Author's Note: Just so you all know, writing fanfiction makes me super cool. And reading fanfiction, makes you guys cool too. Just wanted to clear that up.

ONE

If Harley has to choose, the only decision she regrets making in the past two months is putting on that leopard print bra this morning. Not even coming here, to face her pretty imminent death. Oh, how mad! love is.

Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane is four stories tall. Over eight hundred rooms. Divided into two wards, the curable and the incurable. Frequent escapes. She remembers when she wrote this for the first time. A shiver went through her arms then.

"Why did you bring your notes?" Her friend nearly dumps her slushy martini over Harley's nice handwriting. "You're not normally this much of an egghead."

"They're offering me a job there."

"Where?" She asks this louder than she needs to. Harley points at her heading. "Gotham? When are you going there?"

"Next week."

"Harley, that place is bad. It's a crime hole."

"But don't forget about the superheroes," she reminds her.

She laughs heartily. Like a sailor. "You mean the crazy guy who puts a cape on each night to 'rid the streets of evildoers'?" She uses her fingers to indicate the air quotes. Harley finds it unnecessary.

"Well, he seems to be doing a fair job." Harley bites down on the inside of her cheek momentarily. "He locked up the guy I'm going to treat."

The martini almost spills again. "Which would be?"

She bites her cheek for a second time. "They call him the – Joker."

The martini spills out and drips off the side of the bar counter. "The Joker." Harley fumbles for one hundred percent recycled napkins. "He kills people."

She nods while mopping up the green slush. "Most inmates have."

"No, no, no, no, no." The woman slaps her hand over Harley's to gain her attention. It works. "He kills people while he's still locked up. Haven't you heard all the reports? He's killed people in there."

"Of course I've heard the reports," Harley replies, agitated. Forty-six psychiatrists killed. Thirty-two psychiatrists mentally disabled. Twenty-seven psychiatrists injured. One hundred and two nurses killed. Sixty-two nurses injured. Twelve guards killed. Two guards injured. One warden killed. All this is in her notes.

"And you're still going to be his therapist?"

"Mental health counselor," Harley corrects.

"But – why?"

Harley shrugs and wonders the same thing herself. "I suppose it has something to do with all the money they're offering." (An abnormal amount.) "And I can't say no. No one else will take the job."

"With good reason," her friend mumbles. Harley only sticks her tongue out at her. "Aren't you scared?" she continues. Her voice is small.

"Oh yes," Harley answers immediately. "Beyond measure."