Fall of knight

A battered harmonica lay discarded in the gutter, dented and slick with rain. Alfred Pennyworth had given it to Bruce years ago, a misguided attempt at soothing childhood terrors. Bruce never played it. Tonight, its hollow reed gleamed under a flickering streetlamp near Crime Alley. Footsteps echoed sharply on wet asphalt—heavy, deliberate. Batman moved like shadow given form, his cape swallowing the dim light.

A girlish laugh cut through the damp air, sharp as shattered glass. Harley Quinn cartwheeled from a fire escape, landing inches before him. "B-man! Been practicin' my stealth!" Before Batman could react, she lunged. Not with a knife or gag—but lips. She crushed her mouth against his cowl, smearing sticky gloss. He shoved her back, disgusted. "Quinn." The word tasted bitter. She giggled, wiping smudged pink from her chin. "Sweet dreams, Bat-breath! You'll thank me later!" She vanished down a drainpipe.

Confusion prickled Batman's thoughts first. Why a kiss? Poison? He scanned for toxins—nothing. But his pulse felt… fluttery. Gotham's grime usually sharpened his focus; now, alley brickwork seemed distractingly beautiful. He dismissed it. Weakness. Yet, as he grappled toward the Narrows, a strange urge surfaced—to hum. Not Wagner, but something bouncy. Pop? He crushed the impulse beneath bootheels on a rooftop.

Hour two crawled by. Surveillance felt tedious instead of vital. His stomach growled—not for Alfred's tea, but for peanut butter slathered thick on marshmallow fluff. Harley's favorite. Worse: a sudden, fierce craving to rewatch neon-saturated cartoons flickered behind his eyelids. Batman scowled, clenching his fists. Degeneracy. But the urge clung, sticky-sweet.

Hour three arrived unannounced. His gait shifted subtly—a slight sway of the hips where rigid purpose once strode. Gloved fingers drummed a jaunty rhythm against his utility belt. Batman caught himself mid-tap, freezing. This… bounce. It felt foreign, infectious. Alarm bells rang distant, muffled beneath a rising tide of inexplicable amusement at a pigeon's clumsy waddle. He gritted his teeth. *Focus.* Yet, his posture softened, shoulders dropping their perpetual armor.

Hour four prickled beneath his skin. A faint ache bloomed in his jawline—bones whispering rearrangement. The cowl's interior grew damp, unnaturally warm against suddenly smoother cheeks. He touched his face; stubble felt finer, like velvet dusting. Below, his pectorals tingled oddly, flesh softening beneath the kevlar weave. Batman paused in a shadowed alcove, breathing shallow. His reflection in a broken window showed eyes widened—still Bruce’s steel-blue, but lashes inexplicably thicker, framing panic he couldn’t suppress.

By hour five, proportions declared war on his suit. Hips flared subtly, pressing against reinforced armor plating designed for angular male contours. The belt dug into a newly tapered waist. Below, a strange sensation tightened his thighs—muscles redistributing, becoming leaner yet denser. When he crouched behind a dumpster, the movement felt alien, hips tilting forward instinctively. A giggle escaped him—high-pitched, Harley’s signature trill—before he clamped a glove over his mouth. Terror coiled cold in his gut.

Hour six sculpted chaos beneath the cowl. His brow softened, jawline shrinking as cartilage whispered inward. Cheekbones lifted higher, sharper. Batman stumbled against damp brick, dizzy, as his center of gravity plummeted. The cape dragged heavier now. He glimpsed his hand—fingers slimmer, nails longer beneath the gauntlet. Worse: memories flickered. Wayne Enterprises stock reports blurred, replaced by vivid recollections of roller derby bruises and stolen diamond heists. *Harley’s memories.* They slotted in, seamless and sickeningly sweet. His tactical analysis fragmented into glittery non-sequiturs.

