Chapter 1: New Kid in Town
Jonathan Crane sat at his office desk, typing up his latest case report. Nothing terribly remarkable—just a sad, middle-aged man afraid of water. Your garden-variety hydrophobe, if you will. More of the same awaited him, for treating phobias was his specialty. And oddly, most of his patients were men. He couldn't believe that no women in Gotham suffered from crippling phobias, so he imagined that they simply didn't want to seek treatment. Perhaps if they sought treatment, they would be admitting to themselves that they were weak, and they would embarrassed to admit such weakness. What of these men, though? Did they not fear his judgment, that they were weak sissy-boys who needed his help?
No, it must have been something else. Maybe these women knew of his reputation, that of a cold, calculating man who valued results above all else and did not suffer fools lightly. And even he had to admit that he was not the most handsome man in the city, and certainly no Bruce Wayne. Far from it, in fact. With his thin, stringy brown hair brushed over his brow, his beady eyes, and thin, hooked nose, he appeared quite the monster. That, together with his advancing age and thin physique, gave him the visage akin to a gangly scarecrow. How appropriate, then, that in his spare time, he embraced that image as the Scarecrow—tormenter of innocent souls and perpetual foil to Batman, Gotham's caped crusader.
But oh, how he longed to put that behind him! For a time, his reign of terror indeed exhilarated him. There was such freedom in fully giving in to the darkness and madness within. However, the thrill never lasted long. Batman would capture him, and he'd go back to Arkham Asylum. Then he'd win release, and the process would repeat itself, over and over again. Of course, Jonathan had an advantage that other men lacked. Being an eminent psychologist, he knew how other psychologists and psychiatrists thought. He could easily convince them of his rehabilitated nature, even if such an admission was far from the truth. Now, though, he truly did want to be rehabilitated. He had long come to grips with reality. Ironically, he would never be the most feared villain in Gotham. That title would always belong to The Joker, the crazy Clown Prince of Crime.
Gah, how that man innerved him! Such ridiculous suits, such puerile jokes, such dumb pranks! And that ghastly makeup! Rumor had it that his white skin, ruby-red lips and green hair were all the consequence of an unfortunate dip in a vat of noxious chemicals. However, Jonathan did not believe this. For one thing, such chemicals would have scarred the man, had they not crippled or killed him. For another, they would not have produced the vivid colors that The Joker exhibited. Some of the man's appearance must be due to makeup. However, even he had to admit that a chemical bath would explain the man's madness. That unhinged insanity gave The Joker his undeniable charisma, which Jonathan could never hope to match. Even as a psychologist, he could not fully understand how to attain and exude charisma. So much of it came down to innate personality traits—confidence, charm, empathy (real or otherwise). Oh, he had plenty of confidence, as well as determination and a lust for power. He just couldn't bother with the rest. Perhaps it was high time he did, though. After all, what self-respecting man wished to die alone, unloved and forgotten by society?
These thoughts and more ran through his mind as he continued to type up report after report. Fear of heights. Fear of sidewalks. Fear of blah, blah, blah. Would something, anything come along to break up the monotony?
And then, as if in answer to his prayers, there was a knock at his door.
"Um, hello?" a young female voice inquired on the other side. He detected a distinct Brooklyn accent. "Dr. Crane? I'm Harleen Quinzel, your new intern. Dr. Arkham himself sent me ta see you."
"Yes, of course, come in," he said, almost dismissively. Grateful as he was for the distraction, he didn't look forward to the company of a young woman. Especially not one so inexperienced.
But then she opened the door and stepped inside, and he had to admit that he was … intrigued. Her uniform and personal style belied her obvious youth. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a matronly bun, black-framed spectacles perched atop her nose, and a white lab coat and black skirt obscured an athletic-yet-shapely figure. However, bright blue eyes gazed warily from behind those lenses, and white teeth nervously chewed on bright red lips as she clutched a clipboard to her bosom.
"No need to be so nervous, I won't bite you," Jonathan assured her with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Whew!" Harleen exclaimed with relief. "Some of the doctors here are so strict! Especially the women. 'Course, I think that's 'cause they're jealous of me, on account of me being so much younger than them. They shouldn't worry, though. I'm not here ta steal anyone's job. I'm just here ta learn."
Quite the chatterbox, this one, Jonathan thought as he peered at Harleen's perky, smiling face. But what he said was, "Good, then I'm eager to teach you. First, though, I'm curious about your motives. What do you hope to get out of this internship?"
