Chapter 17: Blood drips from Ivy's vines as Harley shoves wads of cash into Harmony's shirt, licking a crimson splatter off her cheek—'Stick with us, bunny, and you'll *always* get paid.'
The bell above the door of Smokey’s Pawn & Loan jangled with a sickly, dying sound. Inside, the air was thick and stale, a potent cocktail of dust, cheap cigar smoke, and the faint, metallic tang of despair. Glass cases filled with forgotten treasures and outright junk glittered under dim, yellowed lights. Behind the counter, a man who could only be Smokey looked up from a racing form, his eyes—small and shrewd—taking them in with practiced disinterest.
“Ladies,” he grunted, his voice a gravelly rumble. “What’s the poison?”
Ivy stepped forward, her presence instantly cooling the oppressive room. She placed the duffel bag on the counter with a soft thud. “We’re looking to make a deposit.”
Harley, buzzing with leftover adrenaline from the subway, leaned against the counter, her eyes scanning the room. “Yeah, a really, really big one. The kind that needs a special account.” She winked at Harmony, who hovered just behind her, trying to make herself small. The glowing vines of her costume seemed out of place, too alive for this tomb of dead things.
Smokey’s gaze lingered on Harmony for a beat too long, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he focused on the bag. “Let’s see it.”
Ivy unzipped the bag just enough to reveal the sapphire. The deep blue stone seemed to swallow the weak light, pulsing with an inner fire that made the dusty air around it shimmer. Smokey’s professional apathy cracked. He pulled a jeweler’s loupe from his vest pocket and gestured with a thick finger. “Backroom. Now.”
The backroom was worse. It was smaller, darker, the air choked with the ghost of a thousand cheap cigars. A single, bare bulb hung over a scarred wooden desk. Two large men with necks thicker than their heads flanked a reinforced door in the back, their arms crossed. They didn’t speak.
“On the desk,” Smokey ordered, his voice losing its casual tone, becoming sharp, businesslike.
Ivy placed the sapphire on a black velvet pad he produced. He leaned over it, the loupe screwed into his eye, his breathing shallow. The silence was heavy, broken only by the creak of the floorboards and Harley’s impatient tapping of her fingernails on the desk.
Harmony shifted her weight, the clingy fabric of her costume feeling suddenly restrictive. She felt exposed, like a specimen under a microscope. Her eyes darted around the cluttered room, over the stacks of ledgers, the loose wires snaking from a wall, the half-empty coffee mug stained brown. Then her gaze caught on the partially open top drawer of Smokey’s desk.
Amid the jumble of paperclips and rubber bands, something gleamed. Metallic. Gold.
She took a half-step closer, her heart beginning to thump a little harder against her ribs. It wasn't just a shiny trinket. It was a badge. A Gotham City Police Department badge. And next to it, another. And another. A small, careless pile of them.
Her breath hitched. She glanced at Harley, who was watching Smokey with a bored, predatory smile. She looked at Ivy, whose calm, green eyes were fixed on the back of Smokey’s head. Harmony’s mouth went dry. She had to say something. She reached out and tugged lightly on the sleeve of Harley’s jacket.
“Harley,” she whispered, the word barely audible.
Harley didn’t look away from Smokey. “What’s up, buttercup?”
“The… the drawer,” Harmony managed, her voice trembling.
Smokey froze. The loupe dropped from his eye, swinging on its chain. His head snapped up, his gaze locking with Harmony’s. The pretense vanished. His eyes were no longer shrewd; they were cold and flat. Cops’ eyes.
“Well,” Harley purred, her smile widening into something razor-sharp and genuinely pleased. “Ooooh, bad move, Smokey.”
Ivy didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. A low, groaning rumble filled the room. The wooden floorboards at the feet of the two bodyguards splintered apart with a sound like snapping bones. Thick, ropy vines, darker than the shadows and tipped with vicious thorns, erupted from the subfloor. They moved with blinding speed, wrapping around the men’s legs, torsos, and throats. There was a wet, crunching sound, followed by a gurgle that was cut off abruptly. The men were lifted, impaled, their struggles lasting only a second before they went limp, dangling like grotesque puppets.
Smokey scrambled backward, fumbling for something under his desk. A panic button. A weapon.
He never reached it.
Harley was a blur of motion and laughter. She vaulted over the desk, landing neatly in front of the reinforced door in the back. From the pocket of her shorts, she produced a brick of C4, pliable and gray, with a detonator already stuck into it like a birthday candle. “Special delivery!” she chirped.
“Quinn, wait—” Ivy began, but it was too late.
Harley slapped the explosive onto the metal lock mechanism, grabbed Harmony by the wrist, and yanked her down behind the heavy desk. “Cover your ears, bunny! It’s gonna be a big one!”
The world dissolved into a deafening roar and a flash of blinding orange light. The concussion hit Harmony like a physical blow, slamming the air from her lungs. The reinforced door buckled inward with a shriek of tortured metal, hanging crookedly on its hinges. Dust and splinters rained down on them.
