Harley thrashed in the grip of the vines, like a trapped animal. The metal chair pressed coldly against her back, and Pamela's living ropes allowed no real movement. But her weapon was always her mind.
"Loser!" she spat, her gaze piercing Alex. "Think a nobody like you can tear us apart? Ha! I'm a psychology prof, sugar! I see right through you! Your 'superpower'? Spotting cause-and-effect? Know when metahumans' real powers kick in? When it's too late to change anything!" Her eyes gleamed, scanning his face for the slightest reaction. "What was it? Lost someone you couldn't predict? Couldn't save? Or…" she squinted, catching a faint twitch at the corner of his eye, "…a girl didn't give it up, and you still don't get why? Oh, bingo! Option one!" she crowed triumphantly. "What? Couldn't save Mommy, so now you're saving me? Playing hero to patch the hole in your soul?"
Alex didn't flinch or scowl. He just looked at her. When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost weary.
"You're right. About everything. Yes, I'm a loser. Yes, I failed to save." He paused, his eyes holding no anger or shame, only cold, heavy acceptance. "But this isn't a cry of despair. It's a fact. It doesn't hang over me like a Damoclean sword. It's just… part of me. Like a scar. Your words aren't a knife, Harley. They're just truth. They don't cut me." He stood, his movements precise, devoid of fuss. "Let's begin."
He approached a small table where, instead of a hypnotic disc, lay an inhaler with clear liquid inside—a product of Pamela's work and his calculations. Without warning, he pinched Harley's nose, waited for her instinctive gasp, and sprayed a sharp, bitter mist into her throat.
Harley coughed, tried to spit, but it was too late. The world blurred, colors faded, sounds retreated. The vines beneath her felt soft, like clouds. The last thing she saw before sinking into darkness was Alex's calm, impenetrable gaze.
She woke in an endless corridor. Its walls weren't solid but shimmering memories—a kaleidoscope of her childhood, studies, Arkham. All swirled in a hazy mirage.
Go, a cold, impersonal voice—Pamela's drug guiding her—echoed in her head. Go to the beginning. To meeting him.
"Fuck off!" Harley snarled mentally, baring her teeth at the void. But her legs moved, as if possessed. The deeper she went, the darker it grew. The light at the tunnel's end faded; walls, once vibrant memories, rotted and crumbled. Plaster turned to scabs, the ceiling leaked dark, sticky ooze. Flickering lamps cast grotesque, dancing shadows, like death throes. The air thickened with mold, blood, and… chemicals.
Enter. Look. See who you became addicted to. And why.
Harley swallowed a lump of fear. She reached the final door—a black void framed by cracks. Stepping forward, she fell inside.
Young Harleen Quinzel sat on a hard chair, not a therapist's seat. Her hands were bound tightly to the armrests, ropes biting her skin. Across from her, pacing like an actor, was Him. The Joker. His face wasn't painted in its usual grin but focused, almost serious, though his eyes danced with familiar madness.
"…Such a pity," he sighed theatrically, stopping before her. "I wanted this to be elegant. To make you fall in love. Truly, no tricks. You're a smart one, Dr. Quinzel, so very smart…" He leaned in, his face inches from hers. "But you're too clever for the long game. Too analytical. Too… resistant to my charms." He straightened, his face blooming into that eerie, ear-to-ear grin. From his pocket, he drew a syringe filled with murky, venom-green liquid. The needle gleamed under the flickering lamp.
"But you know what?" His voice dropped, animalistic. "This isn't the end! Oh, no! I'll make you love me. I'll burn your mind and will to ash and rebuild them! You'll do whatever I want! You'll be MINE! And you'll do ANYTHING for me! HEE-HEE-HA-HA-HA!" His piercing, maniacal laugh filled the room, hammering her eardrums.
Past-Harley froze, her eyes wide with raw, animal terror. Her face twisted in panic—not the enamored disciple, but a victim facing the death of her self.
Present-Harley, watching from the sidelines, saw it. Saw her own fear, helplessness, the absolute loss of control. This wasn't how she remembered it. Her mind had clung to a different story: young, ambitious Dr. Harleen Quinzel striding confidently into Arkham's most dangerous patient's cell. The Joker seemed mysterious, tragic, almost romantic. He spun tales—harrowing, heart-wrenching—about his "traumatic past," showing vulnerability, making her believe he was a victim craving understanding… and love. She, young and idealistic, bought it. Step by step, he wove his venomous threads into her mind until she fell hopelessly for her patient, her tormentor. That memory, she cherished. That lie was her anchor.
But this… this scene of bound hands, a syringe, and maniacal laughter… This was the truth Pamela's drug had clawed from the deepest, most guarded corners of her psyche. The true start of her enslavement. Not romance, but violation. Not love, but brainwashing.