"Hmmm," Harleen mused, a slender finger placed to her lips. "Well, I'm thinkin' that if I can cure my clients of their fears, then we can move on to analyzin' their hopes and dreams. Get rid of the bad, focus on the good. See, I want ta be one of those pop psychologists you see on TV, like Joyce Brothers. Except way cuter, of course."
"Of course," Jonathan said with a strained smile. Yes, he could already tell that this one would be quite the handful. "However, I should tell you right now that my goal is not to 'cure' anyone of their phobias. That would be a difficult proposition, if not impossible. My goal—our goal, I should say—is to help them manage those phobias, so they can live semblances of normal lives."
"Ah, okay," Harleen said meekly, a bit embarrassed. "Thanks for the clarification, Doctah C."
"You're … welcome," Jonathan warily replied, not too keen on Ms. Quinzel's informal nickname of him. Still, he saw no need to argue over something so trivial, so he decided to let it go. "Now, then, I expect you to arrive at my lab promptly at 8 a.m. every day, and leave no earlier than 5 p.m. No exceptions. What I don't expect is that you'll immediately adjust to my routine, so our first week will be acclimation to the work. Shadowing, asking questions, taking notes—that sort of thing. Then, once I judge you to be competent, I might consider letting you analyze patients directly, so you can get in some practice. Does that sound fair to you, Ms. Quinzel?"
"Sure thing, Doc!" she answered with enthusiasm. "I'll be the very model of professionalism. Don't ya worry your keester."
Then she pointed her finger at him as if it were the barrel of a gun, and mockingly "shot" at him. Hmph. How juvenile.
"Thank you for the reassurance," Jonathan said, not altogether convincingly. "Now, then, follow me, and I'll give you a tour of my lab."
"Okeliy-dokily!"
With that, he led her out of his office, down the hallway, and then down a flight of stairs at the end of said hall.
"Oooh, it's kinda dark in here," Harleen observed in wonder, as they descended the poorly-lit stairwell. "You might wanna ask Dr. Arkham ta invest in some lights. Quite the bright idea, wouldn'tcha say? Heh-heh."
"Yes, quite," Jonathan said, unimpressed by her little joke. "Don't worry, my lab space is adequately lit for our purposes."
"Good ta know," Harleen said, examining her current environs with the curiosity of a child. Appropriate, because she was nearly a child herself. Only twenty-two, and right out of college. However, he hoped that she didn't also possess the maturity of a child. He was a psychologist, not a baby-sitter.
They reached the basement, then walked down a shorter hallway and stopped at the third door on the right. Without fanfare, Jonathan inserted his key into the lock and turned the handle.
They entered a small observation room, with a window that spanned its length. Below the window was a long white counter, with a computer at its center for data recording purposes. Beyond the window was the examination room—a sparsely-lit, cavernous space with two metal chairs and little else.
"Kinda looks like the lab of a mad scientist," Harleen observed. "Do ya perform terrifyin' experiments in here or something?"
"You jest, but you're actually not that far off the truth," Jonathan said soberly. "My methods were once very unorthodox. Now, though, I'm sure you'll be pleased to learn that I've reformed. From now on, we'll operate strictly according to professional protocol."
"Aw, that's actually kinda a bummer," Harleen said with a child-like tilt of her head. "I'm quite the fan of bad boys, if ya catch my drift."
Jonathan gulped nervously. Should he … ? No, no, he needed to act professionally, as he had just stated. He would be the psychologist, she would be his intern, and that would be all. No tomfoolery or hanky-panky. And definitely no revelation of his unsavory past.
"I don't suppose I do," Jonathan eventually replied, "but that's neither here nor there. I expect you to remain on your best behavior, as will I. This, incidentally, is where you will be observing my treatments. I'll give you an earpiece, so I can communicate with you, and vice-versa."
"What, are ya afraid I'll disturb ya, or something?" Harleen asked, a bit peeved.
"Not at all," Jonathan patiently replied. "I just prefer my privacy, as do my patients. The fewer the direct observers, the more effective the treatment, in my experience."
"If ya say so, Doctah C.," Harleen said disappointedly. My, my—now she didn't look cute at all. Not that it mattered. He didn't need to be her friend. He needed to be her teacher, and nothing more. That would be for the best.
"I do," he said. "And with this brief little tour out of the way, I'll bid you adieu for now. See you on Monday."
"Sure, sure," Harleen said dismissively, with a little wave as she walked away. He got a brief look at her own firm keester before the door closed behind her. It was … appealing.
Jonathan vigorously shook his head. No, he couldn't give into temptation. There was too much as stake for him to give into his baser instincts. He needed to focus on his research—and the promise it would bring. With one last look at his lab, he followed Harleen out, then closed the door behind him.