Dr. Mirrel stared at her ceiling. She had barely talked to anyone that day after the meeting with Joker. Not that anyone noticed. But she felt so embarrassed. It was wrong, sick to like a murderer like him. When she first saw him, she was horrified. Disgusted. Those scars repulsed her. But now, it was all gone. He was in her thoughts and no matter what she did, she couldn't shake it off.

What's wrong with me? Why do I feel like this? she thought. I swear, he's a hypnotist. He's hacked into my brain.

Of course, she didn't feel just one thing about him. It was never that easy with the Joker. No, she felt...disgust...and...awe...and annoyance... distress...and...a deep, deep fascination...and there, at the very bottom, not love, more like lust. Just a silly infatuation.

She wanted more. He was just too interesting. She couldn't refrain from thinking about him, in the same way one can't look away from a car crash. She then shook herself mentally. Who are you? she thought desperately.

The next day, she went to the asylum early and asked if she could be called off helping the Joker case.

"Why? Whatever's the matter?" asked Jon.

"Nothing. It's just...he really, really freaks me out." She couldn't say he was getting to her.

"If it's absolutely vital...and you fear for your sanity then, of course, Sarah," said Jon, looking at her pleading eyes, "we can put your sister on the case."

"Thank you so much, Jon," came her relieved reply. Her more strong-willed sister could more than handle him.

"Are you off from working with Lecter, then?"

"Oh, no, him I can handle," she said sarcastically.

They both grinned.

"Very well, we'll transfer you to...erm...Benjamin Kertz. Paranoid schizophrenia."

"I owe you one, Jon."

Meanwhile, the Joker was half-awake in his bed. He always just drifted in and out of sleep and mostly just had cat naps, never deep sleep.

How hilarious. She is hooked. She'll be a worthy pawn, I just know it. She will rue the day she crossed me, thought the Joker before slipping into another light sleep.

"Dr. Mirrel will no longer be helping out with this case, Jok- patient 34029." It was a light, cool female voice.

He sat up. Who said that?! Was it in his dream or did it come from the loudspeaker?

"Why not?" he asked out loud.

"The reasons as to why are nothing to do with you."

"Yeah! I'll bet they aren't!" he scoffed.

...Was it his imagination, or did he hear a sweet, stifled giggling?

"You're new here, aren'cha?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you're laughing!"

It started again, sweeter and louder, music to his ears.

"Ye-Yeah, I'm her siste-"

"That's enough, Dr. Quinzel!"

Ah, Dr. Quinzel. He knew he'd like her. He could just imagine her; tall, slim, maybe brunette like her sister and a flowery, girly perfume to match her melodic voice. Oh yes. He was gonna like her.

"Breakfast, patient 34029," said another familiar, gruff voice. A tray was shoved through the cat flap.

"You seem to have confused my breakfast with the dog's," he murmured, rubbing his eyes.

Faint giggling.

"Will you quit with the jokes?" the loudspeaker bellowed.

The Joker shrugged, and with a sigh, got out of bed and crawled towards the breakfast. Today was Tuesday, so that would make it...limp toast with a tiny box of butter and sour orange juice to go with it. And sure enough, when he got to the tray, he was right. The asylum absolutely adored routine. Routine was everything at Arkham asylum. No matter what, the staff at Arkham always strived to keep its routine. That was tough, though. Because the Joker didn't like routine.

"And what's my doctor's opinion on this?" he said lifting the tray up to the camera, making its contents fall off with a splash, a dull clunk and then a splat.

A frustrated sigh. "Very well. We'll be back shortly with your breakfast."

10 minutes later, as The Joker ate his high-sugar breakfast, the other doctors left the doctor's lounge. All but two.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel gazed intently at the screen, her eyes bright, unaware Dr. Lecter was staring at her shrewdly.

"Seen anything you like?"

She turned around quickly, surprised.

"Er, w-what do you mean?" she said, looking at Dr. Lecter. Unlike the other doctors, she wasn't terrified of him, but then again, Harleen never read newspapers. She remembered what her sister told her when she first got her job at the asylum. You'll want to watch out for Dr. Lecter. He's- he's mentally insane.

Well, then, why is he a doctor? Harley had asked dubiously.

He's the only one who can help us on the Joker case, was Sarah's reply.

Ever since Sarah said that, Harley was hooked. Really? That crazy? Tell me about him.

