Squad Stories: Harley's Journal #5

Harleen Quinzel hasn’t made a journal entry in four days. Not since the catastrophe, not since the move, and not since the loss of Flag. It’s been three days since her last patient, and even then, she had to cut the session short. There was something inside of her, wearing her down, sinking her soul like a heavy stone in thick, stagnant water.

 

She hasn’t felt this way since she can’t remember when. Her aunt’s passing, while similar, left a different fuzziness infecting her brain. That was like walking through a mild haze. This was more pressing, like a weight wrapped around her ankles, draped over her shoulders.

 

As devastated as she was, she wasn’t nearly as wrecked as Michael Patten.

 

Harley, walking on the catwalk over the mess hall, happens to catch a glance of him, in full costume, sitting down at one of the tables. His stark black and white screaming out amongst the orange and teal. She takes her keys, unlocks the door to the stairs, and starts her descent.

 

Guard: Uh, miss? I don’t think you can go down there. . .

 

Harley: More qualified than you are sweetie, trust me. I’m a doctor.

 

Patten, bottle of liquor in hand, is nearly slumped over the table across from The Hyena and Captain Nazi.

 

Patten: . . .I mean, that’s the thing that’s so moronic about the third reich. It was just a waste of everybody’s time, and beyond that, those stupid bastards had the worst uniforms. And you, you mangy flea-ridden freak of nature. You eat refuse. You’re just a hairy garbage can!

 

Harley: Michael, what are ya doin?

 

Answer: What’s it look like I’m doin you schizoid Pierrot, I’m trying to offend one of these gentlemen to the point where they snap and break me in half. Or I dunno, eat my bones. Whatever this wannabe furry does.

 

Harley looks to the scowling Aryan, and absently panting monster-man.

 

Harley: Beat it, freaks.

 

The freaks beat it.

 

Harley: C’mon Mikey, Whatcha really doing down here?

 

Answer: Ooohhh no, you’re not trying that psychological mumbo-jumbo on me. I’ve read Freud and Jung and all those bearded smarty-pantses. Unless they’re Jack Kevorkian they can’t help me now.

 

He takes a long drink from his bottle.

 

Answer: Well, him or Jack Daniels. Both have the same result.

Harley rubs her chin for a minute as Patten finishes off the bottle.

 

Harley: So you’ve read Jung, huh?

 

Answer: Damn straight. Man’s gotta do something when he’s on the lam, and reading’s the most accessible. Besides the drugs I guess.

 

Harley: So then uh, how d’ya figure his ideas about the concept of the Persona applies to people like you an’ me?

 

Answer: You and me? Well we’re a little more advanced upstairs then the rest of these screwheads and freakos. But I don’t think it’s as simple as that, either.

 

Harley: How d’ya mean?

 

Answer: Well, the way I understand it, is the Persona is less an alternate personality and more a wall you create yourself, to specify your identity. Like uh, just cause a guy is a barber doesn’t mean that his entire life is devoted to shaving cream. He’s more than just a barber, but it’s all you know him for cause it’s the only context you see him in. The trick he has to pull off is convincing you he’s a whole person beyond that.

 

Harley: So from this you can conclude?

 

Answer: Well you can’t really conclude a whole lot. But uh, the way I see it in the context of you, and I, and the freaky-deakies around us, is that to the uneducated, the uninitiated, all these orange-clad felons are just that, felons and supervillains. And to an extent, that’s probably true. Most of these people are exactly what they are. I mean, The Hyena? Jesus. But see to the man on the street, I’m some pathetic Riddler rip-off, obsessed with puzzles, and truths, and that Bat-stard. They have no idea that I also cage-fight on weekends. That I have an extensive vinyl collection in a hidden safe-house. That sometimes I take trips to New Mexico to look at the lizards, and that I love flowers.

 

Harley: Just like apparently, I’ll never be anythin’ more than the sidekick and romantic partner of one of the most feared an’ dreaded terrorists in history. Our personas have taken over our selves.

 

Answer: No, no that’s not necessarily true. We’re only our personas to the people around us, cause our personas are so boisterous and memorable. We’re almost celebrities, we. But we know, to ourselves, and to the few that actually know us, that we’re much more than that. We’ve already begun the disintegration of our own personas.

 

Harley: Huh, so you have read Jung. S’funny, usually ya don’t seem this eloquent.

 

Answer: Well, usually I’m on a lot more cocaine. Combine that with the alcohol I distill in the basement with Bueno, and I usually have fire running through my veins. Speaking of which –

 

Answer stands, and chucks the bottle across the mess hall, where it smashes into thousands of shards on the back of Girder’s head. He doesn’t even notice.

 

Answer: Goddamnit, what does a guy have to do around here to be murdered by vicious criminals? YOUR MOTHERS ALL WEAR COMBAT BOOTS!

 

Harley: What does that even mean?

 

Answer: How should I know, I’m drunk. Anyways, this has been a nice chat and all, but I gotta go check and see if Bueno’s got the newest batch ready. First though, I have to figure out where I put that cattle-prod. . .

 

Harleen watches him go, wading through the inmates, all doing their damndest to ignore him. A few of them throw glances at Harley, but she catches them and throws them right back. They remember Oswald Loomis. She gets up to leave, and makes her way back up the rickety stairs, smiling kindly at the nervous guard, sweating unreasonably through his shirt.

 

A singing strikes up from far down the hall; gravelly and slurred, followed by an electric crackling.

 

Answer, distantly: NOW WE’RE COOKING WITH LIGHTNING!

 

Harley smiles slightly and makes her way to her office. She sits down, boops the head of the little, mis-painted statuette of herself, withdraws her journal, and begins to write again.

 

 

Done