Full Summary: Dr. Harleen Quinzel – formerly known as Harley Quinn – is an unwilling agent of Arkham Asylum. An expert in Rogue psychology and behavior, she's utilized by Asylum staff to help solve difficult criminal cases as part of the terms of her incarceration. Until the night a government representative appears with a request for her help and a promise too good to be true. As her investigation into this unusual case continues, Harleen encounters a mysterious, powerful, yet strangely familiar woman who brings her face to face with truths neither of them can ignore.
And Gotham will never be the same.
Author's Note: I've been playing around with the idea for this story since about 2017, but with most of my creative efforts focused elsewhere (Deluge, specifically) I never gave myself the time to properly delve into it. As my writing capabilities have grown, I've discovered it's more beneficial for me to work on multiple projects at once as being able to switch between them helps me avoid burn out. So, I'm going to be writing this in conjunction with finishing up Deluge, with the aim of publishing at least one chapter a month for each project – including the eventual 15k word behemoths. My plan is to keep this story in the 150k word range, as opposed to my other, let's say more sprawling, projects.
This will be a Noir-inspired fic taking place in an alternate timeline, the details of which will be revealed throughout. I've been itching to do an in-depth character study of both Harley and Ivy since I was a kid, and now I'm finally giving myself the chance to do so. Please note that this story will, in typical Noir style, contain dark and heavy themes centered around living with and recovering from trauma, psychosis, Dissociative Identity Disorder, and sexual abuse (however, no instances of sexual assault will happen onscreen, it will only be referenced in past tense). I have firsthand experience with all of these matters and will be portraying them with as much care as possible, but they are serious subjects, and I don't want readers to be taken by surprise. I will include warnings in the notes as needed for heavier chapters, though readers should expect discussions/portrayals of mental health disorders and their scarring throughout.
In addition to the subject matter, I've applied the "M" rating to this fic because it will contain coarse language, instances of violence and graphic imagery, and (consensual) sex.
Finally, a huge thank you as always to my wonderful creative team and partners in crime, maserspark and HeartbeatDivinity, who never turn me down when I show up with another story idea or chapter in tow. I thank the universe every day for enabling humans to invent the internet because without it I'd never have met friends like you.
Such Beautiful Monsters
Chapter One
A Stranger Enters
'An old saying haunts the halls of Arkham Asylum.'
The veritable fortress towered above the surrounding countryside. A bastion of gothic architecture harkening to a time long since passed. Marked by towers, spires, and massive facades lined with rows of tall, thin windows covered in iron bars. Arkham was an imposing sight even in the daylight, but the Asylum was truly at home in a scene such as this; beneath the darkened, rainy skies and encompassed in a light mist which shrouded it with an appropriate foreboding air. Shadows played across the building's face, creating illusions of beastly shapes haunting the parapets. The one road leading to Arkham – winding its way through the neighboring forest – was empty. A lone, black car was parked at the journey's end, at the foot of the stone staircase leading up to the barred front doors.
'The saying itself is not invoked lightly. Often spoken in hushed whispers by staff going about their grim duties. They all say it. From the renowned doctors to the orderlies to the part-time kitchen cooks. Every one of them linked by the common experience of having gazed into the pit of madness pervading the facility.'
The car's driver was forced to stand in the rain while he indulged. If she smelled even a hint of cigarette smoke inside her pristine car it would be more than his job on the line. The man tilted his umbrella back, affording himself a full view of the Asylum's famous entrance. Cold and rain aside, he was grateful his job required him to stay behind. Not because of the rumors surrounding Arkham. The urban myths and ghost stories recited freely by Gotham's residents. Everyone who stepped foot inside the Asylum had a tale to tell. Borne witness to some manner of egregious horror which earned the facility the rightful distinction of being included on every single top ten list of the nation's most haunted locales.
'Some initially scoff at the saying, but the more time a person spends within Arkham the more difficult it becomes to refute. Because insanity isn't bred inside the Asylum, regardless of what internet conspiracy theorists might suggest. It stems – no, it breeds – elsewhere, and the staff all come to repeat the truth passed down from grizzled veteran to new hire.'
