Harley couldn't remember how many nights of revelry she'd had.
A few days ago, her dearest Puddin' had sent her a letter from Arkham via someone. The envelope was covered in incomprehensible scribbles and symbols, with red smudges resembling blood and numerous lipstick marks.
But she knew it was genuine. It was a secret language only the two of them used—a code or a sign, their little secret. Every time she thought about it, her heart filled with sweetness.
When the trembling prison guard handed the thin letter to Harley and then screamed and fled from the Joker's territory, Harley joyfully held the letter to her chest, twirling happily around the room.
The Jester had been captured by the Bat and locked up in Arkham for over half a year now, and Harley missed her dearly.
Receiving the letter reminded her of the joy she felt when she got Christmas presents as a child, the sweetness of tasting chocolate for the first time, and the giddy excitement of wearing high heels for the first time.
This happiness made her forget to use her mallet to bash the messenger's head in. She had previously planned to disguise herself as a guard to sneak into Arkham and rescue the Jester.
She lightly twirled a lock of her hair with one hand, like a lovestruck girl, while her other hand pulled out a kitchen knife from who knows where, eagerly opening the envelope.
Unfortunately, her joy vanished the moment she opened the letter. The words on the paper made her unconsciously exclaim, "Oh no! This can't be true!"
The Jester had written:
"Dear little Pumpkin, how have you been lately? I have some good news to tell you—the world is ending, and we're all gonna die! Isn't that exciting?"
"Oh, death, what a wonderful word. I've already changed my outfit and am ready for the date!"
"Today, I ate a shriveled roast goose. How about you?"
"Mr. Spoon hasn't been talking to me much lately."
"Before you die, could you bring the Bat to see me? I'd prefer to die with her; you can catch a cab home by yourself."
"Well, that's it. Hurry up. Kisses."
Although the letter didn't contain the Jester's signature manic laughter, from the messy handwriting and disjointed content, she was still the same person.
Amid the crooked letters were her random, eerie doodles, resembling her smiling face. There were also dried stains resembling snot or saliva on the paper—it seemed the Jester had been very happy while writing.
But Harley was not pleased upon receiving it.
She had been eagerly awaiting the letter, only for it to contain such content. It made her very sad.
Though knowing that everyone was going to die and being able to witness the ultimate chaos as people faced death made her somewhat happy...
In short, her emotions were complex.
In the end, the Jester was still obsessed with that stinking Bat. Harley felt like she was just a chauffeur or an errand girl. They had promised to be each other's sweethearts, that Little Pumpkin and Little Puddin' would always be together...
Laughing maniacally, Harley went on a rampage in the house, setting fires and smashing things to vent her frustration. But she ultimately decided to do as the Jester asked—after all, they were best friends.
Harley never doubted her. The end of the world? Such a trivial matter—it had to be true.
Not only did she set out herself, but she also sent the entire Circus to search for traces of the Bat throughout Gotham City.
However, their usual methods didn't work. No matter how much chaos they stirred up in the city, only those boring police officers showed up. Batwoman never appeared.
For three consecutive nights, Harley went out as soon as it got dark, causing trouble like it was her job, returning exhausted at dawn. But the Bat seemed to have vanished; she never showed up, not even a shadow.
"Maybe she went on vacation abroad. I sometimes think about going to Paris or somewhere else," Harley mused.
She left large signs on rooftops where the Bat often appeared, each with a cartoon hand pointing toward her home. She knew the Bat would catch her scent.
Then she returned here, waiting every night for the Bat to come.
At first, she waited while reading, but that made her too sleepy, and she feared she wouldn't notice if the Bat came.
So the next day, she read while drinking.
On the third day, it became dancing while drinking.
Gradually, she seemed to forget her original purpose, turning the nightly revelry into a new habit—celebrating the impending end of the world.
But the members of the Circus didn't dare to party with Harley; they didn't enjoy getting their heads smashed with a giant hammer.
This made Harley feel lonely, so she invited her good friend to stay and join her in a 24-hour celebration.
Meanwhile, the Jester in Arkham was going mad from waiting. She didn't know what was happening outside or why Harley hadn't brought the Bat yet. She became increasingly hysterical, laughing uncontrollably in her cell.
