Harley Quinn: Scheme Starter by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Harley-Quinn-Scheme-Starter-1112549235?file=1

Harley Quinn: Scheme Starter ANIMATION

The Geometry of Red and Black

The air inside the abandoned Orpheum Theater didn’t smell of dust or decay; it smelled of ozone and expensive violets, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a velvet gag. Harley Quinn adjusted the strap of her oversized mallet, her boots clicking rhythmically against the checkered marble of the foyer. She wasn’t here for a heist, nor was she here to leave a gag for the Bat. She had been invited by a scent and a shadow, a whisper that had crawled into her ear while she slept in her hideout beneath the pier.

“If you’re the one who sent the invite, I hope you’ve got snacks,” Harley called out, her voice echoing with a bright, jagged edge. “I’m a growing girl, and mystery meat always gives me the jitters. And if you’re a fan, I don’t do autographs after midnight. It ruins the mystique, ya know?”

From the upper balcony, a shape detached itself from the gloom. It didn’t fall so much as it drifted, a long, spindly silhouette that seemed to lack a skeletal structure. It landed silently on the marble, ten feet away from her. It was tall—impossibly so—wearing a suit that looked like it had been stitched together from funeral shrouds and spider silk. Its face was a smooth, featureless mask of porcelain, save for a single, vertical slit where a mouth should be.

“Harleen Quinzel,” the creature whispered, the sound vibrating not in the air, but directly inside her skull. “The Architect of Anarchy. The Queen of the Quip. I am the Silken Juror, and I have been retained to liquidate your essence.”

Harley tilted her head, a stray blonde lock falling over her masked eyes. She gave a little curtsy, her mismatched pigtails swaying. “Liquidate? That sounds so corporate. Are we doing a merger? Because I’m usually more of a hostile takeover kind of gal. And please, call me Harley. Harleen went to medical school and died of boredom years ago. She was a real drag at parties.”

The Silken Juror moved with a nauseating fluidity, its limbs elongating as it circled her. “You hide behind the paint and the puns. But I see the fracture lines in the diamond. You are a collection of traumas masquerading as a person. I have been tasked by those who find your chaos... inefficient. I am here to unravel the yarn of your existence until there is nothing left but a pile of string.”

“Oh, honey, I’ve been unraveled, re-knitted, and turned into a cozy sweater for a maniac,” Harley said, her grip tightening on the handle of her mallet. “You’re talking to a woman who treated the Joker like a project and ended up as the project. You think you’ve got something new? You’re just a tall drink of water in a bad suit.”

The creature lunged. It didn’t swing a fist; it cast a shadow that solidified into a thousand black needles. Harley spun, her movements a blur of gymnastic grace. She vaulted over a velvet-covered bench, the needles shattering the wood behind her into splinters. She swung the mallet in a wide arc, the heavy head whistling through the air, but the Juror simply thinned its body, allowing the weapon to pass through the space it had occupied a microsecond before.

“You’re fast!” Harley chirped, landing in a crouch. “But speed isn’t everything. It’s about the punchline. You’re all setup and no delivery.”

“The delivery is your cessation,” the Juror hissed. The theater lights suddenly flickered to life, but they weren't white. They were a deep, bruised purple. The walls began to bleed a viscous, golden syrup that smelled of honey and copper. “Look around you, Harley. This is the Museum of Maimed Memories. Do you recognize the exhibits?”

Harley looked. The theater boxes were no longer empty. They were filled with wax figures—replicas of herself at various stages of her life. There was Harleen the gymnast, Harleen the intern, and Harley in the chemical vat. But their faces were melting, their eyes weeping the same golden syrup.

“Psychological warfare? Really?” Harley scoffed, though her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. “That’s so 1990s. I’ve had my brain poked by experts. You’re just an amateur with a budget for special effects.”

“Am I?” The Juror appeared directly behind her, its cold breath smelling of ancient earth. “I am the embodiment of the regret you pretend you don’t feel. I am the silence that follows the laugh. I am the moment you realize you are truly, irrevocably alone.”

The creature reached out a long, tapering finger and touched the back of her neck. A jolt of pure, icy terror surged through Harley
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