The driver shuddered at the bottom of the steps. He was afraid of this place. A deep, bone chilling brand of fear birthed from some primal part of the human consciousness. Yes, there were scores of terrible rumors surrounding Arkham, but those whispers weren't what made the facility so horrifying. Set the cowardice to fester in the hearts of even the most stalwart onlookers.
'You know the saying already. Five words which bear repeating.'
It's because all the stories were true.
'"Nothing good grows in Gotham."'
The doctor found it more satisfying to make her wait. The game was a hapless endeavor, he was not so far-gone as to be unable to recognize that fact, but the sadistic part of him preened at the opportunity to punish her for doubting.
They sat in one of the interview rooms off the High Priority ward. Him, a quiet white man nearing late middle age with shaggy, sandy blonde hair and circular glasses, dressed in the stereotypical doctor's uniform and coat. Her, a stoic black woman of similar age, her curly hair cut short, wearing an impeccable dark purple and navy-blue pantsuit.
The meeting was too dangerous to hold inside his office. The sparse furnishings and lightly padded walls of the interview room were a boon when it came to uncooperative patients, but he also chose it for another reason. The small, enclosed space was designed to be unnerving. Clinical yet dirty, streaks of unidentifiable fluids still stuck to the padding in the wake of nameless struggles, intermixed with splotchy bleach stains. The single bulb overhead cast light upon the table yet allowed dusty shadows to gather in the corners outside the pocket of illumination. The room got under her skin – just a bit – but she had the skill to keep her discomfort almost invisible. He'd spent enough time in Arkham to recognize the microscopic tells, though. Her jaw was clenched, posture more rigid than even these strange circumstances would call for. A small part of her wanted out, and he reveled in it while he could.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered when he'd become this… thing.
They were positioned next to each other on one side of the metal table. The heavy wooden chair opposite them was unoccupied for the moment. Its metallic bands open and waiting for their inevitable guest. A thick file sat closed before him. Not the standard manila folder, but a leather-bound case with an electronic lock. He hadn't entered the combination yet. It would still be a bit.
"Does it usually take this long to retrieve one of your patients?" she asked in an arch tone.
The insult was meant to mock his professional reputation, yet he didn't mind. Far worse was thrown at him daily, from maws excelling at inciteful vitriol. This woman's jabs couldn't hope to compare.
"Depends on how cooperative they're feeling," he said in a clinical voice.
"I'd assumed a maximum-security establishment would have safeguards in place to prevent this from becoming a problem."
He smiled. A lopsided sort of grin which only touched one side of his mouth. A smile implying derision despite the gentle gleam in his bright eyes. He reached into his jacket's breast pocket, maintaining the grin as he pulled out an open pack of cigarettes. In a single, fluid motion he selected one, put it in his mouth, and lit it with a practiced flick from his Zippo. She glared at him throughout the entire process. If only she knew it encouraged him – but he had a lingering suspicion she did.
"Have you ever toured our facility, Miss Waller?" he asked, the cigarette bouncing as he spoke.
"On occasion."
"Then you're aware of how aggressive our patients can get at the slightest provocation."
Her slight frown became more pronounced. "They behave that way on the outside, too."
He took a long pull from the cigarette and exhaled. She waved away the smoke with one hand; a deep scowl now etched on her lips.
"Exactly," he said, paying no heed to her expression. "We're dealing with a powder keg ready to explode. Rogues are difficult to contain, even when placated. Add in a general disdain for authority and even Gotham's faithful Dark Knight has trouble wrestling them into submission." He removed the cigarette with a shake of his head, the paper cylinder held between index and middle finger. "Let alone a few thick-skulled ex-football players."
She made a sound of displeasure. "As far as her physical capabilities are concerned–"
He pointed at her with the cigarette wielding hand, cutting her short. Her scowl became – somehow – more pronounced.
"Never underestimate a Rogue," he said. "That's the deadliest mistake you can make in Arkham. You should know this, of course." His eyes wandered to the file. It contained the story of a creature he'd helped design. A monster who'd grown beyond anything his younger self could have envisioned. "The ones who seem the least threatening are always the most dangerous."