Hour seven ripped through him. Breasts swelled, straining the Kevlar weave into painful peaks. His shoulders narrowed, muscles receding like tide pools, leaving the bat-symbol sagging. Thin sweat beaded his upper lip—no longer Bruce’s sweat-salt scent, but synthetic vanilla frosting. Mental calculations dissolved into giggles. He tried to recite Gotham’s criminal code; only lyrics from *"Hit Me With Your Best Shot"* bubbled up. Panic flared, sharp and brief, before Harley’s dismissive flippancy drowned it. *"Ugh, Batsy, chillax!"* His own internal voice chirped back, high and unfamiliar.

Hour eight reshaped bone. Hips widened with audible creaks, forcing his stance into a wide-legged wobble. Waist cinched tighter than any grapple rope, making ribs ache with each breath. Curves pushed against seams everywhere—thighs rounding, calves slimming. Mentally, Batman vanished. Instead, a kaleidoscope of spray-paint tags and amusement park cotton candy cravings spun through her thoughts. She blinked, dizzy. Words thickened on her tongue: "Like, totally" and "Mistah J’s gonna *freak*!" echoed where stoic silence lived.

Hour nine screamed under fabric. Kevlar groaned, seams tearing across the chest as cleavage threatened to burst free. The codpiece hung absurdly loose now, sagging against suddenly empty space. Gauntlets slid from slender wrists, clattering onto wet asphalt. She shivered—not from cold, but frilly lingerie fantasies replacing tactical schematics. A manicured hand (since when?) tugged uselessly at the cowl pinching her temples. "Ugh, this thing’s crampin’ my style!"

Midnight struck hour ten with cruel finality. The cowl ripped away as frantic hands clawed at suffocating layers. Cool air hit flushed skin—soft, poreless, smelling faintly of bubblegum. She stumbled, tripping over oversized boots now flopping like clown shoes. A broken window reflected her: tousled blonde pigtails, Harley’s wide blue eyes blinking back beneath smudged mascara. Bruce Wayne’s jawline? Gone. Replaced by Harley’s heart-shaped smirk. "Whoa," she breathed, voice a melodic Brooklyn chirp. "Talk about a glow-up!"

A peal of familiar laughter erupted from the alley’s mouth. Harley Quinn sauntered in, swinging a hot-pink duffel bag. "Tada! Right on schedule, Blondie!" She tossed the bag. It landed with a clatter of sequins. "Meet your new threads, Vixen!" The name *Vixen* landed like a key turning in a lock. It felt *right*—sharp, playful, hers. The former Batman tilted her head, a grin spreading. "Vixen… Yeah! Snappy!"

Harley gestured impatiently. "Chop-chop, Vixy! Can’t parade ya lookin’ like a deflated bat-balloon!" Vixen clumsily shed the ruined Batsuit. Kevlar plates clattered like discarded armor. Cool, damp air kissed her bare skin—soft curves Harley’s lipstick had meticulously crafted. Harley whistled appreciatively. "Hubba-hubba! Mistah J’s gonna plotz!" She unzipped the duffel, pulling out crimson-and-black diamond-patterned hot pants, fishnets, and a cropped corset top dripping with chrome studs. "Less grumpy vigilante, more… *explosive* party favor!"

Vixen tugged on the fishnets, the rough weave strangely comforting against her unfamiliar thighs. *Vixen.* The name buzzed in her skull—a neon sign replacing the cold steel plaque reading *Bruce Wayne*. It felt like slipping into stolen roller skates: awkward yet thrillingly dangerous. "It fits… like glitter glue!" she chirped, wiggling into the hot pants. The corset cinched her waist tighter than any utility belt. Gone were thoughts of Gotham’s crime statistics; instead, a fizzy urge to backflip off a dumpster fizzed through her veins.

