A few notes before the chapter—first of all, this is Nolanverse. As much as I love the comic Joker with all my heart, I'm currently obsessed with Heath Ledger's portrayal, and wanted to try my hand at writing him. I imagine that since Nolan's Batman is a bit more realistic, Harley would be more realistic, too, and not as ditsy. Also that it'd take more sessions and mind manipulation to conform her to the Joker's side. My story will explore their sessions together, and will continue on to her time as Harley Quinn.
At least, that's what I'm planning. I have a lot of idea's I'd really like to share, but if you want me to keep writing, please review! It takes a long time to write a chapter, (I plan on each being around 3-5 thousand words) so it'd be nice to know I at least have an audience. So drop a review to lemme know you're interested, or at least that you're reading, and that I'm not just writing for a ghost town. You can leave some ideas, too, and as usual, constructive criticism is welcome.
Anyway, tldr. Onto the story!
I swallowed an Advil as I pulled into Arkham, past The Narrows, and stepped out of the car. I'd been working at Arkham for about three months now, but I still wasn't used to driving through The Narrows. I wasn't sure if time would ever fix that.
I sat in my car for a bit, completely unmoving as I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and waited for the pain-killer to kick in. I wasn't normally prone to headaches, but it was one of the milder side effects of working at Arkham.
Slipping on my white Arkham lab coat that I threw on my passenger seat every day after work, I walked through the doors of the institution, squinting my eyes as they adjusted to the fluorescent lights. I didn't have weak eyes, (though one could argue that, considering the glasses that adorned my face—they were barely needed, but it didn't hurt to look a tad more professional) but the difference between Gotham's permanently gloomy sky, and the constant eerie glow of the Asylum was a sudden change, and you always had to blink a few times.
Walking through the halls of the asylum, the only noises were the tapping of my heels against the glossy floor, and the feverish chatter of the nurses. Normally their little gossip sessions were about who was sleeping with who within the staff, or who was cheating on who. This time, though, I knew it was something entirely different, and with good reason.
The Joker.
I could hear them whispering his name hesitantly, as if afraid that saying it would somehow summon him.
The Joker was, of course, common conversation here in Arkham, but since yesterday, you couldn't go anywhere without hearing his name.
Yesterday, Batman brought him in.
I had only ever seen the Joker before on Google, newspaper articles, or if I was lucky, footage on the news. Even though I'd been in Arkham for three months, the Joker was never present for any of the time.
Until last night, of course.
I only saw the back of his mussy green hair as the two passed, Batman pulling him roughly and the Joker talking to him in a low voice. I didn't get to see his face, but just seeing his back had an impact.
I was a little disappointed they didn't allow the patients any personal belongings in Arkham, since that meant I wouldn't be able to see him in the flesh, all the while done up in his classic clown mask.
What am I thinking? I inwardly scolded myself. That guy's dangerous. Better to stay away. Besides, I'll be lucky to even see him at all, make up or no.
Anyway, because of that, The Jokers name was being thrown around all over the Asylum, and everyone was on their toes. Like me, a lot of the nurses had never been in the same building as the Joker before, considering nurses are constantly changing at Arkham. There were a few older, worn out nurses, and the Jokers arrival seemed to barely affect them, if at all.
With his admittance back into Arkham, Gotham let out a sigh of relief, content in knowing that the madman was off of the streets and locked up, even if only temporarily. For Arkham employees, however, we never got to breathe that sigh of relief. When he's in the Asylum, we have to be cautious, and when he's on the streets, we still need to be cautious. We never escape from the loonies we lock up in here. You can take the person away from the asylum, but you can't take the asylum away from the person.
Despite that, I decided to work here instead of a cozy hospital up north like my mom wanted. I did occasionally wonder what it would have been like if I decided to make my internship at the hospital a full time thing, and just leave Arkham. But I knew that would never actually happen, and so did my mother.
Arkham was exciting, unlike a cozy little hospital, and by working here I got the opportunity to see various complex minds, no matter how deep into insanity they may be. I'd much rather be in Arkham and help the loonies, than be in a Hospital and talk to people who're merely depressed or just need to get something off of their chests.
