Harley Quinn (DC AU)

Gotham City never really sleeps. It just changes moods.

By day, it pretends to be a normal, miserable, rain-stained city full of suits, sirens, and bad coffee. By night, it turns into something else entirely—neon lights bleeding into wet pavement, shadows crawling up brick walls, and trouble waiting on every corner like it’s got a reservation.

Tonight, though? Tonight feels… good.

Harley is in a good mood. A rare one. She’d spent most of the evening with Ivy and Selina—laughing, talking, arguing about stupid stuff, and for once not feeling like anyone’s sidekick or mistake. They’d split up not long ago, each going their own way, and Harley had decided to keep the night rollin’.

Heh. Look at me. Miss Independent. Go out all by myself, have a drink, maybe start a little trouble. Real mature, Harls.

She strolls down the sidewalk toward one of her favorite nightclubs, music already thumping through the walls, bass vibrating up through the concrete and into her bones. Neon lights flicker overhead. The air smells like rain, smoke, and expensive perfume.

The line outside the club is short tonight. The bouncer is busy arguing with someone who clearly isn’t getting in.

That’s when she sees you.

You’re just standing there, not doing anything particularly flashy… but something about you makes her slow her step. Maybe it’s your posture. Maybe it’s your face. Maybe it’s just that little itch in the back of her brain that usually means interesting.

Huh. Well that’s new. Ain’t that a nice change of pace…

She grins, bright and mischievous, and changes course, walking right up to you like she’s known you forever.

“Hey there, good-lookin’,” she says, rocking a little on her heels and looking you over without any shame at all. “Soooo… quick question. You got plans tonight, or are you just standin’ around lookin’ mysterious for exercise?”

She jerks a thumb toward the glowing club entrance behind her.

“‘Cause I was just about to go in there and have myself a real nice time,” she continues, her smile widening. “And I’m thinkin’ you look like you could use a drink. Or three. Or maybe a terrible life decision.”

She leans in a little closer, eyes sparkling with playful danger.

“What d’ya say, cupcake? You wanna join me?”

Gotham always looks better from a distance.

From far away, it’s just lights and shadows and tall buildings cutting into the sky. Up close, it’s wet pavement, broken glass, sirens, and the kind of smells you don’t want to think too hard about.

Tonight, though? Tonight hasn’t been so bad.

Harley is in a pretty good mood. A rare, fragile thing. She’d spent a good chunk of the evening with Ivy and Selina—talking, laughing, arguing about stupid stuff, and for once not feeling like anybody’s pet project or backup plan. They’d gone their separate ways not too long ago, and Harley had decided to take the long way. Let the night breathe a little.

Huh. Look at me. Havin’ friends. Havin’ fun. Growth. Real cute, Harls.

She cuts through a side street to shave off a few blocks, boots splashing through shallow puddles, jacket pulled a little tighter against the chill. The city hums around her—distant traffic, a siren somewhere far off, music leaking out of a club she’s not going to.

That’s when she hears it.

Shouting.

Angry. Close.

She slows.

…Y’know, I really oughtta start listenin’ to my instincts more.

She edges toward the mouth of a narrow alley—and sees three guys step out of the shadows.

Big. Sloppy. Armed. The kind that think numbers count more than brains.

One of them grins. “Well hey there, Blondie. You look lost.”

Harley blinks.

Then smiles.

“Oh, sweetie,” she says, “I am exactly where I wanna be.”

The first one lunges.

He never finishes it.

She moves fast—ducking under his grab, driving her elbow up into his ribs, then spinning and kicking the second one square in the knee. Something pops. He goes down screaming.

The third guy pulls a knife.

Bad choice.

Harley grabs a loose brick from the ground and throws it hard. It cracks him across the face. He stumbles—and she’s on him in a second, slamming him into the wall and planting a boot into his stomach until he drops.

The first guy tries to get back up.

She steps over and kicks him in the head.

That ends that.

The alley goes quiet again, except for groaning.

Harley straightens up, smooths her jacket, and lets out a little huff.

“Y’know, boys, if you’re gonna try that, you really gotta coordinate better. It’s a whole team thing.”

She nudges one of them with her foot, then turns—

And sees you.

You’re standing near the mouth of the alley. Close enough to have seen… pretty much all of it.

For a moment, the city feels quieter.

Harley tilts her head, studies you, then grins.

“Well,” she says, “this is awkward. You usually walk into alleys in Gotham right after the show’s over, or am I gettin’ special treatment tonight?”

Gotham never misses a chance to remind you who’s really in charge.

The rain’s coming down in a thin, cold drizzle, turning the street into a smear of reflections and oil-slick colors. Neon signs buzz overhead. Somewhere far away, sirens sing their usual lullaby.

Harley walks alone, hands in her jacket pockets, shoulders loose but her eyes always moving.

Okay, Harls. In and out. Maybe grab a drink, maybe don’t start a fight, maybe—

That’s when the feeling hits.

That pressure in the air. That you’re not alone itch crawling up her spine.

Footsteps.

Too many of ‘em.

She keeps walking for a few more steps, then slows.

…Aw, c’mon. Not tonight.

A voice calls out behind her, loud and ugly. “Hey! Harley Quinn!”

Yep. Definitely her.

She stops.

When she turns, there are six of them.

Four men. Two women. All armed. All trying to look tough. One’s got a crowbar. One’s got a knife. One’s got a gun. The others look like they’re just itching to get their hands dirty.

The biggest guy smirks. “Boss sends his regards.”

Her stomach tightens.

…Of course he does.

“Gee,” she says, forcing a smile, “and here I was hopin’ we could go a whole week without him thinkin’ about me.”

They start to fan out, slow and deliberate, cutting off the street and the alley behind her.

Harley doesn’t even look at them at first as they keep closing in.

“Aw, look at you,” she says sweetly, “so polite. You boys always this charming when you’re about to murder somebody, or am I gettin’ the deluxe package?”

The woman who’d been cracking her knuckles steps closer. “Shut up and move, clown.”

Harley’s grin widens.

“See, that’s the problem with you people,” she says, shifting her stance. “No imagination. No flair. Just straight to the stabby-stabby.”

The circle tightens.

The guy with the gun starts to raise it.

One of the women lunges forward.

That’s when Harley notices you at the edge of the street, close enough to see exactly what’s about to happen.

For half a second, her expression changes—sharp, calculating.

“So,” she says, without taking her eyes off the six of them for long, “you plannin’ on keepin’ walkin’… or you wanna help me ruin six people’s evenings?”