Sorry its been so long - RL has been a kick in the teeth this fall. Just a warning, there are changing viewpoints all through this chapter. I've tried to divide them up clearly, so I hope its not too confusing.
The main problem with Gotham was the lack of color... drab sky, drab clothes, dour faces, too much glass and concrete. Gotham-Gray even permeated the trees, leaving the expected vibrant browns and greens looking sickly and muted. In fact, without faith in the basic, fundamental combination of pigment and light, Gotham might just convince you color was a figment of your imagination. Take night-time, for example… less light equaled less color. The pigments may remain, but without light to shine upon them, they added nothing to the city-scape. What the city needed was more pigments, more lights... splashes of red glowing underneath the light of bright fires would be the perfect solution to a city wallowing in its own miserable, colorless existence.
Staring around the file-room, he spotted 'Q', and smirked when the file-drawer revealed the folder with the name he was looking for. He ripped out the bundle of aging pictures... art, she called it... from the over-sized file cabinet, and spread them out on the floor, hoping to find actual file notes on Harley. Disappointingly, the file contained only the results of her art therapy sessions, and her notes about other patients. He glanced at them, considered lighting them on fire, but then noticed the vibrant colors, enticing enough to make him sit down and rifle through them. The drawings were pathetic tales from sad lives, and their universally kindergarten-like structure glaringly conflicted with their grisly content. Neither the tales, nor the structure, nor the content, intrigued him. No, it was the color, only, that attracted his attention and made him smile. The yellow fires, green and purple mayhem, and blood-red death displayed the only message worth sending. Based on her notes, even Harley didn't see it... but she would. After all, she was the one who, with only a crayon, started showing the world what color and a little light could do. And with Arkham's help, the world would soon see more... much more.
Tossing the rest on the floor, he picked up his newly designated favorite and mused over the little stick figures, one headless and another without legs. Another stick figure, carrying an axe and smiling, sat on the stump of tree. A bleeding-blue sun blazed in the top corner, and a little house spewed yellow flames off to the side. Flipping the paper over, he noticed neatly scribbled notes about the vivid use of color, all correctly used except for the blue sun. Apparently, the author of the notes determined that stick figures being the same size was important, as was their relatively even spacing from each other - missing body parts aside. Below the neatly scribbled notes were a few, more precisely penned, notes. Diagnosis - psychopath. He grabbed a few more of the pages he'd tossed on the floor and flipped through them, noticing a striking difference in the first author's notes about each piece, but the same diagnosis given each patient by the second author. Shaking his head, he marveled at Harley's ability to get anyone in the dingy asylum to reveal their secrets with no weapon other than a crayon. He picked a crayon up and examined it closely, wondering what secrets it might reveal about him. Then he laughed, and drew a sickening smile on the wall in burnt umber, before crushing the crayon under his foot. Grabbing the construction paper effigies, he headed out of the art room to find author number two.
Crane frowned. "So, in exchange for Ms. Quinzel's..."
"DoC-Torrrr"
"Fine... Doctor Quinzel's safety, I'll be getting what exactly..."
"You, you, you. Everyone is SOOoo demanding. What you get... doc... is your freedom."
Crane smirked. "Thanks to Dr. Arkham, Dr Quinzel is too high profile to be a good candidate for one of my... experiments. She has nothing to fear from me."
Rolling his eyes, he feigned amusement. "Ha! Doc, I just knew you had a sense of humor... nothing to fear from you... good one." Suddenly serious, he pointed at Crane, making sure the glint of the blade had Crane's full attention. "Our deal is that you keep Dr Quinzel busy, and in one piece, for the next week or so... make it look good, you know... and I'll make sure you, uh, get out of this dump."
Crane stepped closer and adjusted his glasses. "Why?"
"I thought you were a crow, not a cat... you stick to your shiny experiments, hmm, and don't ask too many questions. They'll get you killed, you know."
"Well, it seems we've enticed Dr. Quinzel to come back to us. What does he want with her?"
"I've no idea, nor do I care."
