Disclaimer: DC own the characters outright, I'm making no money from this, just having fun playing in the Gotham Sandbox. All characters will be returned, unharmed, but possibly scarred from my questionable writing.
G: Thanks for the edit, beta reading and your extensive Joker knowledge. Your Harley love created my obsession. Who would have though the Joker could corrupt Wonderwoman? (How we met, many moons ago.)
Any and all feedback would be appreciated. Thanks.
Rating for Language and Situations.
The Wild Hunt
Chapter One: Chasing Dreams
I was at my desk sifting through a pile of report research – case files, interviews and photographs – when my office door swung open.
"Are you free?" Dr Joan Leland, the Senior Arkham Psychologist asked as she stepped through the doorway.
"Sure," I glanced at the black-and-white wall clock, "I have a half-hour before I'm due downstairs. What can I do for you?"
She strolled across the room and sat on the plastic orange chair opposite my desk.
"I wanted to check in and see how you are feeling about your first session with the Joker?"
My stomach fluttered, "I'm eager to start, my reports are never going to write themselves."
Dr Cavendish, the Joker's previous Clinical Psychologist had ended his association with his notorious patient. I knew it was too good an opportunity to pass up, I had been trying for months to get a one to one session with him. After a therapy session last week, Dr Cavendish decided that he required a long leave of absence. Why waste the chance?
Dr Leland pulled a thick folder off the desk and read through several pages of my scrawled notes before turning her attention me. "I have my reservations about this Dr Quinzel, but with everything that's happened, staff shortages and all…well, you're the only one interested in taking over the Joker's case."
"Dr Leland, I appreciate the opportunity, I like a challenge."
"You must remember these inmates are hard-core psychotics. They'd as soon kiss you as they would kill you. "
I nodded. "That's the one thing I will never forget."
"I look forward to reading your reports. Don't let yourself get too close." She walked to the door and drew it closed behind her.
I had fifteen minutes before I was due downstairs, so I tidied my desk – neatened the folders and research, and grabbed my lap coat and pocketbook and left my office. If no one had been watching via the security cameras, I would have skipped my way to the elevator.
When Jeremiah Arkham had taken over Arkham Asylum, he renovated everything within the buildings from the basement up. Outside, the buildings still resemble an ominous Victorian Mansion, but inside the décor is neutral and modern. The buildings link by a labyrinth of corridors. Security has been stepped up, digital video recorders are fitted in every room, watched by an around the clock security team. Low risk patients, including patients due for release stay in the two to one ward on the first floor. The maximum security ward houses the high risk inmates on the second floor where they can cared for closely. The intensive therapy centre remains in the bowels of the main building.
I flashed my badge at the guards as I stepped by the security desk and made my way along the corridor, my eyes squinting as they adjusted to the bright fluorescent tube lights.
My assigned therapy office was situated at the north end of the intensive therapy centre between a music therapy room and an equipment store. A brown leather couch ran along one wall, with a comfortable looking office chair and desk facing it to make communication easier. A serene sunset landscape and a fern pot plant completed the furnishings. Everything nailed in place, including the plant.
Overhead the air conditioning blasted into life. I connected my computer to the power point and waited for the welcome screen. Once the laptop loaded up, I logged on to the Arkham network to open the secure patient records.
The Joker's file photo always surprised me, even after I had viewed it many times. Without make up, he looked almost normal until my eyes caught on to the massive scar puckered at the corners of his lips, the eerie grin reminding me he was the incomparable Clown Prince of Crime.
His profile notes read: -
Patient is more dangerous than he appears. Impossible to Psychoanalyse, as Patient mixes genuine truth with elaborate lies. Refuses to provide any substantial information on identity. Suffers grandiose delusions – Schizophrenia? Relishes in death and destruction. Exercise with extreme caution. Requires two handlers at all times/ always keep secure.
Everyone in Gotham from the two bit crooks to the cream of the mental health community had a theory on the Joker. Late night talk show hosts and radio jocks analysed his every move. In many ways, he paralleled the infamy of his notorious adversary. Celebrated, feared and hated, the man had transcended popular culture and had become an icon of the Gotham Underbelly. My theories ran in a different direction. I knew more than most how lethal the Joker could be and I planned to use every source available to ensure he never saw daylight again.
