Chapter 20
The silence in the Root Base's medical bay was broken only by the steady hum of generators. Alex stood at an old rotary phone—the only communication device he halfway trusted. His fingers dialed confidently.
"Kara, it's Alex. Weird question: ever played Surgeon Simulator?"
A short laugh crackled through the receiver.
"Alex? Unexpected call. Yeah, I played it…" Kara Zor-El's voice turned serious. "Had a dumb teenage dream of being a surgeon. Got a VR headset, thought the game would give me insight. Realized I felt more like a butcher with a saw and crowbar in a pile of virtual corpses. Buried that idea. Why ask?"
"Because it's time to dig it up," Alex replied without hesitation. "I need a surgeon who can operate at near-lightspeed. Difficulty level: bomb implanted in a head."
A tense pause hung on the line. When Kara spoke, her voice held no jest, no doubt.
"What, daily apocalyptic fun on a schedule? Fine, what exactly do you need?"
"I need you to come in stealth mode, avoiding all eyes—especially our new guest with unpredictable behavior. Rendezvous point: roof of the old grain elevator at Dockers Square. Be there in ten minutes."
"If you're willing to risk a patient's life…" Kara sighed. "Deal."
The meeting was silent and efficient. Alex greeted Kara on the dusty roof of the abandoned elevator. Without words, he led her through a maze of hidden tunnels and ventilation shafts in Root Base, expertly bypassing areas where Harley Quinn might be. Kara's movements were noiseless, fluid as a ghost.
In an isolated pre-op room behind a thick steel door, Alex laid out the situation in thirty seconds:
"Patient: Harley Quinn. Implant somewhere in her head. Known properties:
1. Combines bomb and transmitter (audio/video/GPS).
2. Equipped with anti-tamper defenses.
3. Detonation triggers:
3.1 Physical interference with the device.
3.2 Any scan detecting the implant.
3.3 Abnormal physiological markers (anesthesia, surgical prep).
3.4 Loss of connection to control center."
Kara's lips twisted into a grim smirk.
"And your 'genius' plan? Even my speed doesn't guarantee it won't blow early."
"No guarantees," Alex admitted bluntly. "We're betting on outpacing the implant's reaction. You extract it faster than its defenses can register intrusion. Faster than a nerve impulse. It's our only shot. Diagnostics happen right before extraction."
"High stakes," Kara said, her eyes glinting with cold thrill. "Where's the patient?"
Alex nodded toward the steel wall.
"Next room. Scan with x-ray vision. We need exact location, anchor structure, dimensions…"
Kara squinted, her eyes glowing with soft, penetrating light. She peered through steel and concrete. Suddenly, her brows shot up, cheeks flushing bright red. She glanced away, then refocused, lips tight.
"They're… seriously?!" she hissed. "No shame at all!" But she kept looking.
Pamela Isley had Harley pinned against the wall with writhing vines binding her wrists and ankles. A red leather whip cracked through the air, leaving scarlet streaks on Harley's pale back.
"Vanished without a word, you bitch?!" Pamela hissed, fingers yanking Harley's blonde hair, jerking her head back.
"That all you got?!" Harley gasped, arching under rough hands sliding from her stomach to her thighs.
Vines snapped the straps of Harley's top, baring her chest. A sharp plant thorn grazed a nipple, drawing a cry of pain and pleasure. Pamela sank her teeth into Harley's neck.
Alex, catching Kara's reaction, guessed the scene.
"Riveting view, but focus on the head. We need anatomy only."
Kara, blushing to her roots, shifted to Harley's neck.
"Object located… Cylindrical implant, 5mm long, left of the larynx. Anchored by micro-tendrils to nerve clusters and the carotid artery wall. Tendrils pulse… likely scanning for connection integrity."
"Whoever made this shit is a fucking genius," Alex growled. "Memorize every tendril's position."
