Her black heels went clack-clack-clack, reverberating eerily down the large empty halls of Arkham Asylum. Thin black pencil skirt, modest blouse, and the crisp white coat that was standard for all psychologists at Arkham fit snugly around a petite blonde woman. A little ID badge hung loosely around her neck, the name Harleen Quinzel - Psychiatrist typed in small black print. Beneath, a picture of the woman, girlish face beaming hopefully out at the world. The face she wore now was far more serious, clutching a little binder to her chest like a lifesaver. She moved briskly down the halls, trying to ignore the nagging fear that told her to turn around and run, that she was a fraud, and needed to get out before anyone noticed.
It was true, she was the youngest psychologist ever accepted on staff at the Asylum. Sure, she had gotten fantastic grades in med school. Top of her class. People liked to whisper that she had given certain favours to the certain people, but that was bullshit. She had worked hard for her degree, and every damn bit of it had come from her. After-graduation proved to be the tougher time; unfortunately the world seemed to run on the principle of "It's not what you know, it's who you know", and Harleen didn't know much of anybody. Her residency was depressing to say the least, mounting debt and abysmal prospects had led her to find those people who would help her out for the right... favour. Everyone whispered about it because of her looks, her age, her background, and desperation had led her to stop giving a shit and do what she needed to do to survive. A little bit of work later and she had a transfer to Arkham in the works, residency unfinished yet somehow forgotten.
Harleen was no stranger to adversity. She'd grown up poor, in a cramped little apartment in Brooklyn with her mom, brother, and father (before he left). Often as a child she'd been lulled to sleep by the sound of screaming neighbours, gunshots, and police sirens. When she was young it had affected her deeply, being a sensitive child, but over the years a certain tolerance had developed. Her mom had worked three jobs to pay for Harleen's gymnastics, her singular talent, and she had poured herself into the sport, channeling all her frustration and despair into long, gruelling practices. It payed off, too. When she told her mom about the scholarship, she burst into tears. Finally, a chance at legitimacy, but she had had no idea then the discrimination she would face in school.
So, the Asylum circulated with rumours about how such a pretty face could have risen so quickly. Harleen didn't much care, not really. Let them talk. With a position like this, she really had a chance at paying for that surgery her mother needed, on top of affording groceries and rent. However... She really hadn't expected her first assignment to be with him. It was unthinkable, to say the least. It was as if, since dispensing with tradition in hiring her in the first place, the higher-ups had simply thrown the rule book right out the window. Perhaps the guy who'd gotten her this job had some sense of propriety and had worked to get her this assignment in hopes that she'd run home screaming after a week. Well, they'd just see about that. When people looked at her, they saw beauty, naiveté, blonde innocence, but with this opportunity, she'd show them that just underneath the surface lived fierce dedication coupled with a starkly undeniable genius.
The room was sparse, clinical, and Harleen sat rigid in her chair, pen tapping nervously against her notebook as she waited for them to bring him in. Her eyes flicked nervously to the clock, leg twitching rhythmically, and nearly jumped out of her skin when the door swung open, two guards half carrying in a gaunt figure, pale white skin and bright green hair creating a disquieting contrast in the harsh fluorescent lighting. His head was turned, gazing up at the burly guard on his right arm, speaking rapidly in a low voice while the guard scowled, and sweated, and stared straight ahead. Harleen uncrossed her legs, smoothing her skirt as the Joker's gaze shifted to her, eyes widening ever so slightly in surprise, and then it was gone, replaced with a slightly manic but also sincere-looking grin. Probably shocking for him to find someone like me here, Harleen thought, with only a touch of bitterness. She gave her head a little shake, to focus, and put her attention on the man before her.
He was bound quite completely in a tightly wrapped straight jacket, simple white patient trousers, bare feet. The guards sat him down on the little metal chair bolted to the floor, securing the straps with practiced efficiency. The Joker let them, silent, having not taken his eyes off of her. The intensity of his gaze, the focus, was extremely unnerving, and Harleen quickly looked down, fiddling with her papers. She'd brought little snippet annotations of the notes taken by the Joker's previous psychologists. It was very disjointed stuff, hopping around from tragedy to tragedy. Clearly part of the Joker's psychopathy was making up these theatrical stories, but the why of it was still unclear. Trauma was the only consistent theme- was he truly changed from some trauma, or is he mocking others who are? The guard's voice broke her out of her thoughts with a start.
"Ma'am. Prisoner secured." He gave her a little nod and both men took up a parade rest on either side of the Joker, staring forward blankly but obviously crowding the thinner man with their bulk. Harleen raised an eyebrow at the lead guard.
"The two of you may wait outside, thank you." She said it clearly and with an authoritative edge to her voice that visibly startled the older guard. He hesitated for a moment, eyes narrowing down at the Joker, who did not look up.
"Ma'am" he said again, nodding gravely to her before exiting the room, with the other guard close behind. Harleen watched the door shut and lock with an air of finality, suddenly painfully aware of the fact that she was locked in a small metal room with an insane sadist. Her mouth went dry, but she fought the urge to swallow, not wanting the Joker to see her discomfort. She looked up from her notes, eyes connecting almost instantly, glinting green eyes sending a jolt through her. He gave a lopsided grin at that, and began to speak.