Harley clapped her hands. "Attagirl! Now ya look ready to wreck havoc!" She tossed Vixen a studded leather jacket—not quite Harley’s diamonds, but jagged lightning bolts stitched in silver thread. Vixen shrugged it on, the weight laughably light compared to the cape. A stray memory: *grappling hook trajectory calculations.* Poof! Gone, replaced by the chemical tang of hair bleach and the ache of a perfectly executed pratfall. She giggled, twisting a blonde pigtail around her finger. "Soooo, where’s the party?"

"Follow Mama Harley!" Quinn chirped, skipping toward a rusted sewer grate. She pried it open with a crowbar pulled from her jacket, revealing dripping darkness below. "Home sweet hidey-hole!" Vixen peered down without hesitation—where Bruce would’ve analyzed structural integrity, she saw glitter graffiti sprayed on the tunnel wall (*"J ♥ H + V!"*) and smelled stale popcorn mixed with ozone. Harley jumped in with a splash. "C’mon, slowpoke! Gotcha a welcome present!"

Inside the cramped hideout, strings of fairy lights fizzed overhead. Harley shoved a can into Vixen’s hands—*Bang! Glow Berry Blast*, icy cold and speckled with edible glitter. Beside it lay an open bag of *Chaos Crunch* chips: neon-orange dust coating sour gummy worms and pretzel dynamite sticks. "Fuel up, Sugarplum!" Harley grinned, crunching a worm. "We got mischief to make!"

Vixen popped the soda tab—*hssssst!*—and gulped greedily. The liquid tasted electric, like licking a battery dipped in cotton candy. She didn’t notice the faint chemical aftertaste beneath the synthetic raspberry—nor the slow-dissolving nanobots Harley had sprinkled in earlier. As she wiped glitter-flecked foam from her chin, a tiny shudder ran through her. Her giggles pitched slightly higher. "Whoa, this stuff’s zappy!" she slurred, kicking off Harley’s borrowed boots. Her toes—suddenly smaller, pinker—wriggled in fishnets.

Hour one crept in unnoticed. Vixen’s chatter grew sillier, her sentences choppier. Complex plans for spray-painting City Hall dissolved into doodling hearts on damp concrete with a stolen lipstick. When Harley tossed her a grenade-shaped glitter bomb ("Pull the pin, silly!"), Vixen fumbled it twice before managing, her coordination subtly juvenile. The studded leather jacket felt abruptly heavy, cumbersome on slimmer shoulders. Harley smirked, scribbling in a tiny notebook: *Regression: On Track.*

Hour two deepened the shift. Vixen’s fascination switched from Harley’s heist blueprints to peeling chipped polish off her nails—a vibrant green Harley had painted just that morning. Her giggles became shrieks of delight at a flickering fairy light strand, her movements looser, less precise. As Harley outlined robbing Gotham Gold Exchange, Vixen interrupted, wide-eyed: "Can we get ice cream *after*? The swirly kind?" Her voice lilted higher, losing the sharp Brooklyn edge, replaced by a breathy, childlike cadence. Her fishnets felt itchy now, the hot pants riding up uncomfortably over hips that felt subtly narrower.

Hour three slipped in like spilled syrup. Vixen struggled with complex words Harley tossed out—"ballistics," "semtex"—instead pointing excitedly at rats scampering in the sewer shadows, calling them "fuzzy-wuzzies." She tripped over her own feet twice, the studded jacket sleeves swallowing her hands. A sudden whine escaped her when Harley moved too fast. "MamaHarley slow!" she mumbled, instinctively clutching Harley’s arm for stability. The leather jacket’s lightning bolts seemed garish, confusing, where before they’d felt punk and cool.

By hour four, numbers blurred meaninglessly. Asked to count grenades, Vixin bounced them like rubber balls instead. "One... two... bunny!" she giggled, dropping three. Her frame had softened further, losing the dangerous curve of hour eight; shoulders rounded childishly, hips narrower beneath drooping hot pants. Vocabulary collapsed: sentences became simple repetitions—"MamaHarley fun! Chips yum!"—and her gaze fixated on Harley’s pink hair ribbon with infantile fascination. Mentally, mid-teens Harley’s memories dissolved into playground hopscotch rules.

