The gray car rattled down Gotham's streets, its patched-together frame growling like an old beast refusing to die. Inside, Pamela sat in the passenger seat, legs crossed, her gaze fixed on the blur of buildings outside. The air still carried the faint tension from their clash with Dean Hayes, but it had settled into a cold satisfaction.
Barbara flicked her eyes from the road to Pamela. "Alright, it's time. We're meeting Harley Quinn at that coffee shop I told you about. Shouldn't take more than ten minutes."
Pamela folded her arms across her chest, eyes narrowing. "You did make it clear this is strictly a coffee meeting, didn't you? Because this matters, Barbara. Coffee is sacred. If Harley turns out to be some tea-drinking pretender, I'm calling off any alliance immediately."
Barbara snorted, waving a hand like the thought was ridiculous. "Relax. I already checked. Harley's the real thing—genuine coffee addict. Wouldn't have arranged this otherwise."
Pamela's lips twitched upward in faint approval. "Good. Then if she proves herself—a fellow devotee of the divine bean—we might build something lasting."
Barbara shot her a sly glance. "You just mean you want her in your harem."
Pamela coughed, caught off guard. "I—what? Don't be absurd."
Barbara raised an eyebrow, amused. "We've already talked about this. You don't have to lie."
Pamela turned her head toward the window, cheeks tinged pink. "Fine. I might find her interesting. But only if she passes the test."
The car rolled into an older district, the streets lined with neon-lit diners and retro storefronts. Barbara pulled into the lot of a chrome-sided building with red-trimmed windows. A buzzing neon sign read: GRINDHOUSE CLASSICS – We Brew With Vengeance.
Pamela stepped out, her eyes roaming the metal exterior. "Charming. A café disguised as a relic of the fifties. Booths, coffee pots, waitresses on edge. I approve."
Barbara locked the car and stretched. "Gotham hides gems like this all over. The trick is knowing where to look."
They pushed open the glass door. A silver bell jingled above them, and the rich scent of roasted beans wrapped around them instantly. Red vinyl booths lined the walls, chrome counters gleamed under dim lights, and an old speaker crooned soft jazz in the corner.
Barbara scanned the room, then leaned toward Pamela. "There. The blonde in the corner booth."
Pamela's eyes followed and settled on a woman lounging with her boots on the seat across from her. Harley Quinn. The cropped tank top exposed her toned stomach, the multicolored jacket screamed her personality, and her presence radiated even without makeup or fanfare.
Pamela tilted her head, lips curling slightly. "I like what I see."
Barbara nudged her side with a sharp elbow. "Don't start hitting on her before coffee."
They crossed the diner and stopped at Harley's booth. Barbara folded her arms. "Hey, Harley. Been a while."
Harley's eyes lit up. She grinned, though it carried a flicker of sheepishness. "You're not still mad about that time I helped kidnap you, are ya? Joker's idea, swear to god. His goons did all the actual grabbing."
Barbara shrugged. "That part of my life's done. I'm not the one who gets kidnapped anymore. I'm the one in control now."
Harley leaned back, folding her arms as she sized her up. "Huh. That's new. I like this version of you. Sit down."
Pamela slid into the booth first, graceful as always, while Barbara sat beside her. Pamela extended her hand across the table. "Pamela Isley. Barbara's girlfriend. Recently discovered I can command plants—after being used in experiments by a Gotham University professor."
Harley's brows shot up. "Experimented on at Gotham U? Damn. That's, what, the fifth case this year? That school's cursed."
Pamela sighed. "I'm suing them. Planning to bleed them dry."
Harley chuckled, tapping the table with a fingertip. "Now that's Gotham spirit. Place nearly broke me once too. Can't believe they handed me a degree. Course, I went off and shacked up with a clown who thinks grenades count as jewelry."
A waitress shuffled up with a notepad. "What'll it be, ladies?"
In perfect unison, all three answered, "Your best black coffee."
The waitress blinked, pen hovering. They exchanged glances—Pamela, Barbara, Harley—mutual understanding passing between them like a silent handshake.
Harley leaned forward, grinning wide now. "You know, I think we're gonna get along just fine."
Barbara nudged Pamela lightly. "Told you she was legit. No cream. No sugar. No excuses."
Pamela met Harley's eyes and nodded slowly. "I see that now."
The waitress cleared her throat, unimpressed. "No sweeteners? No cream? For anyone?"
Again, together: "No."
The woman scribbled on her pad and muttered under her breath as she left, "What is it with people these days? Always coffee, nothing else."
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