Birds of Prey Episode 2 Belling the Cat - Chapter 5 Dr. Quinzel's Bad Day

Discussion in 'Birds of Prey' started by L'Espion, Jan 5, 2019.

  1. L'Espion Active Member Author

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    Birds of Prey
    Episode 2 Belling the Cat


    Story by L’Espion illustrated by the remarkable RenderPretender

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    Chapter 5 Dr. Quinzel’s Bad Day

    “Kitty? Kitty, where are you?”


    The pert blonde paused to twirl in front of the full length mirror next to the door. What was revealed was a very attractive young woman in her mid-twenties. Her shoulder-length honey-blonde hair was tweaked out from the sides of her head in a pair of pony-tails. Her shapely body was mostly hidden by the armful of packages she was carrying, but what could be made out was white blouse tied at the bottom to reveal a very attractive navel and a pair of hip-hugging low cut jeans. She smiled cheerfully at her image, completed another pirouette and bounced into the living area on a pair of high-heeled black boots. She tossed her bundle of brightly wrapped packages onto the living room table, performed a cartwheel across the leather sofa table and flounced into the main living area of the reconstituted warehouse she shared with her two roommates. “Kitty,” she shrilled again. “I’m home.”


    There was a sudden movement from the direction of the kitchen and a dozen sleek mewing bodies flowed into the room. The volume of their meowing immediately increased when they caught sight of her. Two or three of them in typically annoying feline fashion began to twine themselves around and between her ankles.


    “Gollikers!” she exclaimed. “You sure seem glad to see me. But I didn’t mean you; where’s Selina?”


    The only answer was an increase in the yowling along with a few other examples of unsavoury feline behavior.


    “Penguin, you stop that,” she scolded, referring to a large black and white cat who was aggressively shredding the leg of the coffee table. “And you too, Joker,” she added to a large grey with a milk-white face and green eyes who was trying to climb the leg of her tight fitting hip-huggers.


    She had named all the cats for various acquaintances; although most of the appellations she had given them would not have met with Selina’s approval, but Dr. Harleen Quinzel rarely bothered to consider what others might or might not like or dislike.


    “You’re hungry,” she said, finally deducing what the cats were trying to tell her. “That’s strange,” she mused, her lips pursing in an attractive pout. “Kitty is usually home at this time. I wonder where she’s gotten to.”


    In spite of a personality that was off the deep end of psychotic; Harley Quinn was intensely loyal to those she considered her friends, and the cat-woman was one of them. The fact that Selina had obviously not been home for at least a day and that she had made no arrangements to have her cats fed was very worrying or at least as worrying as Harley’s overly effervescent persona would allow it to be.


    She fed the cats before continuing her search, but a quick survey of the rest of the building’s rooms revealed nothing until she entered the one that Selina used as her study. Spread across the desk was the Gotham Examiner and at the top of the entertainment page was a banner proclaiming the arrival of an exhibition of Egyptian art featuring a notable cat statuette. “Oh no,” Harley thought. “Kitty would be drawn to that like a moth to a flame.”


    Of course, she couldn’t be absolutely sure that is where Selina had gone. The elite cat-burglar had her irons in a variety of fires and might have gotten mixed up with any of a dozen potential targets. Her eyes went to the computer next to the open newspaper. It was still turned on even though the power saver had sent it into sleep mode. Maybe….


    She clicked the mouse and the screen came to life. Displayed was a complete schematic of the converted warehouse now known as the Galerie des Art. “Well, that clinches that,” Harley mused. She studied the plans carefully. “Looks easy enough to get into. Selina probably went in through the roof. But I’ll fox them. I’ll go in through the basement. They’ll never expect that.”


    She jumped off the chair and headed to her bedroom. If she was going on a rescue mission it was best to go prepared. And she certainly wasn’t going to go dressed the way she was.


    Entering her room she crossed over to a large wardrobe. Opening the doors she surveyed the racks of clothing. For a second she fingered the red and black harlequin outfit that had long been her trademark. “No,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Too last millennium.”


