An antique car is viewed by many as a prized luxury. In its simplest form, such a car is a classic. It is an automobile straight out of the pages of history that one may drive through the streets of modern America with pride. It may bring back memories of a calmer, simpler time when the greatest threats were Communism and Civil Rights. A time when mom always had meatloaf ready right after you finished your homework. With enough dedication and patience, restoration may leave the car as shining and spectacular as it was when Mr. Johnson first drove it off the lot with his wife and two children.
The 1952 Studebaker grinding down the swamped roads of Gotham City was not up to the standards of other such classic cars. The engine groaned, the brakes squealed, the radio was busted, the interior was shredded, the rear-view mirror fell off constantly, and only half of the once ruby-red paint job remained. With a screech that could have easily deafened any dog within a five mile radius of Arkham Asylum, the sad excuse for a Studebaker came to a halt to behold the manic frenzy dying at the asylum. Inside the Studebaker, the very shocked and worried doctor eyed the crowd of straight-jacketed doctors and patients surrounded by gaggles of reporters and police officers. Her lips parted.
"Oh…my God…"
Before she could step out of the car, an officer rushed to her door. "Ma'am, I'm gonna have to ask you to turn around and-"
"Officer," she willed away her panic-stricken face and threw on her professional mask of distant observation. "I have to get through, I work here."
The officer paused. Dr. Crane and the Joker were confirmed to be out of the area, those exposed to the fear toxin were gathered for the most part, and orders were to allow authorized personnel into the building to subdue the remaining patients.
"May I see some identification?"
With a quick nod the woman pulled out her purse and rummaged through spare change and Nicotine gum foil in search of her wallet. She handed her license and hospital badge to the burly officer and waited as he called in over his walkie-talkie. He looked over the two laminated cards and pressed down the thick black button of the walkie-talkie. He was greeted with static.
"I have a woman here requesting permission to enter Arkham." The officer squinted and strained to read the name correctly.
"Harleen Quinzel."
He released the button like a trigger and surveyed the area. He passed the license and badge back to Harleen.
"Thanks…" she said with a hint of annoyance. Whatever had happened to cause this chaos was enough to bring in a SWAT team, but not enough for her to be paged at home. Harleen clipped the badge onto her coat and slid the license back in her wallet. "What happened here?"
The officer's brow raised in surprise. How could anyone have not heard? "Two patients escaped around six this morning; sent the place into a riot."
Harleen's lips pursed. "Just two?" She raised a brow and surveyed the chaotic area. She had only been working at Arkham since the week before, and wasn't familiar with any two patients who were capable of something on that scale.
"Yeah, well, just two was enough to get even Batman's attention. Guy swooped in and jetted out about an hour ago. Casualties have been moved to Gotham South. We still need to keep the place under lock and key. Things just went to Hell and-"
The walkie-talkie sprang to life.
"Dr. Harleen Quinzel, clear for entry."
As soon as the message was sent, the device was silent once more.
"Alright, doctor, drive around back. Be careful." The officer gently banged the side of the Studebaker as it cranked into motion. Harleen nodded and drove along the route dictated by officers waving her along.
"Thank you, officer. I was planning on plowing through bystanders. But now that you've asked me to 'be careful,' I think I'll just mosey on down around back," she muttered. "Dipshit."
After the parking ordeal that ultimately lasted ten minutes, Harleen managed to crawl out of her scrap metal mobile and squeeze through the tightly-packed parking lot with her purse and briefcase. After flashing her identification to the two men at the door, she was finally able to see the churning chaos within Arkham first-hand. Water trickled through the hallways. Blood dripped from drying pools on the walls. Patients were dragged away screaming by beaten nurses and doctors. Harleen pushed her hair back behind her ear as she looked around in horror. She stared blankly for a moment before a hand was placed on her shoulder.
"Ma'am."
Harleen spun around as though she had been punched. Instead, she was being smiled at by a security guard.
"I…yes?"
"Sorry to startle you, ma'am, I just need to ask you to move along. Keep things running."
Harleen parted to lips, but instead of responding took up her steps once more. All she had to do was get to her office, grab her charts, and check in with her superiors.
Before she could get to her office floor, Harleen aided in escorting two patients back to their cells, one guard to a nurse for some patching up, and nearly slipped in a puddle of blood. The briefcase ached in her hand, and she just wanted her haven. She finally arrived on her floor and began walking down the hallway her office resided in.
The doctor stopped in her tracks. Her office's window was smashed open. Blood droplets had glided down to the wooden frame. Harleen looked into the office before slipping her way inside, her eyebrows strung together. A panel had been removed from her floor. She was careful to step around the broken glass, and she noted a few other droplets of blood on the tile. Scattered around them were threads from some dingy brown fabric. Harleen set her briefcase on her desk and looked in her drawers. Nothing had been taken as far as she could tell.
"The hell…" she murmured under her breath.
Harleen shook her head and grabbed a few patient files before rushing out to help keep order in any way she could.