'I've spoken the phrase myself. When I was young and relatively naïve. I didn't grasp the totality of what it meant when I first heard it, but time would provide excellent teachers.'
The orderlies were children in their own right. Young men barely out of college. All three were tall and well-built, their muscles bulging from underneath their stained white uniforms, but aside from physical prowess they had nothing to offer in the way of skill. Still, their job was an essential one, albeit the most dangerous in Arkham. Each had grown to regret accepting the position. They – same as countless others before them – were lured by the promise of a good paycheck in return for little mental labor, but it was rare for an orderly to last more than a couple years.
'The meaning seems obvious, at first. Simple, even. Gotham corrupts the people living in it. The Rogue gallery tends to consist of locals, and honestly, can you blame them? Gotham is a prime breeding ground for monsters. An unemployment rate well into the double digits, minimal funding for social programs, deplorable living conditions, and a lack of waste management resources. Then you have to triple the "Gotham is Shit" integer when you realize all of these factors are exacerbated by a judicial system so corrupt and inept that citizens have to rely on some dickhead in an animal costume and his cavalcade of literal children if they hope to get any semblance of actual justice.'
Arkham ate away at the men's souls. Every shadowed cell they passed reeked of bodily fluids and neglect. The inmates stirred to life as the orderlies walked by. A constant barrage of insults and threats followed at their heels, yet the men didn't pay them any heed. They knew the risks of engaging the patients. The physical and mental scars which would result. Instead, their jaws remained clenched, expressions vacant, as they shut out the noise as best they could. Their eyes fixed on the rusty metal door lying at the end of the dark hall, and not once did they deviate.
'It's easy to blame the city – the entity itself – for all this strife. Making an inanimate object out to be the villain has always been humanity's preferred method of addressing a complex social issue. So, the citizens focus their hatred on the city around them. They curse the pothole ridden streets, set fire to the mountains of trash, and use the dismal scenery to fuel all their pipe dreams of being able to afford a way out. Of reaching a glorious day when they can leave Gotham and every rotten thing about it behind.'
An eternity passed before the three men reached their destination. One of them cursed under his breath as he fumbled while trying to fit the key in the lock, the task herculean in the dim lighting. This darkness – made more potent by the lack of windows in the High Priority ward – was another form of punishment for the inmates housed within. A small, square pane of reinforced glass afforded them a limited view of the cell's interior. It was almost pitch-black inside, yet a vague shape could be seen huddled against the far wall.
'But that's the most damning mistake, isn't it? Believing in that common lie. Too few citizens understand that Gotham isn't to blame for the ugliness permeating its streets. A city isn't sentient. It can't dish out torment through its own design or create social strife via the mere fact of its existence.'
After a few more expletives and failed attempts the men were able to get the door open. It swung inward, accompanied by the high-pitched wail of rusted hinges grinding together. Light spilled in through the open doorway. Not much, but enough to illuminate a filthy tile floor covered in a layer of grime. The dirt and muck were smeared with trails; courses charted by someone sliding their way across the ground. The roads all led to the same place. The vague shape beginning to take on a humanoid form.
'No, a city is only as good as its people.'
There, in the back of the cell, was a woman.
'Therein lies the crux of it. The truth we're forced to face as staff in this godforsaken place. When a citizen of Gotham takes a job at Arkham Asylum they find themselves staring into the heart of this city. The life force which makes it beat. Only they all discover the same, horrible fact. Gotham has no heart. In its center lies nothing but a vacant abyss.'
She'd curled in on herself, shaping her posture into an upright fetal position. Her arms were locked in place by the once-white straitjacket. Her messy blonde hair so coated in filth it appeared brown.
'That's the moment you realize Gotham wasn't built corrupted. It was made that way. Its heart ripped out by forces beyond its control.'
She looked up as the men entered and a wicked grin blossomed on her chapped lips.
'No, Gotham isn't rotten.'
During the moment of stillness, as they hesitated before the horrific sight of her, the woman began to laugh.
