DC: A Cop in Gotham

Chapter 61: AAA (An Animal Activist)

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After the ribbon-cutting ceremony, Dean stood on the stage long enough to take a few photos with Bruce, Aquaman, Penguin, and Wonder Woman before quickly making his escape.

Below the stage, in the VIP seating area, piercing gazes locked onto him as he descended. These were the heirs of the Court of Owls, their faces filled with a burning, silent hatred. Dean had no doubt that if he stayed any longer, they would tear him apart on the spot.

It wasn't because they loved their imprisoned parents—they didn't. It was because they hated anyone who threatened their control over Gotham, and right now, that person wasn't Batman but him. Batman was an untouchable symbol of fear in their world, but Dean? He was soft, breakable, and much easier to target—or at least, they believed so.

Wonder Woman watched Dean's hurried retreat but made no attempt to stop him. She had her own unfinished business at the event. The golden Lasso of Truth—an artifact that could compel honesty—had been handed over for the final stage of the ceremony.

Yes, the real reason Bruce had invited Wonder Woman was for the Lasso of Truth.

After the ribbon-cutting, the event had one final segment: the "Truth Oath." This required representatives from both Atlantis and Gotham to take an honest, binding pledge while holding the lasso, vowing to uphold mutual interests and refrain from any secret aggression.

Dean smirked as he left. "No wonder the U.S. President didn't show up."

In a way, the Penguin had saved Gotham's current mayor by taking his place in this oath. However, what surprised Dean the most was that Penguin had actually withstood the lasso's test. That was rare.

Before leaving, Wonder Woman handed Dean a pair of glasses—the same ones Superman had once given her.

"It seems you need them more than I do."

The glasses weren't just an accessory; they had the same cognitive interference technology that Superman used. Once worn, even someone standing face-to-face with Dean wouldn't recognize him. It also disrupted facial recognition technology, making him invisible in plain sight.

With his disguise in place, Dean walked straight through the front entrance, leaving unnoticed. At the reception, he spotted Gordon drinking heavily, clearly celebrating—or coping. Dean chuckled, knowing that Barbara was going to be furious tonight.

For everyone except the Court of Owls, today had been a good day.

Later, the Daily Planet's front-page headline featured the photo Clark Kent had taken. In it, Dean was standing alongside Bruce, Aquaman, and Penguin.

And just like that, Gotham's youngest detective had suddenly caught the attention of Metropolis.

Dean's name had spread to the big city next door, but that didn't change his daily routine of clocking in, slacking off, and avoiding paperwork.

To compensate for the unfinished case reports he had neglected earlier, Dean visited the Criminal Investigation Division and requested recent case files from Officer Sleif. His real goal, however, was to track down another talisman.

The Pig Talisman had ended up in the Court of Owls' hands, but how? Even Batman, a master interrogator, hadn't been able to extract any useful information from the captured Talon. So Dean had given up on that lead entirely.

Instead, he decided on a different approach—searching for other talismans through crime patterns.

The problem was, Dean couldn't openly search for the talismans. If the Court of Owls caught wind of it, they would do everything possible to sabotage him, even if just to spite him.

"A body cut in half was found on the outskirts of the city… A two-faced man robbed a bank in Silicon Valley…" Dean skimmed through page after page of case files.

Every day, multiple crimes were committed in Gotham. Yet, the city's police force had only a 50% clearance rate. Most solved cases involved crimes of passion or gang-related disputes, while the more complex cases were simply left for Batman.

Gotham had neither the manpower nor resources to launch task forces for individual cases.

Even after an hour of searching, Dean had found nothing useful.

In Jackie Chan's Adventures, Jackie and his team had found the twelve talismans quickly because they had two major advantages—

1. Uncle's knowledge of magic guided them.

2. Their world had fewer supernatural abnormalities, making the talismans' energy signatures stand out.

Gotham, however, was overrun with supernatural events, meta-humans, and criminal chaos. There were too many magical disruptions for Dean to track the talismans through simple crime data alone.

Maybe… he was using the wrong method.

Dean sighed, tossed aside a stack of gruesome crime scene photos, and turned on the TV.

[Gotham TV NEWS]

"Recently, a series of break-ins have targeted multiple animal rescue centers in Gotham's suburbs. According to surveillance footage, the intruders stole nothing of value but freed every animal inside before leaving the scene. While many speculate this is the work of an extreme animal rights group, no known organizations have claimed responsibility."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"This news anchor has a sense of humor… He makes animal rights activists sound like terrorists."

