She had more of the body of a 1950s starlet than a medical doctor. Her face however, was stone cold—fair, flawless skin; her small pink mouth drawn inward in a almost sour-looking purse. Her eyes were an icy blue—unreadable behind her oval silver-rimmed spectacles.
All of her new co-workers tripped over their wagging tongues to help her move the countless bank-boxes containing binders full of research documents, important books, and innumerable awards and certificates out of her sensible 4-door sedan to the good doctor's new office.
Harleen Quinzel MD
Was pressed in perfect white lettering against the black linoleum plate on the solid oak door—just under the frosted glass, but well above the brass doorknob.
Her habiliments would have been frumpy on anyone less curvaceous. The slate grey turtleneck and co-coordinating black knee-length pencil skirt left plenty to the imagination—while evoking images of Marilyn and Jessica Rabbit. Hardly what one would conjure up when picturing the new in-house shrink at Arkham.
Once she settled in, and the shameless hordes of male doctors, direct care technicians, and janitors alike had left her alone—the resident nurse ratchet type came by with the "daily menu" ( Or her patient schedule as it was affectionately referred to by the staff at Arkham) secured steadfastly to a clear acrylic clipboard. This was it—the list of patient appointments for the day. It would be her bible, her compact. This was what she had been waiting for:
9:00am –Edward Nigma
10:30 am- Pamela Isley
11:45 am- Stephen Crane
Harleen leaned back, her cup of coffee getting cold on her desk. She knew well that the caffine would only make matters worse. Her teeth were grinding, and she could feel the tiny beads of sweat forming at her hairline and underneath the nose-pads on her glasses. As much as she wanted to pretend that she wasn't intimidated by her pre-lunch line up, the truth was—for the first time since childhood, she was seriously doubting herself.
And then her eyes jerked, her pulse rate galloped, and her solar plexus began to buzz with the sharp pain of anxiety. There—in perfect computer print on the paper—nestled after lunch and before her business meeting with the commissioner:
2:00pm The Joker
She'd never seen him in person, but it was her theoretical research paper which featred him as her choice of topic that caused Arkham to take interest in her. She'd spent months sifting through transcripts and videotaped sessions with previous shrinks; knee deep in artifacts that might help unravel the Joker persona to reveal the man behind the greasepaint.
Some might have suggested that her research took a turn to the obsessive. Upon considering this, Harleen did her best to prove the contrary—but she knew in her heart of hearts that it was true. However, Harleen did believe that once she could answer even just one of the questions she had formulated surrounding him—that it would be enough, and just like everything else—this too would pass.
Her first appointment of the day had gone as well as could be expected. Edward Nigma, better known by his nom-de-crime "The Riddler" –was barely functioning at this point in his career. His paranoid schizoid delusions had more-or-less wholly consumed his reality. During the few windows of lucidity in their session together, Edward was more interested in playing mind-games and puzzling Dr. Quinzel than having a real exchange with her.
Harleen was relieved to see her next patient was more stable. When they brought Pamela Isley in, apart from the thin robin's egg blue hospital ensemble she wore—she looked almost like a "normal" person. Unlike most of Arkham's residents, her hair was clean and cared for—and as much it could be, her appearance was well-kempt. But she looked tired—and worn. Her skin was somewhat sallow—and Harley could certainly detect a slight shiver as Pamela took a seat in the hard metal chair across from her desk.
"Are you cold?" Doctor Quinzel asked—genuine concern in her voice.
"A bit." The woman's voice was still full and proud—despite her situation.
"There's a sweater on the coat rack over there." Harleen gestured with her pen to a luxurious cashmere sweater. "you can put that on—won't do anyone any good for you to catch cold."
"Thank you Doctor." Pamela did not smile, just stood from her chair—and set about retrieving the garment.
"So, I see that you've put in a request for green-house access Pamela." Dr. Quinzel read casually from the file infront of her.
"I did, infact, process such a request." There was a hint of defiance in Isley's voice—but her face betrayed no emotion.
"I also see here that you were denied."
"That is, again, true Doctor." Isley huffed slightly.
"You seem to be surprised, and angry that the administration has denied you this privilege Pamela."
Pamela said nothing—the muscles along her jawline starting to twitch ever-so-slightly.
