#bcbycop

The writing on the tag was obscured from where she was, she couldn’t tell what was written on it. Seemingly, a friend, the way Jeremiah so casually opened it. But something about it, maybe its mysterious placement on his desk, or the way it was wrapped, she didn’t know what exactly, but something felt off. She didn’t dare blink.

The distorted laugh, the rusty clown doll head, the spray of purple gas, Harleen couldn’t decide what part of it made her jump back in (dare she admit) fear the most. She couldn’t decide whether to move closer to help, or to take off running.

“Hello, brother.” Of course it was. Of course he sent it.

Run off, or stay.

On one hand, if she took off, she could easily be tracked down, claimed a traitor, possibly killed or worse. It’s not like Jeremiah didn’t know about her other places.

On the other hand, she was in too deep ― she was already staying in the bunker, for fuck’s sake. She trusted him, in all actuality, and she...she at least felt that he trusted her in return. If she just up and left, in the middle of a breakdown like this...

No. No, she had to leave, she couldn’t let herself get hurt. Not like this, not because of some dead, staple-faced asshole.