But then, his smile faded.

If you stripped away the moral argument, weren't all activists technically just "criminals for a cause"?

And weren't Batman and Dean himself guilty of the same thing?

Dean glanced at the mission title in his system:

"Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them"

His instincts told him that this wasn't just a random crime spree—it was connected to the talismans.

Decision made, Dean grabbed his coat.

Now, with his Superman-grade cognitive interference glasses, he could finally conduct fieldwork without needing to sneak around.

As he walked out of the police station, he noticed several people watching him—but none of them recognized him.

Dean grinned.

Kryptonian technology, baby.

---

An hour later, Dean arrived at the neighborhood where the latest break-in had occurred. It was close to the old Port Adams—an area still recovering from the Three Palaces disaster. Many homes were in ruins, and though Wayne Enterprises had funded a reconstruction project, not all the money had reached its intended recipients. As a result, some buildings were still left in disrepair.

Dean strolled down the damaged streets, absorbing the atmosphere, before pausing.

"…This place is weird."

The streets were packed with people, but it wasn't just humans.

There were individuals with mutated skin, extra limbs, elongated necks, and even some with no necks at all—though Dean noted those were probably just bodybuilders.

Pulling out his phone, he quickly checked the community's online records.

Apparently, this neighborhood was famous—not just in Gotham but on the internet.

It wasn't just a safe haven for non-humans; it was a sanctuary for anyone who didn't fit into society.

Here, outcasts were the majority.

And the rules of Gotham's police force didn't fully apply.

Dean looked away from the community description on his phone and turned his attention to a group of rowdy bikers circling around him. They weren't just ordinary street punks—these guys were dressed like classic bosozoku gangsters, complete with flashy jackets, tinted visors, and the telltale smell of gun oil.

One of them revved his engine and pointed a semi-automatic rifle at Dean's chest.

"Look, there's a cop here! Is this that Demon Policeman everyone's been talking about? The one who thinks he's a big shot?"

Another thug laughed, spinning a pistol on his finger. "I heard this guy's been untouchable lately. Let's see if he's still tough when he's full of holes!"

The gang erupted into laughter, their engines roaring in sync.

Dean, completely unfazed, simply smirked.

"Now this… this is the Gotham I know."

The Gotham Police Department rarely patrolled this neighborhood, and it wasn't because they were understaffed. It was because this place ran on its own set of rules. The criminals, outcasts, and non-humans who lived here had formed their own twisted version of law and order.

Dean had read about it before, but experiencing it firsthand was something else entirely.

He let out a slow breath, sizing up the gangsters in front of him.

Three motorcycles. Four armed riders.

One had a sawed-off shotgun, another a military-grade knife, and the third was wearing body armor, which meant he probably thought he was bulletproof.

Dean cracked his knuckles.

"I kinda like this place."

A split second later, he kicked off the ground.

Before the gangsters could react, Dean had already closed the distance between them. His hand shot out, grabbing the sawed-off shotgun and yanking it straight from the thug's grip.

The biker barely had time to curse before Dean flipped the gun upside-down and cracked it across his helmeted face—hard. The impact sent him crashing off his bike, skidding across the asphalt in a heap of leather and broken glass.

Another gangster tried to swing his rifle, but Dean was already inside his guard. He twisted the gun's barrel sideways, forcing the thug's finger against the trigger.

BANG!

The bullet fired wildly into the air, missing Dean by a mile. He wrenched the gun away, flipped it around, and smashed the buttstock into the thug's stomach. The gangster folded like a cheap chair before collapsing onto the pavement.

The last two hesitated, suddenly reevaluating their life choices.

One of them, the guy wearing body armor, reached into his jacket for something—probably a knife—but Dean didn't give him the chance.

He delivered a swift kick to the ribs, sending the man flying off his bike and slamming into a nearby dumpster.

The final thug?

He just dropped his gun and ran.

Dean watched him go, then let out a satisfied exhale.

A soft ding echoed in his mind.

[Defeat the Speedsters and earn 10 points.]

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Speedsters?"

He glanced down at the unconscious gangsters and noticed something he hadn't before—their jackets all had a strange lightning bolt insignia.

Interesting.

