The relentless rain showed no sign of stopping. The clouds above grew darker and denser. Surrounded by the countless corpses of their fallen enemies, Michael felt a sensation he couldn't quite describe.
It was a mix of exhilaration and liberation, as if he'd broken free from some invisible chain. He wanted to share this feeling with Cindy, perhaps even celebrate it. But she was entirely focused on the mission, ignoring his attempts at humor.
Just as the Joker had once said, if you wanted to plunge a person—or an entire city—into chaos and madness, all it took was a little push.
He had pushed Harley, pushed Two-Face, and now Michael was the one being pushed.
After the frenzied slaughter, he felt fantastic—like quenching his thirst with an ice-cold beer on a scorching summer day. Every cell in his body seemed to be cheering.
He glanced back at the lifeless, wide-eyed corpses strewn about. Cindy didn't notice his unusual demeanor; she was busy searching for the building's entrance.
The structure where Harley was hiding bore the same nonsensical style typical of the Joker's gang. The main door facing the street was merely painted on with bright colors—it was actually a solid brick wall.
"Great, no door. Looks like we'll have to climb," Cindy remarked.
She unhooked a grappling hook and rope from her belt. Initially, she'd come here just to talk to Harley, so she hadn't planned on making a grand entrance by smashing windows or doors—that wouldn't be a polite way to visit.
Snapping back to reality, Michael surveyed the building. His experience told him there were more people inside than just Harley.
"Alright, let's go. Stay alert—you never know what surprises a madwoman's home might hold."
They simultaneously fired their grappling hooks, which caught securely on the rooftop. Their enhanced upper-body strength allowed them to ascend rapidly.
It was unclear what this building had been used for previously. The windows on the first and second floors were all boarded up. Only the third floor had a makeshift platform resembling a lookout point—probably where the Joker's thugs would randomly shoot at passersby or even at each other for fun.
With a swift motion, Michael vaulted onto the platform. The rain made everything noisy, masking any sound of their landing.
Cindy arrived simultaneously. Their masked faces met briefly, and they exchanged a slight nod.
"Crash!"
Michael kicked in a nearby window with such force that the entire frame and glass flew inward. They entered single file, weapons raised, scanning their surroundings.
"Clear," Michael whispered, rolling his shoulders. The interior was lit, making it easy to assess the situation.
They found themselves in what resembled a shabby college dormitory—a long hallway with closed doors on either side. The floor was littered with dust and trash, indicating it hadn't been cleaned in ages. The rainwater dripping from their gear quickly formed small muddy puddles.
"Do these lunatics ever clean up?" Cindy muttered, shaking her head in disgust. The stale, sour smell permeated the air. While their helmets had built-in filters against toxins, they didn't block out foul odors entirely.
Michael smelled it too—a rancid stench reminiscent of spoiled food. But he was more concerned with the staircase at the end of the hall.
"Never mind that. Let's head upstairs and find Harley."
"Hold on, there's a trap," Cindy warned, gesturing with her chin.
At the corner of the staircase, a faintly glistening tripwire was stretched across. Michael approached and uncovered the other end, hidden under some trash—a grenade.
The grenade was custom-made, painted entirely red instead of the standard military green. A big white smiley face was sloppily drawn on it—a signature of the Joker's crew.
This was one of those twisted games the gang loved to play—contests to see who could maim themselves or others in the most outrageous ways. The "Funny Bomb Surprise" was a fan favorite, where they'd laugh hysterically after blowing up their friends.
Whenever the Joker witnessed such chaos—seeing them slaughter each other in utter madness—he'd burst into maniacal laughter, reveling in his own brilliance.
"Not good! Take cover!" Michael shouted.
When you set up a prank, of course you'd stick around to watch the victim's reaction.
Since there was a booby trap meant as a prank, the gang members had to be nearby.
No sooner had he spoken than a horde of bizarre-looking thugs poured out from the rooms on both sides of the hallway. These twisted, painted faces came rushing at them, cackling and flailing their arms wildly.
