[Ding! Reputation exceeds 500 points. One ally recruitment opportunity unlocked!]
Jason lay in the hospital bed, his body a battered mess wrapped in bandages, but a sly grin crept across his face. With a flicker of thought, he opened the system interface and hit the recruitment option.
[Ding! Villain ally ’Harley Quinn’ activated. Source: Suicide Squad. The host must personally recruit her.]
’Harley Quinn...’ The name sparked a memory, faint but vivid. Jason’s eyes narrowed, his mind digging through fragments of his past life. ’That’s the Joker’s girl, isn’t it?’ A wild, unpredictable force of chaos—perfect for his plans.
---
The hospital corridor buzzed with tension as the elevator doors slid open with a sharp ding. A dozen hulking men, each with a sidearm strapped to their waist, poured out. Stanfield’s loyal goons snapped to attention, rifles raised. "Freeze!" He barked, finger twitching on the trigger.
The group halted, and two men in their forties or fifties stepped forward, their faces calm but authoritative. "Easy, we’re here for Director Stanfield," One said, flashing his credentials.
Stanfield’s man took the IDs, his gut tightening. ’Holy shit.’ The badges belonged to the NYPD Commissioner and the FBI’s New York Field Office Director—two heavyweights with enough clout to make anyone sweat. He swallowed hard, handed the IDs back with a deferential nod, and sprinted to the operating room to fetch Stanfield.
Stanfield emerged, looking like hell—hair a tangled mess, eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night. "What’s this about?" He demanded, sizing up the two men. They weren’t friends, but they weren’t strangers either, all tied to New York’s crime-fighting machine.
"Jason’s in there, right?" The FBI director asked, his tone clipped.
Stanfield didn’t hesitate. "Yeah." No point lying—between the hospital staff and Fisk’s big mouth, the truth was already out.
"Good," the NYPD commissioner said, producing a document stamped with the Department of Justice seal. "As of now, Jason Walter is under joint custody of the DEA, FBI, and NYPD."
Stanfield snatched the arrest warrant, his jaw tightening. "I caught him. Why the fuck do you get a piece?"
"Orders from above," The FBI director said coolly. "You don’t get to argue. The warrant’s clear: joint oversight, all three agencies."
"Bullshit!" Stanfield spat. "All you pricks do is steal credit!" He yanked out his phone, dialing his DEA higher-ups, his voice dripping with calculated desperation. Time to play the part. "Sir, I bled for this bust! We can’t let these vultures take it!"
His boss’s voice was soothing but firm. "Stan, Jason’s a big prize. Every agency wants a bite. Getting it down to three is the best I could do. You nabbed him, so you’ll get the lion’s share of the credit. Relax."
"But, sir—"
"No buts. The Attorney General called me last night. It’s settled. Follow orders."
Stanfield hung up, his face a mask of frustration. The two directors exchanged smug glances but said nothing.
They hashed out the joint custody details, and Stanfield trudged back to the OR, his mind racing. If the DEA had sole control, he could’ve staged an "accident" to spring Jason. But with the FBI and NYPD in the mix, his hands were tied.
The lead surgeon burst out, eyes wide with excitement. "He’s awake! The patient’s awake!"
Stanfield froze, then broke into a relieved grin, his face flushing. "You two, guard the door," He snapped at his men. "No one gets in."
He stormed into the OR, shooing out the doctors and nurses. Jason lay on the table, swaddled in bandages like a mummy, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "How you holding up?" Stanfield asked, his voice low.
"Not dead yet," Jason rasped, his tone flat but laced with bitter defiance.
They were alone—a rare chance. Stanfield leaned in, whispering urgently. "The NYPD and FBI are here. Joint custody. They’re locking you down tight."
Jason’s lips twitched, unsurprised. "Don’t sweat it. As long as they think I’ve got secrets, they won’t touch me."
Stanfield sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "You can’t rot in a cell forever."
"I won’t," Jason said, his voice hardening. "Listen up, Stan. What I’m about to say, you need to burn into your brain."
Stanfield leaned closer, frowning as Jason laid out his plan. "You and Franklin keep operating under my name. The worse the shit you pull, the louder it gets, the faster I’m out of here."
Stanfield blinked, confused. "What the fuck? You want us to go full psycho in your name? Why?"
"No time to explain," Jason snapped. "Just do it. The more infamous I get, the better."
Before Stanfield could press, shouts erupted outside. Jason’s eyes flashed with fury. "Fucking government dogs think they can crack me?"
Stanfield caught on quickly, playing the part. He slapped Jason hard across the face, the crack echoing. "You piece of trash! Wait till you’re in lockup—I’ll pry your mouth open with a crowbar!"
The OR door swung open, and the two directors stormed in, faces dark. They’d overheard the exchange and assumed Stanfield was jumping the gun, interrogating a half-dead prisoner. "Stan, we agreed on a joint investigation!" The FBI director snapped. "He’s barely alive. You lose your cool and kill him, we’re fucked!"
Stanfield glared back, unyielding. "What, you gonna coddle him with steak and wine to get answers?"
The NYPD commissioner bristled. "If you’re gonna torture him, wait till he’s healed."
Stanfield sneered. "What kind of idiot bought your badge? Wait four months for him to recover, and any intel’s useless."
The directors faltered, unable to counter. Stanfield snorted, brushing past them and out of the OR, his mind already working on the next move.
---
Times Square buzzed with chaos, crowds gathered under the massive screens. The DEA, FBI, and NYPD held a joint press conference, their spokespeople announcing Jason’s capture and hospitalization. A task force had been formed to crack him open, aiming to dismantle New York’s hidden criminal networks.
The news spread like wildfire. TVs, phones, computers, newspapers—Jason’s name was everywhere. Outside the hospital, reporters and gawkers swarmed, held back by over a thousand cops and twenty armored vehicles, turning the building into a fortress. Thanks to the media frenzy, Jason’s reputation skyrocketed.
In his private ICU room, he lay staring at the ceiling, a faint smile playing on his lips despite the pain. Armed SWAT officers lined the hallway outside, but he didn’t care. The system’s notification still glowed in his mind: ’Harley Quinn’. A wildcard like her could be the key to everything. He just had to find her—and fast.
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