Dean ignored the notification for now and casually mounted one of the abandoned motorcycles. The street was littered with groaning bikers, but none of them were in any condition to chase after him.

He revved the engine.

"Might as well put this to good use."

Carefully maneuvering the bike around the fallen bodies, he headed toward the street where the animal rescue center had been attacked.

---

Upon arriving, Dean found a middle-aged woman in tears, standing outside the damaged animal rescue center. The building had been completely ransacked. Windows shattered, cages torn open, and supplies scattered across the floor.

The woman was the center's manager, and she was practically begging for someone to listen to her.

"I don't understand!" she sobbed, clutching her arms. "We're just trying to help these poor animals, but we keep getting attacked! This is the third time this month!"

Dean crouched down beside her, flipping open his notebook.

"Alright, ma'am, take a deep breath. Let's start from the beginning. What exactly happened?"

The woman wiped her eyes and took a shaky breath.

"It's always the same," she muttered. "A group of masked men break in, smash everything, and then… just leave. They don't steal anything. They don't even hurt the animals. They just… set them free."

Dean frowned. "Did you catch any of them on security footage?"

The woman shook her head, sniffling. "They always destroy the cameras first."

Figures.

This wasn't just mindless vandalism. These people knew what they were doing. They were organized, and they had a purpose.

Dean snapped his notebook shut.

"Alright. Here's the plan—reopen the center today. If the culprits come back, I'll handle them."

The woman blinked at him. "You mean… you'll stay here and protect us?"

Dean shrugged, grabbing a donut from his pocket.

"Nah, I'm just gonna sit here and wait."

---

After eleven o'clock, the streets were already eerily deserted. In Gotham, if anyone was still wandering around this late at night, they were either looking for trouble or had already found it. Most people knew better than to test their luck.

Dean sat in silence, watching the occasional flickering streetlamp struggle to stay lit. The thick, damp air clung to the city, amplifying the uneasy stillness.

If the perpetrators were planning another attack, this was the perfect time.

As the clock struck twelve, Dean spotted a figure slinking through the dimly lit street. The shadow moved cautiously, sticking to the walls, taking slow but deliberate steps. Whoever this was, they weren't just some random drunk stumbling home.

Dean didn't hesitate. He grabbed his flashlight, bolted forward, and called out in a firm voice.

"Police! Put down your weapons—this is the first warning!"

The sudden burst of light cut through the darkness, illuminating the intruder.

Bright pink twin tails bounced as the figure turned toward him, her pale white skin nearly glowing under the streetlights. Her outfit, a striking mix of black and red, left no room for doubt.

Dean's expression hardened. Circus clown overalls.

His grip tightened on the flashlight as he lowered the beam slightly. If he wasn't mistaken, there was only one person in Gotham who dressed like this.

The woman shielded her face with both hands, groaning dramatically.

"Hey, don't shoot me in the face!"

Dean exhaled sharply, adjusting his stance. "Harley Quinn," he said, his voice even. "Are you the one smashing up this animal rescue center?"

Harley didn't answer immediately. Instead, she placed her hands on her hips, tilting her head slightly as she studied him. Then, her face split into a wide grin.

"You know me?" she said, voice dripping with amusement. "Wow! And here I thought nobody remembered little ol' me! You want an autograph? I can sign somethin' for ya! No photos, though—I'm not exactly camera-ready right now."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling the beginnings of a headache forming.

"I'm a cop, Harley," he said slowly, emphasizing each word. "And I'm asking you a question. Did you, or did you not, smash up this place?"

Harley's expression shifted, her lips forming an exaggerated "O" as if just realizing something.

"Ohhh, right! Almost forgot about that." She tapped her chin thoughtfully before beaming again. "Yeah, yeah, lemme just break in and free those little babies inside, then I'll sign somethin' for ya, officer!"

Dean groaned, rubbing his temple.

"Great. So you admit it. Now stop."

He lunged forward to grab her, but Harley twirled away effortlessly, her laughter echoing in the night.

"Fans shouldn't be so grabby!" she scolded, wagging a finger at him. "Ever heard of personal space, ya creep? Tsk, tsk—this is why I don't do meet and greets!"

With a dramatic flourish, she yanked a massive wooden mallet from seemingly nowhere and swung it toward Dean with alarming speed.

Damn, she was fast.

Dean barely managed to raise his Hoshikudaki in time, blocking the attack as the sheer force sent a jolt through his arms.