Through the ringing in her ears, Harmony heard Harley’s gleeful cackle. “See? Told ya! Nothing like a little boom to clear the air!” Harley popped up from behind the desk, brushing dust from her hair. She looked at the smoldering doorway, then back at the terrified Smokey, who was now cowering in the corner, a dark stain spreading across his trousers.
“Now,” Harley said, her voice sweet as poisoned candy. “Where were we? Oh, right. Our special account.” She gestured with her head toward the blown safe. “After you, Mr. Bank Manager.”
Smokey scrambled toward the smoking safe, his movements jerky with terror. He shoved the mangled door aside, the metal groaning in protest. Inside, neat stacks of cash filled the shelves, wrapped in tight bands.
He began pulling it all out, his hands trembling so badly he dropped a bundle. Hundreds spilled across the floor like fallen leaves. “It’s all there, I swear,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “Just take it and go, please.”
Harley scooped up a handful of the scattered bills, rubbing them against her cheek with a delighted sigh. “Smell that, Harm? That’s the smell of no consequences.” She winked at the pawnbroker. “You’re a real sweetheart, you know that?”
Ivy moved forward, her vines snaking across the floor to collect the money with efficient grace. They stuffed the thick stacks into the duffel bag, the sapphire now buried under a mountain of green. The bag grew heavy, its weight a solid promise.
Harmony watched, her earlier fear morphing into a dizzying high. This was real. The sheer volume of cash was overwhelming, intoxicating. She looked from the money to Harley’s triumphant grin, then to Ivy’s focused satisfaction.
“See?” Harley said, slinging the bulging duffel over her shoulder. “Told you we’d hit the jackpot.” She blew a kiss at the cowering Smokey. “Pleasure doin’ business with ya!”
They left him there, surrounded by the wreckage of his shop and his dead men, the air thick with dust and the coppery scent of blood. The bell on the door chimed its same sickly tune as they stepped back out into the Gotham night, richer and infinitely more wanted.
The cold night air hit them like a slap, a shocking contrast to the thick, bloody atmosphere of the pawn shop. Sirens wailed, closer now, their sounds weaving through the canyon-like streets in a frantic, converging hunt. Harley just adjusted the heavy duffel bag on her shoulder, its weight a delicious anchor, and grinned into the darkness. “Time for a vacation, girls.”
Ivy didn’t argue. She simply raised a hand, and a rusted, nondescript van parked across the street shuddered as vines twisted its door handles from the inside. The side door slid open with a gritty screech. “Get in,” she commanded, her voice leaving no room for debate. “We’re crossing the bridge.”
They piled into the van, the interior smelling of stale fast food and motor oil. Harmony scrambled into the back seat, her heart still hammering, the image of those impaled men burned onto the back of her eyelids. Harley tossed the bag of cash onto the passenger seat next to Ivy, who was already hot-wiring the ignition with a tendril that snaked from her wrist. The engine coughed to life.
“Where are we going?” Harmony asked, her voice small in the dark, confined space.
“Anywhere that isn’t here,” Ivy stated, her eyes fixed on the road as she pulled the van away from the curb with a lurch. “Gotham’s got a memory. We need to make it forget us.”
Harley twisted in her seat, her face illuminated by the passing streetlights, a series of fleeting, manic portraits. “Somewhere with better weather. And less cops. And maybe a beach.” She reached back and squeezed Harmony’s knee. “You’d look cute in a bikini, bunny.”
They drove through the night, leaving the oppressive, gothic spires of Gotham behind. The city lights faded in the rearview mirror, replaced by the deep, consuming blackness of the interstate. Harmony watched it all go, the only home she’d ever known, and felt a terrifying, thrilling sense of severance.
Hours later, the sky began to lighten to a soft, bruised grey. They passed a sign that read ‘WELCOME TO OCEAN CITY – POP. 112,340’. It wasn’t a metropolis. It was a place that slept, its downtown a collection of low, weathered buildings a few blocks from a boardwalk they could smell on the salt-tinged air.
Ivy navigated the van to a quieter, slightly dilapidated street a few blocks from the ocean. The houses were packed close together, their paint faded by sun and sea spray. She stopped in front of a two-story structure that looked like it had been converted into apartments, with a ‘FOR RENT’ sign taped crookedly in the bottom floor window.
“This is it?” Harley asked, peering out at the place. “It’s a little… beige.”
“It’s anonymous,” Ivy corrected, already getting out. “And it has a backyard. That’s all I need.”
The landlord was a weary-looking man in a stained tank top who barely looked up from his game show. He smelled of cigarettes and defeat. Ivy did the talking, peeling a thick wad of cash from the duffel bag and placing it on his kitchen table. “First, last, and security. In advance. No paperwork.”
The man’s eyes widened at the money. He scooped it up without counting. “Keys are on the counter,” he grunted, his attention already back to the television. “Don’t bother me.”
Their new home was mostly empty, the air stale and thick with the ghost of previous tenants. The floors were scuffed hardwood, and the windows looked out onto a narrow, weed-choked yard. But it had a roof. It had walls. It was theirs.