"What am I supposed to do with her? I scarcely believe you are going to agree to therapy sessions with her."
"That is your problem, Dr. Arkham, not mine. Just keep her out of the maximum security ward, and away from my... test subjects. She proved rather annoying last time, wanting to 'help' them, and she started to notice their disappearances."
"I suppose I could assign her to the outpatient ward for now, just as a test period."
Crane smirked. "Don't worry yourself overmuch, Dr. Arkham. I doubt she'll be your problem for too long in any case." He straightened his glasses. "Which reminds me… you will bring her to me when I tell you, and not sooner. Until that time, she needs to believe I am a regular inmate on the maximum security ward... safely locked away."
"So you do want her as a test subject? Crane, there's too much media attention..."
Crane raised his hand and Arkham's protest died in his throat. "I suggest you continue doing what you are told, and not waste time worrying about events you cannot control."
"Bruce, it will be fine. The asylum is heavily guarded, and they have high end security installed throughout. I'm sure it's even better than when I was there before, and it was pretty well locked down then."
"I'm a member of the board. I should be able to come with you on your first day... what do they have to hide?"
Harley rolled her eyes, then smiled and took his hand. "You don't have to walk me to school, you know. I'm a big girl now."
Bruce frowned, but didn't pull his hand away. "Don't you think it's strange they want you to stay for the whole week? I can easily have a car, or helicopter, drop you off and pick you up every day."
She tried to stifle a laugh, but wasn't entirely successful. "As if there isn't enough media attention on this, you want to fly me around every day in a helicopter, just across Gotham?"
"Just until I can be sure you'll be safe there. You know Joker broke out of there each time he was incarcerated, so the security can't be all that great."
"Yes, but he was breaking out, not breaking in. I'll only be dealing with Dr. Crane, and I'm sure it will be under heavy guard and heavy supervision. Unless Crane plans an escape, I don't think I'll be in anyone's way."
"There are a lot of innocent victims from those other escape attempts."
"That was Joker, not Crane."
"Yes, but now there's this other guy..."
"... who is running loose in Gotham, not inside the asylum."
He ran a hand roughly through his hair and blew out a big breath. "I still don't see why you want to do this. It puts you in the spotlight and in the path of countless criminals, a lot of really violent criminals... and don't forget, some of them may know something about this other guy running around..."
"Well, maybe I can find out something useful while I'm there."
"No. Harley, don't start playing detective with these guys, ok? Its bad enough you're going to try and get them to reveal their deepest, darkest secrets to you."
"Bruce, it'll be ok, I promise."
Whistling, she tried to ignore her tingling nerves as she walked down the stark, fluorescent-lit hallway, instead focusing on the way the little tune bounced off the walls around her. Idly, she wondered if her twitchy reaction was merely a phantom from her first stint at the asylum, or something more serious. A lot had happened at, and to, the asylum since she'd last been down these halls, not the least of which had been at the hands of Joker. Her overactive imagination, combined with flashes of newscasts from years ago, supplied her with grisly images from his first escape, a little over a year after she'd last been present. So much had happened in the years since, but she still missed him, felt guilty over missing him, loved Bruce, and was conflicted even further because it was her love for Bruce that kept her strong while walking down the hallways where he'd inflicted so much terror. Whistling a little louder, she tried to drown out her memories and think, instead, about her re-introduction to the asylum.
Her meeting with Arkham had been... interesting... to say the least. She hadn't felt sleaze roll so easily off a single person since the last time she'd bought a used car, but she hadn't detected any lies or misdirection specifically during their talk. Bruce didn't trust Arkham, and after meeting him, she felt exactly the same... feelings of misdirection and slight of hand emanated from his very being. He'd told her exactly what he'd told Mike Engle: he thought her art therapy might get through to Crane in a way other therapies had failed. She questioned what would happen if the therapy failed, both to Crane and to reputation of both the Asylum and Dr Arkham himself, but she got only smoke and mirrors for an answer. She'd seen enough to know Arkham would most likely attribute any failure with Crane directly to her, but she did get him to promise to allow her to videotape her sessions and keep any artwork created. She had no way to hold him to that, except the threat of Bruce Wayne breathing down his neck, which did seem to have some effect on the otherwise imperturbable man. He was mildly discomfited to find out how critical an eye Mr. Wayne would be keeping on her progress, but without knowing more about the nature of Mr. Wayne's interest, Arkham assumed it was only the interest of a concerned board member regarding the use of a newer therapy, on a maximum security patient, by a barely-out-of-school therapist. She smiled.
