Slade Wilson studied Ivy's reaction carefully. She seemed just as stunned by his presence as he was intrigued by hers. Her gaze lingered on him, as if trying to decipher some hidden truth in his stance, in the way he carried himself. It was as though she was momentarily lost in thought, grappling with an idea she couldn't quite put into words. He didn't dwell on it. Instead, he stepped past the sprawling tangle of ivy that twisted through the room, his heavy boots brushing against the thick vines as he made his way to the couch.
The sofa had seen better days. Stained dark red in places—wine, or something far less innocent—its cushions sagged under the weight of neglect. The fabric bore the marks of countless nights, shadows of dried alcohol forming dark patterns across its surface. It looked more at home in a dimly lit nightclub, where neon lights would cast illusions over its imperfections, than in this eerie, desolate space. Sitting on it, clad in his black-and-yellow armor, Slade felt an odd sense of contrast, like a soldier in enemy territory.
He turned his gaze toward Harley Quinn. "Let's trade information. What did the Jester tell you about finding Batman? Then I'll tell you what I know."
His voice was steady, expectant. He needed answers, and for better or worse, Harley was his best source right now.
Harley, ever the unpredictable one, tilted her head, studying him with a curiosity that was almost childlike. No man had ever dared to sit so close to her without an invitation. That intrigued her. But as soon as the question left his lips, her expression shifted. Her blue eyes widened, her lips forming an exaggerated pout, as if he had just asked her to recount a tragic romance.
"Oh, honey, that's a loooong story…" she sighed dramatically, stretching out her arms as if preparing for a grand performance.
Without waiting for his consent, she launched into a winding tale, her voice carrying the same singsong quality as a lullaby—deceptively sweet, yet laced with something darker beneath the surface. She spoke of the first time the Jester saw Batman years ago, a meeting that left an indelible mark. From that moment on, the Jester could never forget him.
In her version of events, young, innocent, and oh-so-kind Harley had simply wanted to play along with them. But Batman, the cruel villain of her story, never let her join in. He was always there, always watching, always interfering. Yet Ms. J, Harley's best friend and partner in chaos, didn't seem to mind. In fact, she relished the idea of playing with Batman alone. Without Harley.
That hurt.
But Harley, being the strong woman she was, bore it all. Again and again. She grit her teeth, she smiled, she endured.
Slade listened, expression unreadable. It was exactly what he had anticipated. Harley was spinning her own web, carefully crafting the narrative to see what he would latch onto. If he hadn't spent years reading DC files, analyzing Gotham's chaos from afar, he might have been fooled into thinking he was speaking to some misunderstood fairy-tale princess.
Pure, beautiful, strong, brilliant, and kind—at least, that's what Harley believed about herself. In her story, she and the Jester were the two most perfect women in the world, while Batwoman was nothing more than a lurking, twisted shadow. A stalker hanging from rooftops, always squinting at the Jester with suspicious eyes. Always plotting. Always scheming.
Her story contained almost no useful information.
Slade sighed internally. Beyond learning the circumstances of how Harley had met the Jester in this warped version of reality, all he had gained were fragmented memories and her own personal grievances.
More than anything, she was feeling him out.
She wasn't just talking—she was testing him, searching for moments of synchronicity, for signs that their thoughts aligned. A hidden evaluation. The trained psychiatrist within her never rested, always seeking to analyze and manipulate. It was impressive, in its own way. Beneath the layers of madness, Harley was nothing short of a genius.
Slade exhaled slowly and decided to cut the game short.
"Let me stop you right there," he interrupted smoothly. His voice remained calm, yet firm. "Don't bother trying. I'm a Deathstroke from a parallel universe, which means my brain runs at a speed far beyond the norm. Psychological profiling, suggestive hypnosis—it won't work on me. Save yourself the trouble."
Harley's lips parted slightly in surprise before curling into a playful grin.
"Oh, you're no fun," she huffed, her posture shifting. She had been just about to tell him all about her and the Jester's little adventure with the Penguin, but he had cut her off before she could sink her hooks in further.
Slade stretched his neck, glancing sideways. Across the room, Ivy and Cindy sat on another couch, each holding a glass of wine. They had been listening intently, their expressions amused.
Even in this warped, feminist-ruled world, it seemed that the love for a good bit of gossip remained unchanged.
"Oh, so you're from a parallel universe?" Harley mused, changing the subject seamlessly. She abandoned her earlier tactics, adapting quickly. "Well, that's kinda boring. Here I thought you and her—" she nodded toward Ivy "—were a thing."
She wiggled her pinky in the air suggestively, her grin widening.
Slade didn't take the bait. "You don't seem too surprised about the parallel universe bit. The last Syndicate invasion must've made waves here."
Harley giggled and twirled in place, her movements light as a dancer's. When she finally stopped, she struck an exaggerated pose, as if performing the final act of a grand ballet.
"Oh, it was quite the show," she admitted with a dreamy sigh. "Most of the action was in Metropolis, but Gotham got to enjoy the fireworks too. The whole sky lit up in orange and red… I swear I could hear the screams all the way from here. Beautiful, don't ya think?"
Cindy shrugged, giving Slade a deadpan look as if to say, See? Total lunatic.
Slade remained impassive. Then, without missing a beat, he threw out a question. "So if the world's ending now, you must be thrilled, huh?"
Harley's smile didn't falter. If anything, it widened.
"Oh, absolutely," she cooed, nodding eagerly. "Why d'you think we're celebrating?"
Slade felt a flicker of satisfaction. He had drawn out what he needed—confirmation. She knew.
That was when Ivy suddenly shot up from her seat, her emerald eyes widening. "Wait, wait, what? You invited me here to celebrate that?!"
Harley blinked at her innocently. "Huh? Didn't I tell you? Puddin' said the world's gonna end. We're all gonna die."
Silence.
"You just said there was no one home and asked me to keep you company," Ivy hissed, her voice seething with disbelief. "Now the world's ending?! How do you expect my plants to survive if the Earth is gone?!"
Harley pouted, stepping closer to stroke Ivy's back in what was likely meant to be a comforting gesture. "Aww, Red, don't be sad! If you're dead, you won't see them die either, right?"
Ivy squinted at her in utter exasperation.
Slade, meanwhile, cut in. "No one's got a spaceship? At least some way to escape?"
In countless versions of this universe, space travel existed. There were alien civilizations, intergalactic wars, and even the Justice League's orbiting Watchtower. Surely, someone had a plan.
But his question only earned three blank stares.
"What's a spaceship?"
Three voices. Three confused expressions.
Slade paused. Then exhaled.
"Right," he muttered. "This universe is doomed."