Michael and Cindy knew this was far from a friendly greeting. As the mob charged, a barrage of bullets and explosives flew toward them.
Michael ducked behind the stairwell's corner, while Cindy leaped back out the window, landing on the wooden platform outside.
An onslaught of explosions followed. Michael felt as if he were trapped inside a giant popcorn machine, the deafening noise assaulting his ears.
The powerful blasts swept through the area, sending a scorching wind that nearly knocked him off his feet. He clung tightly to the stair railing to avoid being blown away. He even saw shrapnel—still bearing those exaggerated white smiley faces—ricochet off his shoulder armor, sparking as they flew past.
The Joker's henchmen kept advancing. The explosions had killed some of their own, but they didn't care—in fact, they laughed even harder.
They were like engines fueled not by gasoline but by blood—be it others' or their own—driving the vehicle called madness.
Michael shook his head, debris and dust sliding off his helmet. The hallway was packed with these laughing maniacs, sprinting toward him with grotesque and exaggerated movements.
"Approximately forty hostiles, armed with light firearms and melee weapons. Explosives seem to be depleted," he assessed quickly.
Peeking out, the entire scene registered in his mind like a photograph. He noted each enemy's position, movement direction, speed, and weaponry, formulating a plan almost instantaneously.
He pulled a smoke grenade from his gear and tossed it into the hallway. As soon as it left his hand, he vaulted over his cover.
Thick smoke billowed out, enveloping everything in a white haze. The hallway lights cast chaotic, dark shadows, throwing the gang into disarray.
They couldn't see the walls or even each other. Bumping and tripping over one another, they erupted into shouts and curses.
This was Michael's chance. He swiftly retrieved a shotgun from his back and charged into the smoke.
With Cindy outside the window behind him, anyone in the smoke was an enemy.
Having resolved his earlier hesitation, he didn't hold back. The heavy thuds of the shotgun echoed as flashes of fire illuminated the pale smoke.
"Not bad—forty-two targets in six seconds. Impressive for another version of me," Cindy remarked.
She jumped back in through the window, casually sitting on the sill and mimicking a gesture of checking her watch. Of course, she didn't need to look; her enhanced mind accurately tracked every passing second.
Michael was reloading his shotgun. Compared to earlier, he now appeared far more gruesome—splattered with blood and gore from the close-quarters combat.
Bodies were strewn all around. None of the maniacs had survived. Some had their heads blown apart; others were torn open. In the confined space, the shotgun had devastating effect—each pull of the trigger sent multiple foes flying backward.
"You had time to count but couldn't lend a hand?" Michael grumbled, slinging his shotgun back over his shoulder. He picked up a colorful rag from the floor to wipe off the blood.
"Just some small fry. Having both of us engage would've been a waste of resources," Cindy replied nonchalantly, already heading upstairs.
"At least you could offer a smoke afterward or ask how I'm doing," he sighed, following her.
This was his first time being drenched in human blood, and yet he felt an inexplicable joy. He wanted to ask if she'd felt the same way when it first happened to her.
"Fine, since we're teammates now. You guys are so high-maintenance," she said with mock exasperation.
She tossed him a cigar, her tone akin to someone humoring a child. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine, thanks," Michael replied sarcastically, pocketing the cigar. Cindy seemed to have some gender biases. "Other than having someone's brains in my collar and my chest feeling all sticky, I'm just peachy."
"Ha," she snorted without turning around, a hint of mockery in her voice. "You're just like other men—so vain and obsessed with cleanliness. I thought in your world, men were in charge."
Michael shrugged. "Men might be in charge, but that doesn't mean we all enjoy blood baths. But I have to admit, I find the carnage... exhilarating. What about you?"
Cindy continued ascending, weapon at the ready. The fourth floor was eerily quiet. While Michael had been engaged in the firefight, she'd been keeping an eye—and ear—on any movements from above, ready to prevent an ambush from upstairs.
"We're essentially the same person from different worlds. I don't need to explain the theory of parallel universes to you, do I? While there might be minor differences, what you like, I like."