Hour five stole coordination. Fishnets tangled her stubby toes as she stumbled trying to spin in circles. "Whoopsy-daisy!" she chirped, collapsing against Harley. The studded jacket slipped entirely off one shoulder, revealing skin paler, plumper, untouched by Gotham’s grime. Words regressed further: "Da big sparkly bangs?" she asked, pointing at grenades. Numbers vanished—she estimated explosives as "lotsa" or "teeny." Her belief solidified: Harley wasn't partner or idol, but Mommy—source of snacks, giggles, and lifted when puddles looked too deep.

Hour six melted complexity. Sentences fractured into single syllables and pointing. "Mommy!" she demanded, tugging Harley’s jacket hem. "Up!" Gone were worries about sticky fingers; she smeared fluorescent orange chip dust across her cheeks, beaming. Her Hot pants sagged drastically, cinched now with twine Harley hastily tied. Her hips had narrowed to a child’s straight lines, legs shorter beneath bunched fishnets. Mental age: unmistakably preschool. Amusement came purely from crinkling the empty *Bang! Glow Berry Blast* can while Harley muttered calculations overhead.

Hour seven dissolved words entirely. Babbling replaced speech—gurgles and giggles punctuated by delighted "Mmm!" as Harley spoon-fed lukewarm applesauce. Coordination vanished: she crawled clumsily on the damp concrete, oversized fishnets pooling at her ankles. Mentally, she existed only in sensory snapshots—the fuzzy warmth of Harley’s knee, the jarring taste of sour gummy worms popped into her mouth, the mesmerizing drip-drip-drip of condensation from a pipe overhead. Age regression solidified: a toddler, clinging instinctively to Harley’s leg whenever shadows shifted. Her leather jacket swallowed her completely, sleeves knotted behind her back.

Hour eight shrunk her world to Harley’s face. Everything else blurred into meaningless shapes. When Harley offered glitter-painted blocks ("Boom toys, kiddo!"), she gummed them enthusiastically instead of stacking. Her body softened further—baby fat rounding cheeks and limbs, stubby fingers abandoning chrome-studded toys to clutch Harley’s pink sequined sleeve. Complex thoughts evaporated. Only base needs remained: "Mmm!" meant hunger; a whimper meant tired. Gotham, heists, Mistah J—all forgotten. Her Hot pants became a makeshift diaper Harley padded with stolen silk scarves.

Hour nine deepened infancy. Crawling became a wobble-scoot, trailing fishnets like discarded skin. Sounds fascinated her—Harley humming a lullaby, dripping pipes echoing like heartbeat drums. When Harley held a reflective shard of broken mirror, Vixen blinked at the chubby-cheeked toddler staring back: wide emerald-green eyes unmistakably Ivy’s, framed by messy blonde wisps startlingly like Harley’s baby photos. She cooed, reaching for the reflection. Harley grinned triumphantly. "Gotcha Mommy Pam’s peepers, huh?"

Hour ten cemented biology. The final surge wasn’t pain—just warmth blooming deep inside her bones. Her tiny frame softened into baby-fat rolls Harley couldn’t resist pinching. Thoughts dissolved into pure instinct: rooting toward Harley’s sequined jacket for milk-smell comfort, fingers curling reflexively around Harley’s pinky. Genetics locked: Ivy’s fierce green gaze softened into infant wonder, Harley’s sharp grin melting into a gummy, trusting smile. Identity crystallized: **Daisy Quinn-Ivy**, born not of womb, but of stolen kisses and nanite-laced soda. Harley lifted her, cradling her against Poison Ivy’s favorite moss-green chemise tucked inside her jacket. "There’s my lil’ sprout," Harley murmured, pressing a kiss to Daisy’s forehead. Gotham’s Dark Knight was gone—replaced by squeals and the scent of ozone and wet earth.