Harley dropped the duffel bag in the middle of the living room floor with a heavy, final thud. She spun in a slow circle, her boots echoing in the emptiness. “Well,” she said, a wide, genuine smile spreading across her face. “Home sweet hideout.”
Harmony walked to the largest window, pushing the dusty blinds aside. The morning sun was breaking over the rooftops, casting a clean, golden light that was so different from Gotham’s perpetual gloom. She could hear seagulls. She turned back to look at the two women standing in the center of the room, surrounded by their fortune and their freedom.
Ivy was already at the back door, her hand on the knob, a look of quiet intent on her face. “I’m going to see about the soil,” she said, and stepped outside into the new day.
Harley flopped onto the bare floor, stretching her arms above her head with a contented sigh. She patted the space next to her, her eyes finding Harmony’s. “C’mere, lucky charm. We’re gonna need to buy a couch.”
The following morning, sunlight streamed through the bare windows, painting hot stripes across the dusty floorboards. Harmony woke up curled against Harley’s back, using the duffel bag of cash as a lumpy pillow. Ivy was already in the backyard, her hands buried in the dark soil of a flowerbed, a faint green glow pulsing from her fingertips.
“My back is gonna be pissed,” Harley groaned, stretching with a series of audible pops. She nudged the bag with her foot. “But my wallet’s feeling great. Let’s go burn some of this.”
The first stop was a sprawling furniture warehouse on the outskirts of town, a cavernous space that smelled of synthetic pine and new carpet. Harley immediately bee-lined for a sectional sofa upholstered in violent, electric purple. “This one,” she declared, throwing herself onto it. “It matches my soul.”
Ivy ran a critical hand over the fabric, her nose wrinkling. “It’s made of petroleum and regret. It’ll off-gas toxins for a year.” She pointed towards a simpler, moss-green sofa with clean lines. “That one. The frame is solid wood.”
“Boring,” Harley sang, rolling off the purple monstrosity. She grabbed Harmony’s wrist. “C’mon, tie-breaker. Which one says ‘fun, sexy hideout’ and not ‘dank forest cave’?”
Harmony looked between the two couches, feeling the weight of the decision. The purple was undeniably Harley, a riot of color and defiance. The green was calm, grounded, like Ivy. “Can’t we get both?” she asked, her voice tentative.
Harley’s eyes lit up. “See? The kid’s a genius! Compromise!” She slapped a stack of cash onto a stunned sales associate’s clipboard. “We’ll take ‘em. And that big bed. And the weird spinny chair.”
They filled two entire flatbed carts, a chaotic collection that included a mahogany dining table Ivy selected, a plush rug the color of bruised twilight, and a tacky lava lamp Harley refused to leave without. The associate just kept nodding, his eyes glazed over by the sheer volume of cash they produced from the seemingly bottomless duffel bag.
Loading it into the rented truck was a spectacle. Ivy directed the store employees with silent, intimidating efficiency while Harley ‘supervised’ from the driver’s seat, honking the horn to a rhythm only she understood. Harmony helped where she could, her arms straining with boxes of plates and glasses, the normalcy of the task a bizarre contrast to the previous night’s violence.
Next was a grocery store. The fluorescent lights felt alien after the dim warehouse. Harley pushed the cart like it was a battering ram, tossing in anything that caught her eye: three kinds of cereal, Pop-Tarts, a jar of maraschino cherries, and a family-sized bag of cheese puffs.
Ivy moved with purpose down the produce aisle, her fingers gently assessing the avocados and tomatoes. She filled the cart with vibrant greens, root vegetables still caked in earth, and bundles of fresh herbs that perfumed the air around them. “Real food,” she stated, placing a bunch of kale atop Harley’s junk food mountain with finality.
“You can’t live on leaves and sadness, Pammy,” Harley retorted, but she didn’t remove it.
At the checkout, the cashier’s eyes bulged as Ivy paid for the overflowing cart with a hundred-dollar bill, not even waiting for the change. The teenage bagger stared, open-mouthed, at the glowing vines still visible on Harmony’s arms and neck.
Back at the house, the real work began. The afternoon was a symphony of grunts, dragging sounds, and the rip of packing tape. Harley assembled a bookshelf sideways twice before giving up and kicking it. “Instructions are a scam by the man,” she panted, flopping onto the newly positioned purple sofa.
Ivy, without a word, righted the shelves and slotted them together with effortless, vine-assisted precision. Harmony unpacked the kitchen, arranging the new plates and mugs in the cabinets, a quiet, domestic ritual that felt both strange and soothing.
By dusk, the empty space had been transformed. The two couches faced each other in a defiant truce of color, the lava lamp burbled on a side table, and the smell of Ivy’s homemade vegetable stew mingled with the scent of fresh paint and new fabric. They sat at the mahogany table, eating from their new bowls, the duffel bag of cash now stashed in a closet, its weight temporarily forgotten.
Harley scooped up a spoonful of stew, looked at the green lumps, and sighed dramatically. “I’m still ordering a pizza.” But she ate it anyway, her foot gently nudging Harmony’s under the table. Outside, the first stars appeared over the ocean, and for a moment, the only sound was the comfortable silence of a full room.