The Dark Non-Consent Dimension

Harley Quinn snuck around Star Labs, doing her best cloak and dagger bit. She wasn't no Catwoman, but she could do sneakin' when she wanted to. The security cameras swiveled past her hiding spot behind a potted fern, which was doing its level best to provide cover despite being, botanically speaking, inadequate for the task. Harley had chosen it anyway because the alternative was a fire extinguisher, and those were notoriously uncomfortable to crouch behind.

She had broken up with that bastard Joker three months, two weeks, and four days ago—not that she was counting or nothin'. He'd immediately taken on a new hot zoomer broad, Punchline, who wore purple like she invented it and laughed at all his jokes like they was actually funny. Harley had seen funnier root canals.

But in good news, she'd taken his place on the Legion of Doom's board, so she was one of the big shots now. She had a reserved parking spot and everything, right between Cheetah's convertible and that weird submarine thing Black Manta insisted on driving to meetings. The submarine took up three spaces. Nobody had the heart to tell him.

Good ol' Lex needed a small fusion reactor from Star Labs, and Captain Cold, who usually handled Central City jobs, was attending his sister's wedding. Harley had volunteered for the gig during last Tuesday's meeting, right after the continental breakfast but before Sinestro's presentation on quarterly fear quotas. Cold had actually gotten a bit misty-eyed when she'd offered, which was touching considering his whole theme was, ya know, ice.

Usually, a Legion big shot would take their goons along for this sorta thing. But all her goons were actually on vacation she'd approved of last month. Villain she was, but she wasn't gonna cancel her guys' time off. She'd won "Best Villain to Work Under" at last year's Injustice League Awards, beating out even The Riddler, and she intended to win again, damn it. The trophy was shaped like a tiny golden henchman, and it had pride of place on her mantel right next to that ceramic clown she'd smashed Joker's face with during the breakup.

So yeah, she could handle a quick swipe. How hard could it be?

She dropped from a vent like a sack of particularly attractive hammers, straight on top of a guard who'd been checking his phone instead of, ya know, guarding. He went down with a satisfying "oof" that suggested he'd just lost a game of Candy Crush along with consciousness. She quickly stuffed him into a nearby broom closet, adjusting his limbs so he'd be comfortable. Even in a rush, there was no reason to be rude about it.

She caught sight of herself in a mirror as she passed by—red leather briefs that her therapist would probably have opinions about, corset top that made breathing an optional activity, high-heeled boots in red and black matching the tips of her blonde hair. The whole ensemble screamed "psychological break" but in a fun, empowering way.

"Damn, I look good. Joker's an idiot," she muttered, then slapped her big ass behind for emphasis.

The sound echoed through the hallway like a gunshot at a mime convention.

She froze, one hand still on her ass cheek, suddenly remembering that stealth missions and percussive self-appreciation didn't exactly mix. Her face scrunched up in a cringe that could've curdled milk. She waited, holding her breath, listening for the thunder of approaching footsteps or the wail of alarms.

Nothing happened. The hallway remained as quiet as a library run by particularly stern librarians.

"Right. Lucky break there, Harleen," she whispered, then crouched low and started moving again, this time keeping her hands to herself.

She avoided camera lines of sight like she was playing one of her favorite video games—the ones where you snuck around and choked people out from behind. She'd gotten real good at those during the post-breakup period. Very therapeutic, her court-mandated therapist had not said, because Harley hadn't exactly mentioned that particular coping mechanism.

She took out another guard near the elevator banks, a bigger guy who'd been eating what smelled like meatball marinara. The sandwich hit the floor at the same time he did. She stashed his unconscious body in a supply closet, feeling only slightly bad about the sandwich, and grabbed his keycard. The ID photo showed a man named "Gerald Fitzpatrick - Supervisor." Gerald looked like he paid his taxes on time and worried about his cholesterol. She felt a bit worse about the sandwich.

"Sorry, Gerald. You seem nice. Maybe cut back on the marinara though, ya heart'll thank ya," she said to his snoring form before closing the closet door.

The keycard worked like a dream on a glass door that led to some descending stairs. She slipped through, letting the door close behind her with a soft hiss. The elevator would've been faster, sure, but elevators had cameras, and also that weird music that made her want to commit crimes against smooth jazz.

The stairs went down. And down. And down some more. Harley's thighs started burning around level B3, which was annoying because she'd just done leg day yesterday. By B5, she was reconsidering her footwear choices. High heels were great for aesthetic intimidation but lousy for architectural cardio.

She reached level B7, and the stairs finally stopped descending, probably because they'd run out of Earth's crust to dig through. The door here was heavier, reinforced, the kind that said "important science stuff" in big, silent letters.

She eased it open and slipped inside.

The lab beyond was something out of a sci-fi movie—the good kind, not the ones with the rubber monsters. High-tech equipment hummed quietly in the darkness, lights blinking in patterns that probably meant something to people with physics degrees. There appeared to be one of those hadron collider things below the floor, visible through reinforced glass panels, a big circular tunnel stretching off into the distance like the world's most expensive racetrack.

The place was dark, nobody home, but the security cameras still moved around on their little motorized mounts, scanning for intruders like electronic meerkats. Red lights blinked in the corners—motion sensors, probably, or possibly just decorative LEDs. With science types, ya never knew.

She crept through the lab, checking sections against the picture she'd been given. In her hand, slightly crumpled from being stuffed in her corset, was a photo of the small fusion generator. It looked like a chrome basketball had gotten busy with a Christmas tree, all shiny and covered in weird blinking bits.

Supposedly it was a miracle of science, capable of producing clean energy for decades without refueling. The scientists who'd built it had given it a boring name full of numbers and letters, but everyone just called it "the tiny sun" because scientists were occasionally capable of poetry, even if they had to be drunk first.

Lex wanted it because it would interfere with his green energy IPOs. Also, he was gonna use it to power the Legion of Doom headquarters' coffee machine, which Harley thought was almost as petty as that time he stole forty cakes. That had been a weird Tuesday. Nobody talked about the cake incident anymore, not after Gorilla Grodd's emotional breakdown about the lack of banana cream.

Lex really was a villain, and Harley had to respect the commitment to petty vengeance. The man held grudges like other people held stock portfolios.

She entered another room, this one even darker, and found what looked like two arches standing opposite each other. They were maybe ten feet tall, made of some weird metal that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Cables ran from their bases to banks of computers and equipment that surrounded them like worshippers at a very nerdy temple.

"Huh. Reminds me of Stargate. Gosh, I miss that show," she said to nobody in particular. "Shoulda never canceled it. I mean, sure, it had like seventeen spin-offs, but still."

She approached carefully, boots clicking softly on the tile floor. On closer inspection, it did seem to be some kind of portal device. The arches faced each other across maybe twenty feet of empty space, and between them the air looked… wrong, somehow. Shimmery. Like heat haze, but without the heat.

Now, she wasn't a nerd, she'd chosen psychology over physics for her doctorate, back when she'd been Dr. Harleen Quinzel and made responsible life choices, but she'd talked to enough brainy villains in the Legion to know about parallel worlds and alternate realities. Lex never shut up about them. Neither did that weird Time Trapper guy who showed up to meetings sometimes, though he was usually asked to leave on account of the timeline paradoxes giving everyone headaches.

She'd always been a bit curious about possible other Harleys out there in the multiverse. Was there a Harley who'd never met Joker? One who'd become a successful therapist with a nice practice and a 401(k)? Maybe one who'd ended up as a hero instead of a villain, fighting crime instead of committing it?

But she didn't dwell on that sorta thing too much. Such thoughts would make her crazy.

Crazier.

But the display on the, uh, "Stargate" had what looked like coordinates punched in, and next to it sat a stack of notes scribbled on what appeared to be official Star Labs letterhead. Somebody had been using expensive scientific stationery as a interdimensional travel diary, which Harley could respect. She leaned in to read, squinting in the dim light.

Earth-23 = Current location, shows little deviation and no quirks.

Earth-30 = Commie alternate reality, don't show this to college kids or they'll never shut up.

Earth-31 = A gritty place where everyone talks like a smoking detective.

Earth-3 = Heroes are bad guys here, The Crime Society, don't go here.

Earth-22 = No

That last one was just "No" with nothing else, which was somehow more concerning than all the others combined. Harley made a mental note to never, ever visit Earth-22, even if someone paid her. Especially if someone paid her, because that would mean it was definitely a trap.

The list went on for quite a bit, actually. It was a long inventory of notes and quirks about other realities, written in increasingly tired handwriting that suggested someone had been pulling a lot of late nights. Some entries were detailed, others were just fragments like "weird fish people?" and "everyone's Canadian, maple syrup-based economy."

Near the bottom, one entry caught her eye:

Earth-348 = Seems a bit similar to Earth-3 from the probes, will need further research.

348 was the number currently punched into the display. The status light next to it showed inactive, a dull red that reminded her of a sleeping dragon's eye. Right next to the display panel sat a big red button, the kind that practically begged to be pushed. It was shiny and round and had that perfect button texture that made fingers itch.