"I hardly find it surprising that they would deny Gotham's most prominent eco-terrorist the means to execute her own escape." Dr. Quinzel sighed.
Isley's hands balled into fists in her lap.
"What about you Pamela? Do you think it's really"
"WHAT IF YOU WERE SEPARATED FROM THE ONLY THING YOU EVER LOVED!?" Isley boomed—shooting up from her chair, hands still clenched at fists at her side.
Dr. Quinzel blinked—she had expected this response—albeit after a bit more prodding and poking. She decided to continue letting the woman vent her frustrations.
"This place is dead! Everyone here is just hollow and dead inside!" She continued—tears beginning to form at the corner of her eyes.
"And everyone is dead out there too! They're killing each other, they're killing themselves, and they're killing our mother—the sacred earth!" The tears began to roll from her cheeks and down her nose—but still her voice was strong.
"Everyone is dying—in here and out there—and I don't want to stop it, I don't even want to slow it down—all I want" she gasped a little—her sobbing starting to get the best of her speech.
"all I want," she hiccupped.
"What Pamela?" Harleen cooed, pushing her chair away from her desk and slowly made her way over to the sobbing Isley.
"What is it that you want darling?" Harleen managed in her most maternal voice possible—draping her delicate arms like bird's wings around her patient.
"I just want to grow something while I'm here" Pamela sniffled.
"I'm going to die here anyway—I just want to grow something."
And with that—Pamela broke down into tears once more—burying her face in Dr. Quinzel's shoulder.
Dr. Kosta, Harleen's supervisor sat grinning ear to ear on the other side of his elaborately carved mahogany desk. The wrinkles around his eyes made large creases as he did so—which rippled into the wrinkles made at the corners of his mouth.
"I am incredibly impressed Dr. Quinzel—you got Ms. Isley to exhibit some real wonderful human behavior today! That's the most coherent we've seen her in almost four weeks!" He beamed proudly.
"So you will consider granting her very limited access to assisted garden time then?" Dr. Quinzel chirped hopefully.
"Of course not my dear girl!" Kosta chuckled.
"I, I don't understand." Harley stammered. "She's obviously making progress—if we continue with her treatment ; at this rate she stands a chance of a,"
"Of a what?" Kosta interrupted—the signs of laughter slowly draining from his face.
"Of a normal life?" He smiled wearily and gave a deep sigh.
"Dr. Quinzel, these aren't some screwed up kids—they are dangerous psychopaths. My only goal is to keep them here—and out of the GPD's hair. The less tranquilizers and 'medical force' the better—but none of these people—not one of them will ever leave this place. Ever."
Harley stood outside the glass revolving doors that lead to Arkham's main reception desk lighting a cigarette. The building had become a smoke-free zone after that cute-little-DA Rachel Dawes helped pass the bill that supposedly was to protect innocent people from the evils of second-hand smoke.
Now that pretty little Ms. Dawes was nothing more than a memory—and a notch in the Joker's metaphorical murder belt.
She had been so furious upon leaving her meeting with Kosta, that she had lost track of time. Frantically, she checked her watch.
1:53pm
"Shit," Harley hissed, dropping the cigarette butt onto the ground and grinding it out with one shiny patent-leather Laboutin.
She pushed through the revolving doors—and it was like everything was suddenly moving in slow motion. They had warned her that he would be sitting in a straight jacket—chained to the chair, to the floor. But nothing could have prepared her for that face.
His face was only part-illuminated by the overhead light in the small interrogation room. His dirty blond hair hung in greasy strands framing his face—a twisted patchwork of newsprint colored flesh and pinky-lavender scar tissue. His green eyes bored into her with a kind of intensity that could never have been captured in video or photograph.
He whistled a pretty, melancholy melody.
"Moonlight Sonata—Beethoven—first movement." Dr. Quinzel asserted firmly, pulling out a plastic folding chair from the bare stainless steel table that separated the two of them.
The joker stopped, however he appeared un-amused.
"Well, I wasn't going to say anything," Dr. Quinzel sighed. "But since you're being a grouch—I'm obligated to inform you you were a little flat in the last few bars there."
She whistled a few notes.
"That's what it should've sounded like." She concluded.
"You know music huh doc?" The joker asked—the small smirk he began to make, greatly supplemented by his scar-tissue grin.
