Bruce had never been a fan of aliens. They were an unknown. An unpredictable threat. He saw his friendship with the Kryptonian Kal-El as an exception to these rules, and the only one that he was willing to accept. So, when an alien vessel crashes in...
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Author's Note: This story has some dark stuff already, but I felt the need to say that this chapter will have domestic violence in it (like hardcore stuff between Joker and Harley because their relationship has always been abusive af and I refuse to show it in a positive light *cough*Suicide Squad*cough* So please proceed with caution.)
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Have you heard the one about the Italian chef? He pasta way!
'Krank Co. Toys' was every kid's dream. The shop was practically flooded with action figures and playthings - all of them pristine in their original packaging. Well, almost all of them. Behind the counter sat a large crate full of defected and damaged toys. These were the ones that either arrived with some oddity that the factory hadn't noticed, or had been mishandled during delivery.
Harley Quinn had been captivated by broken things ever since she was a child. The obsession was subtle at first, dolls with their eyes painted a little too high up and porcelain fairies with missing arms, then in her teenage years it had spiralled into bad boys with motorcycles and a rebellious streak. This strange pattern struck most people as a little odd because Harley, then known as Harleen Francis Quinzel, was widely known as a 'goody two-shoes'. She wore her strawberry blonde hair in a tight bun, wore glasses a few sizes too big for her face, and had never uttered one single swear word in the entirety of her life. 'Foul language is the mark of a small mind', her mama used to say, and Harleen certainly did not have a small mind.
The truth was even Harley didn't know what compelled her towards damaged goods. Maybe she thought that she could fix them...or maybe she was a firm believer that even the most broken things deserved love. So, that's one of the many reasons why Harley found herself sifting through that giant crate of rejects.
Muffled cries filled the air as Harley pulled out an old, scantily clad Barbie. She had a bald patch on the right side of her skull and two right feet. The smile that lit across Harley's face was akin to that of a kid's on Christmas morning. She yanked it out from the innards of that rusty old container and waved it in the air excitedly. "Mistah J! Look what I found!"
So, did you hear about the guy who lost his left arm and leg in a car crash? He's all right now...
There was no answer. Joker was too busy analysing a small tub of playdough to pay any attention to Harley's new doll. She could see him inspecting the instructions, a malicious grin stretching impossibly wide over his face. He sauntered behind the counter, kicking his heels thrice with clear excitement. "Non-toxic playdough? Now, where's the fun in that?"
He was leaning over a flimsy, wooden seat - tied to which was the only employee that had been working when the clown posse arrived. He had messy black hair and couldn't have been any older than nineteen. The boy choked back a few terrified sobs as Joker stared at him unblinkingly.
