steps to gain the momentum she required to spring over the first set, head first, hands out stretched.

She landed on them, pushed up and kept the rhythm going.

There were no breaks or pauses through the bars of light, only fluid and aggressive movement. She propelled herself up and over the uneven lights, flipping and turning, meeting the ground with her palms and feet.

Harley gracefully landed on her knees in front of the case.

"Piece of cake!" she exclaimed quietly.

She got her first real look at the diamond. It was amazingly beautiful, and all the hype that had been made about it was true. Mother Nature had handcrafted a perfect token of winter, cold, icy and sharp to the touch.

"Oh, Mister J is just gonna flip when I give this to him!" she said, reaching into her shoulder bag to pull out her glass cutter. She pressed the device to the flat surface, realizing what she had just said.

"No…"

She turned the head of the cutter down, starting the circle she would use to acquire her prize.

"I'm keeping it for myself!"

The cut was almost complete, her mind once again running back to the Joker. Imagine how pleased he'd be when Harley presented this to him!

"Well… maybe…"

The sound of the cutters steel head along the glass was the only noise all around Harley and she was smiling with realizing it.

The circle was half way done.

Her heart sped up.

Harley was almost there.

She was breathing deeply with concentration now.

It was when there was only an inch left to finish, that the Gotham City Museum of Science erupted into one of the worst alarms that Harley had ever heard in her life. She stood abruptly and turned around just in time to see a red headed woman run out a door marked 'Biochemistry'.

What had just happened?

Harley's mouth dropped open in shock, but that was quickly replaced with panic, because the cops were now on their way and she needed to high tail it out of there.

"Oh, to hell with it!" she cried.

She pulled out a small hand gun and hit the glass case violently with the handle, shattering it. Harley grabbed the diamond, shoved it in her bag, and took off after the red head, who for some reason, was heading straight for the front doors.

What was wrong with that broad?!

She caught up with woman at the same moment red and blue lights flashed brightly outside the double doors and three cops approached with flashlights and guns drawn. Christ, they could be fast when they wanted to be.

Harley nearly ran into the other woman, who had stopped right in front of the door. She grabbed her arm and pulled the red head towards a hallway to take cover.

"Nice work butter fingers! Turn on the Bat-Signal next time!" Harley hissed at her.

"I wasn't trying to get caught! And don't touch me!" retorted the woman yanking her hand out of Harley's grip. Her voice was lush and musical, even in an aggravated state.

"Oh really, well you could have fooled me! Bang up job with that alarm!"

Harley glared at her and something about the way she looked was familiar. Even in the darkened museum it was clear that her hair wasn't just red, it was blood red, and it surrounded her heart shaped face in thick wavy curls.

Harley's mind clicked.

"Hey! Aren't you that plant lady? Poison…Oaky…?"

That probably wasn't right.

It was the other woman's turn to glare now.

" Ivy! It's Poison Ivy, and you would do well to remember that!"

"Jeez, I'm sorry!" Harley extended her hand in an apology. There was really no need to be fighting; they both had to get out of this place before the cops grabbed them. "I'm Harley Quinn! Please to meet you!"

Ivy glanced at her hand and then her face. The ruffled look she had been wearing faded away.

The sound of footsteps echoed in front of them.

The cops had just got the front doors unlocked and were storming in. A pretty Hispanic officer yelled, "Come out with your hands up!" and pointed her Beretta 9mm in their general direction.

Both criminals bolted further down the hall and into a huge display room filled with the museums prehistoric collection and ducked behind a large statue of a Triceratops. Surely, Gotham's Finest wouldn't start firing on such a peace loving dinosaur.

"This is not a good time to get acquainted." muttered Ivy and she was right.

A powerful flashlight was circling around the room and another angry voice rang out, "Come out now, or we will shoot you!"

The two women moved quickly once again, bobbing and weaving through the legs of the statutes and massive skeletons. They ran into another exhibit room, this one showcasing the artwork of ancient Africa and to their dismay found that it was a dead end.

Well shit.

This was no good.

They threw themselves behind an abstract carving of a man holding a spear and shield. Peeking above it, the silhouettes of the officers stood in the doorway. They had no way out and glanced at each other hopefully.

"Do you have any ideas?" asked Ivy.

Harley looked around frantically and for the first time noticed that Poison Ivy had been carrying a box with large bottles in it, all which were marked with a large 'Biohazard' warning.

"Whatcha got in there?" asked Harley, nodding her head towards the glass containers.

A smug sort of expression graced Ivy's face, and she replied proudly, "Plant toxins from the lab… You see, they-" and her voice took on the kind of tone that a teacher has when they're about to explain their favorite part of a lesson.

"Well that's good enough!" Harley grabbed one of them, interrupting Ivy in mid-sentence. Toxins plus biohazard warning equaled a reaction, and it probably wasn't good if the bottle broke forcibly, which is actually what the jester was going to do with it.

She pulled out her pistol, threw the bottle above the officers and fired a bullet at it, destroying it mid-air. As soon as the foul looking liquid hit the ground it became vaporous. The cops dropped to their knees in seconds, coughing, unable to keep the noxious gas from entering their lungs, and clutching at the cuts that the broken shards had caused.

Harley turned to Ivy and gave her a thumb up.

The red head smiled at her and Harley felt her face blossom with warmth.

They sprang up from the shadows running towards the downed officers, and the female cop had the brass to cough out, "Stop in the name of the law!" She was trying her damndest to get up off the floor.

"Not tonight, baby-cakes!" mocked Ivy as she ran passed, pushing the uniformed woman down for good measure. Harley couldn't stop the cheer that made its past her lips. Her fellow escapee seemed to have a sense of humor!

They made it out of the building quickly and into the parking lot.

"Get in the car, Harley!"

"What car are you talking about?"

The only cars that the little clown saw were the ones that the police had driven there in, and from the sound of it, more were on the way.

She ran after Ivy who was standing in front of a very large and awkward bush. The green clad woman was smiling at her in a haughty manner, and Harley watched as she moved her hand over the plant and it simply fell apart into a pile of leaves, revealing a soft pink 1940 Special Convertible Sedan underneath it.

Harley stood there dumbfounded.

How did that happen?

"Oh, that car…" she said stupidly and jumped into the passenger seat like it was the most natural thing in the world. As soon as she slammed the door shut, Ivy's foot hit the accelerator.

She was a fearless driver and stomped on the gas pedal right as the next wave of black and whites pulled into the museums parking lot. She didn't make a move to turn her wheel as one of the vehicles headed straight for them, and Harley shrieked and dug her fingers into the tan leather interior. The cop car made a hard right turn that sent the nose of it into the front of the building's entrance.

They had just played chicken and won.

Harley threw back her head to laugh, the sudden fear melting into relief, and Ivy soon joined her.

She locked her hands around the back of her head, elbows in the air and kicked her red and black boots up on the dashboard as Ivy shifted gears and sped up even faster.

Harley didn't really care they were going at the moment, she was content to let the other woman drive, and as an afterthought she pulled off her hood and let the wind blow through her flaxen hair.

The Gotham skyline was quickly retreating behind them and Harley felt a strange sense of peace, the one she always got after a successful crime, wash through her body.

Harley decided that she liked the other woman, at least for the moment, and that was enough for her to close her eyes and trust Ivy to take her away from the hot, dirty city.

End Part One.