Chapter 87: The Smile That Broke the World
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Lately, Harleen's life had been nothing short of monotonous. After acing an interview at a well-known psychotherapy institution—thanks to her impeccable resume and her proven credentials—she secured the job without breaking a sweat. Everything about her application was perfect. More importantly, she truly had the skills to back it all up.
And yet… she was bored. Deeply, endlessly bored.
Every day felt like a repeat of the last, a slow, colorless loop.
"Harley gets to spend all day playing with her dog," she muttered bitterly to herself. "And the only friend I had left—the one person who could keep me from going completely insane—got snatched away by that bastard Dean. I swear, I'm this close to picking up a bat like Harley and cracking that smug idiot's skull open."
She was seated alone, hunched over a corner of the bar, slowly drowning her thoughts in whiskey. The sharp burn of alcohol was the only thing that managed to dull the constant swirl of frustration in her brain.
At that moment, a tall figure draped in green approached from the other side of the bar. He twirled a cane tipped with a question mark as he walked, the motion somehow both dramatic and awkward. His face was a mess—bruises blooming across his cheeks and under his eyes, courtesy of a recent beatdown from Orm. The swelling around his nose was still visible, giving his usual smug grin a lopsided, almost comical look.
"Well, if it isn't Harley Quinn herself," the man greeted, plopping down beside her with all the casual arrogance of someone who didn't know how to read a room. "Been a while. You switch up your makeup or somethin'? I nearly walked right past you."
Harleen turned her head slowly, then squinted at the face beside her with unmasked disdain.
"The Riddler?" she said sharply. "Please. With that bruised, cuckold mug, I wouldn't have known it was you even if you were doing one of your ridiculous riddles."
The Riddler's grin faltered. He rubbed his sore face reflexively, the memory of Orm's savage blows still fresh and humiliating.
Orm hadn't held back. He had beaten the "handsome genius" until his face looked like a bad abstract painting. The Riddler vowed silently: One day, I'll get even. One day, I'll make that fish-faced freak regret ever laying a hand on me. He had a reputation to uphold, after all. Without vengeance, how could he still call himself the Riddler?
"Hah… so you don't know," he said, smirking as he leaned back. "Makes me feel better. Looks like I wasn't the only one left out. That's comforting, in a twisted way."
He signaled to the bartender to cover Harleen's drinks for the night, paying for them with a subtle nod.
Harleen blinked at him. "What are you even talking about?"
The Riddler's smile turned sly, knowing. "There's a big get-together happening tonight. A proper Gotham villain bash. Guess who didn't get an invite? You—and me."
Harleen was momentarily stunned. Her mind stalled, her expression frozen.
Then, realization hit her. Of course. She wasn't exactly part of the circle anymore. After everything that happened, it made sense she hadn't been included.
Still… it stung more than she expected.
Her voice dropped. "Who's at the party?"
The Riddler ticked names off on his fingers. "Quite a few. Poison Ivy, Two-Face, Professor Pyg, Clayface, annnnd—oh, here's the kicker—the Joker…"
Before he could finish, Harleen had lunged forward and grabbed the collar of his coat, her once-detached demeanor flipping in an instant. Her face was close to his now, her delicate features twisted with surprise and something deeper—something sharp.
"Who did you say?" she hissed.
"Joker! You know, your Mr. J!" the Riddler stammered, suddenly regretting his choice of words.
"He's not my Mr. J anymore," she snapped, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "Now tell me—where's the damn party?"
The Riddler quickly spilled the information, eager to get out of her grip.
"It's at Ocean Park, right across from the Port Adam site. That's where the Seven Seas Gang has their new base. Oh—and you'll know you're close when you see the bat-signal ripoff. The question mark light in the sky is still shining. Just follow the beam."
Harleen remembered seeing that odd green glow earlier in the evening. She hadn't paid it much mind at the time. Now, it all made sense.
She released the Riddler without another word and stormed out of the bar, leaving him sitting there in a daze.
