Green Gotham

As Floravita's black limousine carried the group back to Gotham's green heart, the atmosphere inside was a mix of moods. Alex was engrossed in his tablet, fingers dancing across the screen, crafting financial schemes of astronomical complexity. Liquidating even a fraction of the demanded sum without crashing markets or sparking shareholder panic required surgical precision—like defusing a bomb made of money. Kara, reclining on the plush seats, had slipped into another world—her tablet loading Life is Strange, promising hours of nostalgia and tough choices far simpler than those just discussed. Pamela gazed silently out the window at the glowing garden-streets drifting by, her mind already back on a new strain of tiger lily, its genomic sequences far more predictable than magical circles.

Meanwhile, in Zatanna's quarters—a chaotic blend of antique shop, observatory, and boudoir—the evening's main event was unfolding: the first lesson.

Zatanna, having traded her stage outfit for practical dark pants and a loose silk blouse, though still wearing an amethyst teardrop earring, paced before Harley. Her voice was lecturing but sparked with enthusiasm, undimmed by the absurdity of the situation or the stakes at hand.

"Magic is multifaceted, like reality itself," she began, gesturing to make several dusty tomes float, opening to precise pages. "Schools… disciplines… there are many. Polymorph—shapeshifting, not just your own form. Illusion—crafting what isn't or hiding what is. Elementalism—commanding fire, water, air, earth…" She paused, locking eyes with Harley. "But your spark… it's unique. Golden, wild. You're Chaos, Harley Quinn. Born of it, its embodiment. That means you can…" Zatanna raised a hand, and an ordinary wax candle on the table flared with steady yellow flame. "…not just wield an element, but amplify it, infuse it with your untamed power." The flame tripled in height, blazing white-hot, roaring like a miniature jet engine. "See? Stronger than the original. But…" She clenched her fist, and the flame collapsed into a tiny, unstable blue spark, jittering and hissing. "…far less stable. Control, Harley. It starts with that. Mental discipline."

She snuffed the candle with a snap.

"Your turn. Light it. Just light it. Then… try making the flame a bit brighter, stronger than normal. Don't worry if it doesn't work the first—"

Zatanna didn't finish. Harley snapped her fingers. The candle ignited. Another snap—the flame didn't just grow, it erupted into a miniature golden bonfire, bathing the room in searing light, shadows dancing wildly on the walls. Another snap—the flame turned toxic pink. One more—and it took a distinctly… phallic shape, swaying proudly atop the candle. The intense, focused heat melted the wax into a shapeless puddle in seconds.

"Oops!" Harley gasped theatrically. "Sorry, little candle!" She snuffed the flame with another snap, unfazed.

Zatanna stared at the melted wax, then at Harley. Her face was impassive, but her eyes held… respect? Or horror?

Harley sidled up close, her voice shifting from playful to low, sultry, almost a whisper. She ran a hand along her hip, accentuating her curves. "Sweet sorceress," she purred, locking eyes with Zatanna, "I think you've got the wrong idea about me. Sure," she spun playfully, showing off her figure, "I look like a hot sex bomb who probably can't solve anything trickier than two plus two." She leaned in, their noses nearly touching. "But I'm a qualified psychologist. I was trapped in someone else's madness for a long time. I learned to survive there. My focus, my control over my mind…" She stepped back, flashing her most innocent smile. "…ain't something to doubt. Cross my heart!"

Zatanna swallowed, stepping back and brushing an imaginary speck from her blouse. "I… see," she managed. "Good. Control… is there. Unorthodox, but there." She quickly moved to the table, grabbing a polished magical orb the size of an apple, swirling with misty vortices. "If your focus is… solid, let's try Illusions. The simplest school to start. This orb is your focus, your projector. Picture a vivid, powerful memory. Vivid. Focus on it and… try to project its feeling, its essence, into the orb. Not the image right away, just… the sensation."

Harley took the orb, her face turning serious, focused. She closed her eyes briefly, lips curving into a faint smile. The orb flickered.

The air between Harley and a slightly tense Zatanna shimmered. Blurry color patches sharpened into a vivid, detailed, three-dimensional scene—not just an image but a full illusion, complete with scents, warmth, and… heavy breathing.

The scene was raw. Harley lay on her back, wrists and ankles elegantly bound by Pamela's reinforced but gentle vines. Above her, between her spread legs, was Alex, his face focused, movements rhythmic and deep. And on Harley's face… sat Pamela Isley, her long red hair spilling over Harley's chest, her tongue working with predatory grace at a very specific spot. All three faces radiated intense, almost ecstatic focus. The illusion was so lifelike, you could almost feel the heat of their bodies, the humidity in the air. Then, as if on cue, all three hit their peak simultaneously. Alex froze with a low groan, Pamela arched her back, and Harley let out a high, breaking cry, her body bowing as a clear jet of liquid sprayed between her legs—a blatant display of a squirting climax. The scene froze at its peak for a second, then began to dissolve like smoke.

Silence gripped the room, broken only by the hum of magic in the walls and, perhaps, the pulse in Zatanna's temples.

Harley opened her eyes, beaming like a kid showing off her first drawing. She glanced at the orb, then at Zatanna. "So? Did I do it? Vivid? Strong? I got the feeling across? Oh, I remember that—it was awesome! Pam had this new pheromone stimulator, and Alex… mmm…" She smacked her lips dreamily.

Zatanna stood frozen, staring not at the fading illusion but through it. Her amethyst eyes were cold, analytical, like scanners. She wasn't studying the poses but the illusion's fabric: the clarity of lines, the stability of forms, the depth of sensory detail, the lingering emotional charge vibrating in the air.

"That," she said finally, "was impressive."