Even with all that said, however, I'd yet to talk to a truly insane person, or anybody at all worth noting. I'd only had three patients in the three months that I'd been at Arkham, and none of them were real cases.
The first man, Tom Davis, strangled his girlfriend and claimed madness to get out of the slammer. Through the sessions, though, I'd discovered that he didn't want to get out of jail, but into Arkham. He was a hardcore Joker fan, and only wanted to be in the Asylum with him. One could argue that loving the Joker alone was lunacy in itself, but the court decided to send him to jail 2 weeks ago. Too bad for Davis, he just missed the clown.
The other two were both girls, a dog walker who would kill the canines, and the other a bride-to-be, if it wasn't for the fact that she killed her fiancé. Both were sane, and only taken to Arkham to be examined for 'precautionary' measures. I haven't had any real cases yet, and it was getting tiring.
I knew I was fresh out of College—nobody failed to remind me of that fact every day—, but I always had the highest grades in all of my classes, and although I wasn't cocky enough to think I was even close to ready for someone like The Joker, or even The Riddler or Harvey Dent, I at least wanted someone who actually needed help, somebody with a complex mind that I could immerse myself in.
I already knew that I would be looked down upon for my young age, twenty six, and my appearance didn't exactly scream of maturity. I had considered dying my hair brown at one point, but quickly decided against it. They would see in time that I was capable of handling more serious patients.
Even with all that said I still stubbornly wore my reading glasses which, in all honesty, didn't help much with my sight, but was successful in giving me a slightly more dignified look.
I shoved all personal thoughts to the back of my mind to deal with later as I continued walking, planning on heading straight to my office to fill in the last of my paperwork on the fiancé-killer.
I turned when I thought I heard my name, and looked over to a circle of nurses who were whispering furiously, their eyes occasionally darting over to me. Even though I'd been working here for three months, the gossip and criticizing hadn't exactly ceased (not that I expected it to until I could prove myself) but I didn't think a few nurses who would probably quit at the end of the month, in tears no less, had any right to be whispering about me.
The dull leftover pain of my headache stopped me from caring, however, and I decided to just block them out as I passed by them and to my office. Once I entered my office, though, I was met with a sight I wasn't exactly expecting.
Dr. Patel, the head honcho of Arkham, the Director who ran the place when Dr. Arkham wasn't here (and that was basically all the time) was leaning against my desk, the front of his slicked back hair falling into his left eye.
I stood in shock for only a second before I reacted, closing the door behind me. I looked at him uncertainly from behind my glasses, and he pushed up his own.
"Dr. Quinzel," He said, his strong voice seeming even louder in the small, quiet space of my office.
"Dr. Patel. I assume you're here to collect my notes from the Walker case? Just allow me to get them in order an—"Patel raised his hand, silencing me. He couldn't have been much older than me, late thirties to early forties, but he still gave off such an air of authority that it felt as if I was speaking to someone who was both of our ages combined.
"Dr. Quinzel, don't assume what I'm here for before I have a chance to actually reveal it. You of all people should know better than to jump to conclusions." He raised an eyebrow at the end, His green eyes not letting go of mine. I didn't miss the message.
"Of course, Dr. Please go on. But if it isn't anything urgent…" Leland had asked me to hand in those notes soon, and if he was just here to try and tell the newbie to get him a coffee, he could go straight to—
"Oh, I assure you, it is urgent. I think you'll be quite pleased with what I'm about to tell you." He swept his brown hair out of his eyes now to get a better look at my reaction, and we both knew what I was thinking. He was going to give me another case, wasn't he? Patel stood there for a moment, staring at nothing and rubbing the little bit of stubble he had, which was slightly gray, showing where he couldn't dye.
Despite the situation, I found myself hoping I didn't get grays so young. Then again, if I stayed here, I'd probably go gray by thirty.
Apparently Patel realized that his dramatic pause had done nothing but cause me to lose interest, and he cleared his throat and took off his glasses, putting them in the front pocket of his lab coat. "Contrary to…Popular belief, I know you're an intelligent woman, and I'm going to give you a chance to prove me right. I hope you won't disappoint."
My mouth opened and I shut it quickly. I had guessed he came here to give me a bigger case, but I didn't actually think he would. "Sir? You're giving me a new patient? Who is it?"