"Indeed, I'm also going to be your new therapist." She added curtly.
"Physical therapist I hope." He licked his lips compulsively.
"No need to be lewd Mr. Joker." Harleen snipped.
"Please, call me Joker—Mr. Joker was my father." Joker instructed sternly—before erupting into uncontrollable laughter.
Harley slammed her clipboard on the table—the loud noise bringing the joker back from his laughing fit.
"I'm doctor Harleen Quinzel," She barked sternly. "And I am not going to humor your antics any longer."
"Oh Harley baby," Joker started—eyes wide and face fearful. "You little dominatrix you!" He grinned crazily for a moment before once again exploding into laughter.
Harleen felt a flush heat up her cheeks. Her temper was getting the best of her. She took a deep breath—then all of the sudden, she began laughing herself.
"A-ha-ha-ha-ha!" She guffawed, she pulled her glasses off and leaned over—her laughing beginning to strain her breath, tears flowing from her eyes.
The joker stopped laughing. As a matter of fact—he didn't just stop, he seemed to get very angry.
"What's so funny?" He grumbled.
Harleen didn't answer—just kept slapping the table, laughter ringing from her gut.
"WHAT is SO FUNNY?" The joker growled.
"Your slippers," she sniffed slightly, getting a hold of herself—and pointing to his slightly ridiculous footwear. "A man your age wearing bunny slippers? Who would have thought Gotham's most notorious criminal had a thing for plush rabbits."
He looked down to his own feet—then back to the recovering doctor.
The grin on his face spread slowly—but completely from ear to ear. Her tactics had worked.
"A man my age?" He echoed—his tongue darting out of his mouth and sliding over his lips as he did so.
"and what age might that be Harley-baby? Have you even read my file?" He couldn't stifle the giggle that escaped.
Harley leaned back, confident in her ability to conduct the rest of the session as normally as possible. Had she read his file? Of course she had—there'd been no real identity—no birth certificates. Prints, dental imprints, DNA—nothing was matched anywhere. He was a true nowhere man.
"You know I have no way of knowing your age—only various biological triangulations. So, unless you're planning on inviting me to your birthday party Joker, I don't think this is going to be a productive way to spend our time."
"You can come to my birthday Harley-baby," He grinned, leaning forward and stage whispering: "As long as you pop out of the cake." He followed his own joke with an expected bout of enthusiastic laughter.
"Let's cut though the silliness shall we?" Harleen interrupted.
"I want to hear about the Bat Man." She continued.
The joker stopped laughing. He became so still, that she could swear that she could see his pulse beating in his neck. His eyes had gone dark—and his face had gone slack. She'd seen this before in some of the children she'd worked with in undergraduate school who had Aspergers or Autism when they experienced a non-vocal trigger. Harleen shifted slightly—and tossed her hair over one shoulder and pulled her glasses off of her face and set them on the table.
"I cleared out my whole afternoon schedule—I'll wait for as long as you like." She sighed lengthily.
She rubbed her hands together until they were warm and placed her palms over her eyes. She listened to the sounds of his breathing—quick and shallow. She could tell he was nervous.
"How about something smaller first hm?" She spoke—mostly to herself now, eyes still closed she began to rub at her temples.
"What brought you to Gotham?" She listened closely—she heard the imperceptible creak of his chair legs as he began to lean forward ever so slightly.
"What is it that you want?" She opened her eyes and leaned onto her elbows on the table—she saw something in his eyes flash; as if he were coming back from somewhere else deep inside his mind.
" Right now?" He grinned a dangerous sort of grin, letting out almost a low purr as he leaned forward.
"Yes right now." She encouraged.
"Ra-height this ve-ry second?" He continued—smacking sounds coming forth from his moistened lips.
"Yes, this very,"
"I want to fuck you RAW." He hissed—his eyes dark and glinting.
Harleen's breath caught in her lungs. She pushed back from the table in a whine of chair legs—and the flourish of papers. She grabbed her glasses from off the table and pushed them hastily up her nose and onto her face—as if they could protect her from those eyes.
"I think that's quite enough for today Joker." She quipped politely, backing toward the door.
"See you tomorrow Doc." He beamed. "I think we made some great progress today." He winked—then dissolved into hysterical laughter as she slammed the door shut behind her.