"Come on, I'm not gonna just push a big red button," Harley said to the empty room, her voice echoing slightly off the equipment. She looked around as if there might be someone there to argue with her, to provide a voice of reason.

There wasn't.

"Of course I'm gonna push the button," she said, and pushed the button.

She was, after all, still her.

The gate came to life slowly, like something waking from a long nap. Energy arced between the two arches, purple lightning that crackled and spat, making the air smell like ozone and burnt copper. The hum started low, deep in her chest, then rose to a pitch that made her fillings ache. A translucent purple screen materialized between the arches, rippling like water but staying vertical in defiance of physics, which physics was probably used to by now, working in a place like this.

The portal was now active, glowing with that particular shade of purple that suggested either interdimensional travel or a really committed 1990s aesthetic. Thankfully, after the initial startup, it was relatively quiet—just a slow hum that vibrated through the floor and into her boots.

She looked around again, half expecting alarms or guards or possibly an angry physicist, but nothing happened. The lab remained empty except for her and the glowing doorway to another reality. The security cameras had apparently decided this wasn't their problem.

She stepped closer to the portal, watching the surface ripple and shift. They said curiosity killed the cat, but her name was Harleen Quinzel, not Selina Kyle, and besides, cats had nine lives while Harley figured she was probably on her third or fourth by now, so she had a few to spare.

She pushed a hand in slowly, expecting… what? Pain? Cold? The weird tingly feeling when your foot fell asleep? Instead it just felt a bit breezy, like sticking your hand out a car window, but nothing particularly weird or dangerous. The purple energy didn't burn or shock. It just sort of tickled.

"Well, that ain't so bad," she muttered, then made an executive decision based on approximately zero seconds of careful consideration.

She poked her head through.

Her head peered into what looked like the same room on the other side, except it wasn't a lab anymore. This version of B7 was being used as a storage facility—just boxes and crates and the kind of office furniture that went to die when nobody wanted it anymore. Filing cabinets sat stacked against walls. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, that specific frequency that gave everyone headaches and made minimum wage workers consider arson.

No fancy equipment around, no humming science projects, just the depressing aftermath of a budget cut.

She pulled her head back to her side of the portal, the purple energy sliding across her face like a weird curtain. Everything seemed fine. No horrible mutations, no extra eyeballs, all her teeth still where she'd left them. The other side looked boring but safe, which was honestly disappointing. She'd been hoping for something more exciting, like dinosaurs or possibly a reality where everyone was inexplicably sexy robots.

"Eh, what's the worst that could happen?" she asked herself, which was exactly the kind of question people asked right before the worst happened.

She took a step forward, crossing through the portal entirely. The sensation was like walking through a wall made of grape Jello—weird texture, slight resistance, over in a second. The purple energy rippled around her, then she was through, standing in the boring storage version of B7.

The bright purple portal still glowed behind her, her way home, looking exactly as she'd left it.

She looked around at the disappointing boxes and outdated filing cabinets. Decades worth of scientific paperwork probably moldered in there, grant applications and experimental results that nobody cared about anymore. There was a water cooler in the corner that looked like it hadn't been filled since the Clinton administration.

"Well, this is borin'. I was expectin' somethin' excitin'… oh well," she said, turning to step back through to her world.

The portal suddenly closed.

Just winked out of existence like someone had flipped a switch, which someone probably had, back on the other side. Maybe it was on a timer. Maybe the power bill came due. Maybe the universe had a sick sense of humor.

The purple screen vanished, the hum cut off, and Harley was left staring at two empty arches in a storage room on Earth-348.

"Uh… what!" she shouted at the arches, as if they might apologize and turn back on. "HEY! COME BACK!"

She reached into the empty space where the portal had been, waving her hands around futilely like she was trying to find a light switch in the dark. Her fingers found nothing but regular air, the boring kind that didn't lead to other dimensions.

"Well, fuck me sideways!" she shouted to the uncaring storage boxes. "This is like when my touchy camp counselor dropped me in the woods! After I sucked him off!"

The boxes did not respond, being boxes, though one of them might have judged her a little.

She stood there for a moment, hands on her hips, processing her situation. Stranded in an alternate reality. No way home. Wearing an outfit that was great for breaking into labs but probably not ideal for interdimensional survival. She could feel panic starting to bubble up from her stomach, but she squashed it down with the practice of someone who'd had a lot of therapy, even if she'd spent most of it manipulating her therapists.

"Okay. Okay! I'll figure it out," she said, her voice taking on that manic edge that meant she was either about to have a breakthrough or a breakdown, and with Harley those were often the same thing. "Gotta find the Legion, or maybe even the goodie two-shoes and see if someone can give me an interdimensional lift back home! Yeah! Simple!"

It was not simple, but denial was one of her favorite coping mechanisms.

She walked to where the elevator should be. It was there, same location, but it had an "Out of Service" sign hanging from the doors. The sign looked old, faded, like it had been there for years. Someone had drawn a sad face on it in marker.

"Oh, for the love of…" she started, then turned to the stairs and looked up at the ascent. Seven floors. In heels. After already doing seven floors down earlier.

"Ughhhhh…" The sound came from deep in her soul, from the part of her that hated cardio.

She began to climb anyway, because what else was she gonna do? Stay in a storage room forever? She'd tried that once in Arkham and it got boring after three days.

By the time she reached the ground floor, she was huffing like a phone stalker, her thighs burning with the fire of a thousand leg days. Sweat had made her makeup run slightly, giving her an even more unhinged appearance than usual, which was saying something.

"I need to use the Pilates machine more often!" she gasped, leaning against the stairwell door. "And maybe get sensible shoes. Nah, forget that last part."

Star Labs, or whatever warehouse this place was now, appeared to be unguarded. The front desk was empty, covered in dust. The security monitors were dark. The whole place had that abandoned feeling, like everyone had just gotten up and left one day and never came back. It was eerie in that specific way that suggested either budget cuts or a zombie apocalypse, and she really hoped it was the former.

She walked out the front entrance with no incident, no alarms, no guards asking for identification. The doors weren't even locked. She just pushed them open and stepped outside into Central City.

Or what was supposed to be Central City.

She'd barely made it half a block when she witnessed a drive-by shooting on the corner. An old Buick roared past, someone leaning out the window with what looked like an Uzi, muzzle flash lighting up the evening. Glass shattered. People screamed and dove for cover. The car screeched around a corner and disappeared, leaving behind the smell of burnt rubber and cordite.

Before she could even process that, she heard pitbulls barking viciously from an alley, the kind of barking that meant they were either fighting each other or had cornered something they wanted to fight. Then came sirens, multiple sirens, wailing in that distinctive way that meant someone was having a very bad day.

A little shocking, since Central City was actually a fairly nice place in her reality. Sure, it had the Flash's rogues causing trouble now and then, but it was generally clean, well-maintained, with good schools and a thriving arts district. This seemed more like Gotham on a bad day, or worse, Brooklyn during the eighties.

But no, this was definitely Central City. She could see the distinctive skyline, the bridge over the river, the Star Labs building behind her. Same city, different Earth, way different vibe.

A homeless man shuffled past her, muttering to himself, pushing a shopping cart full of what looked like stolen car stereos. He gave her outfit a glance, seemed to decide she wasn't worth mugging, and kept moving.

"I need to lay low and figure out what's different here," Harley muttered, watching another police car scream past, lights flashing. "Get a lay of the land, figure out who's who, find someone with the science know-how to send me home."

She walked around the streets of this darker Central City, keeping to the shadows out of instinct more than any real plan. She was gonna find some unlucky soul, punch the lights out of him in an alley, and ask questions. Standard Tuesday night procedure, really, except usually she had backup and wasn't stranded in an alternate dimension where everything seemed determined to go wrong.

The city felt wrong in ways she couldn't quite articulate. The buildings were the same, but dirtier. The streets had the same layout, but with more potholes and bloodstains. It was like someone had taken regular Central City and run it through a filter labeled "urban decay" and then added extra crime for flavor.

She ducked into an alley, figuring she'd wait for a suitable target. Some unlucky mugger or drug dealer she could turn the tables on, get some information from. The alley had the usual decorations—dumpsters that smelled like death's armpit, fire escapes with rusted ladders, and a couple of bums dozing off near a barrel fire that had long since gone cold.

Then she saw the graffiti.

It covered most of one wall, a massive mural that stopped her cold. The image was her, definitely her, same face, same body type, same blonde hair with the colored tips. But this version wore a cape and tights, the diamond pattern of spades prominent on her chest as an emblem. The color scheme matched her current outfit—reds and blacks—but the context was completely different.

This Harley looked heroic. Noble, even. She stood in a classic superhero pose, hands on hips, cape billowing behind her like she'd hired a wind machine. Around the image, someone had spray-painted in bright red letters: "Stand against evil."