    She checked over another one featuring a white blouse under a red and black bustier, a short white skirt held in black by a heavy leather belt, and a pair of fishnets most hidden by a pair of thigh-length boots. “Hmm, tempting. But too Black Canary and the white blouse and skirt are a bit too little girl.”


    She went through several more outfits, carefully inspecting each one until finally she came upon a combination that satisfied her. “Yeah, this’ll do. Understated elegance.”


    She quickly stripped off her clothing, replacing her top with a red and black vest that barely covered her upper torso and left her shoulders and arms bare. It was tightly laced up the front, but would afford anyone who saw her a good look at her rather impressive cleavage. “Take that, Wonder Woman. You ain’t the only one who can show off your assets.”


    The next item of wear was a pair of tight-fitting shorts, followed by a pair of boots, one red and one blue that came up to mid-thigh. Leaving just a few inches of inviting white skin. “So far so good,” Harley said, admiring herself in the mirror. “Oat cootchure. Now for a few finishing touches.”


    The finishing touches involved a considerable amount of white makeup, black eyeshadow, a white ruff for her neck, a cloak (“The bat-guy always wears one.”) and two bottles of hair dye that left the left side of her head coloured blueberry and the other side strawberry red.


    “Perfecto,” she said, blowing her image a kiss. “Now for a few accessories.” She opened the back of the wardrobe, revealing an array of weaponry that would have made a survivalist proud. “Let’s see. Don’t wanna carry too much. Just get in the way. I think I’l take this one, and this one, and this one.” She went on until she was a veritable walking arsenal. Around her waist she wore a heavy leather belt supporting two holsters and ammo clips for two CZ-P09’s, as well as a sheath for a twelve-inch Bowie. Slung across her back was an HK G36 assault rifle and most implausibly an RPG-7 grenade launcher. She also draped herself in a couple of belts of 30-06 belts of machine gun ammo, not because they had any practical application, but simply because she liked the look. Finally, she was left with just one more item. “Hmm, the sledge or the bat?” She hefted each instrument, lifting the twenty-pound sledge in one hand. “Might be a bit of overkill. The bat it is.” She stuck it into the small pack she had already slung over her back. That, along with a half dozen grenades and a few miscellaneous items completed her preparations.


    Amazingly, she carried all of the gear without effort, thanks to her gymnast’s physique and a chemical concoction given to her by her friend Poison Ivy that enhanced her strength beyond what might be expected of an attractive five-foot-seven inch, one-hundred-and-twenty-five-pound female. “Time to get cooking,” she announced, oblivious to the fact that her lengthy preparation had taken two hours. Harley was hardly the one to save a life if the one in trouble was sinking in quicksand, but now she was ready and she headed down to the garage and her Kawasaki Ninja.


    To Harley’s surprise it was early evening, although it had been late afternoon when she had entered the converted warehouse. “Musta taken more time than I thought,” she said as she geared the bike up and roared into the twilight.


    Half an hour later she was slinking along a slimy ledge inches above one of Gotham’s more ancient sewers. “Phew,” she muttered. “You’d think that every now and then they’d clean these places out.”


    She’d navigated Gotham’s maze of sewers and underground service corridors before, but this one seemed much older and darker than she remembered. And then there was the fact that she’d forgotten to bring a flashlight, an oversight that limited her to those passages that had artificial light. Unfortunately, that happy circumstance lasted only a short time. Just a short way into the first tunnel the dim electric lights that had shown her the way so far ceased to exist. However, Harley was not entirely without resources.


    “Lemme see,” she muttered as she searched through the jumble of items she had stuffed into her pack. “Should be in here somewhere. Comb – nope; lipstick – nope; breath mints – nope; vibrator – Why did I bring that? – nope. Ah, here they are.” At the bottom of the pack she found two flares – just two, but she would just have to see how long they lasted. She scraped the first one against the wall and squinted in the sudden glare.