I turned toward the door as two orderlies from maximum security stepped through with the Joker in handcuffs. I knew them both. Marco, a ten year veteran and Howard, who had less than a year's service under his belt. Having started at the same time as Howard, we looked out for each other but I was convinced he didn't have two braincells to rub together. They were both tall and well built, Marco, shaved head and in his forties, Howard around around thirty, his dark hair pulled back into ponytail, both wrestled the Joker over to the couch. Security batons poised on their hips. Just in-case.
"Afternoon Doc." Howard grinned at me. "How do you want him?" He gestured over his shoulder toward the Joker.
"Can you lie him down on the couch? Cuffs to the front. I'd appreciate it." I said to both guards. "Can you leave the leg shackles unbound? I don't think they'll be necessary."
Marco lowered his voice, "But Dr Quinzel, Dr Arkham has insisted the Joker is always bound when out of his cell. Especially after the incident with Dr Cavendish."
"Dr Arkham can take that up with me."
"If you say so, Dr Quinzel. You're the boss."
A high-pitched, maniacal laughter filled the room and ran over my skin; a siren's call for my attention but I paid him no heed. The Joker could wait until I was good and ready.
I stood and gave the orderlies a finger wave as they left. "Thank you guys, I'll call you when I'm done with our friend here. I have my buzzer on me!"
When the door closed, I faced the Joker alone for the first time. He was tall and lean, the orange Arkham inmate jumpsuit he wore, threadbare. His hair sat in unruly strands brushing his shoulders, the ends green with months of regrowth hinting at the length of his incarceration. His gaze was intense.
I froze mid-stride. Transfixed by the Jekyll and Hyde of his face. The beauty of the Joker marred by the thick, pink scarring covering his mouth and cheeks. The Joker's eyes met mine, his lips turned upwards in the corners into a full grin of pure wickedness.
"Hello Dr." His voice was low.
I took in a slow breath. "Good Afternoon. I know that those handcuffs are restricting but, please, try to make yourself as relaxed as possible."
I stepped back towards my desk, taking the time to regain some composure.
"What's the matter Dr, can't say my name?"
"I choose not to converse with my patients using nicknames. I think it's an undue liberty. Can I perhaps call you by an alias or maybe a first name?"
He frowned at me. "Is Arkham so desperate he has to send one of his underlings? Or are you so keen for recognition you volunteered to try to cure me? I've got news for you cupcake, I'm beyond redemption."
The maniacal laughter began again, this time I couldn't prepare myself for the way it warmed my body. I had expected hostility, perhaps hysteria but I came undone by the candid way he spoke of himself.
"You can call me Jack." The Joker said, his body calm at last.
"I'm Dr Quinzel." I told him. "I'm sure you realise that it's me or a month in
solitary."
"Harleen Quinzel..." The tip of his tongue ran along his upper lip. "Top 5% of your graduating class. Quite impressive my little Harlequin."
"I see someone has been snooping."
"Call me inquisitive Doc, I like to know who is going to be in charge of my mental health. Happy mind, happy body you know!"
My ass. He had friends on staff or at least had some dirt them.
"Still, Jack. You know more about me that I know about you. Hardly fair, is it?"
The Joker eyed me. "Well aren't you daffy. Ask away, I'm an open book."
He had no real known identity, police couldn't track anything from his prints or DNA and now he wanted me to call him Jack. New information or at least a new diversion. I just wasn't sure if it was for his or my benefit.
"Why don't you tell me about where you grew up?" I asked. A good starting point with most patients.
"I don't think that's what you want to know."
I sighed and shifted in my chair, my fingernails digging into my skin as I stroked my arm.
"You're different from the other women that work here, Doc. You don't look terrified...you don't look scared at all. You look interested. Just like mommy dearest. My mother was a homemaker and often beaten by my drunk of a father. One day, after a violent beating, she just snapped. She took a knife to my face. Told me she wanted to make sure I'd always have a smile just for her." He spoke slowly, as if weighing up his words. "Always smile sunshine," he mimicked, "even when life's getting you down. Funny thing that, she couldn't bare to look at me after that, took a knife to her wrists. I always smile when I think of her"
My mouth worked around a response, only, it failed to come out right. "What happened to your mother?" I murmured.
Stay calm Harleen, you owe it to Guy to keep it together. I thought.
"She ran-away."
I crossed my legs and straightened my skirt out "She left home permanently?"
