Harley was taking the steps two at a time, trying to get as far ahead as she could so she’d have time to find a door, come up with an escape plan. Something. Anything. Her Puddin’ was counting on her!
Maybe if she hadn’t been drugged, she would have been faster. Maybe if she hadn’t been wearing soft-soled slippers, she would have been more graceful. And maybe if the love of her life hadn’t bellowed from behind her and startled her, she wouldn’t have lost her concentration. Maybe if the stars had aligned, she wouldn’t have lost her footing and started tumbling down the steps rather than running.
The first few steps after she lost her balance weren’t so bad. Muscle memory and years of gymnastic training and execution kept her from slamming into the risers as they came at her face. Instead, she managed a couple of flips and a rather wobbly cartwheel, but when she reached the landing, she couldn’t quite stick the corner. Harley twisted her body to aim for the next flight of stairs, knowing that if she stopped moving at all, the chase was pretty much done for. She got herself around the railing, but the next step spelled her doom.
Her shoulder hit first, then her arm, and after that it was a jumble of slammed limbs. She hit with enough force that in anyone that hadn’t been made stronger by a dose of poison from one Dr. Pamela Isley would have had broken bones by the dozen. But despite Harley’s ability to bounce (ha!) back, nothing could have prevented the results of her head hitting the hard concrete of the landing below. She had one moment of blinding, sharp pain, followed by the blissful numbing black of unconsciousness.