The Batcave was silent except for the constant hum of the Batcomputer. Screens flickered with security footage from the bank, looping over and over again. Blood. Screams. Chaos.
Batman watched it all—jaw tight, mind racing.
And then there was her.
Harley Quinn.
She moved just like she always did. Wild. Unpredictable. Deadly. But there was something—something off.
Something he hadn't noticed in the heat of the moment.
"Master Wayne," Alfred's voice cut through the silence, "you're looking for an answer you already have."
Bruce's eyes narrowed.
"Explain."
Alfred, standing behind him with his usual poise, tilted his head toward the screen where Harley was mid-fight, dodging a punch with a fluidity that seemed… measured.
"She's holding back."
Bruce replayed the footage again.
Faster.
Slowed it down.
Watched the way she shifted her weight, protected her stomach, hesitated for just a second before taking a hit.
His frown deepened.
Alfred continued, "She fought you as if she had something to lose. And forgive me for saying so, but that is not a behavior I would associate with Miss Quinn."
Batman leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin as the footage looped again.
Harley Quinn had never fought like that.
She threw herself into danger without a second thought. Took hits, bled, laughed about it. But this? This was controlled.
Calculated.
Bruce exhaled sharply. "I don't know what it is, but she was different. I felt it."
Alfred folded his arms. "Then the question remains, sir—what would make her change?"
Bruce scowled. "I don't know."
They sat in silence for a moment, the footage flickering across their faces.
Then Alfred, ever the pragmatist, mused, "I suppose we could entertain the possibility of—"
Bruce cut him off immediately.
"It's obviously not pregnancy."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Obviously?"
Bruce scoffed, shaking his head. "The likelihood of either of them being able to procreate is very minimal."
Alfred's expression didn't change. "And yet you've calculated it."
Bruce didn't answer.
Instead, he leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the screen.
Whatever it was, he would figure it out.
Alfred remained silent for a moment, his sharp eyes studying Bruce with that familiar mix of curiosity and skepticism. He stepped forward, clasping his hands behind his back.
"And what, pray tell, makes you so certain that neither of them can procreate?"
Bruce barely glanced at him as he typed a command into the Batcomputer, pulling up old medical reports, chemical analyses, and forensic files. The screens were filled with lines of data, molecular breakdowns, and historical accounts of Ace Chemicals' infamous vat of acid.
"Because it's not just acid, Alfred," Bruce finally said, voice low, thoughtful. His eyes flickered over the reports, as if reaffirming his own logic. "It's a chemical cocktail—one designed to burn away what makes a person human."
Alfred frowned, stepping closer to read over Bruce's shoulder.
"Go on."
Bruce pulled up the most detailed file—Joker's origin. The infamous night at Ace Chemicals.
"The acid didn't just bleach his skin. It didn't just stain his hair green or turn his lips that unnatural red. It altered his entire physiology. His skin is cold to the touch because his body no longer processes heat the same way. His pain tolerance is unnaturally high. His nerve endings were either fried or rewired."
Alfred gave a small nod but still didn't look convinced.
"And Harley?"
Bruce's jaw tightened.
"The same. She may not have fallen into the same batch, but whatever he dumped her in—it remade her. Her skin, her hair, her eyes. It bleached her down to her DNA. Her body chemistry isn't what it was before. It's why she can take beatings that would leave most people in the hospital for months."
Bruce exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair.
"That acid takes more lives than it keeps. The human body isn't meant to survive that kind of chemical exposure. The fact that they're alive is already improbable. The idea that their reproductive systems remained intact?" He shook his head. "Slim to none."
Alfred arched a brow.
"And yet—" he gestured toward the screen, where Harley's fight played on repeat, where she protected her stomach, hesitated before taking certain hits. "You're telling me this is nothing?"
Bruce narrowed his eyes at the footage.
He wasn't saying it was nothing.
But pregnancy?
No. Impossible.
And yet… Why did a small part of him feel so uneasy?