'We are.'
IXI
There wasn't a warning knock on the door before the orderlies barged in with an unruly patient in tow. It took the combined strength of all three men to restrain the struggling, snarling person held in their arms. The size disparity between the burly orderlies and their lithe opponent might have been comical under different circumstances, but Amanda Waller was often regarded as lacking a sense of humor. She looked up as the group entered, an eyebrow arched in an almost sarcastic display of inquisitiveness, while Dr. Jeremiah Arkham glanced at his silver wristwatch.
"That took a bit longer than usual," the doctor said with a slight, mournful frown.
"Sorry, boss," one of the orderlies managed to say. "She's not… exactly, ugh… cooperative."
There was swelling around the man's eye and a fresh cut on his lip. Upon closer inspection, Waller noted they were all sporting wounds of some kind, welts and bite marks being the most common. The package didn't relent in its struggle as they closed the door behind them. It twisted and writhed in their arms as the battered trio forced it into the unoccupied chair. The thick metallic bands drilled into the wood were intended to be attached to the loops of a straitjacket. After a valiant team effort, the men – at last – managed to strap the patient in.
The three of them stood back, panting, once the deed was done. The moment the patient was secured she fell still. The blonde sat in silence, head hanging forward, the fall of her hair obscuring her face. Dr. Arkham looked at his guest and motioned to the battered men.
"Now, this is a perfect example of why underestimating–"
"Spare me," Amanda Waller said with finality.
"As you wish." The doctor entered a combination into the folder's electronic lock. Once unlatched, he undid the strap and pulled back the flap. The first documents he withdrew were familiar patient identification forms held together by a paper clip. "Dr. Harleen Quinzel–"
"NOPE!" The patient's head popped up as she belted the word, her lips forming a harsh pop on the letter "p". A wide, almost grotesque grin split her pale face. "Name's Harley Quinn, doc. I keep tellin' ya to edit the information on that thing. Inaccurate files get people killed around here, ya know." She followed up the thinly veiled threat with a suggestive wink.
Amanda Waller studied the Rogue sitting before her. The woman was in a manic state; one of the few psychological terms Waller knew off hand. She'd always left such assessments up to the people foolish enough to attempt some form of rehabilitation with these criminals. Still, she understood plenty about the human mental condition without needing a degree in head shrink. The Rogue's eyes were wide and unfocused; one pupil slightly more dilated than the other. Her skin and hair were filthy; a patchwork of bruises marking the flesh of her face and neck.
Anger roared to life inside Waller's chest. This wasn't what she'd been promised. This was a hopeless case.
"You told me you had her under control," Waller said, her words thrumming with the threat of imminent – yet still tightly controlled – fury.
Quinn had the audacity to take offense. "Hey!"
"And I didn't lie," Dr. Arkham said.
"Hey!"
"Reality begs to differ."
"HEY!"
The doctor nodded in the vague direction of the men. One of the orderlies brandished a taser in his hand, stalked up behind Quinn, and administered an electric shock to the side of her neck. She convulsed, eyes rolling back into her skull and teeth rattling, before she flopped forward in a daze. Dr. Arkham exhaled another large cloud of cigarette smoke.
"I've allowed her to revert to an unstable state of mind for demonstration purposes," he said. "In order to understand the totality of our reprogramming one should have the original model to compare it to."
"This is a waste of my time," Waller said as she shot him a hard glare. "I care about results. I don't give a damn how they're achieved."
"I'mma punch your lights out," Quinn mumbled from her chair.
Dr. Arkham let out an exasperated sigh. "We've talked about this, Harley. You need to stop fighting the people trying to help you." He nodded to the orderlies. "Please, give the patient her medication."
On cue, the three men grabbed Quinn from behind. Two held her arms and shoulders in firm grips, anchoring her in place against the chair, while the third retrieved a device strapped to his belt. Waller studied it with interest. The contraption was an inhaler affixed to a plastic mask large enough to cover the patient's nose and mouth. Quinn thrashed her head from side to side – persistent thing, even now – before the device-wielding orderly was able to get a good grip on her. His hand fisted in her blonde hair, holding her still while he positioned the mask over her face. Once secured, he pressed down on the inhaler's metal cylinder, releasing a puff of white powder into the confines of the mask.