Something ancient, a fierce instinct for survival mixed with rage, boiled within her. Amplified, forged in pain by Pamela's drug, her will embedded in the narcotic. Harley didn't think. She acted.
Like a ghost, she materialized behind the nightmare-Joker. Her hand clenched into a fist—not Dr. Quinzel's, but Harley Quinn's, forged in hell. Fueled by pain, rage, and the drug's fury, she smashed it into his skull.
The blow was monstrous. The Joker crumpled face-first with a crunch echoing in the memory. The concrete floor cracked under his head. He didn't move.
Present-Harley approached her bound past self. With quick, strong motions, she tore the ropes.
"Who… who are you?" past-Harleen whispered, rubbing her wrists, eyes brimming with tears and confusion.
Harley looked at her. At her innocence, her trust, her weakness. A bitter, self-deprecating smile touched her lips.
"Me?" She snorted. "I'm a loser. But now… now I'm free. From him. And from you."
The memory-world burned away like melting film. Corridor, cell, her past self—dissolved into white noise.
Harley Quinn opened her eyes. The operating room's harsh light stung her pupils. She was still in the chair, but the vines… they held her loosely, almost symbolically. She inhaled deeply. The air smelled of ozone and Pamela's chemical-floral drug.
Realization.
It hit like a wave. Not an epiphany, but a shattered mirror, its shards piercing her mind. Everything she did for the Joker—her crimes, humiliations, blind faith, readiness to die or kill—wasn't her choice. It was a virus. A will woven into her mind with subtle manipulations and chemistry. She was a puppet. And the puppeteer lay broken on her memory's concrete floor.
Emptiness. A vast, bottomless void opened inside her. The void once filled by her toxic addiction to him. She teetered on the edge, ready to drown in despair, lostness…
Then words surfaced. Alex's words, spoken with icy calm before her plunge: "You're right about everything, yes I'm a loser and yes I failed to save. But this isn't a cry of despair… It doesn't hang over me like a Damoclean sword… It's just… part of me."
He accepted it. His failure. His pain. His emptiness. He didn't try to smother it with madness, like she did. Didn't run from it. He carried it. Like a scar.
It sank in. To her core. This whole spectacle—surgery, drug, memory dive, even her psychological attack on him—was planned. Not just to remove the bomb. The entire path to free her from the Joker. He led her to this moment. To this void. Knowing she was strong. Knowing she could face it. Knowing she could endure.
A smile bloomed on Harley's lips. Not manic, not playful. Predatory. Dangerous. Brimming with new, chilling clarity.
"You sly bastard…" she whispered, her voice hoarse but firm. "Think you calculated it all? That your plan worked?" She flexed, and the vines—deliberately loosened by Pamela, who sensed the pulsing void through them and gave her a chance—snapped like rotten threads. Harley stood. Free. "Know what happens when people quit smoking?" She stepped toward Alex, who watched not with fear but sharp, analytical interest, instantly assessing. "They chew gum! To fill the hole cigarettes left!" She was in front of him now, eyes blazing with madness—her madness, not imposed. "And right now…" her hand slid over her chest, "…I've got a huge, throbbing HOLE! And it needs filling!~"
Her smile turned lascivious, promising. She lunged—not to strike but to seize. Her arms wrapped around Alex's neck, pulling his face to hers. He didn't resist, just met her gaze, reading the storm within.
"A doctor can't date a patient," he said evenly, stating the ethical dilemma, but his eyes held no judgment. Only understanding. And… a challenge? "The patient's vulnerable. It's exploitation."
"I ain't your patient anymore, smartass!" Harley hissed, her lips crashing into his. The kiss was fierce, demanding, full of anger, gratitude, emptiness, and a mad urge to fill it with something new, hers, real. A kiss from someone on the edge of an abyss, dragging along the one who led her there.
Alex didn't push her away. His hands gripped her waist—not quite returning the kiss but not stopping it. He accepted. The impulse. The chaos. The consequences of his plan. His lips moved in response, restrained, analytical, but they moved. He tried. And on that edge between control and madness, calculation and passion, they froze.
Behind the one-way glass, Pamela Isley watched. Her brows shot up, lips thinning as Harley lunged at Alex. But as their dialogue unfolded, and especially after that fierce kiss, her stony expression softened. The corners of her mouth twitched, then curled into a genuine, triumphant smile. Her green eyes, wary moments ago, sparked with pure, almost jubilant light. She didn't see lust or desperation in Harley's actions. She saw her. The real Harley Quinn, free from the clown's toxic grip, rebellious, chaotic, but herself. Her friend. Finally back from a long, nightmarish captivity.