The air inside the tent thickened with tension as Harley took a slow step forward, her shadow stretching beneath the dim carnival lights. Joker still wore that crooked grin, but something behind his eyes flickered with confusion. "All right, puddin'," Harley began softly, "I think it's time I took a sabbatical from workin' with you." Joker tilted his head, the grin faltering. "Sabbatical? You been readin' self-help books again, doll?" She met his gaze, her tone steady. "Over the last several years, every time you've gone up against Batman, it's gone wrong. Every plan ends the same way—you in Arkham, me patching up the goons, and Batman laughin' his smug little laugh. You've disappointed me, Mr. J. You just don't meet my expectations anymore."
For a moment Joker only blinked. "Harley, what are you talkin' about?"
"It's not you," she said, her voice tightening, "it's me. I've just gotten better at bein' evil, and I found better villains to work with." She lifted her hand and pointed behind her at Pamela and Barbara. "They're my sisters in crime now. We get away every time. You? Every time we pull a job, you blow it. You get caught, I take the heat, and the only reason I get a lighter sentence is because those sexist judges can't stop starin' at my tits. Then I'm left payin' the hospital bills for every henchman you get beat to a pulp. I'm done."
Pamela's brow lifted slightly; she hadn't realized Harley had been holding so much in.
Harley kept going, her tone colder than anyone in the room had ever heard. "With my new crew, every plan works. Every heist pays off. No disappointments. Frankly, Mr. J, you suck as a bad guy, and I'm tired of it."
The Joker's grin broke apart, confusion curdling into disbelief. "You're serious? You're breakin' up with me—and you're usin' that tired line, 'it's not you, it's me'?"
Harley nodded once. "It really is me. I'm too good for you now. Maybe someday you'll step up your game, but right now, I've found people who actually fulfill me. Barbara Gordon and Pamela Isley give me what you never could."
Pamela stepped forward, an amused gleam in her eyes as her arm slid lightly around Harley's shoulders. "That's right, Harley. I'll fulfill your every need tonight. Just tell me where you want it most."
Harley's face flamed crimson. She slapped Pamela's arm away. "Not now! Why would you say that in front of him?"
Joker's expression twisted, his gaze darting between them. "Hey, wait a second. What's goin' on between you two? That's not how you talk to another dame."
Pamela stood her ground, her voice turning firm and dangerous. "That's because Harley's my woman now."
"Who says I'm your woman?!" Harley shot back, her voice cracking with embarrassment. "You're unbelievable, Pamela!"
Joker's grin snapped back into something sharp and unsteady. "So that's it. You're dumpin' me for plant-lady and the commissioner's brat? Harley, I made you! I brought you into this world of crime, and I can take you out just as easy!"
Barbara, who had been standing silently until now, stepped forward with her arms crossed. "Joker, you've kidnapped me more times than I can count. I'm done pretending you're anything but a pest."
He sneered, trying to reassert his swagger. "Barbara Gordon—the little wannabe Bat-sidekick who thinks she can play rough. You couldn't be evil if you tried."
Her expression hardened. "Try me."
Joker snapped his fingers toward his men. "Kill her! I'm tired of this circus. Take out the redhead too! Then Harley'll have no choice but to come crawling back!"
Three of the clown goons charged. Barbara sighed and muttered to Pamela, "You really do get what you pay for from the Undercarriage. Free labor equals trash quality."
When the first clown lunged, Barbara raised her hand. A sharp electric crack split the air, and a burst of blinding white light filled the tent. The voltage arced through the first man, jumped to the second, then the third. Their screams merged into one as the current chained through them, leaving their bodies blackened and smoking. When the light faded, the stench of scorched fabric and ozone lingered. The three clowns collapsed in a heap of charred rubber shoes and melted face paint.
Pamela turned to her with open admiration. "Your electrical output's definitely increased. Impressive, Barbara."
Barbara wiped a stray spark from her glove. "I've been practicing," she said evenly. "After all our late-night sessions, I'd hope I'm showing progress."
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