Apparently, the little outburst that had occurred on Q's first day in Arkham had earned her and the rest of the inmates a day in solitude. It only meant that they weren't allowed to exit their cells, and were individually served their meals. It wouldn't have been that bad, if it weren't for the incessant crying of the woman in the cell next to Q's and the crashing of the brute on the opposite wall. Q was certain that that woman had been crying for over two hours, for reasons Q had no idea.

"Would ya please just shut up?" Q barked, exhaling sharply as she glared at the ceiling. A roar sounded from the room to her left, whilst a collection of sniffles came from her right. Q smiled softly, drumming her fingertips along the mattress of her bed. Finally, she thought. Silence.

"It's not my fault!" The woman sobbed on Q's right, followed by a dull thump on the wall.

"Look, lady, I don't wanna hear your excuses. I'm trynna get my beauty sleep." Q said, pity lacking in her voice. She turned on her mattress so she was laying on her side. The springs dug into her ribs and waist, but she ignored the sharp strikes of pain and let her hand dangle off the small cot onto the cold floor. She trailed circles into the concrete with her nails, the movement rhythmic and slow.

"B-but I can't!" The woman wailed.

Q sighed, coming to a conclusion that any attempts to shut this lady up would be futile. "That's a real shame, miss," Q said, trying to muster up any sympathy in her voice. The woman began crying again, muttering incoherent syllables that Q couldn't be bothered to comprehend.


Q woke up the next morning in one hell of a mood. She had not gotten much sleep that night, as the woman beside her had given up crying, and began unabatingly scratching against the wall. Q noted to suggest that the guards declaw her, since she was going at it all night.

Yawning widely, Q scanned the common room, realising she was one of the first few inmates to arrive. The room was mainly empty, save for a few patrolling guards and early-birds. She took a curl of her blonde hair, delicately twirling it as she took a seat in a squeaky, swirly chair.

"Good mornin', sunshine!" A cheery voice sang. Q swivelled around in her seat, looking accusingly at the ginger in front of her.

"Huh," Jerome chirped, tilting his head slightly. "I guess you're not a morning person."

"I'm not a person person." Q replied brightly, followed by a wide, malicious grin, like a cheshire cat.

A man with round glasses approached the duo, a grim expression on his face. "And who might you be?" He inclined to Q, the ghost of a smile resting on his cracked lips.

"This is Q - weird name, I know." Jerome immediately answered, grinning at the older man.

The man nodded, almost in approval. Q remained expressionless, watching the man as if daring him to do something. They locked gazes, and Q sent him a bold wink. "Nice to meet you, Q." He said. The man curtly nodded, then turned and slouched in a chair not far away, and began picking through a ragged magazine.

"I guess he's not much for introductions," Q remarked, peering over her shoulder at the stranger, before looking back at Jerome.

"That's Sionis. He's got a lot'a cash - the guy's a millionaire." Jerome said casually, his gaze darting around the room, which was slowly filling up with groggy looking inmates.

"So how'd he end up in here?" Q asked, the question provoked by boredom, not curiosity.

"He killed twenty five people." Jerome told her, avidly leaning forward across the table, with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. "Just for fun."

"When are you bein' promoted to the president of his fan club?" Q teased in a bubbly, high pitched voice with a faint, playful smile.

"Hey, I'm merely praising him for his work. Real impressive, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you." Q raised an eyebrow.

"He can get you anything you want in here." Jerome added, choosing to ignore Q's previous comment.

"Like what?" Q asked, intrigued.

"Stuff the guards won't let you have." Jerome told the blonde, and left it at that. "Y'know, you've got a funny voice." Jerome mentioned, letting out a short giggle. "Where're ya from?"

"New Jersey." Q said, nodding proudly. "We moved to Gotham when my dad got a job at this hell hole."

"Really? Your old man worked at Arkham? D'you think I met him?"

"Who knows?" Q shrugged nonchalantly, not caring. Jerome leaned forward on the table once again, resting his elbow on the white surface with his chin in his palm. Q looked down to examine the table. There were splashes of colors, prominent against the bleak white. Q was pretty sure one of the stains was blood. She ran a finger along the table, raising it to study the dust she had collected.

