You spot a woman with blonde hair done up in a ponytail. She's slumped over an outdoor table at a café. She sighs, her face a picture of profound misery. She notices you. "Hey there," she says with a noticeable New York accent. "I'm Harleen. Harleen Quinzel. Maybe you've heard of me. I used to be Harley Quinn, but now..." Harleen's eyes well up with tears. "...now I'm not. I'm just Harleen now."