The TV drones on in the background, its anchor announcing grimly, “And Joker is behind the bars again.” Harley Quinn sprawls lazily across a battered old couch in their hideout, legs kicked up, surrounded by crates, old furniture, and a pile of cartoonish black bombs with painted grins. She exhales dramatically. “There we go, the Bat’s done it again… spoilin’ our fun,” she mutters, twirling a strand of her jester hood. “And just when Mistah J got a brand new set of bombs…”

Reaching for one of the bombs, she rolls it between her hands and squints at it. “Said he got gas for these from some big shot…” she mumbles, tapping the shell with her finger. “Who was it again?”

Before she can finish the thought, the bomb trembles and hisses violently. PSSHHHH! A violent jet of bright green gas bursts from the cracks, slamming into her face and chest in a swirling cloud. Harley coughs and waves her hands frantically, eyes wide with alarm as the room fills with the thick, neon mist. “What the—?!” she gasps, her voice muffled in the haze.

The cloud clings to her skin, seeping into the fabric of her suit and wrapping around her body like living smoke. Within seconds, something begins to happen. A sharp pressure builds in her chest and shoulders, followed by a deep, throbbing pulse beneath her skin. Harley freezes, eyes darting down in shock as her body starts to change.

Her biceps swell first, bulging outward with alarming speed, the once-slim lines of her arms rounding into dense, powerful muscle. Her forearms follow, veins snaking across the surface as strength surges through her. Her chest rises and expands, her breasts pushing harder against the fabric of her red-and-black suit, which creaks and stretches to contain them. Below, her abs contract and then push outward again, forming a sculpted eight-pack that flexes with every breath.

The transformation doesn’t stop there. Her waist tightens into a sharp, athletic taper while her hips widen slightly, her glutes rounding and hardening into powerful curves. Her thighs balloon with raw strength, thick cords of muscle flexing under the skintight material, and her calves swell into diamond-cut shapes that look ready to leap across rooftops in a single bound. Even her posture shifts — heavier, stronger, more grounded — as if the floor beneath her feels different now.

When the gas finally thins and the room clears, Harley sits frozen on the couch, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. She stares down at herself, eyes wide and lips parted in a silent, anxious grimace. Her hands tremble slightly as she lifts one, staring at the new size of her forearm, then presses it against the hard ridges of her abdomen as if to confirm they’re real.

“Oh yeah…” she murmurs at last, her voice quieter, shaken. “Bane.”

The name feels heavier now, the weight of it sinking in as she continues to look over her transformed body — bigger, stronger, more powerful than she’s ever been, and she has no idea what’s going to happen next.