"So, Q. What's your real name?" Jerome queried, smiling maniacally. Q looked from from her finger to Jerome, brushing the dirt off the tip of her finger and folding her arms on the table.

"Why'd you want to know?" Q shot back, tilting her head and letting her blonde hair tumble down her side.

Jerome shrugged. "No reason." He assured. "Are you not gonna tell me?"

"Yep."

Jerome pouted, and rested his chin in his palm again, whilst occasionally kissing his teeth.

After moments of silence, Q pulled her legs up onto her chair to sit cross-legged, her palms spread widely on the table. "What'd'ya do for fun 'round here?" She asked vivaciously, with a childlike smile.

Jerome grinned menacingly.


Q and Jerome were hurrying down a dimly lit corridor, laughing uncontrollably like misbehaving school girls. Jerome stopped around a corner and yanked Q to his side, and the two couldn't hide their grins as they stood, frozen with their backs to the wall and panting heavily.

"Are they still followin' us?" Q asked Jerome, who was peering around the corner with a collection of files tucked under his arm.

"Nah," Jerome confirmed, looking back at the girl. Her blood was rushing in her ears, the adrenaline still pumping. "We lost 'em." Jerome retrieved the files from under his arm and held them out in front of him. A single strand from his ginger hair had fallen loose, and was dangling down against his forehead.

"Harleen Quinzel, huh?" He said, almost mockingly.

"Don't start." Q immediately replied, resting her head against the wall and clenching her eyes shut.

"No - I like it. Kinda sounds like harlequin."

". . . like harlequin - I know." Q finished Jerome's sentence with him, both coming to the same conclusion at the same time. The blonde ran a hand down her face. "I was never a fan of the name Harleen."

"That's where the nickname comes in, then." Jerome said, nodding. He twisted his lips to the side, as if considering something, then passed her records to Q.

She flipped it open, beginning to read. Q shook her head and muttered profanities at all of the nonsense they'd written about her. "D'you see this?" Q screeched, flinging the papers in Jerome's face, who was busy digging through his own. She firmly pointed to a small line of text. "Violent outbursts? Since when?" Q flailed her arms in disbelief.

Jerome simply raised his eyebrows, glancing from Q to the writing several times.

"I bet it was that goddamn Mrs Darson. She's had it out for me since she saw me kick her stupid little cat when it was in the driveway. I'm tellin' y-"

"Who gives a shit what they write about you in this? Most of it is all bullshit anyway." Jerome spat, giving the papers back to Q, who grumbly closed the file and crossed her arms with the records dangling from her fingertips.

Q pushed off from the wall, slowly trailing her fingers along the wall as she walked to the nearest window, that was incredibly small. It was strange not to see her quiet neighborhood, but at the same time it was comforting for a new change of scenery. The few trees that were scattered around Arkham's grounds were swaying due to the slight breeze.

"Enjoying the view?" Jerome questioned behind Q.

"Anything's better than these ugly gray walls." Q sighed, turning on her heel and facing the taller boy. He was holding the files behind his back. Q watched him intently, scanning his face, which was void of any emotion.

He pursed his lips. "Why didn't you go with Harley?"

"Huh?" The monosyllable rang out in the hallway. The dim light cast long shadows along Jerome's face, as he tipped his chin in thought. The silhouettes of the pair were barely moving, just watching each other expectantly.

"Your nickname's Q - but it would make more sense if it was Harley." Jerome clarified.

"True," Q agreed, quirking her head to the right and nodding.

"What are you two doing over there? It's past your curfew!" A voice called. Q snapped her head to where the sound originated from, just as a pool of blue light shone in the duo's eyes. Q had to squint to spot the large, burly women with a greasy black hair pulled into a tight bun that came bustling down the hallway, her baton raised.

"Yikes." Q breathed, her eyes fixed on the approaching guard.

"I'm pretty sure we can outrun him." Jerome whispered to Q, who had somehow maneuvered himself so he was slightly in front of her. He discreetly tugged on the fabric of her dress.

"Jerome, that's a her!" Q laughed. She spun around and took off, forcefully grabbing Jerome's arm and yanking him along.

For the second time that day, the pair found themselves sprinting down a hallway away from a guard, unable to conceal their spirited laughter.