But Sarah refused to say any more. That really got Harley fascinated. She looked him up and read all about him but still wanted to learn more. How great would it be to work on his case! But no. She found herself stuck with some boring kleptomaniac. And when he was cured, she moved on to manic-depressive Doris, who was fun, but she still longed for the day when Jon would come into her office and say, "You're being promoted to the Criminally Insane department." And when the day did come, it was a dream come true. But instead of the Joker, she was given the Riddler. He was fun too, but he just started getting a bit...predictable. Question after question, she felt like she wasn't going anywhere. Then-

"Your sister has turned down the Joker case, and we're one doctor short. C-"

"YES! YES! I-I accept!" she exclaimed. And that's how she ended up here. Of course, she wasn't his psychiatrist, but this was as close as she was going to get.

Lecter smiled but said nothing. Harley turned to face the screen again. The Joker had finished his breakfast, and was lying, his hands behind his head, staring at the white ceiling. To his two spectators (and a security guard who wasn't paying attention), he looked perfectly poker-faced, which Harley thought was a good sign. Dr. Lecter thought otherwise. Truth was, inside, the Joker was boiling with fury.

How dare she abandon me!? How dare she!? Reasons have nothing to do with me, HA! Coward. How I HATE that, he thought. He was, of course, referring to Dr. Mirrel.

Dr. Mirrel ran all the way home and slammed the door behind her.

"Rough day at work, sweetie?" asked her husband, looking up from his newspaper.

"You have no idea," Dr. Mirrel replied.

He smiled. James Mirrel had always found the fact that his wife worked in a mental asylum extremely funny. He went back to his newspaper.

Dr. Mirrel felt an odd, depressed feeling, like she had taken the trouble to go into the tunnel and had just found out there's no light at the end of it. She glanced at her dull, 52-year-old husband and understood why she had that peculiar sensation, though the very thought of it horrified her. She simply didn't love him anymore. Wait. There was no "any more". It slowly dawned on her she had never loved him.

She then got a panicked feeling, the sort you get when you realise you've lost your wallet or you're lost and walked swiftly to the bedroom before he could see it.

She locked the door behind her. What happened? Where did it go wrong? She had heard this happen to a lot of her colleagues. The wedding's great, you're full of dreams, but as the years drag on the flame just fizzles out till you're left with nothing but ashes. This was the classic situation with everybody. But...did she even love him to begin with? No. She had convinced herself she loved him and that was final.

It all started when she left university. He was a part-time lecturer, they got talking and he asked her out. She accepted but she felt nothing. Not even a spark. But she had never fallen in love. She thought this was how you were meant to feel. And he was interesting, mildly funny. He was OK. She had gone on dates before, sure, but they were all either really boring or a disaster. This was her first good date. So when he proposed she accepted. How could she resist? He had a degree in law, a good job as a solicitor, he was sure to be faithful (cheating would be way out of his league), and her parents (especially her dad) would definitely approve. Besides, declining would be out of the question. She had always been shy and humble, the complete opposite of her vivacious sister, Harleen.

Harleen, of course, stuck up her nose at him. "How can you like him?" she asked Dr. Mirrel (just plain Sarah then) one night when they were doing the dishes after he had come over for dinner. "He's all old and boring. Doesn't he ever have difficulty, you know, getting it up?"

"Harley!" hissed Sarah.

The relationship between Sarah Mirrel and her sister had always been a bit rocky, ever since...well, Harley was born, really. Their mother had bought baby Harley from the hospital one day and whispered to 7-year-old Sarah, "Well, what would you think we should call her, sweetie?"

"Oh um...Harley! Call her Harley, mom, like the harlequin clown person! Harley Quinzel, get it, mom? Harlequin!"

Her mother liked the name. So did her dad. So Harley Quinzel it was. But Harley grew to detest the name. She didn't think it was funny. She hated the curl of her teacher's lip whenever she said the name and the smirks from the other kids. She blamed her sister for all of this, because, after all, it was her sister who came up with the name. But despite their differences, they got on OK. Most of the time.

"I'm telling you, it's a bad mistake," Harley mumbled to her sister. "What's love without lust?"

And, of course, Sarah ignored her and went on to become Sarah Mirrel. (The "Dr." part came in later, when she got her degree in psychology.) It was only now, slumped in the corner of her room, she realised her sister was right. Where was the lust?

...What was lust?

But she already knew. Lust was what she felt every time she thought of the Joker. She knew it would be impossible to try and push this new alien feeling to the back of her head, as she did with most feelings. It was too strong. She would have to just keep quiet, shun anything to do with him and hope it would give up on her. Whether or not he gave up on her, however, was another matter.