He picked up his cane, adjusted the brim of his hat, and began wandering the streets of Gotham once more. A crooked smile played on his bruised lips.
Everyone thought he was the same old Riddler—a narcissistic lunatic who loved puzzles and heard his own voice as gospel.
But in reality… he was the true outsider.
---
Meanwhile, back in the shadows of Gotham's war for balance, things were shifting rapidly.
To prevent Shendu from absorbing more dark energy and growing stronger, Dean had made a controversial choice. He granted Gotham's rogues a collective power boost, embedding subtle mental suggestions in their minds—commands to keep a low profile, to avoid causing chaos… for now.
He didn't want panic in the streets. He wanted order. Control.
But the Joker—now being actively hunted by Shendu—was a special case.
Dean considered the clown too valuable to lose. Among all the villains in Gotham, perhaps even in the entire DC Universe, the Joker carried the heaviest weight of darkness. His symbolic and spiritual presence in the balance of good and evil was unmatched.
Dean would never allow him to be taken.
But that didn't mean he trusted him.
No. Dean didn't give the Joker freedom. He kept him close. Very close. Under the guise of protection, the Joker was placed right under Dean's nose—watched, monitored, managed. It was protection on paper, surveillance in practice.
In a way, Dean had become Arkham's new warden.
And the Joker? He knew exactly what game was being played.
He hadn't forgotten the conversation they'd had in Arkham. Dean's eyes that day had burned with genuine killing intent. If circumstances were even slightly different, Dean would have ended him without hesitation.
But the clown had one rule: He could not die before finishing things with Batman.
Letting Batman win before the game was truly over… That thought was worse than death itself.
So the Joker played it cool. Smiled. Laughed. Pretended to be obedient.
But the calmer the clown acted, the more anxious Dean became.
Sharing drinks with the Joker was not something many heroes would dare to do.
The Joker licked his bright-red lips slowly, his eyes never leaving Dean's.
"C'mon," he said in a lazy drawl. "Where's Bats? I know you're hiding him. And what master plan are you cooking up behind my back?"
Dean's eyes narrowed. His glass looked like it held something strong, but in truth, it was just Coke. He wanted a clear mind. There was no room for mistakes around this man.
"I don't know where Batman is," Dean said calmly. "And I don't have any plans."
But the Joker's grin only grew wider. Because in Gotham, everyone had a plan. And no one was ever telling the whole truth.
The Joker tilted his head back and, without a second thought, dumped the wine straight over his own face. The chilled liquid streamed down through his green hair, soaking into his skin and shirt like ink spreading through water. The sudden cold shock jolted something awake inside him—not clarity, not exactly—but a heightened, unhinged awareness. The kind of madness that wasn't asleep, just lurking quietly beneath the surface, now bubbling back to life.
And with it, the madness intensified.
"You have to believe me, Dean!" the Joker shouted, his voice laced with manic rage and disbelief. "I hate the man behind all of this! I hate him more than I hate you—because he ruined the most magnificent, beautifully crafted surprise party I ever planned for Batsy!"
He screamed the words with genuine heartbreak, like a child whose favorite toy had been smashed.
"I worked on it for so long… the little touches… the suspense… the drama! And just like that… ruined!" he shrieked, flailing his arms in the air like he was trying to claw invisible curtains off a stage.
His fingers curled with fury at the thought of anyone interfering in the twisted, sacred war he waged with Batman. Theirs was a conflict too delicate for outside meddling.
Watching this descent into chaos, Dean stood still for a moment before quietly pulling Raven back. His voice was firm, serious.
"I can't tell you anything, clown. Just give it up," Dean said sharply. "Stay with Orm. He'll protect your life—for now."
He turned to Orm. "Orm. Protect the clown. Until I return, he does not die. That's an order."
The implication was clear. When Dean returned—after dealing with Shendu—the Joker's survival would no longer be required. In fact, his death would be the final act of a long performance. And when that time came, Dean wouldn't be sloppy or merciful. He'd make sure the Joker died swiftly… and cleanly.