Reaching her new, and most likely temporary, office, she unlocked the door, flipped the light switch and blinked at the dusty desk and empty bookshelf before her. Clearly the office had been unused for quite some time, and she had a vague recollection that Crane had once used this office prior to becoming director of the asylum. Why it had been kept locked up was a mystery, but one she was unlikely to solve, given its state of bareness and her lack of time to dedicate to this particular puzzle. Instead, she located towels in the nearby restroom and started cleaning out a space for herself and her art supplies, which were currently locked up in a storage unit in the basement. Dr. Arkham had promised to have them retrieved and brought to her office while she was getting 'settled in'. She paused her relentless massacre of dust bunnies long enough to admire the sunset out of the small, barred window in her office. She was pleasantly surprised she had a window, enough so the bars did not distress her overmuch, although they were a curiosity. They were on the outside, which would normally be to keep someone locked inside, rather than on the inside to keep out an intruder. Why a doctor would need to be locked inside the asylum was yet another puzzle she wouldn't have the time to solve. The window was so small that only a slight person, like herself, stood any chance of squeezing through, and she had doubts about even that, so it was very unlikely the window would serve as much of an escape route, or method of entry for that matter. But, she supposed the Asylum had just barred all windows equally, rather than pick and choose. Still, it was an oddity in keeping with the oddness of the entire Asylum.
Unbeknownst to her, another was smiling and whistling the same song. Dressed in a guard's uniform, he stopped outside her open office door and kept his face lowered in shadow. Keeping his voice even, he barely contained his amusement.
"Where do you want these, Ms. Quinzel?"
"Doctor Quinzel, and assuming 'these' are my art supplies, you can just leave them here in my office."
He smirked at her frustration, but noted how she didn't turn or acknowledge him in any way. He'd taught her better than that, to be more careful, to never let her guard down and yet here she was, in the middle of an asylum for the criminally insane where anyone, like him, might be running loose, acting like she had no cares in the world. Well, there was a time for everything. and he'd make it a priority to remind her just why she shouldn't be so trusting. He stepped inside the office and dropped the supplies on the floor, slipping a calling card inside for her to find later. He left the same way he'd come, whistling the same tune. As he disappeared around a corner, he grinned as he heard the rapid clacking of her heels coming into the hallway behind him.
"Wait! Where'd you hear that song?"
He didn't answer, and was well enough ahead of her that even if she followed, she wouldn't find him.
She returned to office, unnerved by the guard and wishing she'd taken the time to get a better look at him. He'd obviously been close enough to hear her whistling earlier, but she didn't remember seeing anyone as she'd walked down the hallway. If she could have at least seen his face, she could have kept an eye out for him, since he'd obviously noticed her. She knew better and kicked herself for acting like the naive psychology intern she'd been so many years ago… as if she hadn't learned anything since then. Even Bruce had warned her not to let her guard down because she was in a new environment, more or less, and surrounded by unknown people in a place of questionably safety. She shook her head and went back to cleaning, this time facing the door. The art supplies had been unceremoniously dumped on the floor, but she'd worry about them later. She needed a place to set them up first anyway, so for now, they were staying put. However, glancing at them was enough to bring back more memories from her first employment at the asylum.
(Arkham Asylum - Three and a Half Years Ago)
"Yes, Ms. Quinzel?"