"My, my, my, my, my..." He was shaking his head, "What did they send me this time? I don't remember being such a good boy." He eyed her up and down shamelessly, raising his eyebrows at her in a suggestive taunt. "Harleen Quinzel." He read aloud, keen eyes noting her ID badge even at this distance. Her breath caught in her throat at the sound of her own name. She caught a moment of drifting distance in the Joker's face, a slackness, before he abruptly snapped back. "Harleen." He drew out the word, tasting it. "What kind of name is Harleen, anyway?" he asked, leaning forward in anticipation. Harleen could hear the leather straps creaking.
"Dr. Quinzel is a bit more appropriate, don't you think? Your sessions are a time for us to talk about you, not me, Mr. Joker." She almost blanched as the sounds left her mouth. Mr. Joker? They had taught her to be polite and professional with your patients in school, but they hadn't really covered the potential for insane drifters with mononyms. She was struggling to keep her face blank, but the Joker had clearly noticed, as his grin split even wider, eyes closing in a sort of rapture before he threw his head back and laughed. It was dry, brittle, like broken glass, and it came shaking out of his body in little ebbs and flows that he allowed to pass through him with a childish abandon. Watching him, she almost felt a pang of jealousy, as she tried to remember the last time she'd honestly laughed aloud at anything.
When he'd lowered his head again, there were tears in the crinkling corners of his eyes. "No need to be so formal, Dr. Quinzel." He said once he'd gotten himself back under control, putting the slightest inflection on her title, mocking. "Joker will suffice, but my friends call me J." He gave a little wink, gaze searching for hers, demanding, while her own darted away, looking for any excuse not to meet. She heard him giggle again, and tried to steel herself. If she was going to make it in Arkham, she needed to be in control and make some semblance of progress with this man. Her eyes roamed, searching for a thread to pull.
"I like your tattoos." she said, "How long have you had them?" She asked it innocently, almost shy, face blank, but he immediately understood the implications. Truthful information about his tattoos could give them some sort of timeline on him, which was more than anyone had ever gotten out of the man. He was eyeing her suspiciously, but broke into a wide grin and a slow chuckle, head shaking back and forth. "That ones easy," she continued, pointing at the little J beneath his left eye, "It's your name. Is that the oldest one?" He had gone slack, reclining a little in the uncomfortable chair, but suddenly snapped forward towards her. A little gasp escaped her lips, and she drew her arm back sharply, fingers going to her mouth. The leather straps creaked sharply as he strained at them, inching forwards, and Harleen almost pressed the little wireless button she had to summon the guards, but the Joker was laughing quietly in a disarming and uniquely unsettling sort of way. Her fingers danced over the button and then fell away as he spoke.
"How about we play a little game, pretty bird." he cooed at her, "I'll answer your questions if you answer mine." His smile slashed wolfishly across his face, eyes dancing as he swayed back and forth in place like some charmed cobra. Harleen swallowed, knowing it was against policy to share personal information with patients, but she had to play this man's game if she wanted to get somewhere with him. Every psychologist in the past had followed the rules to the T, and pulled nothing from the Joker but lengthy diatribes on a plethora of subjects, each more insincere than the last. Jaw working nervously, Harleen gave a curt little nod, accepting the Joker's terms. "Great!" he barked, making her jump a little at the sudden noise, "Now," he continued more softly, "How did you get such an odd and lovely name as Harleen." He proceeded to stare intensely once more, like some great caged beast at the zoo.
She cleared her throat, swiping a bit of loose hair back behind an ear, before beginning, "My father wanted me to be a boy. He wanted to name me Harley, you know, like the motorcycles. Still did, when I came out a girl, but my momma insisted I have a more respectable name, in case I ever made something of myself. So they changed it to Harleen." The Joker was grinning excitedly, and she shifted uncomfortably, wondering if she'd given too much away in her simple explanation. He didn't react, didn't ask her any more, and was silent for a long moment before responding.
"This one was my first." He said gravely, eyes pointing exaggeratedly to the right, in the absence of hands, to where a tiny star decorated his right temple. "Because I always knew that I would be a star." He spoke with a dramatic, theatrical tone, "And do great things." His voice dropped at that, to something low and sinister that made Harleen squirm in her seat. She met his eyes then, deep and fathomless, and she wanted to unravel all his secrets, for her career, for her mother, she thought to herself, but beneath that was some level of fascination with the man. He was, after all, completely unique, a veritable genius in his own way, and she wanted to worm her way inside and see all there was to see from such a cracked and damaged psyche. Her eyes flicked to the "damaged" tattoo at the top of his head, something he easily noticed, and he crossed his eyes in a goofy attempt to look at his own facial tattoo. She giggled then, a quiet, girlish sound that escaped before thought, and the Joker looked immensely pleased by it.
Harleen almost peed herself when the door clanked open, harsh metal edges scraping noisily against the rough concrete, as the two guards made their way back inside. Her eyes flicked to the caged clock on the wall, startled that the time had passed so quickly without her noticing. Usually she counted down the minutes in a session, but this one had passed without her checking even once. The guards were unstrapping the Joker and hoisting him up, pliant, towards the door.
She managed to compose herself, flustered, just as they were at the door. "Same time next week, Mr. Joker?" she asked, in bold reference to her earlier stumble. He began to cackle, the guards half-dragging him out, and she heard him call out from the hallway, sing-song voice bouncing and echoing off the cold walls.
"Bye-bye Harley."