"Yes."
The barren answers were exasperating, but not unexpected. Dr Cavendish mentioned in his findings the Joker liked to dictate how everything around him is done. I'd dealt with patients like that before, and the Joker was a step beyond, steering the conversation and rewarding me when I asked the correct question. The Master Type A, driven by his need to dominate and control.
"How was the relationship between you and your Mother?"
The Joker cackled. "On her happy days, she was a doll and on her bad, she was Beelzebub – always worse when Pop was out whoring. It wasn't uncommon for her to throw boiling pots at me, launch me down the stairs for oversleeping. Back then, women were not career orientated. They had to stay home and play wifie while the men earned the moolah – they had to be in the background and she didn't deal very well with that. So she took it out on me. My father wasn't a saint by all means, but she wasn't an easy woman to live with. She had a flair for the dramatic."
Two could play this game.
"That can't have been easy for you," I glimpsed directly at him. "Was your father away from home a lot?"
"I don't remember much. He was a truck driver and was always away. Even on the rare occasion he was home, he wasn't there. He'd duck out to play cards, gamble, cheat, pilfer, screw about, drink and terrorise the good people of the neighbourhood. Then he'd come home, my mother would raise hell and Pop would knock her about. He was a fiend. If I'm being honest though, if she were my wife I'd slap her about too. She would have soon learnt that being quiet was the best way for an easy life."
The Joker caught me staring and winked.
"At what point did your Mother leave?"
"My father's floozie got crazy, started calling the house phone. She would turn up at midnight and dawn crying on the doorstep for him. She would follow my Mother when she was running errands, shopping and when the broad walked me home from school, asking questions about the old man..." the Joker thought for a second, "I think that was the last of it. She took a knife to my face. She took a knife to her wrists. They took her to hospital and she never came back. They said she walked out her hospital room and never returned to Gotham."
His tone was even and he was still, taking this conversation serious, his tale of abandonment tragic like the missing milk carton kids. The words I heard reminded me of my grifter father, a home wrecker whose mind became lost to the money and false feelings he bled from the unsuspecting women he swindled. My father had no qualms about destroying my family unit for his personal gain. My mother never recovered. And my brother was leeching the little essence she had left.
I sighed.
The Joker looked at me calmly. "Something bothering you Harleen?"
"Dr Quinzel." I reminded him
He sat up and examined me closer, as if he knew the thoughts running around my head. "What's wrong, Doc? You have a far away look on your face."
My eyes drifted past him, to the pot plant and then to sunset painting. "That would be unethical of me to talk about my family."
"LOOK AT ME" The Joker snapped. "I'm a proud product of my parents dysfunctional relationship."
That was only the beginning of his issues.
I thought he laughed, but when I turned to face him he was on his feet, advancing on me. I lost my train of thought at the sight of him stalking across the carpet. The clinking of his cuffs sending fear rattling up my spine as the sound grew with each step he took. Had I been so wrapped in memories that I'd given him the upper hand? Of course. He'd had it from the moment he walked in.
My hesitation got me knocked over the head with something hard, I suspected the cuffs. My high heels gave way and I fell on my face. A long finger reached out – his wrist free of his cuff and brushed the id card clipped over my right breast.
"Harley Quinn" He read.
His fingers blazed a trail down my side, he grabbed me and using my hips as leverage rolled me onto my back and pinned me by my wrists.
Shit.
"Jack, think about what you're doing. The guards will eventually see what's going on and you'll be back in solitary." My voice sounded high. Fear had that effect on me.
Laughter caressed my ear like little butterfly kisses. He burrowed his head into my hair, breathing me in and whispered in my ear. "You smell like pudding."
I heard doors opening in the corridor, then heavy footsteps, running. The guards were close, I avoided looking at the door for them and focused on the Joker. We had a moment of meeting each other's gaze. His grip slackened on me, I took full advantage and rolled to my knees and stood up. My heart banging against my ribcage.
Howard barged into the room with a guard from the security desk.
"Dr Quinzel, we saw what happened over the monitors, we came immediately." Howard's face was etched with concern. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I had the situation under control." I managed, my words still shaky.
Howard and the security guard's eyes drifted from me to the Joker. Assessing the situation. They looked at each other and shrugged.
"With all due respect, I think it may be best if I took him back up to the ward." Howard pulled up the Joker by the cuffs, which were secure on his wrists again.
