"Exactly what kind of plans do you have in mind?" Scott asked, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

Scott knew of two primary rules for surviving in a criminal organization. One involved not ratting out the gang, and the other was not messing with the boss' girl. If Joker were to walk in and see Harley leaning over Scott on the sofa, Scott felt sure the clown would finish the job the goons had started earlier and beat him to death.

Harley pushed off the cushions and returned to a sitting position on the edge of the sofa before getting up and pacing in front of him.

Scott released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. As Harley paced back and forth, Scott's one uninjured eye followed her. Harley's snug jester outfit reminded him of the attire worn by Olympic gymnasts, and he couldn't help noticing how some of her lean muscle showed through as she moved.

He suddenly realized how much focus he was giving to a woman who was unavailable. Harley belonged to the Joker, and the clown would kill anyone who tampered with the status quo. Even if Joker wasn't so possessive, Harley was crazy about the clown, literally and figuratively, so Scott had to concentrate on keeping his mind and eye focused on something other than Harley.

"As I told you before," Harley reminded. "The loyal ones are the people holding the organization together. I've arranged to have a few of them brought in, and I made sure they were properly positioned to keep the apes in line."

She paused her pacing a moment to smile at him.

"You're an honest guard who got crushed by the gears of society," she told him. "You're a smart man, and I can trust you won't double-cross us."

"How can you be sure?" Scott asked. "How do you know I won't run to the cops in order to clear my name by bringing down the Joker?"

"First of all, Joker would eventually escape as he's done many times before and come gunning for you in retaliation," Harley pointed out. "And secondly, after you got fired for being suspected of working for the Joker, what cop would believe you?"

Scott realized Harley was right. A small flicker of hope in the back of his mind fizzled out. It was quickly replace by a dagger of ice cold fear as Harley asked her next question.

"How would you know the cop you rat to wouldn't be working for Mr. J?" Harley questioned. "Your report would never make it into the police records, but it would certainly land you in the obituaries."

"Looks like I'm not as smart as you thought," Scott denied.

"Course you are," Harley countered. "When I pointed out the hazards, you killed any ideas along those lines, proving I was right about trusting you not to rat us out."

"I have a feeling people frequently underestimate you," Scott told her.

"Who me?" Harley asked innocently, clasping her hands behind her back and smiling at him as if a halo hovered over her head.

"I think most in Gotham consider you Joker's henchgirl," Scott said. "And, I don't believe they consider anything beyond the initial perception."

"Most of the goons around here don't know I had a degree in criminal psychology and was a psychologist at Arkham," Harley added. "It was all before I met Mr. J."

"How did you end up becoming Harley Quinn?" Scott asked.

"I'll tell you sometime, but you need to rest and heal up," Harley replied, quickly changing the subject. "If you're gonna stay alive in this group of nutjobs, you'll need to learn how to fight better than you do. Soon as you're able, I'll teach you."

Scott was about to ask her how much fighting skills she possessed, but he recalled his earlier observation about people underestimating her. He decided to keep the question to himself and simply find out when she started training him.

  ***  

Scott spent the better part of a week on Harley's sofa, keeping his movements limited to only what was absolutely necessary. The pain gradually reduced to a dull ache, but it always intensified if he tried to move.

Harley tended to him, bringing him meals and fluffing the couch pillows he rested on. Although she answered some of his questions, Harley seemed more interested in asking her own questions than in satisfying his curiosity. It made Scott wonder if she was analyzing him for some unknown purpose.

By the fifth day, Scott found he could stand without Harley's assistance. She'd removed most of the bandages and given him a simple black t-shirt to wear. Scott felt he was going to die when he tried to put it on.

When Scott caught a look at himself in the bathroom mirror, he still thought he looked as if he'd been run over by a truck. Bruises and scabbed over lacerations covered his face, neck, and arms. When he lifted his shirt, he found even more of the partly healed injuries.

"You ready for training?" Harley asked happily when Scott exited the bathroom and returned to Harley's room.

"You can't be serious," Scott responded.

"It depends on my mood," Harley giggled. "If you can stand up on your own, you can fight. In Gotham, especially in the Joker's crew, you have to be able to fight, no matter your physical condition. Weakness is death."

Harley picked up a pillow from the couch. "This is a knife. Defend yourself."

She made a thrusting motion with the pillow toward Scott's stomach. He twisted to one side, discomfort erupting across his stomach and ribs. Reaching out, he pushed Harley's wrist away from him. She spun with the direction of the push, but Harley snagged a second pillow from the sofa mid-turn with her opposing hand and smacked him over the head with it.

"Didn't know I had a second knife, did ya?" Harley asked.

"Do we have to do this now?" Scott winced. "I'm not ready for this."

"The people who want to kill you will prefer to strike when you're unprepared or weakened," Harley told him before hitting him over the head again with the pillow for added emphasis. "Sit down."

She tossed the pillows on the sofa and pulled over a chair to sit facing Scott when he managed to painfully lower himself into the plush cushions.

"I'm not trying to train you for a professional fight in a ring with a referee," Harley explained. "This is Gotham. Here you have to give everything you have with your fists, or this city will take everything you've got, including your life."

"Is that how you learned?" Scott asked.

"Yeah," Harley confirmed. "I grew up in a tough neighborhood, and I fought hard to get out, pushed my way through school, then college. I wanted to fix things, make it so survival didn't require so many scars."

"Is that when you met the Joker?" Scott queried.

"He dosed me with an extremely mild form of his laughing gas," Harley explained. "I was absolutely silly for a month, totally carefree. I didn't worry about my job, reputation, or even the law chasing us. By the time toxin wore off, I had a criminal record guaranteed to get me locked away."

"Surely there was another option," Scott suggested.

"Was there one for you?" Harley shot back. "I grew up in a place very much like prison, and I wasn't going to end up there again. On the streets you can fight back or run, but where can you run in a cell? Cops in Gotham, especially in the prisons, do whatever they want; they're the biggest gang in town, and they hide behind badges. Anyone landing in their hands can be used, abused, or disposed of as they see fit. Anything would've been better, even dying."

"So, we both ended up here," Scott concluded, and Harley nodded.

"I know lots of people who got it worse than me, but most of them are dead," Harley joked with a halfhearted smile. "Name me one person in Gotham who has a perfect life?"

"I can't," Scott admitted. "You're right. Some people have it worse."

"It's going to get that way for quite a few people in the weeks ahead," Harley told him in a conspiratorial whisper.

"What do you mean?" Scott asked, pitching his voice low as well.

"Joker's planning some big moves, and if you're well enough, you might get to be a part of them," Harley informed him. "It's gonna be so big, nobody will be able to stop it."

"What is it?" Scott insisted.

"He's gonna take over Gotham," Harley answered.