Chapter 2:

And so it past, after almost three months of campaigning and pleading her case to Dr. Arkham, Harleen had gotten what she wanted, despite continuing protests from Dr. Leland. She'd done so mainly by playing on the negativity of assigning one of their many psychiatrists to a case they didn't particularly want, and then presenting the idea that in order for someone like The Joker to actually get better, he had to have someone working with him who truly wanted to see that happen for him. And she'd done such a good job of acting like she was that person. Jeremiah had initially, of course, been opposed to the notion, citing the same concerns as Joan. Dr. Quinzel was just too young and too inexperienced. The Joker would eat her alive. But after nearly twelve weeks of asking what else they were going to do, and proving her worth through the competent treatment of her other patients, he relented, allowing her the opportunity.

"I promise you won't regret this Dr. Arkham." She thanked him profusely.

"Yes, yes. That's fine." He'd waved her off. "But I want you to report back to Dr. Leland after every session. Report back on your progress, if you make any, and talk over any concerns you might have with her. Is that understood?"

Harleen didn't hesitate to agree. She liked Dr. Leland besides. The woman had been nothing but kind to her, and had made clear the reason why she didn't want the young psychiatrist treating The Joker wasn't because she thought her unqualified, but simply because she didn't want to see any ill befall the girl.

"Further more, if you feel at any point that you are unable to handle the assignment, I want you to tell me or Joan, and we will immediately remove you, alright?"

Again Harleen agreed.

And so there she was, a week and a half later, sitting silently in a room reserved especially for high risk patients. It was a small space, about half the size of the room used for her other sessions, and completely devoid of any decoration, save for a high up over head lamp, which cast a weak and muted light, just barely enough to illuminate the area. Across from her, about fifteen feet back, sat a specialized coach, one which bore steel hoops along it's sides and ends, obviously designed to loop cuffs or chains through, or whatever other kinds of restraints were used here. As Harleen waited, she felt suddenly nervous, afraid even, she had to admit.

In the weeks she had fought for this position, she had researched The Joker as much as possible, reading up on every report and case study she could find, even reviewing the literally dozens of books about him already on the market. None of them, however, would come close in appeal to a first hand account of the manic, as told by his own, personal psychiatrist. Of that, Dr. Quinzel was certain.

And then the time came, the clock ticked over to 1 PM, and the door to the room quietly opened. She saw first a thickly built man, tall and muscular with short cropped hair and a neatly pressed security uniform. He held a look of unease as he entered, even unpleasantness, one hand dragging behind him.

And then she saw him, heavily restrained, thick shackles and cuffs binding his hands and feet, a long chain connecting the two pairs of manacles together, making severely limited any movement on his part, so that he could only take small, stinted steps if he wanted to keep his balance.

Harleen again felt her breath catch, like it had the first time she saw him. His appearance was shocking, to put it mildly. He was even taller then she had envisioned. Despite knowing his actual height on paper, seeing him there, only a few feet away, drove home to her just how tall 6'5" actually was. He towered above even the two guards who now guided him towards the coach, and his limbs appeared to stretch on without limit, his arms dangling past his hips, his legs endlessly long; accompanied by massive hands and feet. His hands in particular looked large, with long, slender fingers which brought to Harleen's mind images of a spider's legs. She figured, as she gazed upon him, that his height seemed enhanced by the fact of his all too slight frame. He was skinny. Adding to the affect even further was the contrast between him and the two guards. They looked to be 5'11" or 6' even, but their frames were far wider and stout then his own, their arms and torsos incredibly thick by comparison, and they seemed to move his body about with ease, like a rag doll, like he was weightless in their hands. By their side, The Joker was rail thin, and Dr. Quinzel found herself wondering how such a svelte man could be considered so dangerous.

And then there was his skin. Harleen could scarcely believe its color, or rather, lack thereof. It was paper white. Not off-white or fair, but actually pure, dead white. And this coloration ran even over his entire body, as far as she could tell. Not one point of deviation throughout.

He had a shock of thick, green hair, much darker then his eyes, almost black if caught in the right light, and it pooled behind his ears and over his forehead, disheveled and moderately long. His nails too were the same, dark green, cut short behind the ends of his fingers.

His lips were long, stretching across his face, and colored a deep red. Darker then she had imagined. And she noticed how a strange smile played about them. Strange in that, while the expression was a subdued one, it appeared as though he were on the verge of hysterics. As though, at any moment, he could break out in to fits of laughter. His nose was long and straight and perfectly proportioned from bottom to top. Not too thin and not too wide, his nostrils flaring out just enough to accomplish a Roman standard. His cheekbones were high and pronounced, and his chin was also long, though not distortedly so, coming to a somewhat fine point maybe an inch and a quarter from his lower lip, accompanied by an extremely strong and distinct jaw line. His brow ridge was surprisingly subtle, transitioning smoothly in to his forehead, and the brows themselves seemed finely trimmed. His ears, she noted, were sized medium, with small lobs and large, round tops, and laid flat against the sides of his head, a few strands of hair falling mostly behind and around them. Her gaze lingered about the different features of his face before looking back to his eyes, which sat somewhat sunken in to the sockets, the skin around them appearing darker then on the rest of his body, and she was transfixed as before by their intense and vibrant color, reminded of how they were clear and clean and bright, of how they looked somehow pure. Again, there was that same focus. He seemed never to blink. And that bizarre, intimidating intelligence, the one that made her feel like he knew something no one else did.