    The schematic of the waterfront underground she had printed from Selina’s computer indicated that she should go to the right, however, the tunnel leading in that direction was little more than a four-foot diameter pipe dripping with some foul substance she was not about to step into. “I ain’t goin’ that way, that’s disgusting. Who builds these things anyway?”


    She checked the plans again and determined that the tunnel she was in led to a large junction where several pipes and tunnels merged. Deciding that looked a lot more promising, she headed off in that direction instead. Several minutes later she came to what she was looking for.


    It was a large underground chamber joining several large tunnels, one of which ran in the direction she wanted. “This is better,” she exulted. “Hang on, Kitty, I’m coming.”


    The passage ran slightly uphill and got progressively drier as she moved along it. However, watermarks along the side showed that at times it was filled with water higher than her head. “Definitely not a place to wait around in,” she thought. But she was almost where she wanted to be. Just a few more steps and she would be right below the Galerie des Art. It was then that she found herself confronted by a massive metal grill.


    Thick bars spaced six inches apart barred her way and so far as she could determine they were set right into the stonework. Closer examination revealed that the obstruction was fairly new; probably no more than a year old. The fact that it was not on the schematic she held indicated that it was probably also illegal. It looked as if the only way to get where she wanted to was to double back and hope that the fetid drain she had ignored was not similarly blocked.


    “I’ll bet it is,” she said aloud. “What I want is on the other side and I’m going through here.” She backed off a few yards and unslung the grenade launcher. “This should be far enough back.” The launcher was already loaded so she aimed it toward the heavy bars, snapped off the safety and pulled the trigger.


    There was a “whoosh” as the rocket sped away. At such close range it took only a fraction of a second to reach its target and there was a sudden and ear-splitting explosion accompanied by a massive concussion wave. What she had not calculated was the fact that in the confined space of the tunnel there were only two directions for the explosion to travel; further up the tunnel and back toward her. The blast picked her up and tossed her down the tunnel. Fortunately, the RPG did what it was designed to do; namely direct most of the blast in the direction the rocket was travelling. If it hadn’t she might have been killed. As it was she was deafened, half blinded, and considerably battered and bruised.


    For a full minute she simply lay where she had been flung; too dazed to do anything else, but gradually her awareness of where she was returned and she got groggily to her feet. “Jeez-Leweez, musta miscalculated,” she gasped. Her ears were ringing like a church bell and her vision was somewhat blurred. The flare she had ignited still burned from the crack in the tunnel wall where she had jammed it before she took her shot, and by its light she could see that the explosion had affected her in other ways as well.


    First was the fact that much of her outfit was in complete disarray. In fact the laces of her sexy bustier had snapped leaving just a couple holding the minimalist garment in place. Her cloak was also gone, and her shorts had split open along the seams. However, she still had her arsenal and further inspection revealed that although she sported numerous cuts and bruises she was otherwise unharmed. “Thanks again, Ivy,” she said. The exotic compound that Ivy had given her had almost certainly prevented her from suffering even more serious injuries, but a look in her powder case mirror revealed that most of her makeup was ruined; apparently vaporized in the flash of heat from the grenade.


    Her vision had returned, but she still couldn’t hear anything. Maybe with luck that would come back eventually. In any case the RPG had done its job. The heavy bars had been blown apart and ignoring her pounding headache and the various other aches she moved through the opening. By now the first flare had burned too low to be of any use and she lit the other one. It revealed that she was in a large brick-lined circular chamber. She no longer had her map; that had gone the way of her makeup, but according to her memory she should now be right below the Galerie. Now she just had to find a way up into it.


    Holding the flare over her head she walked the length of the tunnel. To her frustration there was no sign of an opening in the ceiling and the end of the tunnel was blocked by a concrete block wall. “Hmm, new work,” she said, studying the wall. “So what I want must be on the other side. This looks like another job for Mistah RPG.”