Harley bypassed grimy sewers, opting for a gleaming subway car Daisy giggled at. Ivy’s greenhouse fortress loomed behind Gotham Botanical Gardens—a cathedral of chlorophyll where orchids bloomed like jewels. Harley kicked open the reinforced oak door. Ivy stood silhouetted against bioluminescent ferns, arms crossed. "Quinn. What fresh chaos—" She froze, eyes narrowing at the squirming bundle Harley thrust forward like a prize poodle. Daisy blinked, reaching pudgy hands toward Ivy’s vine-twined dreadlocks. "Harley," Ivy’s voice dropped dangerously low. "Explain. Now."

Harley bounced on her heels, tone breezy as poisoned pollen. "Surprise, Red! Meet our bambina—Daisy!" She plopped Daisy onto a velvety moss patch. The infant promptly crammed a fistful into her mouth. "Found a bio-savvy surrogate down in Metropolis—total genius genes spliced! Didn’t wanna bug ya ’til the lil’ sprout sprouted!" Ivy knelt, emerald gaze dissecting Daisy’s features—Harley’s button nose, Bruce’s stubborn chin softened into baby fat, and her own startlingly keen green eyes. Daisy cooed, smearing moss across Ivy’s cheek.

Ivy’s vines coiled tight around Harley’s ankle. "Surrogacy?" Her voice was glacier-cold. "With whose DNA?" Daisy chose that moment to yank a shimmering lock of Ivy’s hair, giggling as luminescent pollen drifted loose. Harley’s grin faltered just a hair. "Uh…ours, ’course! Swiped yer follicles and mine from that fight at S.T.A.R. Labs! Remember? When ya got mad ’bout me usin’ yer conditioner?"

Ivy’s gaze snapped to Daisy’s eyes—an exact, unnerving replica of her own jungle-green intensity, framed by Harley’s pale lashes. She traced the baby’s stubborn jawline, a ghost of Gotham aristocracy buried beneath baby fat. Suspicion thickened like swamp mist. "This child reeks of Wayne’s arrogance and… ozone?" Her vines tightened. "Quinn. What did you *do*?" Daisy whimpered, burying her face in Harley’s sequined jacket. Harley scooped her up protectively. "Jeez, Red! Can’t a gal surprise her bestie-slash-sorta-wifey with a kid?!" She bounced Daisy urgently. "See? She’s got yer smarts! Already diggin’ dirt!"

Months blurred into a chaotic symphony of rattles shaped like tiny mallet bombs and Ivy’s vines gently lowering Daisy from perilous crib climbs. Harley painted Gotham’s underworld pink with heists timed between naps, stuffing diaper bags alongside grenades. Daisy thrived—crawling across moss carpets that sensed her moods, cooing at carnivorous plants that instinctively retracted thorns. Ivy’s greenhouse became a sanctuary-slash-lab; she’d murmur botanical equations while testing pacifiers infused with calming chamomile pollen. Daisy’s first word wasn’t "Mama" but "Bloom!"—cackling as she made a Venus flytrap snap shut on Harley’s stolen donut.

The transformation lingered in unsettling ways. Daisy would sometimes stare at bats flitting through Gotham’s smoggy dusk with unnerving stillness—a flicker of Bruce’s predatory focus in her infant eyes. Once, during a thunderstorm, she’d pointed a chubby finger at flickering news footage of Commissioner Gordon and declared, "Bad man!" before dissolving into giggles. Ivy cataloged these moments meticulously; Harley scribbled them off as "Daddy-Bat’s ghost hiccups." Still, Ivy’s protective vines grew denser around the nursery, thorned defenses woven into lullabies.