Dean continued, his tone dropping even further into warning.
"And listen—no matter what the clown says to you, even if it sounds reasonable, don't engage him. Don't think about it. Don't agree with him. Don't let him pull you into his rhythm. Once he has your mind, you'll be dancing on his strings."
Orm, now seeing how seriously Dean was taking this, began to regard the Joker not as a lunatic—but as something far more dangerous.
Among the individuals Dean could count on, Orm was arguably the most stable for this particular task. Poison Ivy was too emotionally volatile. Raven was already slipping toward darkness. The Penguin lacked physical strength. And Gordon—well, he had already become a pawn on the board of the Shendu.
Dean didn't even dare let Raven so much as empower the Joker. One wrong move, and she might accidentally create a Trigon-level Joker. A godlike clown. The thought alone made Dean imagine himself flipping backwards through flaming hoops just to fix it.
No. This was a job only Orm could handle.
Confident that he had set the stage correctly, Dean grabbed Raven's arm and teleported away, off to make a trade with the Justice League—hostages for Pandora's Box.
Once Dean vanished, Orm ordered the Joker to be locked inside the aquarium—a sealed chamber of glass and water, guarded day and night. Then, satisfied that the situation was contained, Orm went to rest.
And that… was Harleen's chance.
---
The Tiger Talisman's ability might have looked unimpressive on the surface, but its power was far more subtle: it split "one" into "two."
And that was exactly what had happened.
Harleen now stood alone—clean, polished, dressed in a refined outfit, her appearance elegant yet dangerous. She was no longer Harley Quinn, the laughing jester who danced with death. She was Dr. Harleen Quinzel, and despite not sparring daily like her other half, she moved with equally deadly precision.
Sneaking into the aquarium wasn't hard for her. A quick dispatch of the gatekeeper, a dose of ether over the guard's mouth—and she was inside.
The Joker lay on a bed, fast asleep, snoring softly—oblivious.
Then he felt a weight settle over his chest. His eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he saw was a face that was both hauntingly familiar… and yet somehow entirely foreign.
Long strands of deep blue hair brushed across his pale cheeks as Harleen loomed above him. She was calm, methodical. She'd already taken a tie and secured his wrist to the headboard to keep him from thrashing during treatment.
The moment his eyes focused, she smiled.
"Joker," she said sweetly, "do you still recognize your attending doctor? It's me. Dr. Harleen Quinzel."
The Joker's face remained flat. No smile. No flicker of emotion.
"Harley," he muttered. "You're Harley. I recognized you the moment you walked into Arkham. I've told you a hundred times… but you never listen."
He exhaled slowly, his voice laced with quiet exhaustion. "Don't follow me anymore."
There was only one person in Gotham he'd ever allowed to stay by his side. Only one woman who could dance the razor-thin line between obsession and chaos.
That person had been Harley Quinn. And they were done.
"I only ever saw you as a tool," he added coldly. "We're finished."
The words slid like icicles into Harleen's chest. But if she was hurt, she didn't show it. Not this time.
"Joker," she said evenly, "I think you haven't quite figured it out yet. The one standing here is not the Harley who used to swoon over you like a teenage girl. I'm Harleen. A sane, functioning psychiatrist with a future—a bright one. And I'm not under your spell anymore. Not another one of your little mind games. You're not turning me into a lunatic again."
Her voice rose, trembling slightly at the edge.
She paused, inhaled deeply, and then exhaled slowly, returning to her clinical calm. She opened a small bag, pulling out medical tools: a syringe, a jar of tranquilizers, and a compact electroshock device.
Like a surgeon entering the OR, she prepped her tools with flawless focus.
"Relax," she murmured, "I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to cure you."
She took a step closer. Her voice softened, yet remained firm.
"The Tiger Talisman split me from Harley—made us two halves of the same whole. Good and evil. Now, I'm free. And I will prove, to everyone and to myself, that I'm more than just your shadow."
