Dreams of a Jester
She had intrigued him from the moment she walked in his cell for his first attempt at psychotherapy. Instantly he knew that this would be the prime opportunity to engage in another, ahem, social experiment. Or rather, a behavioral experiment this time. For this did not concern the masses (yet), but rather one person. Her. She was as good a pick as any. The eager doctor assigned to his case. Out of a one-in-a-million lottery, fate had chosen her. This made her special, but for no apparent reason.
Nothing but her eagerness to rise to the top and her inherent sheer dumb luck had made her stand out from the rest of the dummy-faced interns bouncing in their seats for a shot at the World's Hall of Fame, or the chance to be the next Nobel or Pulitzer prize winner. But perhaps because fate had chosen her, it somehow marked her as special. Destined.
But he highly doubted that. Only two people were, in his eyes, ever truly meant for something. The rest of the flock of sheep held no significance. No more so than her.
But she wanted to.
She wanted that greatness, that recognition, more than anything. It was a thirst that made itself quite apparent from his first session with her. He could sense it, could feel it in every breath she took, trying to absorb his god-chosen aura into her lungs through starved inhalation. And then, after noticing that little facet of her character, he first realized the genesis of a new idea.
Perhaps that was a feature to be…exploited.
She was his only source of fun, his only contact with the dregs of humanity that had long ago become his easiest source of entertainment. And so again and again he toyed with her, not sure of what game he was playing, or how he would choose to unravel her in the end, only feeling the preordained doom long before it came to pass, as he always did. Sometimes he would lead her on, telling the same old and new scar stories as before, to enthrall and infuriate her at every twist and turn; sometimes he would tell her jokes, to catch her between initiating conversation or evading what had to be a mind trick of his; sometimes he would shout and rave, like everyone believed a lunatic such as he would surely behave, gnawing to tear her to bits, making her jump away to call the guards; sometimes he would just sit there, any array of emotions gracing his face, but underneath it all amused at her pathetic attempts to riddle out his every expression and its underlying meaning.
Every day was a new game. Or maybe the same game again. Whatever he chose to occupy his time, whatever sly move he took a fancy to. Anything to keep his mind alive, and to watch her various reactions and laugh on the inside (or outside) every time.
But soon, he realized that there was such a greater possibility. An inkling he wanted to explore further. An idea so corrupt and preposterous and ultimately funny that he was frankly surprised he hadn't thought of it before.
He wanted to make her…fall for him.
It would certainly benefit his plans for chaos – escaping Arkham, ensnaring Gotham, toppling morality to its knees, and so forth. Having a steady lackey to rely upon would make things run more efficiently, opening the doors for even grander operations still. She would also be quite the valuable life-insurance policy, to ensure his continuing existence; while dying at the hands of the Bat and cementing the city in anarchy was his deepest wish, having as much time as possible on Earth to maximize the fun to be had was most definitely something to look forward to before that day came. But the greatest reason that this absurd notion took to him was something beyond a convenience to himself. For he always put his cause before his own personal needs of "survival."
It would be the world's greatest joke.
The crown jewel of a taunt at Batman and the City of Gotham. A fact that they would have to accept, in all its incredible insanity.
The most hated and feared psychopath in the world…had the power to make someone fall in love with him.
How could people expect to still see hope in the city's future, in justice, in honor and love and decency, and all the flimsy truths they attempted to cling to – when the futility of their beliefs stared them straight in the face as the world's most hilarious paradox?
It made him laugh just thinking about it.
But how was he to go about it? He wasn't yet sure, as he rarely was when a goal started to manifest in his mind. But then it came to him, that trick he had been put under countless times before in the asylum. That newest technology that he had been subjected to time and time again, as nameless and faceless psychoanalysts and federal agents attempted to probe the depths of his subconscious, and extract his past, his plans for the future, his hit list, anything that would make sense of the great chaotic storm that he truly embodied.
Those that ventured into his dreams…rarely survived, to say the least. And that was all he would reveal on the subject.
But this time…this time he would not be the subject. He had studied the intruders' methods well enough to learn the tricks of their trade. This time he would be the dreamer, the architect and forger deluxe. It was an occupation he already fulfilled naturally as his role of the city's agent of chaos, building and crafting and blending in and weaving around to best fit the circumstances of the crazy dream world that everyone refers to as "reality." Those tasks would be far too simple to complete in the world of her dreams.
But as an extractor…
…well, he was already the master of that as well. But that was the problem. He knew he could get her to reveal anything he wanted her to, but that wasn't….wasn't enough challenge. And it wouldn't suit his purposes of building her as his future companion. No, what he wanted and needed for this mission was, not to steal any sort of idea, but rather…
…to plant one.
A sort of…inception, he supposed he'd call it.
It all worked so perfectly from the start. She had started off with her usual questions of how he was feeling, what he was thinking, anything new in the way of his past? And this time he made sure to choose his words with even more care than per usual, lacing his latest story of his tragic childhood with phrases that, when combined with the proper body language and vocal inflexions, were sure to ease her into a drowsy daze. She glazed over, obviously not paying attention to what he was saying, just listening to the rhythm and soft mutes, liquids and aspirates, the lulls and whooshes that made his half-monotone, half-singsong voice as if the waves of the sea caressed her ears. And thus she fell into a deep slumber within ten minutes. Perfect.
He snapped out of the straightjacket and shimmied out of the binds that constricted him to the lumpy cot he lay upon, and swiped her cardkey to sneak into the hallway. Several passageways and tunnels later that were known only to him (he'd been sure to burn the original blueprints as soon as he'd made his first escape), he'd reached the maintenance room where they were fixing the machine after his latest…encounter with the wretched device. But it had been sufficiently repaired for his purposes, and appeared to be in order, chock full of sedative enough for what he was attempting.
