Squad Stories Columbina 2/2

An inane giggling wakes Harleen Quinzel from her sleep. She sits up in bed, her forehead drenched in sweat, her heart thundering. Pounding like the hooves of a racehorse. The giggling is relentless, it fills the room. It’s familiarity shakes her to her core. She stumbles out of bed and propels herself forward to find the sound. Her hands are pale and trembling.

 

Her foot is caught on something and she falls to the rug-covered concrete floor hard. The giggling intensifies. It’s unyielding, and begins to bore into her brain. She considers screaming, but holds back. It never helped before, it won’t help now.

 

She realizes that she tripped over a pair of mechanical dentures. The dentures are giggling.

 

Harley stops sweating. She breathes in a moment of clarity, then starts to laugh too. It’s a small chuckle, then a full laugh, and finally, a guffaw, her own laughter mixing with the sounds from the inane set of teeth, the sound echoing through the warehouse. Then she smashes the teeth with a hammer.

 

She gets up, slowly, and staggers towards her tiny black and red refrigerator. She pulls out some kind of wrapping, and successfully hopes for some kind of leftovers. She sticks the half-eaten sandwich in the microwave and tries not to think about how long it was in there. At the ding, she takes a bite, and sits down at the nearby table, strewn with old weaponry, toys, countless images of His face, all damaged in some way, plans long-forgotten, and a note that wasn’t there until last night. Harley picks up the note, and reads the elegantly scrawled words.

 

“Doctor Quinzel, your services are wanted and welcome. If interested, please call. –A.W.”

 

On top of the note is a business card. Harley doesn’t read it. Her head throbs. Instead, she continues eating her breakfast. She stares around the room. He stares back. She starts to feel the fear. It starts in the pit of her stomach and begins to creep, finger by finger up her spine. It crawls its way up the back of her skull like a spider and begins to nest in her head. Maybe it’s the sandwich, she thinks . . . no, it’s the fear. She can’t stay here much longer; this place is making her sick. She throws the remainder of her breakfast into the garbage and heads to the bathroom, stripping off the pieces of her stained costume as she goes.

 

The bathroom is tiny, grimy, and its corners are covered in dried blood, but it’ll do. Harley looks at herself in the mirror. Her reflection’s mouth is cut open from ear-to-ear. Blood pours down her face and onto her chest. She shrugs it off. She reaches up towards the cabinets next to the mirror. Her reflections’ arms are cut along the veins. The blood drips to the floor. She shrugs that off too as she reaches for her pills, pouring them into her hand. The pills seem like bullets, but she swallows them anyways and utilizes the room’s rickety shower. A blast of freezing water is exactly what she needs. She doesn’t use the mirror anymore. Instead, she dries off and searches for suitcases. One is empty, save for a rose; ancient, dried, and long dead. The other is full of springy snakes, but is otherwise harmless. Harley begins to pack.

 

Outside, Harley carries her cases down the street. The neighborhood is bad, but she’s worse. She reaches the subway, pays for her ticket, and waits on the platform for the redline. The men on her dollar bills were fat little clowns with round little noses. A hideous screech fills the dark cavern. Harley jumps a little, but realizes it’s just the subway arriving. She gets onboard and her heart stops for just a second. Everyone aboard has been gassed. Their stiff, rigid corpses propped in unseemly manners, their Glasgow grins spread across their faces. Harley breathes again when someone shoves by her, and she realizes it’s just another vision. She sits down gently, head still aching, and pulls out her burner phone and the business card. She dials.

 

Waller: Good morning, Doctor. Sleep alright?

 

Harley, her voice hoarse: Yeah . . . Yeah, well enough.

 

Waller: So what can I do for you?

 

Harley: I’m uh, I’m headed to the airport. I’m in.

 

Waller: I had a feeling. I’m glad to hear that, Harleen. When you get to the airport there’ll be a man there waiting. His name is Faraday.

 

Harley: Oh, King? Yeah I remember. How is he? Didn’ he have some sorta disease?

 

Waller: He did, but our science divisions found a way to help him. When you get there, look for him, and he’ll get you to me.

 

Harley: Right-a-rooney. Thanks Amanda.

 

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At the airport, Harley drags her bags through the crowds of people. Her eyes dart from family to family, from couple to couple, taking in their warmth. She’s reassured by them in a way. Her throat tightens when she sees His face in the crowd, but it quickly dissipates. She passes by a gift shop; little figures of The Justice League, the details not quite right, stand heroically in the shop window. There’s one of him, but his hair is purple, and his suit is green. It doesn’t have the same effect. Next to it she sees one of herself, the black of her costume replaced by purple, the tails of her jester cap just a little too wide. She laughs to herself and buys it with the little money she has left. Why not. As she exits, a man with white hair and a thin pair of black sunglasses rapidly approaches her.

 

Faraday: Heya Doc, You might not remember me, I’m-

 

Harley: King Faraday! Waller said to meet ya here. How’re you doing?

