A New Base, Harley Finds Her Place!

The heavy truck twisted through the heart of Gotham's industrial district before finally entering an underground brewery that had been abandoned for at least half a century.

A massive iron door rose slowly in the headlights, then crashed down behind the truck, shutting out prying eyes and the sound of police sirens.

The place was dark and damp. The air reeked of soured malt and engine oil, and enormous copper brewing vats stood in the darkness like silent giants.

"This is the new home you found? You've got unusual taste, sweetie." Harley hopped down from the passenger seat, pinched her nose theatrically, and looked around the place, which was even more run-down than their last warehouse.

Link ignored her teasing. He took what looked like a military encrypted terminal from the cab and tapped at it.

"The first shipment arrives at the back door in half an hour. Food, water, a generator, medical supplies. Network and surveillance equipment in an hour. In two hours, take a shower and put on clean clothes. We have guests to meet."

Link rattled off the instructions as casually as if he were arranging afternoon tea.

Harley froze. Her mind struggled to keep up.

"Wait, wait! Supplies? Guests? We're Gotham's most wanted criminals! Where are you getting all this? Don't tell me you can shop online?"

"Money buys it," Link said.

He tossed a travel bag full of cash out of the truck. It hit the floor, its zipper bursting open. Bundles of bills spilled across the ground, giving off the tempting scent of fresh ink in the dim light.

"Some of this money is dirty and needs laundering. But the rest is cash Penguin used to pay his dockworkers. It's clean," Link explained. "Gotham City never runs out of people willing to make 'deliveries' for clean money."

Watching Link act as though he had everything under control, Harley felt intellectually outmatched for the first time.

While planning the robbery, this man had even accounted for disposing of the loot and handling their supplies.

For Harley, the next two hours felt like a surreal play.

Unmarked trucks appeared at the back door at the appointed times like ghosts, dropped off everything they needed, then vanished.

Before long, the backup generator roared to life, and bright lights flooded the underground brewery.

Link directed several masked, tight-lipped "couriers" as they installed cameras at every entrance and exit, then quickly set up an internal network.

Meanwhile, in a bathroom hastily converted from a storage room, Harley enjoyed her first hot shower since escaping Arkham.

As warm water ran over her, she studied herself in the mirror: pale-faced, wild-eyed, and somehow a little lost. It hardly felt real.

No orders from Joker. No endless pursuit and hiding. No moldy bread or cold floors.

There was hot water here, fresh food on its way, a man who was quiet but extraordinarily dependable, and a "home" where she could finally feel safe.

The feeling was unfamiliar, but she wanted to hold on to it.

Harley came out in clean black combat gear, rubbing her long, wet blonde hair with a towel. Link stood at a huge workbench, wiping down a newly acquired SCAR assault rifle.

More than a dozen firearms of various sizes lay neatly arranged on the bench, alongside mountains of magazines.

This was no longer an abandoned brewery. It was a military fortress armed to the teeth.

"Where are our guests?" Harley asked. Without realizing it, she had lost some of the shrill frenzy in her voice. In its place was a steadiness she could feel.

Link didn't answer. He pulled an elegant gun case from beneath the workbench and tossed it to her.

Harley caught it on instinct.

Inside lay a brand-new, extensively customized Chiappa Rhino revolver.

The gun had a beautiful silver finish and a cherrywood grip. On the side of the barrel, a laser had etched a delicate cartoon Joker Fish blowing bubbles.

For an instant, Harley stopped breathing.

She reached out with a faintly trembling hand and stroked the cold, smooth gun.

She loved Joker, so everything about her revolved around him. She had wielded the enormous mallet he gave her and worn the red and black he liked. But she had never received a gift that truly belonged to Harley Quinn herself.

"You..." Harley raised her head to look at Link, her eyes full of conflicting emotions.

"Don't you like this flashy sort of thing?" Link's expression remained unruffled. "It's much more accurate than the junk you used before. Suits you better, too."

He paused, then raised his head and met Harley's eyes with his dark ones.

"Harley, remember this. Here, you're not anyone's accessory or anyone's toy."

"You're a partner."

Boom!

Harley felt as though those words had set something off inside her head.

Harley Quinn, Joker's girl. The King's queen. Puddin's sweetheart...

Beside the word partner, every label seemed pale and ridiculous.

She snapped the case shut and hugged it tight against her chest. Then she looked up and smiled—the brightest, most genuine smile she had worn since escaping Arkham.

There was still madness in that smile, but no trace of submission.

"All right, my... partner." She deftly tucked the Rhino behind her waist. Her eyes shone brighter and sharper than ever before.

"Now let's meet our 'guests' and recruit the first soldiers for our new kingdom!"