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This is my sequel to The Dark Knight. I've basically started the story with Harley looking back on her relationship with the Joker. Oh, and this chapter is based in Australia, because I believe it would be better if the Joker was from Australia and went to American where he arrived in Gotham. This basically just is about how Harley becomes the Jokers partner in crime once more. Enjoy.

She was 21 when she met him. She was attending University, studying Psychiatry. He was in his final year, same as she. He was studying History. It was nothing at first. A few glances when he walked past. He noticed once and smiled at her. She blushed. Then, he asked her out for coffee. His hand brushed hers as he passed the cup to her. It was nice, they'd sat and talked. She told him she was into gymnastics as her spare time, she'd loved to read and she loved trips to the opera. Not that she could afford it at the moment. He'd told her he was into music, lots of classical with a few heavy metal bands such as Metallica mixed in. He liked psychology and wanted to study that, instead of history. When he didn't get the grade he didn't in math, he fell back onto history instead. It was nice; they felt at home in each others company. Her heart was pounding the whole time.

She asked him back to hers after that, and he browsed her extensive book collection, seemingly impressed. They kissed, and before she knew it, they were thrusting about on her bed. She didn't believe in "no sex before marriage". She felt that was old fashioned. They started dating after that. It was nice. They'd graduated, and soon after they moved in together. A small two bedroom house in a respectable neighbourhood. She enjoyed it. They had a lot of good times. She remembered how, once, he'd come home after a long day out, to find her lying on the table covered in whipped cream, a bowl of fresh strawberries lying next to her. His face when he saw her.

It wasn't all happy, nothing ever was. They'd had arguments, but they'd always make up, cuddling on the sofa watching the TV. She wasn't sure what he did for a living, but it brought in good money. He'd go away for a few days, and come back with a box of chocolates, or her favourite flowers, roses. He'd sweep her in his arms, kiss her softly and they'd have a romantic bedroom session. She found out what he did after a few months. He'd left a box under their bed. She looked in a saw it full of guns, and knives. Lots of them. And, strangely enough, some theatrical make up. When he came home she confronted him. They stood their distance, yelling at each other across the room. He was an assassin.

When she found out, she started dreading him going away on missions. She'd stand at the doorway, kiss him goodbye and then go upstairs and cry. She'd cry her heart out. That sick feeling in her stomach never went away the whole time her was gone. That feeling of not knowing if she'd ever see him again. It hurt. That was when she decided to go with him.

She'd stay at the hotel, lounging in the Jacuzzi, sipping champagne, while he went out to do whatever he had to do. She joined in on one, personal, mission once. They went in the house, him with his make-up on, her with a ninja style mask on, and together they shot the whole family dead. She had to admit, it feel good. Very good, and then before she knew it, they were thrusting away on the floor, rolling around in the spilt blood. She'd had several orgasms that night, and he came with that chilling laugh of his. Echoing of the walls. Oh, how she loved that laugh. She got a taste for killing after that, and not long after, she was an assassin also. The money was good, and she got to work besides her Puddin'.

They must have looked an ordinary couple to everyone else. Happy, maybe soon to start a family. He would have looked almost like a business man, if it wasn't for his scars. He'd never told her where he got them. She never asked. She didn't want to upset him, or put him into one of his little moods. He'd get violent them, and slap her. He'd call her awful names. She'd stand there, and take it. Never fighting back. Then while he went into the next room to let off steam, she'd let out a few tears. He'd always apologise afterwards, begging her to forgive him. Sometimes, when he was particularly bad, he'd cry.

Then, one day, they flew to America, for a weekend in Vegas. Her memory was hazy, but she'd remembered getting married in a casino on a spur-of-the-moment drunken haze. Waking up, next to him in the hotel room finding out they were now a married couple. Oh, those were the days. They came home, him carrying her in his arms. Instead of a huge party, they'd ordered pizza and watched a movie on the TV. He wasn't into big parties. She didn't think much of them either.

Then, it all changed. She'd fallen pregnant. He slapped her. Said it was her fault. When she looked back on it, it was her fault. She'd forgotten to take her pill. They decided together to have an abortion. He went with her that day. He looked smart, dressed all in black; black shirt, black tie, black waistcoat, black pants and black shoes. He'd even washed that dirty blonde hair for her. He often went days, sometimes week without showering, so to do this for her now, it meant something to her. She'd dressed in a 40's style black dress with cherries patterned over it, black footless leggings and red wedges. They looked respectable to everyone their. He'd held her hand whilst they waited.

They never spoke of it afterwards. She wanted to, God knows she did. Whenever she tried he'd scrunch up his face, put a hand to his forehead as if he had a headache. He'd tell her to shut up. He started going out at night, staying away for days. She started smoking. He despised smoking. He said it was for the weak. Then, one day, she went out shopping for some new shoes and he wasn't there. She looked everywhere. All his guns and knives were gone. So were his make up and a few clothes. That was the last time she ever saw him. Until now.

Here she was, Harleen Quinzel, driving down the motorway heading to Gotham city. It had taken her a while to track him down, but she did. And she wasn't happy. Without him, her mind started to rot; she began to get violent herself. She'd robbed several banks, shot several people. Always under the moniker Harley Quinn. She gritted her teeth and sped up. Her hands clutching hard at the steering wheel.

"Watch out Puddin'. I'm coming to get you." She said, and she'd looked into the car mirror. She looked at her face, powdered white. He eyes, one with red eye shadow, one with black. Her lips, one side colored with black lipstick, the other side red. She laughed hard. Oh yes, she was going to find her Puddin'.