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♡♦♡ I TOLD HIM THIS WOULD HAPPEN, BUT HE DIDN'T BELIEVE ME ♡♦♡
Harley Quinn sits on her bed at Arkham Asylum, sipping a cup of coffee brewed by her very own espresso machine. Her little reward for almost killing her ex lover. The machine, itself, is a gift sent to her by Dr. Leland for improving in her therapy sessions. It has been just two weeks since she had severely hurt the Joker and sent him to the medics. From the fight, he was left with a broken arm, a severely bleeding head, and his stomach bruised. He hasn't returned from medical yet, word says that he is was injured very badly and almost, just almost, close to death.
If the guards had appeared one or two minutes late, Harleen's wish would have been granted.
Quinn sighs deeply, flipping through the pages of a thick magazine. "Sixteen Ways To Find A Lover."
Harley Quin leans back against the padded walls of her cell, sipping her coffee and flicking through the pages of her book. Things have returned back to normal after the fight. As normal as prison life goes. The days come and go, the guards are their usual charming selves, well until she put them in intensive care of course.
Stupid article, she thinks. She tosses the magazine away. Where the hell am I gonna find sixteen lovers here? At least lovers who aren't creeps, meta-powered maniacs, or crazy, green-haired drug lords?
Grumbling, she jumps out of her bed, retrieves the magazine and decides to finish reading the article, no matter how impractical it is. Just as she picks up where she has left off, a single guard appears from the door.
Harley watches in confusion as the guard, dressed from head to toe in protective gear, bursts into the room. He scans the room for a moment, searching for any weapons, but when he doesn't find anything, he looks back at Harleen and nods.
"Quinzel," the guard booms, reaching into his pocket and pulling out some metal handcuffs. "You got lucky. Some idiot bailed you out."
Harleen is confused by his statement, her mind running wild as he gently straps the cuffs around her wrists. "What?"
She isn't supposed to be bailed out. She was told that the least that they could give her was fifteen years... None of this is making any sense.
At seven a.m on the morning of Harley's surprising discharge from Arkham Asylum, Dr. Leland doesn't offer any answers. She just gives her a large plastic bag filled with stuff, a small suitcase with a change of clothing, a little cash, and a securing smile. Harley's smile runs wild through it all, her smile not enough to keep her from panicking. I mean, seriously, who the hell came to bail her up? And most importantly, how?