After a short time, she had to look away, overcome with the weight of his gaze, and she allowed herself, with some hesitation, to admit she found him somewhat good looking.

What he wore also caught her attention. Like her other patients, he was dressed in a simple, short sleeved, grey singlet and similarly loose fitting slacks with an elastic waste band. But what he wore on his feet differed. Where the other inmates she had seen wore rubber bottomed sneakers, with canvas tops and laces, The Joker wore slippers, which looked to be devoid of any rigidness, even in the soles. They were floppy and soft and barely stayed on his feet. Dr. Quinzel wondered why the sudden deviation from routine in that particular area.

She observed, as well, how the two guards, their nametags read Richard and John, handled The Joker roughly, pulling him in such a way as to make him lose his balance. Because of his cuffed feet, he couldn't properly keep pace with them, and was held up only by the support of their hands, gripping tightly about his thin arms. Harleen watched as they pushed him down on to the couch, one of them laying their palms against his shoulders, forcing him on to his back and holding him there, while the other produced another set of restraints and further chained his already shackled hands to the two hoops on either side of his torso. The same was done to his feet, looping the fetters through the metal rings at the end. The links were short, making limited any movement on his part.

The two men seemed nervous as they worked, a noticeable film of sweat having formed across the both of their foreheads, a slight twitching in their fingers and shoulders. Dr. Quinzel was fascinated by the display. The Joker appeared utterly composed. He wasn't at all resisting or giving any hint of physical threat. The guards man-handle his slight frame, flinging him about here and there, pushing him down, pulling him this way and that, and all without protest of any kind. What was more, they were roughly twice his size, at least, in terms of muscularity and thickness, and the young psychiatrist naturally associated those attributes with the two men also being stronger. And yet, they seemed deathly afraid, incredibly uncomfortable with having to handle The Joker at all, as though it were they who were compromised. Harleen wanted to find out why this was.

Once they had The Joker properly restrained, practically laid flat against the already bolted down couch, the slightly taller of the two guards came towards her.

"Dr. Quinzel?" He reached his hand out, and she stood, taking it politely. "I'm Richard Jenkins. And that's…" he turned to point to his counterpart. "John Ishum. We'll be in charge of brining the patient in and out for every appointment, applying his restraints, things like that." He began to explain.

She nodded and listened.

"The panic buttons already been explained, correct?" He asked.

"Yes. They've told me if anything occurs which I find unsettling, that I should just press the button, and you two will come and assist me with whatever I need."

Richard nodded. "That's right maim. We'll be stationed right outside this door." He pointed to the metal entryway on the other side of the room. "And if you should feel you need us for any reason, any reason at all, you just push that button there, and we'll be right in."

Dr. Quinzel glanced down at the small remote she held in her hands, decorated only by an unremarkable, black button centered across its middle.

"Otherwise," the guard began again, "We'll be here to collect the patient at 2 o'clock, at the end of every session. We'll be here on the dot."

"Understood." Harleen nodded, smiling sweetly but professionally at the man.

"One last thing before we go doctor…" He started once more. "It is advised that you stay at least fifteen feet back from the patient at all times. Any closer is considered an unnecessary risk. Just let us do all the handling and everything should be fine."

Harleen's eyebrows shot up unintentionally, furthered intrigued by the danger everyone seemed to regard The Joker as presenting.

"Absolutely." She said, confidence sounding distinctly in her tone.

Yet she found herself starring with uncertainty at the door after they had exited through it, and it had closed hard and cold behind them.

It took her a long moment before she was able to bring her eyes back to her newly appointed patient, and was again unnerved when she saw him starring at her, his face blank, free of any discernable expression. She fidgeted and, uncomfortably, cleared her throat before sitting back in the large, leather chair provided her.

"Good afternoon Mr. Joker…" She paused, putting forth considerable effort in keeping her voice steady. "My name is Dr. Harleen Quinzel. I've been assigned as your psychiatrist and will, from this point forth, be held responsible in administering you with once weekly therapy treatments… every Friday at 1 o'clock."

She kept her gaze trained on the small notepad which sat in her lap, absentmindedly tapping her ever present metal pen against the paper. When she heard no response to her introduction, she at last glanced upwards, and still, his eyes were upon her.