"Well, these are very impressive qualifications, Dr. Quinzel," said Dr. Bartholomew, head doctor of Arkham Asylum, as Harleen sat opposite him in his office. He looked from her file to her, studying her with a look of bewilderment on his face. "You're probably overqualified for a post here, actually."
"Oh," said Harleen, surprised. "Well, I'd…really like to work here, Dr. Bartholomew, even if I am overqualified."
He shut her file. "Why?" he asked, lightly.
Harleen opened her mouth to respond, but he held up his hand. "No, let me guess," he said. "You're an ambitious young woman, and you don't want to be stuck in a dead-end psychiatry job your whole life. You want fame and fortune, and you want them now. So you want to have access to our patients here, the most flamboyant and colorful lunatics in the whole world, so you can write some sort of tell all book about them, which will become an instant bestseller, and catapult you onto stardom. Is that about right?"
Harleen stared at him. "No, that's not…right at all," she stammered. "I'm not…interested in fame and fortune, and I'm certainly not interested in writing any sort of book that would violate doctor-patient confidentiality like that. I don't know why you have that impression…"
"Oh please, Dr. Quinzel," snapped Dr. Batholomew. "An attractive young lady like you can't seriously want to waste your life trying to cure these incurable nutcases. The only reason anyone would want to work here is to somehow use these pathetic lunatics' celebrity to their advantage. Believe me, I understand – I do it myself. The news media and the tabloids both pay me a huge amount to give details on the lives of the inmates here, not to mention granting interviews."
Harleen was silent. "I…was under the impression that this place was a hospital, not a freak show," she murmured.
Dr. Bartholomew glared at her. "Oh, you think you're so much better than us, is that it?" he murmured. "Very well, Dr. Quinzel – you're welcome to join our staff, and see how things really work around here. But don't blame me if you don't last long. Competition is fierce among the doctors for the best story. Once Batman drags the Joker back, we'll start you off with him. If you can get a true word outta him, you'll be a miracle worker. But I daresay he'll just give you enough lies to write a whole volume of books."
"I don't wanna write a book!" snapped Harleen. "I want to help the mentally ill! That's why I'm applying to be a psychiatrist, not an author!"
Dr. Bartholomew sighed. "Well, personally I don't believe psychiatry is a suitable profession for a woman," he muttered. "But I do have those damned bureaucrats on the board breathing down my neck to fill up the female quota…"
He smiled at her. "Welcome on board, Dr. Quinzel," he said, holding out his hand. "Assuming you still want to work here, of course?"
Harleen stared at his hand, her mind whirling. She didn't want to work for this sexist, horrible man. She should stand up and just leave, but that was obviously what he wanted her to do. And where would she go? She had come to Gotham to work at Arkham, and she couldn't leave Gotham and go back to live with her parents again. Anything was better than that, even working for this man. And it wasn't likely she would have to work very closely with him – it was the patients she would have to deal with. Patients like the Joker…
His image flashed in front of her face again. She had to see him, to thank him properly, to understand why he had saved her. She had been thinking about it all night and into the early hours of the morning. It didn't make any sense. She had read about the Joker as Batman's main antagonist, a heartless, homicidal psychopath motivated by a cruel sense of humor that involved hurting masses of innocent people. A monster. And yet he had saved her. Why?
Her curiosity to answer that question, and her burning desire to prove herself, to this sexist pig as well as herself, got the better of her common sense. She shook Dr. Bartholomew's hand firmly.
"Thank you, Dr. Bartholomew," she murmured. "I'm sure I'll be very happy here."
He was surprised, to say the least, but that quickly relaxed into an easy smile. "I can't wait to tell the board," he said. "A woman working here at last. They're going to wonder what you did to get this job. I'm sure they'll suspect it was something immoral."
"I hope you'll deny that," retorted Harleen.
"Yes, of course, naturally," he said lightly, returning his attention to some files on his desk. "You may go now, Dr. Quinzel."
He enunciated the work doctor mockingly, and it irritated Harleen. As she left his office, she prayed that her contact with him would be limited, so that she could control her desire to punch him in the face.
"Great start to the new job," she muttered to herself, heading down the hallway.
"Woah, talking to yourself – we lock people up in here for that!" laughed a voice. Harleen turned to see an attractive young man wearing a labcoat and smiling at her. "You come for a psychiatric evaluation?"
"Actually, I came for a job," snapped Harleen. "Which I got, thank you very much."
"Really?" said the man, surprised. "That's not like Dr. Bartholomew, hiring a pretty young woman. What did you do to him?"
"I don't like the tone of that question," retorted Harleen. "I gave him my qualifications, and nothing else."
"Hey, no need to get offended – it was just a joke," said the man. He extended his hand. "I'm Dr. Tim Baker."
"Dr. Harleen Quinzel," she said, shaking his hand. "Have you worked here long?"
"Sometimes it feels like ages," he admitted, nodding. "But it's actually only been about six months."
"Are you enjoying it?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Depends on the patient, as you'll soon learn. Some of them are a nightmare. Crane, Jones, the Joker, but he's not here at the moment. And some of them are very cooperative, like Isley. Although she may not be to you, being a woman and all."
"What does that have to do with anything?" asked Harleen, puzzled.
He shrugged again. "Isley likes…young men. Y'know."
"You mean she opens up more to male doctors?" asked Harleen.
He laughed. "Yeah, you could say that," he agreed. "You're funny, anyone ever tell you that?"
"Uh…no," said Harleen, sincerely. "Er…thanks, I guess."
"I meant it as a compliment," he said. "I admire any woman who can stand up to old Bartholomew. If you stick around, maybe we can drag him and this asylum kicking and screaming into the 21st century."
An alarm suddenly started blaring. "Speaking of kicking and screaming," muttered Dr. Baker. "That sound means a patient urgently needs a sedative. Gotta run, Dr. Quinzel, but I'll see you around. I'm really looking forward to working with you," he said, hurrying off.
"It's…uh…Harley!" she called after him. "Everyone calls me Harley."
"Harley," he repeated, looking back at her and grinning. "Nice meeting you."
"Nice meeting you too," she said, gazing after him. It was a relief to know that all the doctors here weren't like Dr. Bartholomew, she thought, as she headed out of the asylum. Maybe she had a chance of being happy here yet.