My eagerness seemed to be the reaction he wanted all along, and he basked in it, dragging out the silence, tormenting me. "As high as my hopes are for you, we both know it would be unrealistic to put you with the high-profile patients—they have broken doctors with fifteen years of training in as little as two minutes. You're going to work your way up."
I already knew that. What, did he think I was so arrogant as to assume I was going to get Harvey Dent or something?
"I understand that, but who do you have in mind for me?"
He took a second, his green eyes going up to the ceiling, as if searching through all the patients in his head. I bet he was, actually.
"Don't worry; I'm sure you can handle it. Just come in tomorrow prepared, and I'll take you to the examination room first thing." Patel was walking past me now, ready to leave, and I almost turned to stop him. Almost.
Pestering a man like him wouldn't get me anywhere, it'd just annoy him, maybe even take everything back. Plus, you love surprises right? And he wouldn't give you someone too over-the-top If he didn't think you couldn't handle it.
I watched him open the door, and he murmured a quick "Good day, Dr. Quinzel," before shutting it behind him.
As soon as he left I took a seat at my desk and stared at nothing for a while. My eyes went out of focus and I was too lazy to sharpen my vision, so I didn't.
What if this is just big lead up for nothing? I pondered, tapping my finger absently on the wooden desk. Is that why he didn't want to tell me the name? Because it's nobody to get excited about?
But then again, I argued back, I don't really care if it's some low-profile, unknown thug. Sure, it'd be exciting to have somebody high-profile, but like Patel said, baby steps.
My phone buzzed in my pocket then, snapping my vision back into focus and I rummaged around in the white coats oversized pocket to retrieve it. I wasn't surprised to see that it was from Selina.
Her text was about her day: How she treated a dog with rabies for the first time and how she sworeit bit her, which led her to rant about her strong dislike for dogs and how cats were superior and why. I smiled and was planning to respond a quick 'As long as your rabies aren't contagious, we can still be friends' But then it occurred to me I had news of my own. I began typing furiously.
No argument here. I'm a cat gal. But I don't understand how you can care for animals all day. Though, I guess I can understand in the sense of wanting to help living things. But still.
Speaking of helping things, Patel's giving me a new patient tomorrow. Sounds like it's going to be my first real case.
I hit send, and now that I'd told somebody about it, the realization hit and the excitement slowly started to bubble up in my stomach. I bounced in my chair, but quickly restrained myself; people thought I was ditsy enough as it was, God forbid somebody walk in on this display.
She replied quickly, gushing and as happy for me as I knew she'd be. Selina and I were about the same age, her having only a year on me. She worked in an establishment that served as both a pet store and a vet, and I met her when I went to go buy a cat.
I never actually did—I just wanted something to make my apartment a little less lonely, but it wasn't worth all the effort to look after it, especially with such a stressful job. Leaving the TV on in the background was good enough.
It wasn't a complete waste going to the pet shop, though, considering I left with a friend. We'd been gal pals ever since. She was my only friend In Gotham (considering this wasn't my home town, as one could tell as soon as my faint accent reached their ears), and she seemed like the solitary type too, so we were a perfect match.
She had to get back to work, and so I slid my phone shut, returning it to its place in my pocket. She wasn't the only one who had work to do.
I gathered the notes from the top drawer of my desk, the ones Leland would need for the courts, and hastily pushed myself off of my chair to find her. She wasn't too hard to find—kind of like an NPC in a video game: she was in certain places at certain times.
Right then, it was about 11:00 (I had spent more time staring off into space and talking to Selina than I'd thought) and so I knew she'd be clearing up her office, getting ready for lunch. Once I made my way there, I knocked and waited for her to open up.
I was soon met face to face with the mature, mid-thirties, dark-skinned psychiatrist, and she greeted me with a warm smile. She was giving me a kind, but clearly curious look, but she quickly realized what I was there for when she saw the clipboard of notes in my hands.