Surprisingly, the Joker didn't resist as she injected the serum into his arm. He just lay there. No struggle. No fight. No grin. Not even a whisper of amusement on his lips.
"I'm not sick, Harley," he said, staring at her through half-lidded eyes. "You know that. You're the one who's sick."
Harleen's brow twitched, her expression hardening.
"Trying to twist my thoughts again?" she muttered. "Use words to drag me back into your world?"
The Joker slowly shook his head, his voice soft and strangely… calm.
"No. I don't need to manipulate you. Not anymore. Because the truth is—you chose this."
"You were already looking to fall long before I entered the picture. I was just the spark that lit the fuse."
He exhaled, the corners of his mouth twitching, not into a smile, but into understanding.
"You're not Harleen Quinzel, the saint. You're the darker half. The one who looks sane. The one who needed a reason to indulge herself."
His eyes bored into hers, cutting past her defenses.
"And I? I'm your reason."
The so-called "evil" Harley might swing a baseball bat like a maniac, but that same bat is also used to guard her little corner of the world—her home. And though she puts on a wild grin and talks with reckless bravado, she's the kind of person who would throw herself into danger just to rescue a stray animal off the street. Her chaos, as it turns out, has heart.
Then there's Harleen.
A "kind" and polished psychiatrist. Always smiling politely, always speaking gently, always doing the right thing. But the truth lies far beneath her surface. Harleen keeps people at arm's length, never letting anyone get too close. Her kindness is more of a performance than a connection—an act meant to reinforce the image she wants others to believe. She cares deeply about how the world sees her, and in her obsession to reshape that image, she becomes capable of doing the unthinkable.
She would even try to kill the Joker—just to prove she's different from Harley.
One lives entirely for others. The other, only for herself.
In the end, the Tiger Talisman sees it more clearly than either of them ever could.
Harleen bears the Yin—dark, hidden, internal. Harley bears the Yang—explosive, wild, emotional.
And then… Harleen acted.
With her hand steady and her expression unreadable, Harleen drove the scalpel into the Joker's chest. The blade pierced directly into his heart. Instantly, a thin stream of green clown toxin oozed from the wound, mixing with his blood and spreading out across the already bloodstained sheets beneath him.
It was a clean kill.
But the feeling that followed wasn't what she expected.
Harleen had ended him with her own hands. It should have been a triumph—redemption, freedom, justice. But as she stared at his lifeless form, the exhilaration never came. Instead, there was only… silence.
And then… the Joker smiled.
His final grin curled onto his lips as if he had just played his last joke.
"How about it?" he murmured, voice weak but laced with something cruel and knowing. "My toxin doesn't work on you, does it?"
It was true.
The infamous Joker toxin—capable of transforming even the sanest person into a laughing husk—had no effect on her. But how could it? How could someone already living on the edge of madness be pushed any further?
"You can't go mad if you already live in madness," he said quietly.
Then, with a final breath, he added, "That was a good move… by the bastard behind the scenes…"
His voice grew fainter with each word, his eyes slowly dimming. And then they stared off into nothing.
He was gone.
There were only two people in the world the Joker would ever allow to kill him: Batman, and Harley Quinn. No one else had that right. No one else mattered that much.
And yet, his final thoughts weren't full of love or regret. They were cold.
_I don't love you, Harley._
_You were always just a tool to me. Something useful—then disposable. I told you that a thousand times. Why did you keep chasing me?_
_I don't love you… the same way I don't love myself…_
Harleen remained straddled on top of him, motionless, staring down at the blood slowly trailing from the corners of his mouth. Then, in a sudden, almost religious gesture, she dipped two fingers into the blood. With mechanical precision, she smeared it across her lips like lipstick. And then she leaned down and kissed him.
It was the kiss of a martyr. A madwoman. A lover. A killer.
A single moment of insanity that marked the beginning of something much bigger.
It was a crazy night—the night the Joker died.
And it was only the beginning of the real climax.
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I didn't expect this plot tbh...
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