I know, it's another origins story. But I love them so much - witnessing the fall of Harleen Quinzel, and the rise of Harley Quinn. And hopefully, I'll put a unique perspective on the Joker and Harley. It's been a long time since I've written anything. I really hope you enjoy it - please review - it motivates me to no end.

Thanks,

NyxTheHeathen

Dr. Harleen Quinzel winced as she noticed the rain droplets she was showering onto the glossy linoleum, and quickened her stride. The hallway to the right seemed to continue on for miles, and each door she passed seemed to show more age and wear than the last. Harleen's office was at the very end of the hall, adjacent to a stairwell.

A tiny thing, her office. The paint peeled off the door in sickly green splotches. Harleen strongly suspected the office had once been a broom closet, given it's location and faint scent of cleaning products. Inside were two narrow bookshelves and a used writing desk, leaving barely enough room for her office chair. It was windowless, with flickering flourescents the only source of light. Sliding into place with a careful maneuver, she snipped down a small thread of disappointment.

Her residency, like her office, had been remarkably lackluster. She felt she had achieved very little in the seven months following her graduation. Dr. Jeremiah Arkham had hired her, promising that she would have the opportunity to change lives. Helping others, the selfless giving of her time and energy, healing those mental wounds - it had been her motivation all through college.

Dr. Hall had been the first damper on her plans. A short man in his late fifties, overly confident, well dressed, and with the pompous air of a lecherous professor. Harleen had been assigned to him during her residency. She was now caring for two of his patients while working under his license. Dr. Hall required biweekly updates where he reviewed every decision, every progress note, every order she had written. Even following his advice to the letter, mimicking his orders and notes, he would deem her lacking. The sadist enjoyed making her jump through hoops.

Harleen glanced at her watch. 8:45. She still had fifteen minutes before her session with 0745, Giles. Pushing her optimism to the forefront, she left her office and took the long trek down the hallway to the elevator.

The sixth floor nurses' station was mostly empty when she arrived, the majority of staff in the hallways and in rooms.

The early morning bustle was a glad distraction. Nurses were passing medications to the patients. A trio of guards sat stationed at either end of the halls. Monitors lined the computer desk, each featuring patient rooms, gritty and low quality video feed. Harleen deftly dodged an orderly carrying bedsheets and slipped into the break room. Grabbing a styrofoam cup, she poured herself a cup of coffee as thick and dark as molasses. As she stirred in a healthy dose of creamer, she glanced up to see Dr. Joan Leland enter. "Morning, Dr. Leland," she greeted emphatically with a wink.

"Good morning, Dr. Quinzel,"she said, sharing a conspiratorial smile with Harleen. It was an ongoing joke that they were the only two doctors that referred to one another by title. Working in such a male-dominated field, and in such a male-dominated place, they were frequently called by their first names. Although easily brushed off under the guise of familiarity, it was grating at best - demeaning at worst, to never be acknowledged as an equal. She had worked hard for the title of doctor, and felt she deserved to be addressed as one. Joan had warned her early on at Arkham to prepare for a very traditional, patriarchal environment. "It's a boys club, make no mistake," she had told Harleen months ago.

"How are you?" Harleen asked, settling down into a worn, slightly warped plastic chair.

"Fine, and you?" Joan slipped into the chair across from her.

"Good," she said, grimacing at a mouthful of coffee grounds. "I'm good," she said again, this time more muted.

Sensing there was more to be said, Joan pried deeper like any good psychiatrist. "Hmm. And how is Dr. Hall?"

Harleen glanced up from tracing old coffee and ink stains on the tabletop. She gave a small laugh, adjusting her glasses. She took a deep breath, "I suppose it's as good as can be expected. I'm still working with Giles and Rodriguez. I have an hour this morning to review each case with him. I just... I feel deflated. I'm dreading meeting with him." She peered into the murky depths of her coffee, shoulders hunched low.

"Are they not making any progress during your sessions?" Joan's short, sleek, bobbed hair brushed against her cheek. The dark black strands contrasted prettily with her tan.

"I feel they would be - Giles is difficult, but could benefit from less medication. He's so lethargic when they bring him to therapy that I can barely get him to respond. Rodriguez, however, well, I don't think he should be in group. He's so easily distracted and impressionable to everyone else's problems. Every time I recommend any choice," she sighed, "Hall turns me down."

Joan pursed her lips, nodding. "Harleen, he's got the ego the size of Texas. Take it from me, during my residency, I learned how to deal with him." She leaned forward in her chair. "You have to lead him to the answer you want. If you flat out suggest anything to him, he'll rebel. If you want Rodriguez to stop doing group - suggest he increases group treatments." Joan sat back, gesturing with her hands. "Reverse psychology isn't supposed to work, but Hall is as narcissitic as they come. He'll love to argue it with you."

"I know it's a possibility. I just hate the idea of Hall thinking I'm an idiot," Harleen whined, her forehead crumpling into pretty little lines.