    This time she adopted a safer distance, before triggering the weapon. “Rockets away,” she shouted and let fly. There was a loud “bang” and a cloud of dust as the wall disintegrated. Tossing aside the now useless launcher she rushed toward the opening and found herself in an ancient brick-lined room. Ancient cast iron pipes ran overhead and to her right was a rusting metal staircase. She ran up it and encountered a locked iron door at the top. Guessing that the element of surprise was probably lost she didn’t bother trying to pick the lock. Instead she laid into the door with a burst of fire from the assault rifle. To her further annoyance the bullets simply bounced off the heavy metal, the spent slugs actually doing more damage to her than to the door.


    “Whoops,” she exclaimed. “I’m gonna need a bigger gun!” The problem was she didn’t have one, and she had brought only two rockets for the RPG. However, she did have something almost as good. Using the roll of surgical tape she carried in her pack she strapped one of her grenades to the lock, pulled the pin and vaulted to the bottom of the stairs.


    There was a “Crump!” as the grenade went off and she charged back up the stairs to find the door open and a jagged hole where the lock had been. She found herself in another basement level, this one just as old as the first, however, the boxes of goods stored along both walls indicated that it was still in use. This level had no stairs, but there was a freight elevator at the far end and she headed toward it. Before she had gone halfway the elevator doors opened and a number of heavily armed men rushed from it.


    “Come and get it!” she yelled and opened up with her assault rifle without waiting to see what their intentions might be. Men with guns was always a bad sign and she filled the air with lead.


    She got several of them before they even realized they were being fired upon, but the others recovered and returned fire. Within seconds the large room became a beehive of flying bullets. Firing as she moved, Harley vaulted atop a stack of large crates and blazed away. Despite the fact that at least six men were firing at her she proved remarkably difficult to hit. She dodged this way and that, seeming to anticipate each shot while at the same time returning fire with deadly accuracy. Suddenly there were only five men facing her, and then four, and then three. And then the elevator doors opened again disgorging another dozen or so men into the room.


    By this time Harley had fired off two full clips, leaving her with just two remaining. She slammed another one home and abandoned her exposed position, dropping into the open space between the packing cases and blazing away toward the elevator, dropping another couple of adversaries and forcing the rest to run for cover. She fired until it was empty, loaded the last one and emptied it at well. Then she pulled out her twin CZUBs and fired as fast as she could pull the triggers.


    “Rambo!” she screamed, emptying both pistols and then reloading. It didn’t occur to her to retreat. Running away from hopeless situations was simply not in her nature and she continued to fire until both guns were useless. It was then that the remaining attackers emerged from their hiding places and moved toward her.


    “No shooting her! I vant zis bitch alive! I kill anyvone who shoots her!”


    From the elevator emerged a tall woman with short pink-tinted blonde hair. Although she was carrying two machine pistols she wore a tight-fitting black dress that showed off her excellent figure.


    “Where the hell did Elizabeth Báthory come from?” Harley asked. She was down to her Louisville slugger, but had no intention of surrendering.


    “Get the crazy bitch,” one of the men yelled, and they surged toward her.


    “Batter up!” Harley yelled. Swinging the bat she took out the first two of her attackers; dodged under an attempt by another thug to overwhelm her using his body weight; and jumped high to avoid another who tried to take her legs out from under her. Two more went down before her bat and then they came at her all at once.


    There were at least a dozen of them and their sheer numbers should have snowed her under, but somehow she managed to break through the gauntlet and describe a somersault that landed her on top of a large packing case. “Take that, and that, and that, and that,” she hollered, as she continued to lay about her with wild abandon.


    “And take zis, darlink,” Suddenly the pink-haired Amazon was next to her. She had discarded her machine pistols in favour of a police truncheon and she drove it into Harley’s stomach. The surprise blow drove the air from her lungs, doubling her over and then the truncheon came down on the back of her neck. For a second Harley thought her neck might be broken, but it wasn’t, however, she was unable to avoid the rain of blows that followed, all of them delivered by the pink-haired woman.


    “Zat should hold her,” the woman proclaimed. “Tie her up, and make sure she is tightly bound.”