"Holy Moses, am I a hero here?" Harley asked the empty alley, her voice barely above a whisper. She stepped closer to the wall, examining the outfit in detail. "Kind of tacky with that cape… but I gotta admit, I look like I'm in better shape there!"

She glanced down at her own stomach, at the slight pudge that hung over her leather briefs—the result of too many late-night ice cream binges while watching Golden Girls reruns and feeling sorry for herself post-breakup.

"Ugh, really need to hit the Pilates machine and lay off the Chunky Monkey," she muttered, poking at her midsection with a finger.

Then she noticed the additional text, painted in black across the bottom of the mural, right under the heroic image of herself. The words hit her like a punch to the gut:

"R.I.P. Gone but not forgotten."

"Oh… that don't bode well at all…" she said, backing away from the wall slowly.

Dead. The hero version of her was dead. Apparently at least. Which meant this reality was already down one Harley Quinn, and probably wouldn't take kindly to a villainous replacement showing up wearing what amounted to fetish gear and a bad attitude.

She backed up further, then turned and power walked right out of the alley, her heels clicking rapidly on the broken pavement. "Need to get the fuck out of here, right now!" she muttered under her breath, not caring if the bums heard her.

But as if the universe had been waiting for the perfect moment to screw her over—and in her experience, the universe was always waiting for that moment—a black thin line wrapped around her arms before she made it ten feet.

The material was some kind of cord or cable, thin but incredibly strong, and it cinched tight around her biceps with practiced precision. Before she could even react, another line wrapped around her ankles, yanking them together and nearly toppling her over. She stumbled, caught herself, and looked around wildly for her attacker.

"Ah, now it really feels like Gotham," she said with a bitter laugh. "Just my luck."

A figure dropped from the fire escape above, landing in front of her with barely a sound. At first the shadows concealed him completely, just a dark silhouette backlit by the distant streetlights. She braced herself to meet Batman, the original dark knight, ready to try to explain her situation to the one person who might actually believe her about alternate realities.

But as the figure walked forward, stepping into the weak illumination from a flickering streetlight, she realized it wasn't Batman at all.

The suit was dark, almost black, but with a red bat symbol spread across the chest instead of the traditional yellow and black. The eye mask glowed with a faint red light from behind, giving him a demonic appearance. Long black hair fell past his shoulders, unkempt in a way that suggested style rather than neglect.

This was Nightwing. Or rather, the first Robin, wearing a twisted version of his Nightwing costume.

"Quinzel, did you escape again?" he said, his voice carrying that weird combination of boredom and amusement that suggested he did this a lot. He looked her over, head to toe, and smiled in a way that made her skin crawl. "Interestin' outfit, though."

He circled around her as she struggled against her bonds, the cables cutting into her skin slightly. She twisted and pulled but the material held firm, probably some kind of fancy Bat-family technology.

"They feeding you well, huh?" he said, eyeing her midsection.

Did he just call me fat? The thought blazed through her mind with indignant fury. Oh, hell no.

"Hey, uh, Nightwing! You are Nightwing, right?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady and reasonable, which was not her strong suit at the best of times.

"The one and only!" He sounded proud of it, which was disturbing.

She tried shuffling around, hopping in place slightly to keep her balance, and launched into her explanation before he could do anything else insulting or potentially painful. "Look, you're not gonna believe this, and I'm gonna sound crazy—crazier than usual, I mean—but bear with me, okay?"

To her surprise, he stopped circling and actually looked at her with what might have been genuine curiosity. "No, go on, I'm listenin'."

"Well, I'm actually from an alternate reality. Different Earth, different dimension, whatever ya wanna call it. Kinda walked through a portal thing by accident back at Star Labs. So uh…" She put on her most winning smile, the one that used to work on orderlies and security guards before they learned better. "Can you be a pal and help me find a way home?"

Nightwing put his hand under his chin in a thinking pose, looking for all the world like he was actually considering it. The red glow from his mask dimmed slightly as he contemplated her story.

"That does actually make sense," he said after a moment, nodding slowly. "Would explain the outfit, the confusion, and why you're wanderin' around Central City instead of in your cage."

Relief flooded through her. "Really? So you'll let me go and help me!"

"Of course not!" He flashed her a grin that was all teeth and no warmth, still somehow managing to strike a heroic pose despite the words coming out of his mouth. "I'm evil!"

"Ugh…" Harley let her head fall forward in defeat. Of course he was evil. Because this was Earth-348, where apparently heroes were villains and her luck was consistently terrible.

"But this is an oddity," Nightwing continued, walking toward her again. "Alternate reality version of a defeated hero showin' up in my city? That's worth investigatin'. So I'm gonna take you in and look into this proper."

Before she could protest, he hitched her over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, her bound body draped across him like a sack of particularly curvy potatoes.

"Watch the hands!" she shouted as his grip shifted to keep her balanced. His hand was very close to her ass, and she was in no position to defend herself.

A vehicle sped around the corner and stopped before them with a screech of tires. It was sleek and black, clearly based on the Batmobile design but with red accents and sharper angles. The Nightbird, apparently. The hood and doors opened automatically, responding to some signal from his suit.

He walked over and unceremoniously threw her into the trunk. Her body hit the metal floor with a solid impact that knocked the wind out of her.

"Ow! Jesus!"

He reached into his utility belt and pulled out proper handcuffs, the heavy-duty bat themed kind with no easy escape mechanism. He secured her hands with them, replacing the cables on her wrists, then produced ankle chains that he locked around her boots with efficient clicks.

"Hey, this is inhumane!" she protested, struggling against the metal restraints.

"Stuffin' ladies into trunks is bad guy 101," he said matter-of-factly, like she was the one being unreasonable here.

He wasn't wrong… she'd stuffed plenty of people into trunks herself over the years, but still! There should be professional courtesy between villains. Or whatever she was in this situation.

Before she could argue further, he pulled out a roll of duct tape and tore off a strip with his teeth.

"Wait, don't you dare—" Her words were cut off as he slapped the tape across her mouth, sealing it shut. "Hmmn!" The muffled sound was all she could manage.

He looked down at her bound, gagged form in his trunk and gave her exposed ass cheeks a firm slap, the sound echoing in the confined space. Then he closed the hood with a heavy thud, leaving her in complete darkness.

The last thing she heard before the engine roared to life was his laughter, genuine and delighted, like he was having the time of his life.

"Gosh, what a jerk," she thought in the darkness, her cheek pressed against the cold metal floor of the trunk. "Is this what I do to people? No wonder I'm so messed up. Not stopping though."

The Nightbird sped off into the night, carrying her toward an unknown destination in a reality where everything was wrong and she was very, very far from home.

After a bumpy ride that felt like he'd deliberately hunted down every pothole in Central City, the car finally came to a stop. Harley had been bounced around in the trunk like dice in a cup, her body slamming against the metal walls with each turn and bump. She'd stopped trying to brace herself after the first five minutes and just accepted her fate as a human pinball.

She heard footsteps approaching, then the hood popped open with a mechanical hiss. Light flooded in, making her squint after the complete darkness. Nightwing reached in and sat her up roughly, then grabbed the edge of the duct tape and ripped it off in one quick motion.

"Ow!" The word exploded from her lips along with a string of curses she barely managed to bite back.

"So, enjoy the ride?" His tone was conversational, pleasant even, like he'd just asked about her weekend plans.

"No, you jerk!" She worked her jaw, feeling where the tape had pulled at her skin.

"I hit the extra bumps just for you." He said it with genuine pride, like he was expecting praise.

She stared at him for a moment, processing that admission, then couldn't help herself. "You know what? That's actually grade A villainy right there. I'm impressed."

He grinned at the compliment and hauled her out of the trunk. Her feet hit the ground but immediately she had to shuffle, the ankle chains restricting her movement to tiny steps. He grabbed her arms to steady her, his grip firm but not quite painful.

"Geez, I know a bunch of girls who'd pay good money for this kind of treatment," she muttered, trying to find her balance in the chains and heels.

"I give it for free. I'm nothing if not generous." His voice carried that same cheerful tone, like they were discussing the weather.

He pulled her along roughly, guiding her through what was clearly his base of operations. She looked around with professional interest despite her situation. This was, presumably, his own version of the Batcave—all high-tech equipment, computer banks, training areas, and vehicle platforms. Odd though, since his turf was Bludhaven in her world, not Central City. So did Flash hang out in Bludhaven here? Was there some kind of territory swap? The logistics of evil real estate confused her.

The cave was impressive, she had to admit. Multiple levels connected by platforms and stairs, holographic displays showing what looked like surveillance feeds from across the city, and an armory that would make Deathstroke jealous. Red accent lighting gave everything a hellish glow.

"So, you're probably curious about things," he said, pulling her past a display case containing what looked like Robin costumes—multiple versions, like trophies.

"A bit, yeah," she said, still being led through the cave, trying to take in details that might be useful later. If there was a later. "Are you guys those Crime Syndicate fellas?"

