Following the trail to Harley Quinn.

Work dragged less than normal, perhaps because he had started to see it as an actual occupation instead of a means to an end (two ends, really: satisfying his obligations to Luthor and earning enough money to keep a water-stained roof over his head). Lunch came quickly enough to surprise him, and then he was done for the day, and after a change of clothes he set out on the streets of Gotham. After his harrowing encounters with female drivers incapable of seeing him in a crosswalk, he opted not to wear the amulet around, and he tried to keep his tracker-checking to a minimum so no passerby wondered why this random dude carried a piece of Batwoman’s tech. Crossing the city did require a subway stop (then doubling back on a bus, because he overshot where he was going) and several blocks of walking, and the sun had started to set before he found the nondescript, middle-class apartment building he wanted. He entered, rode the elevator until the tracker put him at the correct elevation, and followed the numbers on the screen until they put him outside apartment 1126. With a wicked smile he donned the amulet, knocked hard, and waited.

Then he realized the women inside couldn’t hear his knocking, so he removed the amulet, knocked again, put it back on, and waited. The power to go completely unnoticed was a hassle. He didn’t know how ghosts did it.

He heard some shuffling behind the door, and a moment later it opened and a slim blonde with pigtails poked her head into the hallway. At this point he had almost forgotten what Harley looked like in her uniform, more accustomed to seeing her in an orange jumpsuit. Her current clothing suited her better: a tee shirt with “Gotham Earth Day Fun Run” over a stylized tree, pulled tight enough over her torso to reveal a healthy amount of midriff and perky nipples poking through the fabric, and loose pajama pants in a garish red and blue plaid pattern. She peered up and down the hall with one eyebrow raised, not sparing a glance when Brandon pushed her aside and moved into the apartment, and she shrugged and closed the door behind her.

“Who was it?” Poison Ivy didn’t look up as she spoke, sitting on the couch in a knee-length dress—dark green, naturally—with a magazine in her hands. She didn’t notice Brandon either, and he scanned the room with impunity. She lived better than he did, for sure; her furniture matched, her floor was clean, and the frames on the walls held tasteful nature paintings or newspaper clippings about the most memorable exploits of the Gotham City Sirens. He blinked at the papers for a moment, then counted the number of jackets hanging from the hooks by the door. Three coats. This wasn’t just Ivy’s apartment, this was the hideout for the Sirens themselves.

“Dunno. Left before I could see ‘em.” Harley vaulted over the sofa and landed with her back against the arm and one foot in Ivy’s lap. “Probably got the wrong place.”

“Definitely not a cop scoping the place out before they raid us.”

“Nah, no way. Cops aren’t exactly subtle. They’re all ‘GCPD, open up!’ and ‘put down the boxing-glove gun!’. Yelly types.”

“Mm.”

“Heck, if the cops did show, I bet we could buy thirty good seconds of escape time by flashin’ the goods.” Harley cupped her breasts and bounced them a moment, ending with a quick squeeze and a soft hum as the amulet started to take effect.

“Please don’t stretch out my shirt any more than you already are. And why are you in my clothes, anyway? You have plenty here.”

Harley licked her lips and grabbed the bottom of the shirt, whipping it off her head in a single motion. “But yours are so comfy! All-natural fabrics feel so nice on my skin.”

Ivy glanced over and her eyes settled on Harley’s bare tits for a fraction of a second, not long enough to register what they were seeing. Then they were back to her magazine, like there was nothing wrong with a topless woman a couple feet away…though, as far as Brandon knew, that might have just been how Harley was. “I would think you’d prefer a nun’s habit after all the showing off you’ve been doing lately.”

“Uuuuugh, don’t remind me.” Harley slumped over the arm of the couch, and Brandon took the opportunity to **** her soft, springy tits. She sighed as his thumb passed over her nipple, nice and hard in the air-conditioned apartment. “How bad is it, Red?”

“Which part? The one where half of the female heroes and villains in America are afraid to come out in public for fear of becoming the star of a impromptu exhibitionist porno, the one where they’re working on passing laws specifically to punish us for daring to flaunt our femininity where a bunch of doddering old men might suffer the indignity of acknowledging it, or the one that pertains to you specifically while ignoring the greater implications of the event in which you participated?”

“Uh…A and C.”

Ivy sighed and put down her magazine, then stood and hiked up her dress. “It’s not as bad as I’m making it sound. It’s more that we still don’t know what’s going on. All we know is that the amulets are involved, and only the Justice League even knows where those are any more.”

“No they don’t.”

She stopped with her dress bunched around her chest and red underwear like a beacon against her pale skin. “Yes, they do.”

“They did a buncha askin’ me what happened to the amulets after we got nabbed, so I’m preeeeetty sure they don’t.”

“There are several pieces of jewelry somewhere in the world that do strange, perverted things to women, and the Justice League, despite being their primary victims, managed to lose them?”

“Hey! I’m a victim here too, ya know!” Harley kicked off the last of her pajama pants, reclining in her panties. Brandon peered at the red and black fabric, imagining the hole waiting underneath the diamonds where…wait, was she wearing Harley Quinn-branded panties? He wondered whether she got a cut of the profits. “Not like I enjoyed showin’ off Mistah J’s favorite ride to every Tom, Dick, and Other Dick in town.”

“Can we please not talk about sex with the Joker? Ever?”

“Fine,” Harley pouted, staring at the wall instead of the hourglass-shaped villain daintily placing her bra and panties on the coffee table. Ivy tossed her copper hair and sat back on the edge of the couch with one foot propped on the table, spreading her thighs and running a finger up the length of her pale pussy. As fun as it was to play with Harley’s rack, Brandon had something better within sight.