    The remaining thugs leaped to do her bidding. In short order a length of pipe was shoved behind Harley’s back and her arms were bent around it. Then she was tightly bound at the wrists and elbows, and other ropes were added above her elbows and around her chest. During the battle what remained of Harley’s bustier had been torn off, leaving her naked to the waist, and ropes were tightened below, above, and between her breasts. When they were finished she was completely helpless.


    “Good,” the woman commented. “Bring her. Ve goink to haf a little fun vith her.”


    The beating administered by Pink Hair had left Harley so bruised and battered that she had offered little resistance as she was bound, but as she was dragged to her feet she managed to recover enough to use her voice. “Lemme me loose, ya pink cow. Lemme me loose or I’m gonna kick that big ass of yours.”


    “Geez,” one of the thugs holding her remarked. “She’s still conscious. That beating should have killed her.”


    “The NSA will hear about this,” Harley shouted as they pushed and pulled into the elevator. She was remarkably strong, again courtesy of Poison Ivy’s potion, and her powers of recovery were remarkable. Had she not been so tightly bound she would certainly have continued the struggle. But she was not superheroine strong nor did she quite have the healing powers superheroines possessed. Ignoring her protests her captors dragged her from the elevator, down a corridor, and into a well-appointed washroom.


    “First ve get you clean,” Pink Hair proclaimed. “Get rid of zose filthy rags.”


    The last command was addressed to a couple of female attendants who quickly pulled off Harley’s boots, and what was left of her shorts. Although her thong hid practically nothing they removed that too.


    “What is this?” Harley asked. “An audition for Miss Nude World? Ya picked the wrong girl.”


    “Ve vill see,” Pink Hair replied. “First ve get rid of zat ugly white paint.”


    It had taken Harley some time to cover her body with the white pancake makeup she typically wore on her adventures and she was not happy about having it removed. “What’s the matter?” she demanded. “Ya got something against clowns?”


    “Gag her,” Pink Hair finally commanded, obviously tired of the constant stream of protests and invective issuing from Harley’s mouth.


    “No ya don’t,” Harley objected “Ya can’t…. Mmmphh! Mmpph!”


    “You bad heroine,” Pink Hair pronounced. “Use guns, killink many men. You vill pay for zat, but first ve get you clean. Into the shower vith her.”


    The two women dragged the struggling Harley into a glass cubicle and turned on the water. It was a high tech shower with multiple jets and the almost scalding hot water hit her from all sides. Harley squirmed and twisted in an effort to escape, but the two women who had shoved her into the shower simply closed the door and held it shut while the water played over her. Her body was soon washed clean and quickly turned lobster red under the continuous spray. Frantically she heaved herself against the door but succeed only in further exhausting herself. Drained of energy she sank to the bottom of the shower and let the water play over her. She stayed that way until Pink Hair was satisfied.


    “Zat should do it,” the tall woman said as she opened the door and let the steam out. “Now ve cool you off.” She made a quick adjustment to the temperature and closed the door again.


    This time Harley was subjected to several minutes of intensely cold water, an ordeal that left her almost hypothermic. Shivering uncontrollably she was hauled out of the shower and offered little resistance as her hair was combed out and then returned to its twin pony tail styling. Apparently not everything about her was about to be changed. But the white full-body makeup she had worn was gone. Beneath it she was revealed as a normal attractive blonde, right down to the neatly trimmed landing strip above her vulva. Her signature skin colour was very much a part of her personality, so much so that she had actually gone full Michael Jackson a few years ago and had her skin permanently bleached. Disappointingly, the albino colour job had not taken, apparently due once again to the organic concoction Ivy had given her and she had resorted to using theatrical makeup. Losing her Harlequin colour both enraged and demoralized her and it was a somewhat subdued Harley who was marched before Rozanov.


    He was waiting for her in a room that was filled with a variety of machines that were clearly intended to make life agonizing for anyone strapped into them. She mentally laughed at those. Her life with the Joker had prepared her for much worse than what any machine could do to her.


    “Well done, Olga,” Rozanov said, letting Harley know what Pink Hair’s name was. He was sitting on the edge of a large table equipped with restraints and was flanked by several bodyguards. “Remove the bitch’s gag. She’s got a lot of explaining to do.”


