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♡♦♡ IF I'M NOT OUTTA HERE IN FIVE SECONDS, SOMEBODY'S GONNA GET THEIR SPLEEN RIPPED OUT ♡♦♡
Harley Quinn, dresses in grey coveralls and carrying a toolbox, happily hums the theme song to the Looney Tunes show as she turns right on Kanigher Avenue, then saunters down Courthouse Alley, past the ever-present gauntlet of Gotham City's homeless. She gives them each a sympathetic smile, one that seems to say "I've been there," as she tosses out fast-food coupons that promises the hungry recipients a warm meal.
They cost her nothing. She'd stolen them, and they will help thin out the crowd as the hungry hurry to get their hot but not quite so tasty Tex-Mex burritos. Her generosity isn't so much a good deed as a necessity. The fewer people watching her during her setup stage, the better it is. For them.
Her short hair is tied into two mini space buns and her eyes are painted with dark makeup and heavy eyeliner with just a pop of blue in the inner corner as she watches them scramble for the coupons. One or two manage to grab a couple. A veritable feast is in store for them. She sees a woman with a baby in one of those sling carriers try to pick up a coupon, but some guy pushes her aside and takes it instead. Harley's face flashes with anger for a split second, leaving as soon as it came. She can't get distracted, so she moves on.
Nobody said life was fair.
She has a job to do and no time to waste.
Yet she remembers the look of desperation on that woman's face and the innocence of that baby. Damn. She reaches into her pocket and takes out her last two coupons and tosses them to the woman.
"Lose these, an' yer screwed, lady," she says as she walks off. The woman grabs them and rushes for her dinner.
Halfway up the block she stops at the stone ledge she had scouted the day she took the job. She looks up to see the once-grand courthouse at the end of the street, then fits a thick steel plate into its pre-sized niche as planned. She taps the "on" switch to the small camera drilled into the plate and grins as its green light flashes.
Perfect.
Taking a monocle lens from her pocket, she props it over one eye and checks to see if the video feed is working.
Almost perfect.
Quinn shifts the plate with a fingertip, and keeps nudging it until the video feed is lined up just right. A fraction of an inch off could cost her thousands.
She grins, checks to see if anyone is watching, and as expected, the Courthouse Alley tenants are all at the fast-food place, gorging on their burritos.
Once again, perfect.
She pockets the monocle, walks off, and resumes humming her beloved theme song as she turns onto Broome Street and goes into the Gardener building. As she enters, she sees a pair of U.S. marshals standing by the front desk. They gesture for her to approach. One pats her down while the other inspects her toolbox.