"No normal person's daily routine includes smashing, looting, and vandalizing, Harley," he snapped. "And for the last time, I'm not your fan!"

Harley cackled. "I know! I'm just messin' with ya, sugar! Hahaha!"

She somersaulted backward, pulling out a small aerosol can and spraying it directly at Dean's face.

Dean flinched, bracing for toxic clown gas—only to realize a second later that it was just perfume.

The realization cost him his chance to grab her. By the time he recovered, Harley was already straddling her motorcycle.

She blew him a kiss. "Don't worry, babies! Mama's comin' back for ya real soon!"

With that, she sped off into the night, her wild laughter lingering in the air.

Dean stood there, jaw clenched. He should have caught her. He would have caught her—if he hadn't assumed it was gas.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders.

"No wonder she can go toe-to-toe with Batman…"

Before this, he had thought of Harley Quinn as nothing more than a psychiatrist who had been manipulated into madness. But now? She was something else entirely.

Her strength far exceeded that of an ordinary human, and her agility was on another level. Even among all the enemies he had faced so far, Harley stood out.

"This can't just be a case of 'blackening makes you three times stronger'… The editor definitely gave her a buff."

Still muttering complaints under his breath, Dean sat back down on his makeshift stakeout chair. He decided to wait for another hour just in case Harley actually returned. When she didn't, he reluctantly called it a night and returned to his pre-booked hotel.

---

The next morning, at precisely nine o'clock, Dean stepped onto the bustling sidewalk, the cool morning air contrasting against the chaos of last night.

He checked the address scrawled onto a small notepad.

"Let me see… Building 444…"

Following the numbered plaques along the street, he finally arrived at his destination.

The first floor of the building was a commercial center, its glass windows plastered with old posters and neon signs advertising everything from pawn shops to fortune tellers. The storefront in front of him, however, was entirely covered by heavy curtains, leaving only the faintest gaps through which the inside could be seen.

Dean stepped closer, peering inside.

And then he saw it.

A painted clown statue, knife in hand, frozen in an eerie pose.

Several bodies were sprawled across the floor, their stiff limbs twisted unnaturally. Blood pooled beneath them, seeping into the floorboards.

Dean's gaze flickered upward.

Above the entrance, five blood-red letters glared back at him like a silent warning.

"Slaughter Wax Museum."

His expression darkened. The sign was speckled with crimson, and while some stains were clearly old paint, others were unmistakably real human blood.

"Well," he muttered, clicking his tongue. "It is indeed Harley Quinn's residence."

Pushing open the doors, he stepped inside, immediately drawing the attention of the shop's patrons. The air was thick with an odd mix of stale popcorn, cigarette smoke, and something metallic—probably the lingering scent of blood.

Dean approached the nearest merchant, who was polishing an old cash register. "Does Harley Quinn live here?"

The man barely glanced at him before tensing, his eyes narrowing as he took in Dean's uniform.

"What?" the merchant grumbled. "My ears ain't so good. Didn't quite catch that."

Dean exhaled through his nose, then took a slow look around.

Several pairs of eyes were on him now. Some filled with curiosity, others with clear hostility. Among the onlookers were a towering woman nearly two and a half meters tall, a pink-skinned man with jagged teeth, and an old man with four ears.

Dean sighed. "It seems Harley is very well-loved here."

The crowd around him tightened, their gazes turning sharp.

Just as Dean prepared for the inevitable confrontation, a gentle voice interrupted.

"What's going on here?"

The crowd immediately parted, making way for the newcomer. Dean turned toward the voice and felt his expression shift.

Standing in front of him was a woman he hadn't seen in a long time.

Arkham Asylum's former psychiatrist.

"It's you… the female doctor from Arkham."

Harleen Quinzel frowned slightly. "No need to specify 'female.' And for the record, I'm no longer a doctor. I'm currently unemployed."

She adjusted her glasses, eyes sharp.

"Also… who are you? Do I know you?"

Dean realized that the glasses were still working, and he was now a stranger to the female doctor. He quickly made amends: "Of course you don't know me, I only saw you once in Arkham, and you saw it too, I'm a police officer and I'm here to find the owner of this building."

Harleen raised her glasses when she heard this: "I am the legal owner of this building, their landlord."

Dean hesitated and said: "According to the information I found, this building belongs to Harleen Quinzel…"

"That's me." Harleen replied calmly.