A few days later, a mysterious cassette tape was smuggled out of her room by a guard and, after changing hands several times, ended up with Deathstroke. Cindy accepted the mission to find the Bat—that's what happened before Michael and Cindy met.
Harley, clutching the steel pole, gasped for breath and locked eyes with the person on the sofa. Then both of them burst into laughter. Harley laughed so hard that her legs gave out, and she toppled onto the sofa, seemingly wanting to play around with her friend.
At that moment, she noticed others in the room. Under the psychedelic lights, she could make out figures in armor—the black and yellow pattern, the most recognizable warning colors in nature.
Someone had been watching them from the shadows all along, the red monocle on the helmet reflecting an ominous light. Even Harley couldn't help but exclaim:
"Uh-oh..."
Indeed, when a world-famous assassin like Deathstroke showed up in your home, it was never a good thing.
"Deathstroke? Why are you in my house?" Harley shook her head. Her flushed face suggested she'd had quite a bit to drink.
"I need an answer to a question, and maybe you know it," Cindy said bluntly. "I'm looking for the Bat. Where is she?"
"Everyone's looking for the Bat. What's so great about that stinking Bat..." Harley didn't answer but instead ran to the sofa and hugged the other person, seeking comfort.
Michael stepped out from behind Cindy and whispered, "Looks like the Jester sent her to find the Bat too—probably in the same situation as us."
"Can't we just storm Arkham and get answers?" Cindy frowned under her mask. "Since you think the Jester knows, why not ask her directly?"
"No need. The Jester doesn't know. My previous judgment was wrong," Michael calmly corrected himself, watching Harley roll around on the sofa from a distance. "If only your mission was vague or incomprehensible, it might be intentional on the Jester's part. But Harley is someone she trusts, and even she doesn't know. This means the task the Jester gave her is the same as ours—searching aimlessly."
Cindy nodded slightly. "So you came to Harley first to determine if the Jester knows the Bat's whereabouts? Indeed, Harley is much easier to understand than the Jester."
Such praise didn't make Michael feel accomplished because they were now at a dead end.
In the comics he'd read, there was no storyline where Bryce Wayne disappeared. The scenes only showed her hiding in a secret base, watching on a large screen as Aquawoman landed for peace talks. She then concluded that the so-called negotiations were a ruse and went to ambush Queen Arthur, triggering a series of events.
But Cindy had already checked the Batcave—it wasn't there. So where was this secret base?
They had no leads. They say a cunning rabbit has three burrows, but the Bat was far more cunning than any rabbit.
If they waited for Bryce to make a move, it might be too late. Michael didn't know how Bryce infiltrated millions of soldiers to get close to Arthur and successfully kill her.
In other words, even knowing that Atlantis would attack Themyscira, he didn't know when or how. Blocking Batwoman in Gotham was their best bet.
His foreknowledge was limited; the comic scenes were too general to provide useful clues.
Harley finally remembered she had to deal with Deathstroke. She stood up, her hair disheveled, and shouted:
"I don't know where the Bat is! You've got the wrong place! Uh, wait, why are there two Deathstrokes?" Harley rubbed her eyes and looked again, but there were still two. Her mouth dropped open. "Either I've had too little to drink, or way too much. Oh no! I forgot that Ms. J asked me to find the Bat. She's gonna hate me!"
Suddenly sobering up, Harley recalled why she'd been waiting these past days. It wasn't to eat, drink, and be merry while waiting for the world's end or to anticipate humanity's ultimate chaos—it was to wait for the Bat to come to her.
"Um... did the Bat ever come...?"
She rested her chin on her hand, tilting her head as she tried hard to remember. But she'd been having too much fun lately. When she was spinning like a top on the dance floor, how could she notice if Batwoman had shown up?
"Hey, why didn't you remind me?" After pondering fruitlessly, Harley raised her hand and slapped the person on the sofa, feigning annoyance.
"You never told me about it. How was I supposed to remind you?"
The person on the sofa sounded exasperated but had a voice and tone that suggested she was an exceptionally alluring woman—her speech was filled with charm and sweetness.