For five days, the lab became a high-speed surgery range. On cadavers with mock implants, Kara drilled to instinct:
1. Approach: Supersonic dash to the target.
2. Diagnostics: Real-time x-ray scanning.
3. Extraction:
3.1 Right hand: ultrasonic vibro-scalpel.
3.2 Left hand: cryo-tipped nano-forceps.
3.3 Severing all tendrils with a pinpoint plasma beam.
4. Neutralization: Crushing the device in her super-strong grip.
Alex recorded each step on analog high-speed cameras, analyzing and refining her movements.
Operation day. The base's dining hall. The air was thick with unspoken questions. Pamela mechanically ate a salad, eyeing the tense atmosphere. Harley fidgeted with the table's edge. Alex sat across, fingers drumming his knee.
"Bon appétit," he said evenly. The signal.
0.05 milliseconds objective time.
For Kara Zor-El, time stretched into eternity. The world froze: a breadcrumb from Harley's fork hung midair; Pamela's faint confusion petrified; dust motes in a light beam stilled. Only Kara moved in this suspended world.
She was at Harley's side. Her x-ray vision pierced skin and muscle, illuminating the hated cylinder and its vile, pulsing micro-tendrils gripping nerve bundles and the carotid wall. The danger map updated instantly in her mind.
1. Vibro-scalpel sliced skin and muscle without a drop of blood.
2. Cryo-forceps locked onto the cylinder's body.
3. A plasma beam, thinner than a hair, severed all 14 tendrils in a picosecond.
The implant was out.
Kara leaped back to a safe distance. A muffled BOOMF echoed in her clenched fist. Acrid black smoke seeped between her fingers. On her open palm lay a melted, crumpled metal ball.
Alex, driven by pure adrenaline, was already at Harley's side. In his hand, a tube of Pamela's biotech green salve. He smeared it thickly on the tiny, bloodless puncture on Harley's neck. The salve absorbed instantly, kickstarting regeneration.
Silence fell like a heavy shroud. Pamela froze, fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes darted from Harley (instinctively touching her neck) to Alex with the salve, to Kara with the smoking metal. The air reeked of ozone and burnt plastic.
"What…" Pamela's voice broke into a hoarse whisper, "…the fuck just happened?!" Her gaze, blazing with fury and bewilderment, pinned Alex. Harley stared at her blood-tipped fingers, her face a mix of shock and primal fear.
Harley's fingers frantically traced the spot where the implant's nightmare pulse once throbbed. Nothing. Smooth skin. The sensation was so unreal her eyes widened to their limit. Her lips stretched into the wildest, most genuine smile in weeks.
"DOBBY IS FREE!!" Her piercing shriek shattered the dining hall's silence.
In a flash, she was off her chair. Like a coiled spring, Harley launched at Kara, clinging like a koala, arms around her neck, legs around her waist. A barrage of wet, rapid kisses rained on Kara's cheeks, forehead, chin, with ecstatic babbling:
"You saved me! My hero! My shiny, speedy, super-duper hero! Mmmwah!"
Kara's face froze in pure confusion. She stood, leaning back under the human tornado in red-and-black, feeling her face coated in a sticky web of saliva and lipstick. Instinct kicked in. With a gentle but firm motion—like peeling off a clingy kitten—Kara detached Harley and set her on the floor.
"Stop slobbering on me," she grimaced, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. "Did what I had to."
Pamela stood rooted, her fork with salad still suspended. Shock and rage gave way to impenetrable bewilderment.
"What…" she rasped again, "...the FUCK was that?!" Her green-fire gaze shifted from the smoking ball in Kara's hand to Alex. "This… circus! Surgery over lunch?! An implant?! EXPLAIN!"
Alex didn't meet Pamela's eyes. Instead, he turned to Harley, his gaze heavy, commanding, like steel clamps. A silent order: Your turn. Talk.
Harley, still beaming with relief, waved dismissively, as if swatting a pesky fly.