Dean's expression became serious: "You know what this name means, right?"

"It's not uncommon to have the same name and surname. The person you're looking for is the Harley Quinn. I'm afraid you're looking in the wrong place."

Dean didn't believe in coincidences that easily. Same name, same history, same face—it was too much to be a mere accident. But her tone was steady, her eyes unwavering. If this was an act, it was flawless.

Dean didn't believe in evil and walked around Harleen twice, studying her closely. No exaggerated expressions, no clownish grins, no playful malice. Everything about her screamed normality. Yet, standing in a building filled with eccentric individuals and eerie wax statues, her normality felt even more suspicious.

Harleen noticed his scrutiny and sighed, shaking her head. "Do you suspect that I used foundation to cover up my pale skin? You can touch it, as long as you don't mind receiving a complaint letter."

She grabbed Dean's hand and pressed it against her cheek. Warm. Soft. Completely natural.

Dean stepped back in embarrassment: "Well, I'm sorry, it seems that I made a mistake."

But was it really just a coincidence? Gotham had seen weirder things. Maybe she had genuinely walked away from her past and started over. Maybe she had no memory of it. Maybe—just maybe—someone else was playing a bigger game.

Dean's eyes swept over the crowd of people watching them. The two-and-a-half-meter-tall woman with muscles like steel. The pink-skinned man with jagged teeth. The old man with four ears who kept glancing at him with suspicion. Every single one of them stood out like a sore thumb.

In a room full of misfits, Harleen was the only one who seemed normal. And that, in itself, made her the strangest of all.

"Excuse me, officer, can I leave? I have an interview today." Harleen raised her watch. "Or do I need to meet some of your special requirements?"

Dean studied her for a few more seconds before finally exhaling. "No, no, of course you can leave."

He still had his doubts, but pushing further wouldn't accomplish anything. If she really was Harley Quinn, she wasn't about to admit it to him. And if she wasn't—well, he had bigger problems to worry about.

Just as Dean was about to leave, a familiar voice called out from behind him.

"Hey, Harleen, I came to see you with a new variety of flowers."

Dean's body tensed immediately.

Harleen realized something was wrong and rushed forward, wrapping her arms around the newcomer. "Ivy, long time no see!"

Harleen whispered in Ivy's ear: "I met you in Arkham, remember."

Ivy, sharp as ever, sensed the shift in atmosphere. She looked at Dean, her expression unreadable.

"I mentioned you to Harley yesterday," Ivy said casually. "The same Harley who has the same name as you. I'll introduce you two to each other another day."

Dean turned around and looked at the two women hugging. The way Harleen clung to Ivy's arm, the familiarity in their movements—it was clear they were close.

Too close.

At that moment, Dean finally confirmed what he already suspected.

The principle of regression—Harleen Quinzel is Harley Quinn.

Hearing his voice again, Ivy's expression darkened. She was also affected by the cognitive interference of the glasses, but plants do not lie. Ivy's ability to recognize scents told her exactly who Dean was.

"This smell… it's you."

Her eyes became dangerously sharp. Harleen sensed the tension and tilted her head in confusion.

"You two… know each other?"

"Yes," Ivy said slowly. "Not only do we know each other, but we've also cooperated."

"We've had very close interactions," she added.

Harleen blinked, her brain catching up. "Oh my God! Ivy, you were blackmailed?!"

Ivy, caught off guard, actually hesitated. She thought about it for a moment before nodding. "Well, that's indeed what happened."

Dean couldn't hold it in anymore: "Don't use such misleading terms! It was you who hung me up first—!"

Feeling the rising killing intent, Dean instantly wielded Hoshikudaki and pulled out his Glock.

This murderous intent came and went quickly. Harleen, still looking soft and gentle, turned to Dean with a smile.

"Since we all know each other, why not go upstairs and sit together?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Aren't you going for the interview?"

Harleen walked to the stairs, then turned to glance at Dean and Ivy. The light reflected off her lenses, obscuring her eyes.

"Interviews aren't always successful. It's better to spend time with good friends, don't you think?"

She directed the question at Ivy. Harleen smiled and started climbing the stairs.

Ivy followed, but before she did, she whispered into Dean's ear.

"You shouldn't have come here."

Dean just chuckled. "And yet, here I am."

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I dont know what Mc is smoking here to be confused whether Harleen Quinzel is really Harley Quinn *facepalm*

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