Harley embraced motherhood like a demolition derby. Diaper changes became slapstick routines with exploding glitter powder (non-toxic, Ivy assured). Heists were rescheduled around feedings, Harley stuffing stolen diamonds into rattles instead of duffel bags. "Gotta fund our princess’s college!" she’d chirp, ignoring Ivy’s eye roll. Daisy thrived amidst the chaos, chewing on Ivy’s toxin-resistant rubber vines and belly-laughing when Harley bounced her on a whoopee cushion wired to Joker gas canisters (emptied, Harley swore). Ivy’s greenhouse smelled permanently of baby powder and ozone now.

Ivy’s labs were repurposed. Pacifiers now dripped with nutrient-rich nectar distilled from endangered orchids; cribs bloomed with bio-luminescent moss that responded to Daisy’s cries, glowing softer or brighter. Ivy murmured complex botanical genetic sequences while testing teething rings infused with mild paralytic agents—just enough to numb gums, no harm done. Harley’s chaos was tempered by Ivy’s precision: Daisy learned to stack blocks *and* identify poisonous fungi by scent before crawling.

Daisy’s laughter echoed through the greenhouse—pure Harley-esque glee punctuating Ivy’s quiet calculations. She’d shriek "Boom-boom!" shaking a rattle filled with Ivy’s dormant explosive spores (safely inert), then meticulously dissect its mechanics with chubby fingers, mimicking Ivy’s plant-dissection techniques. When Ivy gently redirected her from chewing a nightshade stem, Daisy’s solution was vintage Harley: she blew a raspberry at the plant, giggled, and crawled toward Harley’s discarded mallet instead. Harley beamed, scooping her up. "That’s my genius goofball!"

Years melted like ice cream in July sun. Daisy bloomed—a whirlwind of Harley’s chaos and Ivy’s fierce intellect, wrapped in Bruce’s stubborn resilience. At six, she reprogrammed Ivy’s sentient orchids to sing pop anthems *and* hacked Wayne Enterprises’ security grid for "a better view of city." Harley framed the firewall breach notice; Ivy secretly patched the exploit, pride warming her colder corners. Gotham’s shadows held no fear for Daisy—only puzzles to solve with a giggle and a glitter bomb. The Bat’s ghost lingered in her strategic brilliance, but the heart? Pure Quinn-Ivy: wild, green, and unbreakable.

One crisp autumn evening, beneath Gotham’s smog-streaked moon, Harley and Ivy led Daisy through Robinson Park. "Family outing, sprout!" Harley chirped, swinging Daisy’s hand. Ivy smiled, vines weaving a protective canopy overhead. They paused at a mossy clearing—Crime Alley’s distant wails softened by rustling leaves. Ivy knelt, pressing a seed into Daisy’s palm. "Roots matter, little bloom. Even tangled ones." Daisy nodded solemnly, planting it where asphalt met earth. The seed pulsed faintly, emerald light bleeding into the concrete. Forgiveness, not forgetting. Growth from grief. Daisy would instantly make the plant grow. Daisy would have her mother Ivy's plant ability and her toxicin is like Harley's creations. She would instantly grow trees in the alleyway. The alley would become beautiful and green and flowers would bloom instantly. The park would become beautiful again. She would have Ivy's smarts skills and Harley Quinn's creativity. She would become Gotham's protector and Harleys and Ivy's daughter. She would become a antihero.

Daisy clenched her fists, eyes blazing Ivy’s fierce green. The seed exploded—not in destruction, but in **life**. Vines erupted like emerald geysers, cracking concrete as they spiraled skyward. Midnight roses bloomed along rusted fire escapes; ivy smothered graffiti with living tapestries of jade. With Harley’s chaotic joy, Daisy danced—each twirl birthing butterflies from dandelion fluff. With Ivy’s precision, she wove roots through fractured sewer pipes, purging toxins into honeysuckle-scented mist. The alley breathed anew, a cathedral of chlorophyll where once shadows choked hope. Harley whooped, backflipping off a blossoming oak; Ivy’s laugh was rare sunlight through storm clouds.

The end