She didn't understand why he was asking such questions. To her, enjoying warm blood and witnessing death wasn't a big deal. That's just how people survived in Gotham.
"So how do you deal with this... bloodlust?" Michael asked. He could accept killing but didn't want to become someone who killed for the sake of killing.
Mindless slaughter would make him a beast, not a human.
"Maybe you should ask Harley when we see her. She was a renowned psychologist in Gotham—before she went crazy," Cindy suggested, cautiously stepping onto the next landing. The fourth floor had a similar layout. "As for me, I prefer something green over red."
She rubbed her thumb and index finger together in front of him—a universal gesture for money.
In psychological terms, this was called transference. She channeled her desire for blood into a desire for wealth. Perhaps that's why Deathstroke in every parallel universe chose to be a mercenary and assassin.
It allowed them to indulge their thirst for blood while earning money—a win-win situation.
Michael wasn't here to seek therapy from Harley; he wanted information about the Bat. Besides, being treated by Harley might just make him crazier.
"No thanks. A good night's sleep will do. Fourth floor is clear," he replied.
They moved down the hallway, flanked by empty rooms. The walls were adorned with the Joker's emblem—a pale grin with crossed-out eyes. Vibrant graffiti covered the surfaces, making the place feel like a twisted funhouse.
Most rooms were filled with miscellaneous junk—mostly "prank" items like TNT, canisters of laughing gas, and automatic rifles. There was even a pile of oversized red rockets resembling giant fireworks.
"Harley's upstairs. The music is coming from directly above us," Cindy noted, pointing upward.
"It's strange. With all the commotion we just caused—practically tearing the place down—she hasn't reacted at all. And it sounds like she's still dancing?" Michael tilted his head, listening. Amid the blaring music, he could hear the rhythmic thump of boots on a wooden floor.
Cindy didn't comment. Living in Gotham had taught her one thing: don't try to understand what goes on in a madman's—or madwoman's—mind.
Gotham had produced plenty of lunatics: the Ventriloquist, Professor Hugo Strange, Victor Zsasz, Professor Pyg, Mime, Prankster, Egghead... the list went on. They were all insane.
She realized that many on her mental list were former clients. No wonder some past jobs had been utterly baffling.
Truth be told, while she'd accepted Michael's theory about their world, she doubted Harley would have any crucial information. Harley was more like an up-close spectator to the Jester's tricks rather than a participant.
If given the choice, Cindy would rather seek out Talia al Ghul of the League of Assassins. Talia had a complicated relationship with Batwoman and was more likely to know Bryce's whereabouts. Even if Talia didn't know, she had the entire League at her disposal—experts in gathering intelligence.
"Let's go upstairs. Since we're here, no harm in asking," she said, following the direction of the music down the hallway to a closed door.
They exchanged a glance and pushed the door open.
The room resembled a circus-themed nightclub. Multicolored lights spun wildly in sync with the pounding music. In the corners were various circus props and random items: inflatable dumbbells, towering funhouse mirrors, oversized rubber balls used in animal acts, and flaming hoops.
At the center of the massive dance floor was Harley Quinn—alone. She clung to a steel pole, flipping and twirling with incredible agility, her movements showcasing extreme flexibility.
A spotlight focused on her. Beads of sweat glistened as they flew off her spinning form. Her dual-toned pigtails—red and blue—fanned out like blossoms in the air.
She wasn't wearing her usual red and black jester outfit but instead donned a short-sleeved tee and denim shorts, highlighting her toned figure and pale skin. Eyes closed, she immersed herself in the joy of the dance, a blissful expression on her face as if she owned the world.
She danced around the pole like a butterfly in flight. Cindy found such a display unbecoming—why would a grown woman perform a dance typically associated with men? Ridiculous.
She nudged Michael, who seemed momentarily entranced, and whispered, "There's someone else at the four o'clock position on the sofa."
Michael had noticed too, about to point it out. Someone was seated with their back to them, only the top of their head visible over the high-backed sofa. They bobbed their head along with the music—apparently an audience of one invited by Harley.