Cindy leaned toward Michael and whispered, "This isn't good. Be ready to retreat. I didn't bring any herbicide this time."
But the person on the sofa suddenly sprang up as if electrified, wrapping her arms around Harley and turning to face the two at the door, staring intently with a blank expression.
Now Michael could see her attire—or rather, her lack thereof. She wore nothing but leaves. Green leaves and vines covered her essential areas, and this half-revealing state made it seem like nature had only provided her with underwear.
Her slender arms, graceful legs, flat abdomen, and smooth back were all exposed to the air. Purple, glossy eyeshadow and lip gloss adorned her features, and her red, wavy hair was decorated with flowers—all of which exuded an air of temptation at every moment.
It was Poison Ivy—Harley's good friend, a renowned botanist, a fanatical environmentalist, and a significant troublemaker in Gotham City.
Calling her an environmentalist wasn't entirely accurate; she was more of a plant protectionist. She didn't care how polluted the air was as long as it didn't affect photosynthesis, nor did she care how dirty the water was as long as it didn't harm her plants. Even if a nuclear bomb exploded in Gotham, as long as her beloved plants were unharmed, she was indifferent.
Unlike other lunatics, Poison Ivy was a genuine super-powered individual. She could create, accelerate the growth of, and command any plant to serve her—summoning massive vines to tear down buildings, causing city-wide flowers to emit deadly toxins, or implanting microscopic lethal spores into others.
Moreover, she was highly intelligent, holding multiple PhDs. All her bodily fluids were poisonous, each with different effects—she could control minds, drive people insane, or cause them to die in blissful dreams.
Transformed by plants and toxins, she possessed rapid regeneration. Even if mortally wounded, burying her in soil and watering her could make her sprout anew.
In the comic world, even Supermen from parallel universes could fall under her control. The only known immunity to her mind-control toxins, across various worlds, was the Batman from the New 52 universe.
Batman's unwavering will made him immune to mental control, but his human body couldn't resist her other toxins. In many comics, Batman was poisoned by her various toxins and was on the brink of death, saved only by Alfred and Robin crafting antidotes.
Facing Poison Ivy without preparation was undoubtedly unfavorable. Cindy naturally felt things were going south and considered a quick exit.
And Cindy's earlier comment about "herbicide" was like pointing at a monk and calling him bald—it was a direct insult.
"How did she hear that?" Cindy was taken aback, her hand slowly moving toward her weapon.
"All the lighting effects here—the lamps above and around us—are controlled by vines. Poison Ivy can use them to transmit subtle vibrations and hear everything we say," Michael explained, stepping in front of Cindy and raising his hands toward Poison Ivy and Harley to show no hostility.
"The other Deathstroke is correct. Sound is a form of vibration," Poison Ivy said.
She relaxed slightly; several vine-like tendrils retracted back into her body. If possible, she didn't want to clash with Deathstroke, especially not two of them.
"Our employer is also Ms. J, so we're all looking for the Bat for the same reason. Why not sit down and have something to eat?" Michael suggested.
In truth, their search for the Bat was no longer related to the Jester's mission but was about saving Earth -11. However, there was no need to explain that to Harley and Poison Ivy.
His mind raced, and he decided to remove his helmet.
Since Harley wasn't a direct threat in combat and the real danger came from Poison Ivy—and her attacks couldn't be blocked by a helmet—it was better to show his face, divert their attention, and ease the tension.
Because on Earth -11, male supervillains were probably as rare as he was.
"A man?!"
"A man?"
Just as he expected, both Harley and Poison Ivy exclaimed upon seeing his face.
"Hmph." Cindy snorted, also removing her helmet and stepping beside Michael. Aside from their genders and appearances, they were like two peas in a pod.
Both had a blind right eye, identical armor and weapons, and shared aesthetic tastes.
Their approaches, however, differed slightly.
Harley plopped back onto the sofa, glancing between Cindy and Michael, her big eyes filled with curiosity.
"Well, now we're more interested in your story. As for finding the Bat, if we can't find her, we can't find her. I can't exactly mold one out of clay to send to Ms. J, can I?"