    “Ya got yer nerve, doin’ this to me,” Harley spat, as soon as her mouth was free. “Lemme go or you’ll regret ya ever heard of me.”


    Not unexpectedly, Harley’s threat had little effect. She had recovered considerably from the beating she had received, a characteristic typical of her ability to heal quickly, but she was still completely helpless and her outburst was not well received.


    “You little pizda,” Rozanov said angrily. “You killed seven of my men and injured several others,” he said angrily. “Why are you here?”


    “That's fer me to know and you to find out, zhopa,” Harley returned.


    Insulting the Russian crime boss turned out to be a misjudgement on her part. He stepped into her and delivered a punch to her midsection. She should have been expecting it, but she wasn’t and it knocked the breath out of her. Doubled up, and gasping for air she could do nothing as Rozanov grabbed both her pony tails and forced her to look up at him. “Here I issue the threats and ask the questions. But before I go any farther perhaps you need a lesson in manners.” He stepped back and began to unbuckle his belt.


    “No ya don’t,” Harley objected, as she struggled to break free. “My coochie’s reserved for Mistah J.”


    Rozanov wasn’t listening. What he saw in front of him was a very attractive blonde, with an impish hairstyle that made her appear almost childlike. However, there was nothing childlike about her athletic body, or her hard flat stomach, high firm breasts, long legs, and perfectly rounded buttocks. Deprived of her clown makeup Harley was quite beautiful with full, pouting lips and almost mesmerizing blue eyes. He hardened even as he unzipped his fly.


    “Every part of you now belongs to me, and I’ll start with that tight little twat of yours. Hold her down.”


    Struggling furiously, and maintaining a constant stream of venom, Harley was dragged over to the table Rozanov had been sitting on. “No ya don’t,” she screamed as she was held down by one man and two others pulled her legs apart.


    “Yes I do,” Rozanov replied as he moved between her thighs.


    “I’ll get ya fer th…. Ahh!” Harley’s threat ended in a sharp cry as Rozanov plunged into her. She was no virgin, but it had been quite a while since she’d given her vagina a proper workout and Rozanov was quite well endowed. For the first few inches he had to work hard to force his was into her and Harley squealed in pain and rage.


    “Ya got no right to do this,” she gasped and then whimpered as he thrust deep inside her. “Oh lord that’s too… Uhhn! Uhhn! Uhhn!”


    Rozanov plowed her furrow deeply, driving repeatedly into her until he had fully penetrated her; then he went to work on her, nipping at her nipples and giving her painful bites on her breasts, neck and shoulders. There was no sort of smart remark that could answer to such brutality and she whimpered in pain as he fully enjoyed her. When he finally climaxed she groaned as pulled out of her.


    Rozanov gestured to his men. “Do what you want with her, just save her ass for me and don’t give her any permanent injuries.”


    Rozanov’s thugs didn’t need a second invitation. There were six of them in the room and they gave her a working over she never forgot. A large clock on the wall indicated that Rozanov’s men used her for the next six hours, taking her one after the other and then starting over again. At one time they had her draped across the table with one man between her legs and another forcing his cock into her mouth. When she tried to bite him she received several hard slaps across her face, but they didn’t try it again until one of the men strapped an open-mouth gag to her head and then there was nothing to stop them from repeatedly violating her mouth and throat. It was as unpleasant an ordeal as she had ever experienced, except perhaps the time the Joker had hung her over a brazier of flaming coals and laid into her with a whip, but it came close. By the time they were finished she was completely beaten, her exquisite body covered with the marks of her ordeal, and so exhausted she could barely stand.


    “Good,” Olga commented. She had departed with Rozanov, but had now returned. “Perhaps she learn some manners. Now take her to donjon.”


    Gritting her teeth with pain, Harley was marched from the room. So far things had not gone quite as planned. But she was certain Rozanov was not through with her. However, she was not one to accept defeat. “I’ll get ya fer this,” she thought. “You’ll wish you’d never laid eyes on Harley Quinn.”