"No, you're thinking of those guys from Earth-3. Understandable confusion." He steered her around a corner, past what looked like a medical bay. "Different group, different vibe."

"Hey, so I saw that R.I.P. under what I assume is heroic me graffiti. Am I dead here?" The question had been burning in her mind since she saw the mural.

"Goodness no. We try not to kill the goodie two-shoes," he said casually, pulling her along toward a section of the cave that looked more residential. Living quarters, maybe.

"Oh good, that's—"

"It's much more fun to imprison and torture them!" he finished, his voice brightening with enthusiasm, like he was talking about his favorite hobby. Which, she supposed, he was.

"Oh." The single syllable dropped from her mouth like a stone. She was going to have a rough time here, wasn't she? This was what people in the therapy business called "a situation."

He suddenly pushed her against the wall, his hand pressed on her head, mashing her cheek against the cold stone. His other hand roamed down her side, fingers trailing over the leather of her corset, then lower to squeeze her ass through the thin material of her briefs. The touch was possessive, proprietary, the kind of touch that said he considered her already his.

"Do you want to know where this world's Quinzel is?" His voice was low, intimate, spoken close to her ear. "The heroic Dr. Quinzel?"

"I am a little curious," she managed to say between breaths, her heart hammering in her chest. Part of her didn't want to know. The rest of her needed to.

"You see, me and Batman took her down finally, about a year ago. She'd been a thorn in our side in Gotham for years. Always showing up, always interfering, always being so damn noble and good." His hand squeezed harder, kneading her flesh. "But we got her good. She's locked up nice and tight in the Batcave down in Gotham."

His other hand moved from her head to her throat, not choking, just resting there, a reminder of how vulnerable she was.

"Everyone thinks she's dead. That memorial you saw? We encouraged that. But no, she's very much alive. Being used as a little toy by Batman. His personal plaything." His breath was hot against her ear. "Which sucks for me, because he doesn't want to share her. Selfish of him, really."

"Ohhh…" The sound escaped her lips involuntarily, part fear, part something else she didn't want to examine too closely.

"But then the universe went and dropped a nice little gift right in my lap," he whispered, his tone suggesting Christmas had come early. "A whole alternate version of her, wearing almost nothing, already tied up and helpless. It's like fate."

She shuddered, feeling his body pressed against hers, pinning her to the wall. This was bad. This was very bad.

He spun her around suddenly, slamming her back against the stone, and before she could react, produced a knife from somewhere. The blade flashed in the red light and he sliced through her corset top in one smooth motion. The leather fell away in pieces, her large breasts spilling free, pink nipples already hard from the cool air of the cave and the adrenaline coursing through her system.

He reached out and pinched one nipple between his fingers, rolling it, watching her face for reaction. Then he leaned close to her ear again, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than a shout.

"I've seen the other you in the Batcave, you know. When I visit. Batman doesn't even fuck her anymore. Doesn't let her finish, doesn't give her that release. She just sucks his dick when he wants, services him, and then it's back into the little cage he has for her. Like a pet. Like a dog."

His fingers moved to her other nipple, the touch almost gentle, which somehow made it worse.

"The only thing she does now is beg. Beg for cock, beg to be used, beg for any kind of attention. He broke her so completely she doesn't even remember being a hero anymore. Just a set of holes and a mouth, waiting for orders."

Harley shuddered and bit back a moan that tried to escape her throat. She bit her lip hard enough to hurt, using the pain to stay focused.

That was twisted. That was evil on a level that made the Joker's random cruelty look almost wholesome by comparison. Breaking a female opponent down like that, systematically destroying her sense of self until she was nothing but a willing victim? Truly a page right out of the Legion of Doom handbook. Probably the advanced course.

She should be horrified. Any sane person would be horrified. Any hero would be planning escape and revenge.

But the villain in her approved of the methodology, the thoroughness of it.

The sadist in her, the part that enjoyed seeing others brought low, also approved.

The masochist in her, well-developed from years with the Joker, definitely approved and was sending signals to parts of her body that were not helping the situation.

And the woman in her, well...if she was being completely honest with herself, also approved. 

She was Harley Quinn, not Supergirl. She'd never pretended to be anything but messed up.

Still, she needed to find a way out of this, even if her body was starting to betray her, even if she was getting uncomfortably aroused by his words and touches. Survival first, questionable life choices later. That was the Quinzel family motto.

Well, it should have been.

"Now come on," he said, suddenly all business again, like he hadn't just been describing sexual slavery and torture. He grabbed her arm and continued frog-marching her deeper into his lair, her chains rattling with each shuffling step. "Let me introduce you to some people."

This whole situation reminded Harley of that time when Sinestro took down that Jessica Cruz Green Lantern girl and dragged her deep into the Legion's holding cells for what he called "interrogation." You know, standard Yellow Lantern procedure: Capture a Green Lantern, torture them, drive fear into their hearts until they break. Fear was the whole point of the yellow ring, after all. Professional development for the Sinestro Corps.

Harley had been in the break room that day, coffee in hand, watching with detached interest as Cruz was hauled past her by Thaal Sinestro himself. The girl was bound and gagged with constructs of yellow light, her Green Lantern uniform half ripped off, struggling uselessly against bonds made of solid fear. Harley had whistled at them, a catcall just to be annoying, and Cruz had stared at her with those big, terrified eyes.

She remembered Thaal saying in that deep, commanding voice of his, "I'm going to show you what true fear is, my dear," then giving Cruz's ass a sharp slap before dragging her into the reserved torture chamber. Very dramatic. Very Sinestro. The man loved his theatrics.

Half an hour later, Harley's curiosity got the better of her. She wanted to see what Yellow Lantern style torture actually looked like, the professional techniques and all that. So she'd walked down to the torture chamber Thaal had reserved from one to two that afternoon. Standard Legion booking procedure—you reserved your torture time like it was a conference room.

Now, she should have knocked. Professional courtesy and all that. But she'd gone in unannounced, pushing the door open casually.

What she found was Jessica Cruz on her knees, completely naked, totally unbound, enthusiastically performing oral sex on Sinestro like it was rush week at a fraternity. Harley had stood there, frozen in the doorway, her brain trying to process what her eyes were seeing. Then she'd heard Jessica pull back for air and moan, "Yes, Papi, put that big alien dick in me," before diving back in with renewed enthusiasm.

They had both slowly turned to look at Harley, Jessica's mouth still full of his cock. The three of them had stared at each other for what felt like an eternity but was probably only five seconds.

"Whoops, sorry, I had this room from two to three, mixed up my times," Harley had said, backing out slowly and closing the door with exaggerated care.

Half an hour later, Jessica had "escaped" from Legion headquarters and Thaal had avoided making eye contact with Quinn for a solid week afterward. It had been deeply awkward for everyone involved. And sort of disappointing, really, if Harley was being honest.

She'd expected actual torture, not whatever that was. The Legion really needed better booking policies.

Back in the present, Harley was being led into what was clearly a torture chamber. Multiple cells lined the walls, all currently empty, their doors hanging open like hungry mouths. Chains hung from the ceiling and walls, whips and paddles and various implements were displayed on racks with the kind of organization that suggested frequent use. The whole setup reminded her of that BDSM club in Gotham she'd visited once—Leather and Lace, or something equally on the nose. This chamber was cleaner though, and probably had better liability insurance.

Two women occupied the chamber. One was clad in a purple leotard that left very little to the imagination, with wild orange hair that seemed to move on its own and glowing green eyes that marked her as alien. This was that Starfire girl, one of Nightwing's squeezes in her world. Also a Teen Titans member, all sunshine and positivity and disturbing amounts of physical strength.

The other woman was positioned on a wooden horse in the center of the chamber, and Harley recognized her immediately despite the circumstances. Also Tamaranean, judging by the glowing green eyes, but with long, straight black hair instead of the wild orange. She was gagged with what looked like a leather bit, completely naked, her ankles chained to weights that pulled her legs down and forced her body weight onto the wooden horse's sharp ridge. The pressure on her pussy  must have been excruciating. Her eyes were rolled back, showing mostly whites, and she groaned into her gag with each tiny movement.

"Shit, that's Blackfire," Harley whispered. Well, a version of Blackfire. That was her Legion homegirl from back home, her drinking buddy, the one who was so petty and evil they'd hit it off immediately at Harley's first board meeting. Blackfire was the kind of villain who held grudges for centuries and had once razed an entire planet because someone there had insulted her hair. Harley loved her. She even had permission to call her "Glempork," which was apparently a terrible slur in Tamaranean but Blackfire had given her the pass.

Looked like in this dimension, Blackfire was the hero and Starfire the villain. Which was funny when you thought about it, because this was exactly what her Blackfire would do to her own sister back home if she ever got the chance. Komand'r had strong opinions about Koriand'r, none of them suitable for polite company.

"How does it feel, silly sister?" Starfire's voice rang out in that particular way she had of speaking English—grammatically questionable but somehow endearing. "This is for the exile you gave to me!"

