BAE Chapter 43

Wayne Tower. A hundred stories of pure, unadulterated capitalism. Thanks largely to the efforts of Bruce Wayne and Lucius Fox, it’s by far not the most loathsome corporation of its type. But it’s far from innocent.

Ivy knows it, Barbara knows it, and they each know that the other knows it.

The Batmobile screams up Central Boulevard toward the police cordon already set up outside the building. A SWAT team is already pouring out of the back of an armored van. The Commissioner and Bullock are on site. That’s all Barbara has time to take in before the car’s brakes shriek and the Batmobile screeches to a halt. The cockpit hisses open and she vaults out.

“Batgirl,” the Commissioner says, looking startled.

“Who’s in there?” Barbara demands, striding forward. Past the cordon, she can see that the bank of revolving doors that is the main entrance to the lobby has been blasted open.

“We aren’t sure. We’re getting ready to go in,” her father replies.

Barbara glances at the SWAT team and their large guns.

“We don’t know what’s going on in there?”

“We’re moving in now,” Bullock snaps.

That’s not fast enough for Barbara. Without further conversation, she slides over the hood of the nearest squad car and sprints toward the building, flying up the stairs and racing toward the opening. As she approaches, there’s a bang from within and she runs headlong into a cloud of smoke.

“Bring her out!” a furious voice screams.

Coughing, Barbara flicks out a Batarang and squints through the smoke. An unmistakable figure takes shape: a woman with odd protrusions from her head, holding some kind of gun.

The smoke clears to reveal Dr. Harleen Quinzel in her full Harley Quinn costume, covered from head to toe in red and black. Her white makeup and black lipstick look a little slapdash. She wears a bandolier of grenades and holds an intimidating break-open grenade launcher.

“Pammy!” Harley shrieks, waving her grenade launcher. She turns to see Barbara and her expression hardens. Then she sneers. “So Wayne sent a fun-sized bat,” she says disdainfully. “Well, don’t even think about it, cutie.” Harley levels her grenade launcher at Barbara. “I ain’t the bad guy here! This ain’t Arkham, and they can’t hold my Pammy here! It’s illegal!”

Barbara is momentarily staggered. This is something that she’s struggled with when wearing the costume. At least before the penis and the cowl, she’d been a more or less rational person. Barbara’s particular brand of rationality could at times make it especially difficult to deal with people who were nakedly insane.

“Bring her out, Bats! Bring out and I’ll leave!”

Barbara looks around at the damage and the confetti littering the ground. Harley has real grenades and joke grenades, and she’s using them indiscriminately. A night watchman is groaning on the ground, and it looks as though the elevators have been locked down. That’s why Harley’s down here and not trashing the rest of the building.

Several other well-dressed people are cowering on the floor near the fountain that Harley is standing in front of. They must’ve been working late.

“Pammy! I know you ain’t no sellout!” Harley yells at the ceiling. Then she sniffles slightly. “At least I think you aren’t. Pammy!” she roars, making everyone flinch at the pain in their eardrums from her shattering cry. One of the cowering people squeaks in alarm, and Harley moves like lightning, yanking the poor girl to her feet and pulling her close as a human shield.

The girl has dark skin and round glasses. She’s young and terrified. The badge clipped to her blazer identifies her as an intern. She whimpers as Harley rests the muzzle of her grenade launcher on her shoulder and glares at Barbara.

“I ain’t gonna ask again, Bats! I want my girlfriend and I want her now!”

The intern cringes, shaking all over.

Barbara’s hand tightens on her Batarang.

Take Harley down?

or

Talk Harley down?