Feeling like you're being watched is normal in Gotham right?
As P and Harley walked through the bustling streets of Gotham, P couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. The city’s noise and chaos seemed to amplify the sensation, making it hard to ignore. Every time he glanced over his shoulder or turned a corner, he half-expected to see someone lurking in the shadows, but there was never anyone there.
Harley led him to a small clothing shop tucked away in a narrow alley. "Alright, kiddo, let's get you some decent threads," she said, pushing the door open with a cheerful jingle of the bell. The shopkeeper, an older woman with kind eyes, looked up and smiled, but P felt as if her gaze lingered on him a moment too long.
"Hey, Harls! Who's your friend?" she asked, eyeing P with an almost imperceptible curiosity.
"This is P," Harley replied, giving P a reassuring pat on the back. "He's new in town and needs some help gettin' started."
The shopkeeper nodded and led them to a rack of clothes. P tried on a few outfits, feeling increasingly self-conscious under the shopkeeper’s scrutinizing gaze. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the shopkeeper was observing him more closely than usual, as if she was trying to read something hidden in his expression.
Harley paid for the clothes with the money Waylon had given her, and they left the shop, stepping back into the noisy street. Despite the din, P still felt an odd sense of unease, as though eyes were following them from every direction.
"Alright, next stop, food!" Harley declared, leading P to a nearby fast-food restaurant called Batburger. As they entered, P noticed a few heads turn their way, but when he looked, there was nothing unusual to see. The sensation of being watched persisted, making him feel like he was under some invisible scrutiny.
They sat in a booth, and P tried to focus on the food, but the feeling of being observed lingered. The smells, the sounds, and the constant movement of people all seemed to blend together, contributing to his sense of unease.
"So, P," Harley said, snapping him out of his thoughts. "What's your story? How'd you end up with Waylon?"
P hesitated, "I... don't really remember," he admitted. "I woke up in this green liquid, and Waylon found me. I don't know who I am or where I came from."
Harley's eyes softened with sympathy. "That sounds rough, kid. But don't worry, we'll figure it out. You're in good hands." Her tone was reassuring, yet P couldn’t shake the feeling that their conversation was being overheard, that someone might be listening in.
Harley reached across the table, her voice softening. “Hey, don’t sweat it, P. I know a kid named Jace who went through somethin' real similar. Thought he was all alone, didn't know who to trust. Y'know maybe you should meet him, I think it'd do you both some good.”
P managed a small smile. "Thanks, Harls. I appreciate it. It's just... it's hard, y'know? Not remembering things, feeling like there's this huge part of me that's missing. It's scary."
Harley nodded understandingly. "I get it, P. But you're not alone. There's a whole lot of people who've been in your shoes and come out stronger on the other side. Jace is proof of that. And you've got Waylon and I now, too."
P took a deep breath, feeling a bit more reassured. "Okay. Maybe meeting Jace wouldn't be such a bad idea after all."
Harley smiled warmly. "That's the spirit. We'll set it up."
The waitress brought their food, and they ate in comfortable silence. Even as he focused on the meal, P’s unease didn’t fully dissipate. The sense of being watched seemed to intensify, adding an undercurrent of tension to their otherwise peaceful moment.
After they finished eating, Harley led P to a nearby park. They found a quiet bench and sat down, watching the people pass by. P felt a fleeting sense of calm amidst the chaos, but the pervasive feeling of being observed continued to linger at the edges of his awareness. It was as though Gotham itself was keeping a close eye on him, and he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something—or someone—was waiting for the right moment to make its presence known.
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Signal, also known as Duke Thomas, zipped through the streets of Gotham on his sleek black motorcycle. The morning sun cast long shadows, and the city's relentless pulse thrummed in his ears. Oracle's message echoed in his mind, fueling his urgency.
As he weaved through traffic, Duke's mind raced. Oracle's intel about Harley Quinn and the mysterious boy who emerged from the sewers intrigued him. Harley's involvement was a wildcard; she had reformed somewhat, but her chaotic nature made her unpredictable. And this boy, P, emerging from the sewers suggested a connection to Gotham's darker underbelly, possibly even Killer Croc.
He arrived at the location Oracle had pinpointed, a small thrift shop nestled between towering buildings. Parking his bike discreetly, he quickly ascended to a nearby rooftop. From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the store and the people within. Harley and the boy were buying clothes.
"Oracle, this is Signal. I've got eyes on them," he whispered into his comms.
"Good. Keep your distance for now. I want to know more about this boy and why Harley is involved," Oracle replied.
Duke observed them from the rooftop. Harley was animated, gesturing wildly as she spoke, while P listened intently, occasionally nodding. The boy looked young, maybe fifteen, with a distinctive shock of white hair amidst dark brown locks. He seemed out of place, yet oddly comfortable with Harley.
As Duke continued to watch, something clicked in his mind. The white hair was a distinctive sign, one he had encountered before. It was a symptom of being exposed to the Lazarus Pit, an ancient restorative substance used by Ra's al Ghul. Those revived by the pit often showed signs of physical alteration, like white hair, and suffered from memory loss and occasional fits of violent rage.
"Oracle, I think I know what's going on with the kid," Duke whispered into his comms. "That shock of white hair—it's a symptom of Lazarus Pit exposure. The boy must have died and been brought back to life."
There was a brief silence on the other end before Oracle responded, her tone serious. "That explains a lot. Lazarus Pit resurrection can cause severe psychological effects, including memory loss and uncontrollable anger. We need to keep a close eye on him."
"Understood," Duke replied, watching P closely. The boy seemed calm now, but Duke knew how quickly that could change if the symptoms of the Lazarus Pit took hold.
Suddenly, they left the thrift shop. Duke activated his comms again. "Oracle, they're on the move."
"Stay with them, Signal. Keep me updated," Oracle's voice crackled in his ear.
Duke followed them from the rooftops, maintaining a safe distance. As they walked through the busy streets, he continued to observe. Harley led P to a small Batburger, and they sat at a booth inside. Duke found a vantage point across the street, keeping them in sight through the fast-food place's large windows.
He watched as they ate, his mind working through the possibilities. This boy, was a mystery. Emerging from the sewers suggested a connection to Killer Croc, but his amnesia added a layer of complexity. Harley's involvement was another piece of the puzzle.
Even from outside Batburger the boy’s discomfort was obvious. Duke watched, intrigued as Harley said something to the boy and leaned over in an attempt to comfort him. Harley’s genuine care for the boy was evident, and it made him wonder what had brought them together.
Signal followed the pair to a small park nestled between the buildings of Gotham, discreetly trailing from a distance. As they sat on the bench, he observed from the shadows, noting the boy's continued discomfort and Harley's attempts to comfort him. Duke's peaceful observation was suddenly shattered by a voice, harsh and menacing, emerging from the shadows. "Fuck off, Signal. You’re walking a fine line tailing a friend of mine—especially with the current stick up Batman's ass. I won’t hesitate to make you regret it if you don't back off."