Quinn tried to hold her breath, refusing to inhale, yet she had to concede after a minute. She gasped, gulping for air, allowing the medication to enter her lungs. The orderlies held her down as a series of violent coughs racked her body. The men didn't release her until she'd breathed in the last of the powder. Now freed, Quinn's head lolled from side to side as they retreated into the rear of the room.
Silence fell while those present waited for the drug to take effect. Waller noted the changes as they happened, marking the progress for future reference. The wild look faded from the blonde's eyes, her pupils returned to an even dilation, and the unnerving grin dissipated. Quinn fell forward – held upright by the hooks securing her to the wooden chair – mouth slightly agape and shoulders sagged. The sound of her heavy breathing broke the heady silence.
"Two days would have been more than enough," the blonde said, "but you kept me that way for a week." The tune of her voice had lowered from the grating high-pitched squeal. Now it possessed the calm, mature timbre a proper psychiatrist was expected to maintain. She looked up and fixed Dr. Arkham with a glare; the pure depths of her hatred burning hot in her bright blue eyes. "Better watch yourself, Jeremiah. I'm beginning to think you're a sadist."
"I'm glad to see you too, Dr. Quinzel," he said with a genuine smile.
Harleen tugged on her arms and frowned at the restraints. Arkham made a waving motion with his hand and one of the orderlies stepped forward, undoing the strap of the straitjacket which bound her wrists together behind her back. Harleen sighed in relief as she brought her hands around to her front. They rested in her lap, but she made no move to escape from the chair.
Dr. Arkham's smile became a triumphant grin as he turned his attention to his stoic guest. "And there we have it. A complete transformation from an aggressive Rogue to a relatively passive law-abiding citizen within minutes."
"And how about compliant?" Waller asked.
"She has to be in order to remain Dr. Quinzel," Arkham said. "The drug we developed acts as both an anti-psychotic and an antidote for the venom in her bloodstream, the chemical formulation being a trade secret in case… criminal elements get their hands on it and try to hold the cure hostage. I'm sure you understand." He paused to take another pull from his cigarette, allowing the implication to hang in the air. "The caveat being the medication needs to be administered every twenty-four hours or she'll revert back to the jester persona."
"And which persona does she prefer?"
"What I would have preferred," Quinzel interrupted, "is to not have been thrown into a vat of poison. It was kind of a sour end to date night."
Waller fixed the blonde with a hard, disapproving look. "Don't joke with me, Dr. Quinzel."
"Super, I'd prefer to get down to business anyway, but we need to get something straight first." Harleen leaned forward in the chair; her gaze intense as she stared directly into Waller's eyes. "I know you've read my file. You've probably watched the inpatient interviews and the amateur footage that was a bit too real for the evening news. And I bet you think you've got a pretty good handle on who I am and where I come from, but there's one fact everyone seems to forget." She raised a gloved hand and tapped it against her temple. "There's more than one of us in here. When we're both allowed to run free things become rather auto cannibalistic inside my head. I get a bit… crazy. So, when that happens, one of us needs to go away for the craziness to stop, and only two things in my entire life have been able to make that happen. One is this medication. The other is never coming back."
"You still haven't answered my question," Waller said in the pause following Harleen's monologue. She could see Quinzel resist the urge to roll her eyes.
"I did. Even compulsory servitude is better than a nonstop Harley versus Harleen death match."
"You're not a slave, Harleen," Dr. Arkham said. "I don't force you to do anything."
"Of course you do." She inclined her head towards Waller. "You're even renting me out."
Amanda Waller decided enough was enough. She didn't come here to play spectator to a tired old game.
"Dr. Arkham has no part in our business," Waller said before the good doctor could spit back a retort. "He arranged this meeting under my direct order, and the only reason he's still sitting here is out of momentary formality." She saw him turn in her peripheral, mouth partly open preceding an objection, but before he could speak Waller continued in a harsh tone, her eyes never deviating from Harleen's. "The file will be uploaded before you can even finish voicing that thought, Jeremiah."