Dr. Crane's continued refusal of professional courtesy grated on her nerves. She knew, by now, that not calling her Doctor was his entertainment... his way of testing her. She'd only been at the asylum a month before she'd dared to correct him, and for her efforts she'd been assigned a schizophrenic whose main trouble lay in his lack of personal hygiene. Sucking it up, she'd shut off her olfactory senses and worked diligently with Artur. After Artur's first successful voluntary shower, she dared to correct Dr. Crane again because she felt it was a matter of professional pride that she not allow him to walk all over her. He tested that pride by assigning her a serial rapist with a fervent religious delusion. The day she was able to work with Roger without him being restrained, she corrected Dr. Crane the third, and final, time. That day, however, she'd been so certain her success with her patients would at least earn her a grudging respect, that when Dr. Crane laughed at her, she lost her composure and told him exactly what she though of his attitude. But, as they say, the third time is a charm, and after the third time, she never corrected Dr. Crane again. After her rant, throughout which he remained utterly unmoved, she saw the shadows dancing behind his eyes. He enjoyed pushing her buttons, and she could easily make the next logical jump that he enjoyed seeing just how hidden, or accessible, those buttons were. She hadn't given him the satisfaction since, although he persisted in his attempts.
"Joan just told me that you've reassigned one of my patients to yourself... again."
Crane looked up at her with empty eyes, then smirked... the contrast was extremely disconcerting. "Yes. I find that Mr. Solomon requires a different treatment than the one you are able to provide."
"Have you read my case notes? Eric has made substantial progress working with me. When he came here, he had no control over his thoughts, and now he can focus for short bursts. He is able to have lucid conversations!"
"Yes, well, he came here over four months ago and you are just now making baby steps in his treatment. Frankly, his incarceration is almost up, after which he will be paroled."
"He can't be paroled, he's not ready!"
"Precisely, Doctor Quinzel... he only has two months of recovery time left, and based on your past record, he would hardly be ready for release, would he?"
"He still doesn't understand what he's done... he's barely able to talk about what he had for lunch today. Even if you miraculously give him complete control over his mental faculties, there is still the question of him being a danger to society."
Crane sighed, patronizingly, then snapped his notebook shut and folded his hands calmly on top. "That is what his parole is for, Ms. Quinzel." He stood and ushered her out of his office, locking the door behind them. "Regardless, he is not your patient any more, so I suggest you refocus your efforts on those few you have left." He crisply walked away from her, not glancing back.
She muttered under her breath, glaring at his retreating form. "My patients actually get paroled. When was the last time one of your patients left this asylum?"
She walked slowly back to the minimum security ward, giving her usual glance down the side hallway to the securely locked double steel doors. The elevator to maximum security was the only thing concealed by those doors, but it presented a constant temptation. As an intern, she wasn't allowed on the maximum security ward - not even during her orientation tour. Over the past months of her internship, she'd tried to causally ask guards and nurses for any information or stories... she'd settle for rumors... of what went on up there, but they would all react the same way. They'd tense and look away, then mumble something about a confidentiality clause in their job description. The fear, written on each and every one of their faces, was almost as intriguing as its source... almost. She promised herself that she'd get up there, somehow, before her time at Arkham was over.
(Arkham Asylum - Present)
Arkham decreed she'd start out with a few low risk patients, just to 'get back into the swing of things', but treating Dr. Crane, in the mysterious high security ward was a delicious irony she was willing to wait for. She walked down the same twisting hallway to stare at the same secured double doors, and wondered how many days she had left before the ward's secrets were revealed to her. A chill crept up her spine, and she glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see a security guard, but the hallway was empty. She couldn't shake the feeling of being watched however, and she scanned the hallway until she noticed the security cameras carefully placed throughout the ceiling. She smirked at herself for being paranoid, gave the cameras a little wave, and went back to her office.
Leaning casually against the barely-cracked-open hallway door, he watched her take note of the security cameras and smiled at her paranoia. Maybe she hadn't gone as soft as she seemed. Everything was almost in place… very soon, he could start undoing the 'damage' done to her after living in the gray shadow of Bruce Wayne, and unleash the bright red liveliness that had been missing for far too long.