 

Faraday: Oh you know, staying in trouble. Listen, I, or rather the boss, has got a private plane on the runway. You’ve made it this far; would you care to follow me further?

 

Harley pauses for a minute, bracing herself for this step forward. She smiles the best she can.

 

Harley: Let’s do it, King.

 

Faraday: Groovy.

 

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The doors of Belle Reve fill Harley with a kind of dread, but she’s felt worse. She follows Faraday and his stale cigarette through the main doors and into he hall. A mustachioed man sits behind the main desk, reading a newspaper.

 

Faraday: I’ll go tell The Boss you’re here. You just wait with Murph, alright?

 

Harley: Alright. Hi Murph!

 

Murph: ‘Lo Ms. Quinn.

 

The main lobby has all the quaintness of a dentist’s office waiting room, but with imposing metal detectors ten feet in. Bold-lettered signs adorn the walls. Through one of the detectors, strides Amanda Waller.

 

Waller: Doctor Quinn, I’m glad you decided to join us. How was the flight?

 

Harley: Uh, thanks, Mrs. Waller. Director Waller? The flight was fine! I think you’ll have to keep King’s flyin’ exploits to just ‘Pilot Faraday’ though, If ya get my meaning.

 

Waller smiles: Don’t let him hear that, he’s very prideful of his license. Though between you and me, I agree. Murph?

 

Murph: Yes Director?

 

Waller: You heard nothing.

 

Murph, smiling: Yes Director.

 

Waller: Splendid. Doctor Quinn, let me show you around.

 

Amanda and Harley, Director and Doctor, stroll through the halls, Waller pointing out the various technological marvels, the basic placement of the mess hall, the restrooms and so forth.

 

Waller: At a later point, when you’re more prepared, I’ll take you to the observation room to meet our monitor-room man, Patten. Think the Riddler but less childish . . . sometimes.

 

Waller, and Quinzel go up a flight of stairs. The halls are sterile, well-lit, and cold, but not altogether uncomfortable. In a way, Belle Reve reminds Harley of a hospital. She’s spent to much time in hospitals, thanks to Him, and in a way, has started to find them a comfort. They pass Rick Flag in the hall. Rick and Harley make eye contact. Briefly. They smile courteously, then Flag puts his head down and continues forward. Waller opens another door to a room decked out in tall wooden bookshelves, a soft carpet, velvet drapes and a thick, plush, leather seat. In the center of the room is an adjustable gurney. It stands out like a caterpillar on an orange.

 

Waller: This will be your study. You can arrange it to your liking. There’s enough secure storage for your files, and room enough for any books and affectations you may want. That door in the corner leads to an office that is also at your disposal. If you like, you can either take one of the single rooms down the hall, or you can bunk in the guardrooms. Just be warned, there’s already two other . . . operatives that have holed up in there.

 

Harley: Operatives? Anyone I know?

 

Waller: Oh yeah. You could say that. Here, I’ll re-introduce you.

 

Waller leads Harley down a flight of stairs, through more stark white corridors and down another, darker set of stairs. Laid out before them is a dead-end hallway with a multitude of doors. She approaches one with a dart stuck in it. Before Waller even says anything, Harley recognizes that cigarette smell.

 

Waller, without knocking: Decent or not, I’m coming in.

 

Waller opens the door to find almost exactly what Harley expected. She smiles, in a kind of lopsided way.

 

Waller: Lawton, Harkness, say hello to Doctor Quinzel, the newly sanctioned team psychiatrist.

 

Harley, over-dramatically: Heya, guys! It’s me, I’m back!

 

Floyd: ‘lo, Harl.

 

Digger: Strewth! I was wonderin’ when Waller was gonna wrestle you inta this thing!

 

Floyd: Was that intentional?

 

Digger: What?

 

Floyd: All the W’s.

 

Harley: It’s weirdly good to see you guys. How’s Zoe, Floyd? She’s gotta be like twelve now huh?

 

Floyd smiles as much as Floyd can smile: That’s right. She’s with her mom f’r a while, but she’s doin’ good. Startin’ sixth grade soon.

 

Harley smiles: That’s good! I’m glad to hear it.

 

Digger: Me Boomerang’s are all fine. Yeeah, they’re all real shahrp they are. They all fly real good. Got a real beaut in my pocket here if ya wanna see.

 

Harley: I’m good, Captain Vegemite. I’m sure it ain’t all that impressive.

 

Digger, withdrawing an actual boomerang from his pocket: Aw now, that’s just hurt his feelings.

 

Floyd: This is weird.

 

Waller: Agreed. Doctor Quinn, you can stay down here with the hired help if you want. Otherwise, you’ve got a room upstairs.

 

Harley: yeeah, think I’ll take the single room. No offense boys.

 

Floyd: Never take any.

 

Digger: Don’t much blame ya, really.

 

Harley: Good to see you guys though.

 

Floyd, going back to reading his book: Likewise.

 

Digger: Hey Harley!

 

Harley, leaning back in: yeah, Boomerbutt?

 

Digger: Welcome back to work!

 

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I need to learn to write shorter.

Done