She pulled back a whip, a long leather one that looked well-used, and struck Blackfire across her back with a crack that echoed through the chamber.

Blackfire arched, her body going rigid, and screamed into her gag. The sound was muffled but no less anguished. Fresh welts appeared across her already marked skin.

Starfire walked forward with deliberate slowness, clearly enjoying the moment, and pushed the whip's handle against Blackfire's chin, forcing her to look up. She reached behind her sister's head and unbuckled the gag, pulling it free.

Blackfire took several heaving breaths before speaking, her voice hoarse but still carrying that regal disdain. "Your vileness truly knows no bounds, Koriand'r. One day you will be judged by a proper jury for these crimes."

"Oh ho ho!" Starfire threw her head back and attempted a villainous laugh. It came out forced and awkward, like she'd learned it from watching bad anime. Harley had to physically bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at how terrible it sounded.

"When I am the ruler of Tamaran," Starfire continued, turning to gesture dramatically at Nightwing and Harley, "you will be in the dungeons, doing the wallowing for the rest of your life!"

She floated over to Nightwing, her feet leaving the ground in that effortless way Tamaraneans moved. "Ah, boyfriend! And… the Quinzel? I was under the impression she was with the Batman?"

"Yes and no, it's complicated." Nightwing gave Harley a firm shove toward the wall. "Don't move. I'll be back to deal with you in a moment."

Starfire floated closer to Nightwing and they began conversing in low tones, holding hands like teenagers at prom. Disgustingly cute, even in their villain personas.

Harley took this chance to shuffle over to Blackfire as quickly as her ankle chains would allow. The Tamaranean woman looked up at her through strands of sweat-dampened black hair, still catching her breath.

"Hey, you good?" Harley whispered, crouching as best she could. "I'm a Harley Quinn, but from another dimension. Alternate reality deal."

Blackfire raised one of her elegant brows, studying Harley with those glowing eyes. "Really now? Well, welcome to the party, I suppose?"

Harley's gaze traveled over Blackfire's body, taking in the damage. Her breasts, back, and ass were all covered with angry red welts from the whip. Some were fresh, others looked hours old. "Damn, they're really givin' it to you good, huh?"

"Oh, it's fine." Blackfire's voice dropped to barely audible, a conspiratorial whisper. "Between you and me, I let myself get caught. Kori is technically evil here, but she and that man? They're really harmless. Well, mostly harmless."

"Huh?" Harley's brain stuttered trying to process that.

Komand'r looked at her with renewed curiosity, her eyes sharpening. "You must be here by complete accident, then. Oh, shit." She glanced over at the two lovebirds to make sure they were still distracted, then leaned closer. "This dimension, this world, whatever you want to call it, is sort of treated as a… retreat. A vacation spot."

"What the hell are you talkin' about? This place is a hellscape!"

"I mean, yes, technically." Blackfire motioned to herself, to her position on the wooden horse, to her obvious pain and the wetness that Harley only now noticed coating her inner thighs and dripping down the wood. "But the villains here really love giving this kind of treatment. So a lot of… tourists come here. They either stage fights with the native villains or temporarily switch places with them so they can experience this whole thing. The full experience."

Harley's eyes shot wide open. "Wait. Are you tellin' me this is some kind of… like… BDSM dimension or somethin'?" Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper.

"Bingo." Blackfire actually winked. "You got it in one."

"Are you even the actual Blackfire from this dimension?"

"No, I'm the native one. I'm just really fucked up and really enjoy letting my sister and her boyfriend violate every fucking hole in my body. I'll 'escape' later tonight, probably. They always forget I still have my powers and can break these chains whenever I want." She rattled her restraints for emphasis.

"Oh. Say no more, I guess." Harley felt her entire understanding of this reality shift sideways.

"I'm pretty sure the Harley currently, uh, servicing Batman in the cave isn't the native one either," Blackfire continued. "They switch out every few months. Nobody really notices. Or maybe they do and just play along. Hard to tell."

"I see. Wow. Cool, I guess?" Harley's brain was still trying to catch up.

"Alright, Quinzel." Nightwing's hand clamped on her arm, pulling her away from Blackfire. "Conversation time is over."

"You leave that poor woman alone, you monster!" Blackfire suddenly shouted, her voice dripping with indignant rage that would have been convincing if Harley hadn't just learned the truth. "She has done nothing to deserve your cruelty!"

"Seems like you need the quiet again," Starfire said, grabbing the gag. She stuffed it back in Blackfire's mouth, buckling it tight behind her head as Harley was dragged away.

Harley looked back over her shoulder. Blackfire met her eyes and gave a slow, deliberate wink just as Starfire returned with what looked like nipple clamps in one hand and something Harley couldn't identify in the other.

Nightwing escorted Harley away from the torture chamber and Blackfire's knowing wink, his grip firm on her upper arm as he guided her down another corridor. They stopped at a cell near the end of the row, and before she could process what was happening, he hooked his fingers into her leather briefs and pulled them down in one smooth motion. The material slid down her thighs and pooled at her ankles, trapped there by the chains.

He slapped her exposed ass hard, the sound echoing off the stone walls, then grabbed a handful of flesh and squeezed. She gasped at the sudden contact, the sting spreading across her skin.

"Look at this fat ass," he said, his tone somewhere between mocking and appreciative.

"It is not fat!" The indignation in her voice was automatic, defensive.

"It practically jiggles by itself." He gave it another slap for emphasis.

"It does not—" She stopped mid-protest and craned her neck as best she could with his hand still gripping her, looking back at her own behind. Indeed, it was still jiggling from the impact, the flesh moving in waves that took several seconds to settle. "Gosh… I really do need to work out more."

"Come on." He slapped her ass again, harder this time, and got her moving. She shuffled awkwardly toward the cell, the briefs around her ankles and the chains making each step a challenge. The cold air of the cave felt sharp against her exposed skin.

Once inside the cell, he spun her around roughly, his hand finding her throat. He squeezed slowly, applying just enough pressure to make her breath catch but not enough to truly choke. His face was inches from hers.

"I'm going to rape you," he said, the words cold and deliberate. "That's for all those times you teased me when you were being all heroic in Gotham. For every smug look, every witty comment, every time you made me look like a fool in front of Batman." His hand tightened slightly. "I'm going to fuck you in every hole you've got. You're nothing but my dirty whore now."

He leaned in closer and bit her earlobe softly. The sensation sent a jolt straight through her body and she moaned before she could stop herself, the sound betraying how her body was responding regardless of what her mind thought about the situation.

"We're gonna start by putting that mouth to use," he continued, his breath hot against her ear. "They say you give the best blowjobs in Gotham. I imagine that's true across the multiverse."

"Hey! I…" She stopped herself, processing his words. "Okay, yes, fine. I was voted top throat goat all four years at NYU, if you must know. And then during my entire residency at Gotham U's Medical School. Okay, and maybe I held that title in the criminal underworld too… up until last year when Pamela fucking won. The things she does with those plants ain't fair, it's cheatin', really."

He forced her down onto her knees with pressure on her shoulders, her hands still cuffed uselessly behind her back. The stone floor was cold and hard against her kneecaps. Nightwing wasted little time, unzipping and pulling out his cock. It was already hard, thick and throbbing, inches from her face.

"Handcuffed and on my knees… gosh, it really is like summer camp all over again," she muttered, then her eyes focused on what was directly in front of her. "Christ! The rumors were true!"

Her nipples hardened to pebbles, so stiff they almost hurt. She could feel wetness gathering between her legs, her arousal impossible to ignore or deny. Her body was responding to the situation in ways that probably said terrible things about her psychology, but she'd stopped worrying about that years ago. Dr. Quinzel would have had a field day analyzing Dr. Quinzel.

She licked her lips unconsciously, her mouth already starting to water.

"No need to be that eager. You really are a slut, aren't you?" He grabbed a handful of her hair, using it like a handle. The words should have stung, should have made her angry, but instead they just made her wetter. Something was deeply wrong with her, but that ship had sailed long ago.

She leaned forward, extending her tongue, and gave his shaft a long, slow lick from base to tip. He groaned, the sound vibrating through him. She continued, circling the head with her tongue, tracing the ridge, tasting the salt of his precum. Then slowly, maintaining eye contact, she opened her mouth and engulfed him.

She started slow, controlled, taking him in inch by inch, using her tongue to massage the underside as she descended. Her lips formed a tight seal, her cheeks hollowing as she created suction. Years of practice made the movements automatic, muscle memory taking over. She pulled back just as slowly, her tongue doing complicated things that had made grown men cry in gratitude.

He groaned again, louder this time, his hand tightening in her hair. "Fuck, that's good."

She picked up the pace, bobbing her head faster, taking him deeper with each stroke. The sounds were obscene, wet and sloppy, echoing in the small cell. Saliva dripped down her chin. She hollowed her cheeks harder, created more suction, did that thing with her tongue that involved twisting it around his shaft in a corkscrew motion while simultaneously moving up and down.