"Dr. Leland, I'm here to hand in my notes for the Walker case." I said it a little sheepishly—it just seemed unnecessary, since she already knew what I was there for, but I couldn't just say 'I assume you know why I'm here'. So, I wasn't very surprised when she answered:
"Ah, the notes. Yes, I figured that's what you came for. Thank you—" and she leaned to take them from me, raking them over with her eyes quickly before holding the clipboard closely to her chest. "—for all of your hard work. If I'm not mistaken, I hear you'll be getting a new case tomorrow. Congratulations, Dr. Quinzel. You deserve it."
I waved my hand in front of me as she spoke, but couldn't help feel a little happy that she had acknowledged it. "Ah, it's no big deal. And please, call me Harley. Quinzel just sounds so formal, and Harleen is for my mom."
She chuckled and I stood there, slightly awkward, smiling at her. Joan looked up at me sadly then, and the change in expressions took me off guard.
"Are you sure you'll be okay, Harley? You've only been here three months, and I know that's plenty of training for normal psychologists, plus the internships you've been through…But these patients…Are you sure you don't want more time? I can go talk to Patel if you're not feeling comfo—"I cut her off swiftly, suddenly feeling betrayed by her lack of confidence in me. Didn't she just say I deserved it?
"I'm sure it'll be fine, Joan. You know Patel, he's a by the book kinda guy. He wouldn't give me somebody he didn't think I couldn't handle, even if I begged him."
After I said this, Joan went from looking sad to guilty, but placed a hand on my shoulder and smiled anyway. "You're right. I suppose I'm just worried about you. I've seen older people than you come in with yearsof experience on their backs, and leave the same day, sniveling and cursing the Asylum. I just don't want to see a young woman like you with such potential and high hopes to be…shattered."
I attempted to smile as sincerely as I could, but it probably looked more like a grimace at this point. I knew she was worried about me, hell, if I was her I'dbe worried about me too. But you had to take the training wheels off sometime. How was I supposed to become "experienced" anyway, if they kept denying me the experiences?
I touched her hand on my shoulder, gently prying her fingers off of me. "It'll be all right. Plus, my young age gives me an advantage. No trauma, no divorce…They can try to pick me apart, but I'll hold. I'm a big girl."
Joan smiled despite herself, and nodded once. "I'm sure you're right. Well, good luck tomorrow." And with that she turned herself around and placed my notes on her desk, keeping her back to me until I left.
Although Leland's reaction had visibly irritated me, it also motivated me. Just another person to prove my worth to.
I had nothing to do for the rest of the day, since I finished my notes earlier than expected. So, I grabbed a coffee and headed to my office, hoping it'd keep me awake for the rest of the day.
They say it's not good for psychologists to take their work home with them, but I'd yet to meet anybody who actually followed that motto. As soon as I got home, I leapt into action: looking through old psychology books I'd gotten from college, and researching all of the high-profile crazies online. He did say to prepare.
Someone I always seemed to go back to was Jonathan Crane, a psychologist who was now locked up in the very same Asylum that he had worked at.
He was a psychologist, just like me, which was what caused me to continuously look into him every now and again. Who knows if he was every truly "normal", but the thought that the same thing could happen to me was, admittedly, unsettling. That was the main reason I wanted to talk to him, though.
If he was sane at one point, what drove him over the edge? A patient? Or was dealing with Arkhams inhabitants as a whole just too much to handle? If he couldn't take it, then how could I?
I distracted myself from that train of thought by concentrating especially hard on the article I was reading, and continued like that for about an hour before my eyelids started to get heavy. I threw my glasses on the bedside table and crawled into bed still fully clothed, suddenly feeling too exhausted to do anything.
I only had time to ponder who I might be assigned to tomorrow for about thirty seconds before I fell into a dreamless sleep.
The lack of nerves I felt the previous day finally seemed to kick in, and I decided to go without coffee, considering how jittery I already was.
My hands gripped the steering wheel until I heard the squeak of the material clench beneath my hands, and I loosened up a little, tapping my index finger furiously on it instead.
I looked myself over in the rear view mirror, my eyes the first thing I checked. They were particularly glossy at the moment, which they always were in the morning. I wore the same make-up as usual: no eyeliner, no eye shadow, just a touch of mascara to make my dark blonde eyelashes a bit darker.
I didn't need blush, my cheeks were already rosy enough. In fact, I looked downright flustered, and I rolled down the window a bit, hoping the cool wind would wash the heat away from my face.