"Oh, Rosey, chill! They snatched me, shoved this bomb-spy thing in my neck, and sent me here to snoop on you big shots! Simple as mooing!"
Pamela paled, then flushed with anger.
"That's… not an explanation! That's pure nonsense!" she hissed. "Who? Why? How long? You've clarified nothing, just made it worse!"
Harley sighed heavily, a flicker of exhaustion and something like seriousness crossing her face.
"Alright, alright, sit tight, poison plushie. So… I fought with Puddin'… again. You know, the usual—he wanted to blow up a kindergarten, I said the kiddos were too cute. Didn't see eye to eye. Then these… guests nabbed me. Took me to some super-secret base in the mountains, freezing as hell! And I wasn't alone! There was our sweet Crocodile… chomp," she mimed a toothy jaw, "…Sharky Tururu…" she hummed an ad jingle, "…and that bald asshole who shot at you, Rose—Deadshot!" She snorted derisively. "After his genius 'blast her with a cannon' plan flopped, they sent me. Planted this spy-thing in my neck to watch, record, transmit. But I couldn't just betray my Rosey!" Harley made a theatrically touched face. "So I signaled! With my body! My eyes! You were supposed to notice! Lucky for us, Alex here ain't as clueless as our pretty Pammy—he got it and set up this super-show!" She struck a proud pose.
Pamela's frown deepened, lips a thin white line, but she stayed silent.
Alex, ignoring the "compliment" and the jab at Pamela, asked the critical question, his voice icy:
"Organization name. Who's in charge?"
"ARGUS!" Harley spat, like it was a curse. "And the boss is that fat, perpetually horny bitch, Amanda Waller! What a piece of work!" She punctuated it with a dramatic spit on the floor.
Harley stretched, grinning like a cat in the sun.
"Phew! That's it! Feels so good! Now I can finally get back to my Puddin'! Missed his… haha… unique sense of humor!" She took a step toward the exit, already picturing the reunion.
But Alex and Pamela didn't move. They exchanged a glance—brief, electric, unanimous. She wasn't going anywhere.
Harley didn't make a second step. From cracks in the concrete floor, thick, sturdy vines erupted, coiling around her ankles, wrists, and waist, locking her with strength no human could break. She yelped in surprise.
"Hey! What the…? Rosey, honey, if you wanna play 'captive,' we can talk scripts, but…" She trailed off, seeing their faces. No playfulness. No hint of passion. Cold, hard resolve. Her smile faded. "Uh-oh…" she whispered. "This… this ain't gonna be fun, is it?"
Kara, watching the vines bind Harley, flushed again. Her x-ray vision's earlier glimpse flashed back: tangled bodies, whip, thorns… She turned sharply.
"I… gotta go," she mumbled, avoiding their eyes. "Stuff. At the base. Or somewhere." Without waiting, she vanished with a supersonic pop.
Pamela silently approached the bound Harley. With a finger's twitch, she made the vines lift Harley like a marionette, carrying her down the corridor. Alex followed, his face a stone mask.
They entered a stark, sterile white room. At its center stood a single, dentist-like chair. The vines placed Harley in it, securing her arms to the armrests and legs to the base. Pamela moved to a large mirror—actually one-way glass—and slipped behind it, leaving Alex alone with the captive.
Alex pulled up a simple stool and sat facing Harley. He leaned forward, his eyes—usually veiled—now open, burning with cold, relentless fire.
"Harleen Quinzel," he began, his quiet, even voice louder than any shout in the room's silence. "You just called the Joker your 'Puddin'.' You planned to go back to him. To the man who drove you to the asylum, uses you as a tool, and ditches you at the first fight."
He paused, letting the words sink in. Fear in Harley's eyes turned to defiance, but he didn't let her speak.
"That… attachment… isn't love. It's a disease. Toxic, deadly addiction. And it ends. Now. Right here."
Harley strained against the vines, but they only tightened.