"Honey. He already thinks you're an idiot. But this way, you get the result you want."

She sighed heavily, resting her arms on the stained table. "There is just no way to win."

Joan nodded sympathetically, having played the game for the better half of a decade. The past seven years at Arkham had been far more soul-sucking than they had been rewarding. The burnout was intense. But she hesitated to suggest Harleen find employment elsewhere. She knew the young doctor would likely take it as a challenge, or worse, an insult.

It was during that beat of silence between the two women that all hell broke loose.

A loud crash sounded outside the nurses' station, and a woman screamed. Joan rushed out into the hallway, Harleen following, sloshing coffee she had forgotten she still held. A group of at least eight men were tackling a man onto a stretcher. Five Arkham guards in navy, two police officers in black uniforms and a heavyset orderly in dingy white struggled with one patient. The elevator that they had clearly exited was closing behind them now, the flourescent light inside it flickering in time to the chaos.

Amidst the commotion of the guards shouting orders, the patient struggled, writhing and half-dangling from the stretcher, cuffs to his ankles and wrists, with a heavy length of chain connecting the two. Seizure, she thought, watching him convulse, until she saw the patient bend his knees and propel both his booted feet into a guards face, the move intense and intended. The guard fell backwards, landing on his ass. His navy shirt turned an inky black, streaking down his chest as blood dribbled from his nose and mouth. Harleen's gaze flitted to two other men in the hallway, obviously injured - one knocked out and prone, the other sitting against wall holding a bleeding jaw. A police officer brandished a baton, raising it threateningly over the patient. She could make out a flail of pale arms, and a glimpse of green hair.

Green hair? Recognition lit inside of her; snippets of news segments and articles in the paper rushed into abstract images and noise in the back of her mind. The violence at hand took precedence, not allowing her to put the puzzle pieces together, but somehow Harleen knew the green haired man was someone of great notoriety.

A hard shove to the left hit Harleen, jolting her back into reality, and she realized that she had been standing frozen for an extended period. Dr. Leland had pushed Harleen out of the way and ran into the medication room. A red-faced guard was screaming at her, "Get the fucking cocktail, NOW!" She started, glancing back at the medication room, dumbly sloshing coffee onto the floor. The green-haired man bent his knees again, wrenching his torso to the side to deliver an elbow to the guard screaming. The motion propelled him off the stretcher, dropping him to the floor in a solid heap face down. He scrambled to find footing, struggling against the chains that limited him. One guard dove for his legs, knocking into the back of his knees, causing the patient to lose balance. A police officer reached for the pale man, able to snatch a handful of neon hair, wrenching the patients head back in a painful angle. Harleen's eyes met a stark gray gaze, wild-eyed. The patient's mouth was bloody and sneering, revealing silver teeth. He bucked against the men holding him, his heavy boots not able to gain traction with a guard lying on top of him. He looked around the room like a rabid animal, trapped and panting. Finding no way out, his eyes found her once again. His pale gray met her dark blue with an intensity that hurt her. She couldn't look away.

The fighting and commotion had almost been too much. A cacophony of sound and violence, making Harleen unable to focus or react - sucked into the hurricane. But meeting this man's eyes overwhelmed her in a completely different way. It was too focused, like a bell had been rung and the note sustained and reverberated through her, growing in intensity and Harleen did not know if it would ever stop. It bordered on physical pain, and her eyes began to water.

She dimly registered Joan moving behind the patient, her labcoat flying out behind her like an avenging angel. Dr. Leland quickly crouched behind the guard that held the patients legs. Taking a syringe, she uncapped the needle with her teeth, sinking it deep into the patient's thigh, through his gray sweatpants. Harleen blinked at the sudden motion, and inhaled, realizing she had not taken a breath in some time.

The spell was broken, but she sought out the patient's gaze one more time. The Joker, whispered her mind, unsure of exactly when she had recognized him or remembered his name. As the hallway noise died down and the medication began to take hold, his mouth opened once again. A horrible, almost creaking laugh began to emit. It echoed through Harleen, coming from deep within the Joker's chest, and it seemed to amplify as she saw he was still looking at her. Her entire body broke out into chills. His laugh grew in volume until the sharp impact of a nightstick rapped onto the back of his skull, causing the hand pulling his hair to release him. The Joker's body fell limp to the ground, unconscious. His forehead bounced on the linoleum with a sickening thud.

The guards and the orderly grabbed the Joker by his long pale limbs, hauling him onto the stretcher. The elevator dinged behind them, opening to reveal Dr. Hall. He took a quick assessment of the situation, sidestepping a guard on the floor. "Ah, good. My new admit is here," he said with a satisfied smile. Obviously pleased he had missed the action, he rubbed his hands together in a pantomime of getting ready to get his hands dirty. He glanced over to see Harleen, pale as a ghost, standing in a small puddle of cold coffee. He smirked to see her so rattled.

"Well, Harleen, I see you've met our Joker."

Please review, thanks.