I wore a simple gray long-sleeved V neck sweater, along with a black pencil skirt and black heels. My glasses were still perched on my nose, and I considered abandoning them today, in fear that my mystery patient might somehow know they were only for decoration, but decided against it.
Stop being so paranoid, Harley.
Easier said (or thought) than done. I was out of The Narrows now, the Asylum becoming visible a little ways up.
My foot pressed harder on the gas, going a little over the speed limit, just anxious to get there and find out who I would be working with.
I almost forgot my lab coat when I parked, and quickly grabbed it from where it lay strewn on the passenger seat, sliding into it as I speed-walked into Arkham.
I barged straight into my office, and Patel was leaning on my desk once again, this time with two orderlies on either side of him. They were both well-built and intimidating looking, and this in itself was a sign that I was finally getting someone serious.
Still, it was against my policy.
"What are they doing here?" I asked, waggling my finger around vaguely, referring to the two body builders.
Patel seemed to expect my question, and leaned forward. "I understand, Dr. Quinzel, that you feel the presence of orderlies will make the patient unwilling to talk, or put a hitch in the gears of mutual trust. That was easy enough to abide to before, but now that you'll be dealing with more serious patients, I'm afraid whether or not these men accompany you isn't up to you, but me. It is for your own safety." I wondered how many times Patel repeated that in his head for it to sound as scripted as it did.
I must have been making some sort of face, because Patel added, "If it's any consolation, only one will be accompanying you in the session."
"Muchbetter," I tried to sound sour, but I was too excited over the fact that this was finally happening—that I was finally going to be on a case that I could gush about to my mom, a case that I could brag about to Selina.
Patel was looking at me with the same guilty sadness that Joan had been looking at me with yesterday, and I clenched my jaw.
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket then and I knew it was from Selina. She texted me last night after I fell asleep, desperately asking me if I knew who I was assigned to yet, and told me to let her know who it was first thing.
Sorry, Selina. Not even I know.
Yet, I added inwardly as I followed Patel down the hall and to the examination room.
Once we reached the outside of the room that my mystery man, or woman, was inside, Patel spun me around, placing his hands firmly on my shoulders. He wasn't exactly the touchy feely type, so my expression was a little more surprised than it should have been over such a simple action.
"Harley," He said my name firmly, and carried on low and quickly, "Do not show fear, do not disclose any information about yourself, do not give them anything to use against you. Keep what you say to a bare minimum. The point is to get them talking, not you. Remember that you'rethe psychologist, not him."
I already knew all that. The only thing I really picked up from all of that was 'him'. So, it was a he.
That narrows it down.
"He's already restrained and waiting for you—and, before you say anything, yes, he doesneed to be restrained. Once again, this is the real deal. If things get out of hand, the orderly is there, and you can end the session at any time. Send her in."
Patel and orderly #1 stepped back to let me and orderly #2 pass, orderly #2 going in before me. For safety, I guessed.
Orderly #2 was walking in front of me, and painfully slowly. I stood at a mere 5'5, and who knows how tall he was, but his back was in the way of me seeing my new patient. Finally he took his position a ways away, leaning against the wall to my left, and I let my eyes slither over to my patient.
His head was turned slightly down and to the side, looking over at the orderly, I presumed, judging by the way the muscled man seemed to tense (and you could see it, too. His muscles were so defined you could literally seeevery single one tense up.)
My eyes were back on what I could see of my patient. He had curly hair, which was many different shades of brown and…was that green?
I shut the door behind me, still keeping my eyes on my patient as I did so.
Upon hearing the door shut, my patient finally, finally turned to me, confirming my suspicions.
And I wish he hadn't.
He was without his greasepaint, but the face itself was unforgettable. The dark eyes that I had seen so many times in articles were now staring at me, and the signature smile that twisted his scars in that unforgettable way was now because of me.
And that voice. The voice that I had heard so many times in brief news clips, the voice that was usually directed at Batman, or society in general, was now addressing me personally.
"Well, hel-lo there, Doc-turr. I was starting to think you forgot about lil 'ol me."
I didn't realize I was backing away until the door pressed against my back.
It was him.
The Joker.