Disclaimer: Unsurprisingly, I don't own Batman, or the Joker, or Harley, or anything.
A/N: I've been obsessing about Harley and the Joker a fair amount lately, for whatever reason, so I felt I needed to try my hand at a slightly different Harley Quinn origin story. It always rang a little false to me-the way she started out with an M.D. and then ended up as the Joker's ditzy moll. And she's always portrayed as *so* stupid...Well, this is my different origin story. My apologies if Harleen seems out of character-that is sort of the point. Constructive criticism welcome but please no flames or I will make sad puppy-dog eyes. Also-with regards to the rating: there is nothing explicit in this story. There are, however, strong adult themes in one of the later chapters. Please use discretion! (I'll make a note on that chapter as well.)
Part I: A Job Offer
The phone rang in the darkened apartment. Harleen groaned and rolled over, staring vaguely at the ceiling, blinking sleep out of her eyes. Why was she awake again? The phone rang again, and this time she groped for it, but her hand caught the top and knocked the receiver from the table. She rolled over and made a few half-hearted motions. Finally, she managed to bring it to her ear.
"Hello?" she mumbled.
"Dr. Quinzel?"
The voice was cool and professional. Harleen struggled to waken herself, but her voice cracked with sleep as she replied. "Yes, speaking."
"Ah. Well, Dr. Quinzel, I'm happy to tell you that we'd like to offer you a job at Arkham Asylum."
All the sleep flew out of her head, to be replaced by a blank astonishment. For a long moment she felt nothing, and then excitement surged through her. "Oh—" she said. "Yes—thank you."
"If you could give us a call back in the next week or so, telling us your decision—"
"I want the job," she blurted, her hand shaking, her knuckles white on the receiver. "Thanks. I—thank you."
There was a pause. The voice, sounding faintly surprised, spoke again, "This is Arkham Asylum. Arkham? In Gotham?"
"Yes, I know," she responded, a little puzzled.
"Well, if you're sure, then we'll send you a follow-up e-mail; you'll be able to start work in a few days."
"Thank you!" she squeaked again. Setting the phone down, she flopped back on the bed, her insides churning with excitement. She hadn't really dared to hope; for a resident fresh out of medical school to get exactly the job she wanted…she hugged herself and reached under the bed to pull out her old worn stuffed bear. "Hiya, Mistah Cuddles," she grinned, allowing herself to lapse back into her old accent. "Guess what? Harleen's goin' ta be a real doctor!"
Several days later, she agonized in front of her closet over what to wear. I want to look professional, but not intimidating, she thought. From what she knew, Arkham was a garbage dump, a place to throw the people no one else could deal with, a place, Harleen thought, that everybody liked to forget about. Her brief interactions with the staff had already left her with a deep distaste for them. They didn't care about anyone—not their patients, and not the people who had been harmed by said patients. They were just in it for the money—the reputation. Well, Harleen wasn't going to be one of them. She was going into this because she wanted to help people. To save them. To remake their shattered minds and from there, remake the shattered world they left in their wake.
She picked the black trousers and white blouse. Professional and as far from feminine as she could. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she saw a cool young woman with dark circles barely visible beneath her blue eyes and blond hair carefully pinned up out of her face.
"Okay, Harls," she said to herself, using one of her mother's old nicknames for her. "You can do this."
She arrived at Arkham exactly on time and was directed to the office of Dr. Rickner, the head of administration. He barely glanced up at her.
"Name?" he said, in a bored tone of voice.
"Harleen Quinzel—this is my first day."
"Uh-huh. Okay, looks like your first interview is at ten. You've got time before then to pick up the keys for your office and get your photo taken for your photo ID. You'll want Key Services."
Dr. Rickner shuffled briefly through his desk, then handed Harleen a stack of folders. "These are your dossiers, you'll be working with some basic cases at first until you get the hang of it."
"All right. I'll do my best."
The fervor in her voice made Rickner look up at last. Though he was jaded in the extreme from his long tenure at Arkham, something about the calm idealism of her face sent a brief spark of pity through his rather dried up heart. "Dr. Quinzel," he said.
"Yes?" She turned at the doorway.
He raised a laconic eyebrow at her. "Don't let them smell fear."
She gave a false little laugh. "Dr. Rickner, I promise you I'm qualified to handle the patients here."
"Oh," he said, with a wry cough. "I didn't mean the patients."
By lunchtime, Harleen was beginning to appreciate what Dr. Rickner had meant. The senior staff at the asylum were standoffish and brusque, the junior staff were derisive—several times she had already had to fend off unwanted advances from Dr. Sterling—and the orderlies spent their time trying to play stupid practical jokes on her.
The interview at ten didn't go too badly. Granted, the patient didn't say anything to her and seemed vastly more interested in the ceiling than in any of her carefully phrased, welcoming questions, but on the other hand, he didn't become violent or agitated, so Harleen was inclined to count it as a success. Her next interview was at one, and was supposed to be supervised by one of the senior staff.
"Great," she mumbled into her sandwich at the corner of the cafeteria. "I'm back in high school, and I'm gettin' graded."
She knew, of course, how short-staffed Arkham was, and how badly she would have to do to be given a really bad report, but she was still nervous. Her fears were not allayed when Dr. Sterling, with a smirk, handed her a note saying that her supervisor had been delayed and the room and the interviewee had been changed.
She glanced down the sheet, realized with dismay that she didn't have a dossier on the patient in question and turned to ask Sterling, but he had already vanished. Typical. He was probably hoping to make her look bad. Glancing at her watch, she decided she didn't have time to get the patient's file from Rickner, but she managed to find one of the asylum's beat-up old computers and did a quick once-over from the basic search results. Homicidal tendencies…who didn't have those in here? Manic delusions, obsessive personality, sadistic sense of humor. Sounded like a real charmer. Well, she'd see what she could do in this session and then see if she couldn't find out whether anyone had put him on medication yet, since from her (albeit short) experience here, it seemed as if everyone was woefully undermedicated.
She took one last deep breath before heading off in the direction of the interview. To her surprise, it was in the basement of Arkham, which she'd thought was where the most dangerous patients were kept. But if they were letting her down here already, she must have been wrong.
She had to pass two security checkpoints. The guards down here, who hadn't seen her, raised their eyebrows at her, but let her past, and to her surprise, Sterling was waiting for her.
"I thought you were going to be late," he said snidely.
"I'm never late," Harleen said shortly. "What are you doing here?"
He put on a wounded look. "I'm just trying to help you out. Everybody's been putting bets on our talented new recruit. Your next interview is in room 3A."
"Um…thanks," Harleen said, eying him suspiciously. He smiled at her.
"I've gotten the room all set up and everything. It's just this way."
He took her elbow in a way she wasn't at all sure she approved of and steered her over to a room, where a harassed-looking security guard was talking rapidly into his intercom. He blinked at them as they arrived.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," Harleen said. "I'm Doctor Harleen Quinzel, and I'm supposed to be speaking with a patient in this room?"
"Yes…oh, Doctor Sterling," he said, looking at her companion. "Are you sure these orders are correct? I was under the impression that—"
"Yes, yes," Sterling said. "I'll take care of it. Just let Dr. Quinzel in, will you?"
"All right…" the orderly said. He pocketed his walkie-talkie with another nervous glance and unlocked the cell. "In you go, Miss. And do be careful."
Harleen almost reproved him for calling her 'Miss,' but decided against it. Even if it was a little sexist, it was politer than anyone else had been all day.
"Thank you," she said, and stepped inside. The door swung shut with a heavy clang, and suddenly there was a knife pressed across her throat.