"Jesus Christ," he gasped, his hips starting to move involuntarily, matching her rhythm.

She had him. She could feel his control slipping, his breathing getting ragged. This was where she excelled, where she had power even on her knees and bound. She took him deeper, relaxed her throat, suppressed her gag reflex through sheer force of will and practice. Almost all of him disappeared into her mouth, her nose nearly touching his pelvis.

Then he took control back.

His hand in her hair suddenly became a vice, and he thrust forward hard, forcing himself deeper. She gagged, her throat spasming around him, but he didn't stop. He pulled back only to thrust again, harder, establishing a brutal rhythm that she had no control over.

"That's right," he growled, his voice rough. "Take it all."

He forced her down, her nose crushing against him, cutting off her air. She gagged hard, her throat convulsing, tears springing to her eyes. He held her there for several seconds that felt like minutes, then pulled back just enough for her to gasp a breath through her nose before slamming back in.

Again and again, using her mouth like a toy, a tool for his pleasure. She gagged and choked, mascara running in black streams down her face mixed with tears and saliva. Her jaw ached, her throat burned, but her pussy was absolutely drenched, arousal dripping down her inner thighs. The contradiction would have been embarrassing if she'd had any shame left.

He picked up speed, his rhythm becoming erratic, his breathing harsh and ragged. She knew he was close. His cock swelled in her mouth, became even harder if that was possible. He slammed in deep one last time and held her there, her nose pressed against him, his cock buried in her throat.

"Fuck!" The word exploded from him as he came, hot and thick directly down her throat. She couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow properly, and some of it spilled out around his cock, leaking from the corners of her overstuffed mouth. He pulsed and twitched, emptying himself into her, holding her head in place with both hands now, keeping her pinned there until he was completely finished.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he pulled back. His cock slipped from her lips with an obscene sound, trailing strings of saliva and cum. She gasped for air, coughing, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

He grabbed her hair again and yanked her head back, forcing her to look up at him. Her face was a complete mess, a disaster of ruined makeup and bodily fluids. Mascara ran in black rivers down her cheeks, mixing with tears. Cum leaked from the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin. Her lipstick was smeared across her face. She looked thoroughly used, debased.

"You look like a ruined street whore," he said, looking down at her with satisfaction.

"Thanks… stud," she managed to answer, her voice hoarse and rough, her mind still half-dazed from lack of oxygen and overwhelming sensation.

"Stay there with my cum in your mouth," he ordered, stepping back. "I have a phone call to make."

He turned and walked out of the cell, the heavy door closing behind him with a solid clang. She heard locks engaging, trapping her inside.

"Fuck…" The word came out garbled around the mouthful of cum she'd been ordered to hold. She looked down at herself, still on her knees on the cold stone floor, sweating despite the chill, hands cuffed uselessly behind her back, half-naked with her briefs around her ankles, her face a mess of fluids. "I'm so horny now it's unreal."

A few minutes passed in silence. Harley remained on her knees, her jaw aching, her throat raw, her thoughts a confused jumble of arousal and calculation. The cell was cold and dark, lit only by a dim red bulb in the ceiling that cast everything in bloody shadows.

Then her cell door opened.

Blackfire stood there, now completely naked and free of restraints, her Tamaranean physiology already healing the welts that had covered her body minutes ago. She looked completely unbothered by her nudity, standing with the confidence of someone who'd conquered planets.

"Hey, you good?" Blackfire asked, tilting her head.

"Peachy, actually," Harley replied, looking up from her kneeling position, her face still a mess.

"I'm escaping now before these two idiots notice I'm gone. Wanna come with?" Blackfire leaned against the doorframe casually. "I can get you to our Legion of Good headquarters. We probably have a portal there that could send you home."

Harley thought for a moment. She wasn't supposed to be in this dimension. She definitely needed to get back to her reality before someone noticed she was missing, before some important Legion meeting happened, before Lex got angry about his fusion reactor. And she was almost certainly gonna have a rough night when Nightwing returned with whatever he had planned next.

But from what Blackfire had explained, they didn't do anything truly dangerous here. Just intense. Just exciting. Just the kind of thing that made her heart race and her body respond in ways she probably shouldn't examine too closely.

"Legion of what now?" She shifted slightly on her knees. "You know, I'm good here. If you notice I'm still gettin' spitroasted in a week though, do somethin' then."

Blackfire stared at her for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across her face. "You are a slut, aren't you? Alright then."

She started to close the door slowly.

"Thanks, my Glempork!" Harley beamed up at her.

Blackfire stopped mid-motion, her hand on the door. She raised one elegant eyebrow, processing what she'd just been called, then nodded slowly. "I must have given you the pass in your dimension. Fair enough."

The door closed with a solid thunk, leaving Harley alone again in the red-lit cell.

A few more minutes crawled by. Harley's knees were starting to hurt from the hard stone floor. She wondered idly if Nightwing would actually come back or if this was some kind of psychological torture technique, leaving her here in anticipation. Both options seemed plausible.

The cell door opened again.

This time it was neither Starfire nor Nightwing. A redhead in a modified leotard stood in the doorway, looking down at her with an expression somewhere between contempt and amusement. Her red hair flowed from the sides of a bat-themed helmet, and much like Nightwing's, her eye holes glowed red to really sell that evil vibe. The costume was recognizably Batgirl's, but with a slightly domme twist—more leather, more straps, more of everything that suggested she enjoyed causing pain.

This was the red-headed Batgirl. If she was here in Nightwing's lair, it meant he was probably banging her too. What a male slut he was, Harley thought with a mixture of judgment and admiration.

"Well, well, if it isn't Quinzel." Batgirl's voice dripped with disdain. "Or should I say, dimensional border hopper? That's what I hear."

"It was an accident!" Harley protested.

"And you're a villain in your world, they say?" Batgirl walked into the cell, circling Harley like a predator sizing up wounded prey. "Pathetic. You've already taken a cock in your mouth, and you're enjoying it too? Useless whore. You're nothing but a rape toy no matter what dimension you're in, huh?"

"That's what they say!" Harley replied with false cheer, trying to maintain some dignity despite her position.

Without warning, Batgirl pushed Harley down, pressing her boot firmly into Harley's back. The pressure forced Harley's face to the ground and her ass up into the air, presenting herself in a humiliating position. Her cheek pressed against the cold stone, her bound hands useless behind her.

"And fat, too."

Batgirl produced a riding crop from somewhere, rubbing it slowly over Quinn's exposed cheeks. The leather was cool against her already-abused skin.

"Okay, my ass is fat! Geez, no need to keep commenting on it!" Harley's voice was muffled against the floor.

Swish

The crop came down hard on her right cheek. The sound cracked through the cell like a gunshot.

"Oh!" Harley couldn't suppress the cry.

"It jiggles a lot. Like jello." Batgirl's tone was clinical, observational, cruel. She watched the flesh move with each impact with obvious satisfaction.

Man, these alternate world heroes are really mean, Harley thought. Though she supposed that was the whole point of this dimension. Still, they were committed to the bit. Assuming it was a bit.

Batgirl delivered several more calculated swats across her ass, each one precise and painful.

Swat

"Oh!"

Swat

"Ow!"

The crop came down again and again until Harley's entire ass was covered in crisscross welts, the pale skin now an angry red decorated with darker marks where the crop had landed repeatedly. Each impact sent jolts through her body that her treacherous nervous system was translating into arousal as much as pain.

Batgirl used the toe of her boot to push Harley's face back up, forcing her to look up at her captor.

"Open your mouth," she ordered, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Harley obeyed, opening her mouth wide.

Batgirl grabbed her cheeks with one gloved hand, squeezing to force her mouth to stay open. Then she leaned over and spit directly into Harley's mouth, the glob of saliva landing on her tongue. She forced Harley's mouth closed with her grip.

"Swallow."

Harley gulped, the taste coating her throat.

"Heh… it tastes like Nightwing, with Starfire aftertaste," Harley replied once she could speak again, unable to resist the smart comment despite her situation.

Batgirl's eyes narrowed behind her mask. She pushed Harley's head back down to the floor and delivered a flurry of rapid swats with the crop, harder this time, covering every inch of already-abused flesh. The crop whistled through the air and cracked against skin in a rapid rhythm that left Harley gasping.

"Make more smart comments, bitch. I dare you."

Swat Swat Swat

"Okay, okay!" Harley finally shouted, her ass on fire, genuine tears forming in her eyes from the intensity.

Batgirl stopped, standing back to admire her work. Harley's entire ass was now a canvas of red welts and darker bruises, the skin hot to the touch and throbbing with each heartbeat.

"See you in a bit, clown slut." Batgirl turned on her heel and walked out, the door slamming behind her with a metallic clang.

Harley lay there for a moment, catching her breath, her ass feeling like it was literally on fire. "Wow… you know what? I actually deserve that."

