The air in the Root Base's medical bay was thick, a blend of sterile chill, the sweet scent of blooming plants, and a sharp chemical bitterness. Alex stood before a translucent cocoon woven from pulsating, bioluminescent vines. Inside, submerged in viscous nutrient fluid, a man writhed. His face contorted in a silent grimace of pain, his body convulsing with withdrawal. Tubes woven into the cocoon's walls delivered a solution of Pamela's synthesized alkaloids, easing physical torment but not erasing it.
"One more hour," Alex muttered, checking the readings on an old but reliable analog monitor. His method balanced on a knife's edge. Stage one: a psychedelic trance induced by Pamela's "green" narcotic, where Alex, like a surgeon of the mind, excised psychological addiction with hypnotic commands and imagery. It worked for smoking, alcohol. But heavy opiates, salt-based monsters… their claws sank into both mind and flesh. Hence stage two: the Cocoon. Pamela's bioengineered marvel, isolating the patient from the world and agonizingly restructuring their physiology to suppress chemical need. Brutal, but better than a lifetime of addiction.
In the adjacent lab, behind thick soundproof glass, Pamela Isley worked on another project. Under microscopes entwined with delicate sprouts, she studied Kryptonian DNA with the focus of an alchemist seeking the philosopher's stone. Her fingers danced over holograms generated by a bizarre symbiosis of tech and flora, probing for weaknesses, leverage points for enhancement… or control. Her goal was clear: make Alex stronger.
The door to Alex's office opened without a knock. Pamela entered, her emerald eyes alight with unusual excitement tinged with unease.
"She's been found," she said without preamble, her voice sharp in the medbay's hum. "Harley. She's online. Arriving at the backup entrance in an hour."
Alex slowly lifted his gaze from the writhing patient. He met Pamela's eyes, reading the unspoken reminder: We have to help her. Break her from that… clown's grip. Their plan was simple: isolate, diagnose, then shatter the Joker's psychological chains using Pamela's power and Alex's methods.
"Alright," Alex replied, his voice calm, almost monotone, as it was when they first discussed this. "We'll meet her. Assess. Help."
The backup entrance, disguised as the ruins of an old pumping station, awaited. When a figure in bright red-and-black appeared, bouncing with each step, Alex felt Pamela tense beside him. Harley Quinn launched herself at Pamela with a squeal that was half-laugh, half-sob.
"ROSEY-POO!" She clung to Pamela, wrapping arms and legs around her like a vine. "You're okay! I was so scared when I heard about that dumb laser!" She pulled back, holding Pamela by the shoulders, her gaze raking over her before sliding to Alex. Her look was quick, appraising, lacking its usual manic gleam. She turned back to Pamela, a wide but oddly strained smile spreading. "Ooooh, I get it! That's why you're all… good now! You just needed some real dick!" She jabbed a playful finger toward Alex, winking at Pamela. "Found yourself a hotshot, huh?"
Alex didn't flinch. His lips twitched into a slight, cocky smirk.
"Diagnosis confirmed," he nodded, keeping his tone playfully neutral. "A qualified dick—key to mental health."
Pamela rolled her eyes so hard it seemed she might see her own brain.
"Harley, enough chatter," she snapped, though care softened her edge. "Where've you been? What happened?"
Harley hopped back, striking a theatrical pose of innocence. Her smile widened, but her eyes stayed oddly cautious.
"Oh, Pammy, it's a surprise! A secret!" She mimed zipping her lips. "Let's just say the place was… unique! Super-duper fun! Made tons of friends! Like the old circus, but… different clowns!" Her giggle cut off unnaturally fast. "And now… I'm starving! Got food? Not your green stuff—real food. Chips? Burgers? Shawarma?"
"Sure," Pamela said, still eyeing her suspiciously but waving a hand. "We've got supplies. Though, FYI, we've made serious strides in plant-based meat."
They moved through the underground corridor to the base's main quarters. Alex trailed slightly, his Sherlockian mind on high alert, scanning details:
Harley's unnaturally fluid movements, as if she feared turning her head too fast.
Micro-pauses in her chatter, her gaze briefly losing focus, like she was listening to something inside.
Most critically: at the small dining hall table, as Pamela warmed food, Harley began faintly tapping her fingers on the plastic surface. Lightly, as if impatient. But Alex caught the rhythm. Not random. Short. Long. Pause. Short. Short. Short. Long…
Morse code. A chill ran down his spine. His mind decoded:
S-P-Y-B-O-M-B-I-N-H-E-A-D.
SPY. BOMB IN HEAD.
Alex looked up. His eyes met Harley's. In her usually wild, gleeful gaze, he saw raw, silent terror and a plea. She gave a barely perceptible nod, her tapping now meaningless, masking.
"Pamela," Alex said, standing. His voice was even, but Pamela caught the steel beneath. "You two catch up. Enjoy dinner. I've got urgent patient business." He shot her a pointed look.
Pamela froze, plate in hand. Her gaze flicked from Alex to Harley, who was now voraciously eating, avoiding their eyes. Surprise, suspicion, understanding flashed across the Mistress of Flora's face. She said nothing, only nodded slightly.
Alex's office sank into silence, broken only by the ticking of an old analog clock. He sat, staring into space, fingers clasped. His mind sketched chilling conclusions on a mental slate:
1. Coerced Spy. Harley's signal was clear: she's an agent with an implant. They know the base exists, though breaching it is tough—but they managed even this.
2. Cranial Ultimatum. The bomb… If he had such resources, he'd program it to trigger on:
2.1. Extraction attempts—physical tampering with the implant zone.
2.2. Detection—external scans, diagnostics revealing the device, or direct discussion of the threat near the carrier.
2.3. Physiological anomalies—deep anesthesia, hypothermia, hormonal spikes, or blockers signaling surgical prep. All-Seeing, All-Hearing Curse. What does the implant transmit? Everything: audio, video, geolocation. Harley didn't say it outright—she's terrified they're listening now. Worst case: the bomb is a bug, detonator, and beacon, aware when it's being neutralized.
3. Death Cage. An isolation chamber (Faraday cage) could block the signal. But Alex was near-certain: signal loss would be flagged as a critical event, triggering immediate detonation. Standard protocol for "disposable" assets.
Alex ran a hand over his face. In the office's quiet, his voice was low, laced with weary irritation:
"What a fucking… pain in the ass."
He leaned back, eyes on the ceiling where a single lamp's shadow flickered. Harley was here. With a bomb in her head. They were all in a deadly trap. But if whoever's behind this didn't detonate immediately, the bomb's blast radius was likely limited, or they weren't sure it would kill them. The game had entered a new, lethal phase.