Un-fricking-believable.
"No problem, I think we're done for the day."
Howard smiled at me, held the door open for the security guard and out they went with the Joker in tow.
Palms flat against the edge of my desk, I took slow, calming breaths until my pulse returned to normal. The experience with the Joker had engaged my fight or flight response, and I'd surprised myself by staying calm on the surface, attempting to defuse the situation rather than engage in a straight out fight to survive. Tend and befriend, one of my University professors called it.
I'd just packed my laptop away into my pocketbook when my work Blackberry rang.
"Hello?" I answered, not recognising the phone number on the readout.
"Dr Quinzel, this is Stephen Carlyle. I'd like to see you in my office. Immediately."
"Sure, just let me pack up and I'll be with you shortly."
"Make it snappy." He said in a clipped tone.
I had to refrain from saluting at the camera. I didn't mind being the youngest intern at Arkham but I didn't care for being summoned like a servant by the beckoning call of her lord and master. Dr Stephen Carlyle sat on the board of directors at Arkham, he also held tenure at Gotham State University and had taught me in Criminal Psychology for several semesters. In the classroom he preferred active learning, engaging the class to debate out cases; in the workplace I found him to be stringent, challenging me to the point of frustration.
"I'm heading there now." I hung up, before I gave in to mutiny.
I took the stairs rather than wait on an elevator and was surprised to find Dr Carlyle's petite secretary, Mary, away from her desk. The door to his office ajar, I peeped inside.
The place was the size of my college apartment – for a couple living together, small, but for a man and his thoughts, substantial. Elegant, with lots of mahogany detailing, the office felt oppressed and masculine.
Dr Carlyle glanced at me over his glasses. His spiked red hair streaked with salt and pepper, he bore a distinguished air.
He motioned me inside. "Come in Dr Quinzel. We have things to discuss."
I sat on a leather chair by his desk. "I assume this is about my session today with the Joker?"
"Indeed. An incident has come to light and I thought I might hear about it from you before I investigate."
"What part would you like to know?" I figured it was best to ask before I said something incriminating. Maybe that way he'd still let me keep the Joker as my patient.
"I'd like to know why you felt it necessary to put yourself in danger? Against the advisement of other colleagues who have a vast amount of experience with the Joker? You know we operate on the policy that the he is to be cuffed and secured at all times." He scolded. "As such, I feel it necessary to hear your side of the situation before I take action."
The Joker had seen through so many assigned therapists partly because of his exuberant nature, partly because of Dr Arkham. He was fickle. Different therapists came and went regularly, dependent on whatever was the psych journals therapeutic flavour of the month; I don't know how the Joker dealt with the inconsistency without snapping.
"Dr Carlyle, I felt as though I needed to establish trust between myself and the Joker. This is why I asked for his shackles to be left off. His cuffs were always secure. We are both aware of how conniving and wily the Joker is, he could escape if he tried. And he didn't for the main part. I believe he knocked me to the ground as a way of testing my nerves. Nothing malicious was intended. He was simply pushing my buttons."
He nodded, understanding, as though satisfied with my answer. "He will try his utmost to get under your skin. I believe you however, in future, please ensure he is fully shackled whilst in your presence, for your own safety."
"Yes sir" I said, absent minded.
He eyed me. "You must remember more than anything the Joker is a master of chaos. He is always one step ahead of the game. If one detail of his intentions falls through he adjusts himself, improvises and manipulates the situation. I've never seen anything like it, the man is a genius."
"Is that everything, Dr Carlyle?"
"For now but I will be keeping a close eye on you."
Peachy.
Instead of working in my office, late, like I did most Friday nights, I left Arkham early. I planned on filing my session report and sipping down a large glass of Pinot Noir at home.
Relief flooded me as the lights on the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane sign faded in my rear view mirror, swallowed by the darkening skyline. Days like this made me realise how empty my life had turned out. Sure, I had friends, but after University it became harder to stay in touch. Facebook was my hotline to the outside world. No boyfriend since Guy. I loved my job, the opportunity for a bright future made me luckier than most in Gotham. I wished I had someone I could have a glass of wine with to unwind; someone I could pick up the phone and call. Someone to make me laugh.
A/N: Please review folks! Helps me with my progress... thinking of introducing Ivy in the next few chapters, what do ya'll think?