The memory came flooding back unbidden. Her and Joker laying a trap for Batgirl, maybe two years ago? Three? Time got fuzzy during her Joker period. They'd lured her to an abandoned warehouse with a fake tip about a weapons deal, then ambushed her. Chloroform over the mouth, the classic move. Watched her struggle and eventually go limp in Joker's arms while he laughed that terrible laugh.

When Batgirl had woken up, she'd found herself stripped down to just a thong, her mask still on because even villains had some code about secret identities. Her legs were chained, limiting her movement to shuffling steps. They'd thrown a party with all their goons, maybe fifty guys, and forced her to serve drinks under threat of a shock collar that Joker kept the remote for.

She'd been mortified. Harley remembered watching the fear and humiliation in Batgirl's eyes as goons whistled and catcalled, as she had to bend over to serve drinks while they commented on her body. Hands reached out to slap her ass or pinch it as she passed. The goons were handsy in that way drunk criminals always were.

It was perfect. The mortification was supposed to break her into tears, destroy her confidence, make her question whether she could continue being a hero. Then they would have left her tied up in the streets for the GCPD to find, adding to the humiliation. Joker loved that kind of psychological torture, breaking the heroes' spirits.

But something unexpected had happened.

Her goons had started tipping her. Slipping twenty-dollar bills into her waistband as she delivered drinks. At first it had been a joke, one guy doing it to make the others laugh. But then more had followed.

Batgirl had been horrified initially, on the verge of tears, but she'd continued receiving the money. After about half an hour, Harley had noticed her actually counting it during a break, her fingers moving over the bills quickly, calculating. Then something had shifted in her demeanor. She'd started being flirty with the goons, playing up the whole "good girl serving drinks" angle, working them for tips, raking in cash. She'd leaned over more when serving, smiled more, tolerated the ass slaps and pinches with fake giggles.

It had stopped being fun for the clown couple at that point. The whole psychological torture thing fell apart when the victim started treating it like a side hustle. Joker had gotten angry, that quiet kind of angry that was more dangerous than his laughing fits.

They'd given Batgirl her clothes back, removed the collar and chains, and told her to get lost.

They'd let her keep the money though. Even Joker had admitted she'd worked her ass off for it, and there was a certain professional respect for that. She'd walked out of that warehouse with something like three thousand dollars in tips, which was more than most of the goons made in a week of actual crime.

Harley smiled at the memory despite her current predicament. Yeah, she definitely deserved that beating.

The door opened again, and Nightwing walked back in, looking refreshed, like he'd taken a pleasant break rather than leaving her bound and aching on a cold stone floor. He stood in the doorway for a moment, hands on his hips in that classic hero pose that looked absurd given the context.

"So, I've got good news and bad news," he announced.

Harley looked up from where she was still kneeling, her ass throbbing from Batgirl's attention, her jaw sore, her whole body starting to protest its treatment. "Hit me with it."

"The good news is, we're sending you back home. For a multitude of reasons, mainly we don't want do-gooders from other worlds coming to look for you. We're very private here." He leaned against the doorframe. "This was the boss's orders."

"Batman?" Harley asked.

"Yup. So tomorrow we'll open up a portal and send you back to your dimension, safe and sound." He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her, that predatory look back in his eyes. "Now the bad news… you're still here till then, and that means your ass is mine for the next twelve hours or so."

"Lovely!" Harley's tone was bright despite everything, that manic edge creeping back in.

He reached down and picked her up by her throat, not choking but controlling, and pushed her face down onto the cot that sat against one wall of the cell. The thin mattress was barely better than the floor, but marginally softer.

"Ass up," he ordered.

She complied, keeping her back lowered and her hips raised, presenting herself. The position made her already-abused ass cheeks spread slightly, exposing everything to his view.

"Spread those legs wider."

She did so, as much as the ankle chains would allow, the metal cutting slightly into her skin with the effort. Her body trembled slightly, partially from exhaustion, partially from anticipation, partially from the cold air of the cell against her overheated skin.

He moved behind her and she felt his fingers begin rubbing her pussy. She was soaked, embarrassingly so, her arousal coating her inner thighs. His touch was almost clinical at first, exploring, testing her reactions.

"Whore," he said simply, stating it as fact rather than insult.

He lined himself up and entered her in one smooth thrust, filling her completely. She gasped at the intrusion, her body stretching to accommodate him. He started slow, almost maddeningly slow, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in with deliberate care. Each thrust was measured, controlled, designed to build sensation without granting release.

"Oh God," she moaned into the thin mattress, her hands still cuffed uselessly behind her back, unable to brace herself or push back against him.

He continued the slow pace, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. The teasing rhythm was torture of a different kind, bringing her right to the edge but never quite over. She could feel her orgasm building, coiling tight in her belly, but he kept the pace just slow enough to deny her.

"Please," she whimpered, hating herself for begging but unable to stop.

"Please what?" His voice was amused, cruel.

"Please fuck me harder!"

He obliged suddenly, without warning, slamming into her with brutal force. The change in pace was shocking, overwhelming. He pounded into her relentlessly, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing obscenely in the small cell. Each impact drove the air from her lungs, made her cry out.

She moaned like a banshee, unrestrained and shameless, the sounds barely human. Every nerve ending was on fire, every sensation amplified beyond reason. The orgasm that had been building suddenly crashed over her like a wave, making her entire body convulse, her pussy clenching rhythmically around him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" The words poured from her mouth as she came, her vision whiting out for a moment.

He didn't slow down. He kept the brutal pace, driving through her orgasm and beyond. Before she'd even fully come down from the first peak, he suddenly pulled out of her pussy and pressed against her ass instead. She barely had time to process before he pushed into her tighter hole, the stretch burning despite her arousal.

"Oh shit!" She'd been expecting him to stay where he was, and the surprise made her clench involuntarily, which only intensified the sensation.

He started moving again, alternating unpredictably between her two holes, keeping her off balance, never letting her anticipate his next move. The psychological aspect of not knowing where he'd be next added another layer to the overwhelming physical sensations. She was completely at his mercy, unable to do anything but take what he gave her.

It didn't take long before she felt another orgasm building, impossible as it seemed so soon after the first. Her body was responding without her permission, chasing pleasure even through the pain and exhaustion. This one hit even harder than the first, making her scream into the mattress, her bound hands clenching into fists, her toes curling in her boots.

He continued through her second orgasm, using her body for his own pleasure now, his rhythm becoming erratic. He buried himself in her ass one final time and she felt him pulse and throb, felt the heat of him filling her. His grip on her hips was bruising as he held her in place, making sure every drop was deposited deep inside.

He pulled out finally, and she felt his cum start to leak from her abused hole. He flipped her over, laying her flat on her back on the cot, and she looked up at him with dazed eyes, utterly spent, barely conscious.

"Be back soon. Night's still young," he said cheerfully, already zipping himself back up.

"Ughhhh…" It was the only reply she could manage, her brain temporarily disconnected from her mouth.

The door slammed shut, leaving her alone once more.

For the rest of the night, she was tormented and fucked in ways that tested the absolute limits of her endurance and pain tolerance. They came for her in shifts, sometimes individually, sometimes together. The wooden horse made another appearance, and she was forced to straddle it for what felt like hours, weights attached to her ankles pulling her down onto the sharp ridge, her pussy and clit grinding against the unforgiving wood. An expanding plug was worked into her ass, inflated slowly until she thought she'd split in two, then left there while they used her mouth. Her tits received attention from both the crop and a whip, leaving them covered in welts and bruises, the sensitive flesh burning with each impact.

She begged for mercy, her pride crumbling under the sustained assault. They granted her none, just smiled and continued. She cried and pleaded, real tears streaming down her face, mixing with sweat and various fluids. Her pleas only seemed to encourage them, to make them push harder. They took her beyond what she thought were her limits, then kept going.

More pain. More twisted pleasure. More rape, because that's what it was, even if her body betrayed her by responding, by climaxing again and again until she lost count.

And somewhere in the midst of it all, through the haze of sensation and exhaustion, she realized something terrible and wonderful.

It was amazing. The best she'd ever had. The most intensely alive she'd felt since… maybe ever.

The Legion had nothing on this. Joker had never pushed her like this, had never been this attentive in his cruelty. This was methodical, calculated, designed to break her down and build her back up again in the most twisted way possible. And her fucked-up brain was eating it up like candy.

She came more times than she could count, her body wrung out like a washcloth, pushed past multiple limits she didn't even know she had. When she thought she couldn't possibly take anymore, they proved her wrong. When she thought she was completely broken, they showed her she had further to fall.

Once morning finally rolled around, when sunlight started filtering in through the high windows of the cave, they shoved her back in her cell one last time. She collapsed onto the cot immediately, unable to even hold herself upright anymore.

She slept through the rest of the day, still cuffed, her body covered in a mixture of sweat and cum and other fluids she couldn't identify. Her skin was a canvas of bruises, welts, bite marks, and rope burns. Her holes were sore and stretched and leaking. Her throat was raw from screaming and from other uses. Every single part of her body ached in ways that would take days to fade.