His eyes narrowed; the kinder demeanor he'd worn throughout this exchange evaporated in the wake of her statement. He warred with the temptation to make a comment, but his reason won out in the end. The doctor sat back in his chair with a frown etched on his lips. The cigarette in his hand had burned down to the filter, yet he let the cylinder smolder. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. The orderlies cast each other furtive glances, though none of them dared speak.
"Now, gentlemen," Waller said once she determined the silence had lasted long enough to make her point clear, "I appreciate your cooperation, but it's time Dr. Quinzel and I had a talk." Her gaze, at last, cut to the sulking man beside her. "Alone."
"As you wish," Dr. Arkham said in a low voice. He rose from his chair and, in an act of petty defiance, ground the lit end of his cigarette into the table's metallic surface.
Amanda Waller glared at the disgusting pile of ashes as Dr. Arkham motioned for the orderlies to follow him. The four men slowly filed out of the room. The magnetic lock re-engaged when the door closed behind them, leaving the women alone.
"Quite the impressive display of big dick energy," Harleen said with a slight grin. "Still, he'll just switch to watching the camera feed."
"He can try, but I'm sure Dr. Arkham will be sorely disappointed." Waller grimaced as she pushed the ashes and cigarette butt onto the floor with the back of her hand. "I had one of my men hack the security systems. All he'll see is a looping, silent video of us staring at each other. I suggest you stay quiet for a few seconds and pose."
Harleen studied her for a while, trying to piece together an answer Waller knew she wouldn't find. The overhead lighting cast harsh shadows on the underside of the blonde's brows, nose, and chin. Her countenance ragged from what Waller could readily assume was a period of sleepless nights.
"Who are you?" Harleen asked after a time.
"You will refer to me as either Miss Waller or ma'am. I do not care which."
"And why are you here, Miss Waller?"
"Word has spread in certain circles that Dr. Arkham has trained you to aid law enforcement officials."
Harleen scoffed and looked away. An emotion burned in her eyes that Waller could only describe as sheer, visceral disgust.
"That's one way of putting it, yes," the blonde said in a quiet voice.
Waller continued, ignoring the emotional display. "You were a key player in the recent re-capture of Killer Croc."
"I'm not proud of that. Waylon's been the victim of discrimination his entire life. There was never anyone he could trust, who made him feel safe." Harleen's expression shifted into something dangerous. "Then that bastard forced me to betray him."
"I'm not interested in your commentary," Waller said.
Harleen sighed and turned her head, meeting the other woman's gaze once again. "Yes, I tracked him down and handed him over."
"And you identified the assailants in the stock exchange fiasco."
"Even the small-time Rogues have specific tells," Dr. Quinzel said in a clinical tone.
"These two cases in particular illustrate your expertise in Rogue identification, behavioral assessment, and tracking." Amanda Waller's face shifted from her customary stern expression to a more solemn one. "Three skills I find myself in need of."
Harleen didn't respond right away. Her blue eyes charted the length of Waller's entire body; attempting to read the tale in words which went unspoken. Waller knew the effort was futile. She'd been trained to mask her body language, yet when Harleen's gaze met hers there was a spark in their blue depths which belayed some manner of insight the blonde had been lacking before.
"You must be rather desperate if you're enlisting the help of an incarcerated Rogue," Dr. Quinzel said.
"I admit it's an unorthodox measure, but I'm no stranger to such things. I've made my fair share of gambles that paid out in the end. The trick is playing smart, not reckless."
"Never thought of myself as a good investment, but it's not my ass on the line," Harleen said. The blonde leaned forward in her chair, as far as the straitjacket would allow. "Now, what kind of trouble has the United States government gotten themselves into?"
Amanda Waller was almost tempted to smile.
Almost.
"Last week, one of my agents was found dead inside his apartment in the Narrows," Waller said in the official tone she employed whenever dispensing assignments. "There were no signs of forcible entry or a struggle. Nothing was stolen, as far as we can tell. All of which is odd, considering his throat had been slashed so deep the wound almost decapitated him."