He made off with it and returned to his cell, where thankfully the blonde doctor still slumped in her chair over her clipboard, completely passed out. Must have been up late pouring over her notes about the "dangerous sociopath", he smirked to himself as he read off her legal pad. But diagnosis aside, he knew what he had to do. He inserted the tube into her arm, letting the horrid chemical he'd had injected into his own system countless times spill through her veins, fueling her sleep for a more prolonged state of unconsciousness. Then, feeling the all-too-familiar sensation of a needle pricking his arm, he connected his own bloodstream to a separate tube, pushing the button to release the demonic concoction into their bodies, linking his mind with hers.
Through all the different layers he found her, all the while learning more and more through the projections of her subconscious what she felt inside, how she acted, what she had experienced, everything she saw and perceived. He learned she had submitted to a sort of authority her entire life, always living the life that one expected a straight-A student should live, always striving for that intangible goal of school-college-doctor-theses-money-research-published-famous. The roadmap to success that so many held dear. But inside, as he knew everyone did even if they vehemently denied it, she wanted more. Wanted to experience life to its fullest before it passed her by. Wanted to know if happiness and fame could really be achieved only through grueling academia, laboring study, and model psychiatry. Wanted a stab at fun before she signed her life away to a world of close-minded intellects.
Oh, what fun he had in store for her.
He encountered her at every dream, and chose his actions accordingly. He dragged himself along to be helped by her to shelter from the rain; he stabbed and mutilated her Dean of Psychiatry during a riot on school grounds; he even placed her in a funhouse at a late-night carnival, constantly distorting her reflections as he laughed all around her in an ever-present and ever-lingering cackle. It was maddeningly fun, but seemed to be having little effect on her. Soon he came to the conclusion that they were all examples, things he could quietly suggest to her in real life, in the weeks that would follow after they woke. But never would it change her inherent ideology, her true nature. In order to best manipulate emotion, the most basic level would have to be achieved. Deep enough that the simplest act could transcend to the greatest change of heart of all time.
So deeper and deeper he plunged, constantly risking getting trapped inside this raw dreamscape forever, never to see the city and his Bat again. But he knew he had to keep going, if this concept was to work and the joke to be told to the world. So onward he probed, until he reached the area that he knew was the end of the road. There was nowhere further down to go; he had breached the final level. It was what they had referred to as "limbo." He had been forced down here by his extractors and analysts many times over, and by doing so the stiff-shirts had inadvertently transformed what was down here…into his domain. All that was left here was the raw subconscious of whoever had been pushed down here last. And that person was, time and time again, him.
Finally, he was entirely in his element.
She wandered lost throughout the place for endless days, unknowing that time was compounded for endless years within this hidden mental refuge. She soon built the structures of her mind amongst the tattered shreds of chaos that fringed this unholy land of his. She attempted to make a home for herself within the heart of anarchy. Little did she know that she was playing right into his hands.
At last he found it. The pinnacle of her heart. Her last place of refuge, her innermost desires and secrets contained within. It was not any sort of building that could be defined by a name, save for one.
It was a children's dollhouse.
She was nothing but a child at heart, wanting and yearning for lost time and unstructured leisure and freedom to play as she pleased, and still be looked upon with regard no matter what she did, or how badly she messed up. But soon she had realized deep down that her life was in fact becoming that same pretend game: she was but a doll, puppeted back and forth by the arbitrary masters, ordering her life to the idyllic symbol of what in many ways measured to "success." It may not be what she wanted, but it was required of her, so she put herself through her pretend doll motions accordingly.
He entered the dollhouse, marveling at the life-sized, immobile statues of plastic little girl, synthetic mommy and daddy, polyurethane doggy and home. The image of accepted perfection, and carved love.
He made his way up to the girl, blonde pigtails sticking out of her head as she smiled modestly, never openly questioning what her lack of movement really meant. But he knew what must happen, so slowly, ever so slowly, he withdrew from his jacket pocket what he needed. Her hands lay open at her chest, no doubt missing the sandwich or report card that had come with the set. Laying open in wait for someone else to place the objects where and when required.
He softly placed the joker card in the doll's hands, and walked out to wake them both up from limbo.
And in the days and weeks that followed, no one but he could see the doll start to take its own miniscule steps forward, beginning to walk of its own accord with nothing but a card pressed to its heart.
A/N: Here is an example of what a late night, when combined with seeing Inception earlier today for the fourth time, has the potential to do to my mind. Thus by using Nolan's concept of the Joker and Nolan's concept of dream-inception, I have constructed an alternate take on how the Joker first paved the way to possess Harley Quinn. He has his mind games and tricks to play in real life still, don't get me wrong, but in order to make her ultimate end possible he had to alter who she was inside, to suggest that idea to her in the most basic level of her subconscious. And the woman thus produced is what I believe Harley Quinn to embody: scarred and brainwashed into believing she loves him, when in reality she does not, but is simply bound to him within her own mind so severely that no matter what happens, she will ALWAYS come back to him. Because he left her psyche with no other feasible choice, or at least without the capacity to see any other options and realize that he is simply using her.
This can be taken literally as a crossover, or as a giant souped-up metaphor for what he really did to her in the process of possessing her mind. I hope I didn't fall on my face too badly in this one, seeing as it's 1AM and I'm nowhere near approaching a coherent state of mind anytime soon. Review if you'd like! I'd appreciate it. :)