But she was smiling in her sleep, a small, satisfied smile that suggested despite everything, or perhaps because of everything, some deeply broken part of her had found exactly what it had been looking for.

At night she woke up, sore as hell. Every muscle screamed in protest as she shifted on the cot, her body cataloging all the ways it had been abused over the past twenty-four hours. Her wrists ached from the cuffs, her jaw hurt from being forced open too long, her holes were tender and swollen, and the welts covering her ass and tits throbbed with each heartbeat. She felt like she'd been hit by a truck, then reversed over for good measure.

The cell door opened and Batgirl walked in carrying a metal bowl and a bottle of water with a straw. She set them both on the floor near Harley without a word, the bowl making a hollow clang against the stone.

Harley looked down at the bowl. It contained what could generously be described as slop—some kind of grey-brown mixture that might have been oatmeal or might have been something scraped off a cafeteria floor. Hard to tell in the dim red light.

Her stomach growled traitorously. She was starving, she realized. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. Before the portal? That was over a day ago.

She got down on her knees, the movement sending fresh sparks of pain through her abused body, and bent at the waist. With her hands still cuffed behind her back, she had no choice but to lower her face to the bowl and eat like an animal, lapping up the slop with her tongue.

"That's right, eat like a fucking dog in heat," Batgirl said from above her, voice dripping with contempt.

The slop tasted like absolutely nothing, which was probably a mercy. Harley munched and devoured it all anyway, her hunger overriding her dignity. Once the bowl was empty, she moved to the water bottle and managed to get her mouth around the straw, drinking deeply. The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of plastic, but it was the best thing she'd had in hours.

Once she was done, Batgirl grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet. "Come on, you stink."

She was escorted down another corridor to a room that was clearly designed for this purpose. Drains covered the floor, the walls were tiled, and a industrial hose hung from a fixture on the ceiling. It looked like the kind of place you'd wash down large animals, or prisoners.

Batgirl turned on the hose without warning. The water pressure was high and the temperature was absolutely freezing.

"OHHH FUCK FUCK COLD!" Harley shrieked as the stream hit her, the pressure hard enough to hurt, the cold shocking her nervous system. She tried to turn away but Batgirl adjusted the stream, making sure every inch of her got soaked. The water was so cold it felt like needles against her bruised and welted skin.

After what felt like an eternity of freezing torture, Batgirl finally turned off the hose. Then she produced a long stick with a sponge attached to the end and began scrubbing Harley down, wiping away all the accumulated grime, sweat, cum, and other fluids that had dried on her skin. The sponge was rough and the scrubbing was not gentle, but at least the worst of the filth was being removed.

Afterward, still dripping wet and shivering, Harley was led back out into the main cave. Batgirl and Nightwing met up with her there, each taking one of her arms and dragging her toward where the Nightbird was parked.

"Don't tell me it's the trunk again…" Harley's voice was weak, exhausted.

"You know it," Nightwing said cheerfully. They taped her mouth shut again and shoved her into the trunk, her still-wet body hitting the metal floor with a thud.

She heard them both get in the car, heard doors slam, heard the engine roar to life. The vehicle took off with a screech of tires.

Thankfully, there weren't too many bumps this time. Nightwing must have decided to go easy on her, or maybe he just took a different route. Small mercies.

After what felt like another eternity in darkness but was probably only twenty minutes, the car stopped. The trunk opened and hands pulled her out. She was guided like a prisoner, still naked and bound, back into the same warehouse that housed Star Labs in this dimension.

Both of them gave her bruised ass cheeks hard slaps along the way, making her yelp into her gag. The slaps echoed in the empty warehouse, accompanied by their laughter.

Once down in B7, the storage level, they stopped in front of an empty space between some boxes. Nightwing pulled out a small disc from his utility belt and threw it on the floor. It expanded on impact, projecting upward, and a portal materialized—the same purple energy, the same rippling surface.

They finally removed her handcuffs, the metal releasing her wrists after what felt like days. She rubbed at the marks, wincing at the soreness.

"Uh… so that's it?" she asked, pulling the tape off her own mouth.

"Yup." Nightwing crossed his arms.

"Can I at least get some clothes?" She gestured at her complete nakedness.

"No. Get lost." Before she could respond, Nightwing turned her around and kicked her right in the ass, his boot connecting with her bruised flesh with enough force to send her stumbling forward.

She fell through the portal, the purple energy sliding over her body, and hit the floor on the other side hard, landing on her hands and knees on familiar concrete.

"OW…" She slowly got up, every muscle protesting. "They're not just evil rapists, they're real jerks too."

She looked around. She was back in her own dimension's Star Labs, B7, in the laboratory with the hadron collider and the equipment. The portal behind her flickered once and disappeared, leaving the two arches empty and dark.

Her body was covered in bruises, welts, bite marks, and various other marks of abuse. She was sore as fuck, but her metahuman healing from her dip in the Ace Chemicals vat meant she'd recover faster than a normal person. She got up carefully and stretched her back, hearing things pop and crack back into place.

She looked around the empty lab. Star Labs at night, no one in sight. Security must have been light down here, or maybe they'd cleared out. She spotted a clock near the "Stargate" setup. It was a whole day later. Time had passed the same in both dimensions, which was good to know for future reference.

Not that she planned on going back.

Maybe.

Probably not.

Well, she'd see.

"Oh shit! The reactor!" The whole reason she'd been here in the first place came flooding back. Lex's fusion reactor. The coffee machine. The entire mission.

Harley quickly jogged to where she remembered seeing it during her initial search, before all the interdimensional nonsense had started. There it was, sitting in a secure case on a workbench, the chrome basketball with the blinking lights. She grabbed it, tucked it under one arm like a football, and ran for the stairs.

She didn't care if anyone saw her buck naked. She just needed to get out, get home, and get this thing to Lex before he started asking uncomfortable questions.

Thankfully, the stairs were empty. She climbed all seven floors in record time, adrenaline overriding her exhaustion and soreness. The ground floor was darker, most lights off for the night. She saw a security guard sleeping at his post and crept past him.

She made it outside, found where she'd stashed her motorcycle several blocks away, and drove back to Legion headquarters wearing nothing but her boots. 

A few hours later, after a shower and some careful application of concealer to the worst bruises, she was back in Legion HQ. She'd dressed in long sleeves and pants so nobody would notice the marks covering her body. The bruises would fade in a day or two thanks to her enhanced healing, but for now she looked like she'd been through a war.

She sat across from Luthor in a meeting room, the fusion reactor sitting on the table between them like the world's most expensive paperweight.

"I was worried when you didn't respond last night," Lex said, his fingers steepled in front of him. "I thought you'd dropped off the face of the earth. And apparently you did?"

"Yeah, had to, you know, lay low in a hostile environment for a bit before findin' another portal," she said, technically telling the truth. He didn't need to know about the evil hero rape dimension. She didn't think his heart could take it. "Nothin' I couldn't handle though."

"Well, I'm glad you're safe. And that you retrieved the reactor." Luthor picked up the device, turning it over in his hands, examining it with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. "Clean energy for all. Unlimited power. This could end so much human suffering, stop so many wars over resources."

He stood up, walked over to where the coffee maker sat on a side table, and began wiring the reactor to it. Within moments, the coffee pot started brewing, powered by what was essentially a miniature star.

"I'll be damned," Lex said, staring at it.

"Wow… you know, Lex, we really are fuckin' evil," Harley said, unable to keep the admiration out of her voice.

"We really are," he nodded in agreement. They both stood there for a moment, staring at the clean, almost infinite energy source being used to power their office coffee pot. The absurdity of it was beautiful in its pettiness.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"Please," she responded.

He poured them both cups from the freshly brewed pot, the coffee steaming and fragrant. They sipped in companionable silence, two villains enjoying their petty victory over the forces of good and the concept of responsible technology use.

A bit later she walked out of the meeting, coffee in hand, feeling more human. "Jamaican Blue Mountain. Lex really gets the good stuff," she muttered to herself, savoring the taste. Her bruises would heal quickly thanks to her slight metahuman sturdiness from the Ace Chemicals incident. By tomorrow she'd be back to normal, physically at least. Mentally was another question entirely.

She saw Livewire and Blackfire chilling in the break room, both of them in casual clothes rather than their villain costumes. Livewire was scrolling through her phone while Blackfire read what looked like a Tamaranean novel, the text glowing faintly on the pages.

"Hey, ladies," Harley approached them with a grin, setting her coffee down on the table and sliding into a chair. "Boy, do I have a story for you both."

Blackfire looked up from her book with immediate interest, one eyebrow raised. "This should be good. You've been gone for over a day. Cold told us you fell through some kind of portal?"

"Oh yeah," Harley leaned back in her chair, wincing slightly as her bruised ass made contact with the seat. "Let me tell you about Earth-348, and why I'm definitely goin' back there on my next vacation."