Titans Next Door Ch. 2

As Cree entered the house, she noticed that the lights were out and she couldn’t see where she was going.

“Oh, this is just great,” she grunted in frustration, “Dad must’ve turned off the lights by accident again. Now where’s that switch?”

Cree’s father was once a clown by the name of “Chuckles” and was now a doctor at Memorial Hospital in Cleveland. He happened to be special at surgery, medical research, and other things. As for Mrs. Lincoln, she came from France. She never forgot to leave a thing in the house before going out to shop. But there was something she might have forgotten: locking the windows, not just the doors.

Cree found the light switch near the door and just there was something that caught her completely by surprise as the light bulbs started shining around the living room. Something… of which was not a good sign. Not a good sign at all. It was as if murder has taken place here while it was empty.

Red letters were spread across the walls of every level. They all spelled out “HA,” “HA,” “HA,” “HA,” and everywhere a “HAHA!” They were written just a few hours. Someone had done this mess. A crazy someone: psychopath, sicko, laughing hyena, whatever he or she could be.

Cree, appalled at the sight, smelled the letters to see if they were written in blood. To her relief it was just really paint. At first, she suspected that it was Abby and her friends playing a joke on her. But how could she? Abby was at school just as Cree was.

If it wasn’t Abby, Cree thought, and the rest of those brats were with her, then... who did this?

Then, she heard singing. That singing was coming from upstairs. It was in the form of Make ‘Em Laugh from that film, Singin’ in the Rain. On the radio, it seemed. And she quickly realized that it was in her own room. Somebody was in her room? But that was impossible. No one goes into her room without asking… ever. How that somebody got in and who it was, Cree was about to find out.

She rushed up the stairs and when she opened the door, no one was inside; only her own radio, broadcasting that classic tune.

Cree, who had just had enough of this sort of prank, angrily shouted out, “Okay, game’s over! If you’re still inside this house, come out and…”

“Hiya, Cree!”

Cree jumped at the sound of the voice and looked behind her. There, sitting in the shadow of her bed, stood a woman in what looked like a red and black jester costume. The face was well hidden in the blackness. In her hand lay a plate of homemade muffins. Not a burned edge on one of them.

“It’s about time you got here,” said the woman in her high pitched voice. “I made us some nice muffins! Want some?”

“Who are you?” asked Cree, in a suspicious tone, “And how did you get in here?”

“Well,” explained the woman, chewing on her muffin, “All the doors were locked tight, so I had to find any window that wasn’t shut and I found one: yours.”

Cree, despite trying to overcome the surprise that has shocked her, felt rather embarrassed. She took a quick look to see her window wide open, with the curtains showing little bit of sunlight.

“Just what’s with all the paint on the walls?” she snapped, getting past the humiliating topic of leaving windows unlocked.

“Don’t you like it?” asked the high pitched woman, feeling jolly. “My Puddin’ said it would help brighten your spirits up.”

To that comment, Cree began to lose patience and she slowly walked to the mysterious vandal.

 “Look,” she growled, “I don’t who you are, or who your ‘Puddin’’ is, but I do know that when I tell the cops what you’ve been doing, you’re gonna spend time in a nice, big, dark, smelly pri…”

Before she finished that word, a blast of wind had just blown the curtains up, allowing the sunlight to reveal the perpetrator’s face. The face was covered in white makeup, a black mask that covered the rims of her eye sockets, and a jester’s cap over the head. Lastly, a pair of fair light blue eyes showed what seemed to look innocent.

Cree drew back in horror, as she finally recognized who she was dealing with.

---

Harleen Quinzel, better known by her friends as “Harley,” was once a psychologist whose career turned around when spending a semester at Arkham Asylum in Gotham City. There, she met and fell in love a mental patient by the name of Jack Napier.

When studying the harsh childhood events her patient was dealing with, Harley found one current problem Jack was facing: a man dressed like a bat. One as Jack would put it “never takes a joke.”

Then, something had happened that would change Harley’s life forever. One day, Jack had escaped and attempted to make hostiles laugh at his antics, until the bat-like man crudely beat him up and brought him back to Arkham. That was not a site Harley could bear. It struck her emotionally in the heart and made little drops come down from the eyes to the cheeks.

This was the last straw for Miss Harleen Quinzel. She left later at night, stole a costume and pop-gun from a costume store, and busted Jack out of Arkham. It was then that she had taken a new name: Harley Quinn, a name taken from the word harlequin.

---

Right now, years onto the present, Harley was lying in a cozy bed with a plate of homemade muffins, her face now shown in front of a terrified Cree Lincoln.

“You?!” Cree gasped in her pretty much higher pitch. She had never been that scared before in her life. Never.

“Me?” replied Harley, mockingly. “Well, I’m glad you noticed by now, Cree!”

“W-w-wh-wha-what do you want?” stammered Cree, in her now more usual voice.

“Mistah J wants to have your little sister and her friends over at a party,” Harley responded, finishing her last muffin. “He won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, you know. Besides, we’re going to have lots of fun together!”

Cree, petrified, was at first hesitant to answer. This was no foe she had ever faced. Harley was a trained criminal; an expert on acrobats, martial arts, technology, and even psychology. Not mention that she was twice as old as Cree, making her much smarter. There was no way Cree could stand a chance against her.

Then a thought struck her… Why would Harley’s boss want to invite Abby over at his so-called “party?” What does he want with her? He might hurt her, torture to get what he wants to know, or worse… No. Cree could not allow that to happen. Even though she might not be strong enough to defeat Harley, she had to try and stop her from laying a finger on Abby. She had to.

Cree finally turned her fearful expression into a set of burst of rage, activated her Battle Ready Armor, and then charged at Harley, whom just took a leap from the bed to meet her opponent in the eye.

“I won’t let you harm her, creep!” shouted Cree.

“Sounds like somebody needs a little medicine!” Harley scoffed, her fists clenched.

This was the moment of truth. The battle had just begun.