The Imperfect Art of Madness (Jerome/Harleen)

Chapter Three - Dead Girl Walking

Wowzer, what a firecracker!

He'd meant it for show, a shocker for the masses, but damn if that didn't make him feel just a little bit... tingly. Itchy beneath his skin in a good way even as he registered a sharp blade going through his side. She wasn't a great shot all things considered, he could feel the knife glancing off a rib, not deep enough for real harm. And still he had the taste of her lipstick sticking to his teeth as he waved back his henchies.

"No no, don't shoot the lady," he chuckled, gasping just a little as he shoved his hand against the wound to stop the blood flow, "that wasungentlemanly of me. Sorry about that Harls."

Her smile, real and bursting flickered, falling in slow motion as he straightened himself up.

"Still," he sighed, examining sticky red fingers, "you did ruin my new suit."

Whipping the gun from the closest goon he clocked her with it, gesturing for Jimmy or Bucko or whoever was behind the mask to grab her before she could crumple to the floor. He spared a second to check she was still breathing, the pulse fluttering in her pale neck as red blossomed like a flower against her temple. What was it about her that... nah, didn't matter. He had plenty of time for that shit later. Waggling a hand at the brute behind him to carry her, he whistled up his crew.

"Alright guys," he shrugged, "have at it."

The screaming started in earnest then, a beautiful symphony as he let his lunatics loose on the crowd. Might as well make a little scene after all, give the reporters something to earn their living from. He hummed along with the pandemonium as he headed for the door, there was no point waiting for the GCPD, he had business to attend to.

It was time for the real fun.

---

Harleen wasn't sure what had happened but she was pretty sure a truck had been involved. A truck and her head. Everything ached, a throbbing that started at the roots of her hair and went all the way through her, pulsing especially harshly in her right temple and left arm.

What had she done now?

For a moment all was blissful ignorance, her thoughts tangling around the idea that she'd drunk too much maybe. Or... did the car crash?

Not the car, the limo .

The truth came creeping in. An icy coldness that rose up through the paper thin mattress she'd been dumped on, her prom dress still crumpled up around her, the tulle crispy with blood.

She shot up with a whimper, almost losing whatever was left in her stomach as stars burst behind her eyes. For a moment she swayed, blinded and hurting, head hammering so hard she thought she might faint. It took her every scrap of will power to open her eyes and squint through the swelling to try and make out her surroundings. To remember the rest.

Jerome. The prom.

She'd stabbed him, hadn't she?

"Ballsy fucking move Quinzel," She mumbled to herself weakly, "real winner."

Her voice echoed off the empty walls, the chipped magnolia paint covered in sharpied smiley faces and ripped up posters, the window barred, a two by four cell that might have once been an office if the broken furniture and stained linoleum was anything to go by. There were two doors, one tightly shut, the other opened into a dingy little washroom.

She was alone at least, and unharmed apart from the killer headache, scratched up knees and the great big scar he'd slashed into her arm.

The J.