The maximum security wing of Arkham Asylum was silent. No yelling or screaming, or beating on the walls; no shouts of "The Bat!", "No, no, please...!", or "I'll get out of here and when I do SohelpMeGODi'LLpullOutYOurinTEStines&roAstTheMlikEsAUSages...!"
No. Quiet. And dark. The only light came from large glass windows at either end of the hall, about fifteen feet off the floor, locked and barred. The stripes of light illuminated garbage swept off to the sides and in the corners, and dust floated slowly and gracefully in the air. It smelled like a basement, damp and dirty and a little like old spices.
A noise in the dark: Footfalls along the hallway stirred the dust, broke the silence, shuffled the trash. The wing was disturbed.
Jonathan Crane walked slowly down the hall. Many of the names affixed to the doors were familiar to him, either from his time as the Asylum's head psychologist, or his new life as career criminal Scarecrow.
VENTRILOQUIST: Arnold Wesker. He wondered if they were still treating him for dissociative identity disorder, or if they had given up on him.
THE RIDDLER: Edward Nigma. Obsessive-compulsive, narcissist. But an all right fellow in general.
POISON IVY: Pamela L. Isley. Biocentrist, unable to establish connections with others. Well, except for one...
Then, a small room with a big lock. Jonathan burned when he read the name. THE JOKER. Hands instinctively clenched into fists, he walked on.
Finally, down at the end, almost as if forgotten, was the cell he had come to visit. HARLEEN QUINZEL: Harley Quinn. He stopped in front of the door and peered in through the glass window. There was a small lump huddled underneath one of the rough green military surplus blankets.
Expertly, Crane picked the lock of the cell door. No matter how many times they changed the locks, he was too familiar with his asylum to be kept in (or out) if he didn't want to be.
The door creaked as it opened, but the bed didn't stir. As he got closer, he could see long, wavy tendrils of blonde hair extended to the floor. Finally, he stood directly over the cot.
A slight woman lay there, long-limbed and frail looking. When was the last time she ate properly? He carefully moved the blanket down a bit, so he could see her better. Bruises like yellow-green bracelets circled her thin wrists, and he could see individual fingers clearly outlined. More bruises were on her upper arms and shoulders but these appeared to be fresh. They were almost certainly the result of a struggle with authorities; he recognized them from ones on his own body.
Jonathan recalled when he first met her. Newly appointed head of psychology, Crane felt on top of the world. Soon enough, he would be teetering on the edge of power and madness as Scarecrow, but for right now, he was just enjoying his large office and big brown oak desk.
Reclining in a plush chair, he took pleasure in imagining his new responsibilities, and the privileges he would have (and exploit). There were many things he needed to do now: He would need to hire a secretary, of course, and he would need to assist in finding a replacement for his position as therapist...
The door opened a crack as someone knocked three times on the door, followed by "Knock knock..."
Crane froze, irritated, and waited for the rest of the door to open.
"I just wanted to stop in and say hello. I'm gonna be the new therapist around here, and I heard you were the head, so I just thought I'd make myself known." So they'd found a replacement without him.
The young woman stood in a pair of fitted black slacks, with a breezy polka-dotted blouse. Her blonde hair was pulled back, a few tendrils hanging loose around her ears. Her eyes, almost as blue as his own, sparkled with mischief as she wiggled her fingers at him flirtatiously. He hated her immediately.
"Harleen Quinzel's the name," she had said.
Over time though, she had proven herself to be more than competent as a therapist. Digging deeper into her records, he saw a soul nearly as manipulative as his own: breezing through college by bribing professors, wangling a position in Arkham.
Eventually, they moved on to casual coffee chat, and he pondered what it might be like conducting his experiments in fear with...an assistant.
Then she went and got tangled up with The Joker.
He had looked at her files before coming to the asylum that night, and none of it surprised him. She had been apprehended during a robbery, while assisting The Joker, who remained at large. Typical, he left her to fend for herself.
Her pale face was clean now, but remnants of her painted mask lingered in the inner corners of her eyes.
He remembered the last conversation he had had with her, the last time he had seen her. She and The Joker had just had a fight. She had said or done something he found disrespectful or impudent, you never could really tell with him.
This had been a few months ago, and, unsure where to turn with Ivy in Arkham, Harleen had come to Crane. He was hiding out in a disused apartment in the Narrows of Gotham that he had once used as a drop-off point for drugs stuffed in rabbits when he had been working for Ra's Al Ghul. She had been very badly injured, with a visibly deep gash near her scalp.
With as much professionalism as he could muster, he had helped her be seated on a ripped couch cushion. He brought her painkillers, and a rag and saucepan filled with water so she could wash away the blood trickling from her forehead.
"At first, I wore the makeup like a disguise. I didn't have to be Harleen anymore; I was Harley Quinn. I felt like wearing the makeup made me more like him, more like The Joker. I wanted to show him that I was willing to do anything for him.
"Now I wear the makeup to hide the bruises. I don't want people to see them and get the wrong idea. My puddin' loves me, he really does! But when I mess up, I gotta be punished so I can learn to do better next time.
"I'm tellin' you, though, don't worry about me, Jonny! I'll be fine, really."
As she spoke, she tenderly wiped the blood away. Every now and again she winced with pain. The cheap makeup she wore was smudged by the water, and trails of her pink skin appeared underneath.
For a moment, Jonathan felt a stirring inside him; although he was conscious that it was highly inappropriate he recognized the beginnings of arousal. It was so intimate, seeing underneath the face she touted to the world as her "real" one, to the flesh and blood woman she had discarded years ago.
His excitement was quickly quashed as she rubbed the smudged makeup off of her eyes, only to reveal a deep red ring around her right eye, that was quickly darkening to a plum color.
Jonathan couldn't stop himself: "Did he do that to you?" He already knew the answer, but his throat still felt tight as he asked.
"Well...yeah, but I don't think he knew what he was doing. He doesn't know his own strength sometimes." She shrugged, biting her lower lip.
Crane had always meant to tell her that he was there for her. But he supposed she must have known it in some way, since she had thought to come to him at a time when she was at her lowest. Still, there was so much unsaid.
Standing over her cot, late at night in Arkham, one of the most hopeless places on Earth, Jonathan Crane slid his hand across her once soft blonde hair, now coarse from bleach and dye. He stopped, with his hand next to her tiny ear, his thumb lightly rubbing her temples. Her skin was soft. He had somehow expected cold marble, fragile porcelain. But it was warm, pliable. He almost imagined he could feel her blue veins pumping underneath his finger.
"You could have worked for me," he said. "But I didn't act fast enough. I never told you.
"You could have been mine."
Crane left the room. Reset the lock. Walked back down the hallway. His sweeping steps brushed the garbage in the opposite direction, and by the time he was gone, everything was back to the way it had been before he arrived. And yet...