"Locksmiths in the Narrows regularly sell copies of keys to burglars," Harleen said. "It's possible the culprit just walked right in, especially if your man didn't have someone reputable change the locks when he moved into the place, but I have a feeling your underlings are thorough." She tilted her head, a smirk trying to worm its way into the side of her lips. "What's the actual twist?"
"The throat injury was inflicted post-mortem, and the true cause of death has yet to be determined. There were no other wounds on his body. We ran a full toxicology report and it came back normal, no drugs in his system, legal or otherwise. The agent was young, in his mid-thirties, with no preexisting medical conditions." Waller's brow furrowed. The only indicator of her growing aggression. "I don't take kindly to mysteries, Dr. Quinzel. Especially when it involves the murder of one of my men."
"Do you have any suspects?" Harleen asked.
"No one concrete, at the moment."
"I'm assuming he was out there on assignment. The case your man was working on–"
"That's classified information," Waller interrupted.
Harleen frowned. "You're going to have to give me a hint if you want results."
Waller paused for a calculated moment. "His last major assignment was running a sting on Calendar Man. That wrapped up about a month ago and I moved him to a holding position, running infiltration through the Iceberg Lounge while waiting for something to bite. The reports he submitted in the days leading up to his death seemed to indicate he'd caught word of a new scheme, but nothing specific enough to identify any Rogues involved." Waller fixed the blonde with a withering stare. "Of course, if you pass this information along to anyone there will be consequences. Ones you won't be fond of."
A frown tugged at Harleen's lips. "Your man was in a dangerous line of work. This also narrows the suspect list down to 'the entirety of Gotham', but I suppose it'll have to do." The metal fastenings clinked as Dr. Quinzel sat back in her chair. Her pale eyebrows pinched together in concentration. A vision that almost didn't sit well on her still youthful face. "I'll need to have a look at the crime scene and the body. I know you probably have a file for me to read, but I'm more effective with the hands-on approach."
"Access to the crime scene won't be an issue. The body is a separate matter, depending on your performance."
Harleen shot her an agitated glance. "You're already taking a risk by enlisting my help. Like I said, the more information you can give me the better the outcome for both of us."
"Recruiting you and trusting you are two separate matters." Waller folded her arms across her chest. The model image of an immovable object. "Cooperation can only help you in this regard. Follow my orders and you'll get some of those answers."
"So, what, exactly, is my incentive for going along with this?" Harleen asked at last.
Waller was a bit surprised it'd taken her this long to voice the obvious question.
"If you succeed in solving this case, I can guarantee something you've been craving for a long time." Amanda Waller leveled her gaze at the wayward psychiatrist. "Your freedom."
"He won't let me go," Harleen said almost immediately.
"Dr. Arkham is not as powerful as he considers himself to be. He's still bound by the laws of this country, even if he ignores them inside of this establishment."
Waller had brought a small leather briefcase into the Asylum with her. It'd sat undisturbed and ignored on the floor of the interview room throughout their conversation. Now, she reached down and opened the top the flap. Harleen watched with interest as the older woman withdrew a manila envelope from within the case. She placed it atop the table in front of Dr. Quinzel.
"This is an official pardon signed by the governor," Waller continued. "It states two conditions for your release. First, you are barred for life from practicing psychiatry in any capacity. Second, you will present yourself to authorities for mental evaluation on a regular basis. Beginning with weekly, then tapering off to monthly depending on your progress. Dr. Arkham will also be required to provide a steady supply of his miracle drug. Failure to do so will result in severe fines, and with the state's current financial crisis I doubt they will hesitate to collect."
Harleen chewed on her lower lip for a long moment before she reached out and – with some difficulty – flipped the folder open with her gloved hands. Minutes passed in silence as she read over the document, verifying Waller had spoken the truth. Her face was screwed in a doubtful expression, but there was a spark in her blue eyes. A faint glimmer of hope which cemented her loyalty. Satisfaction smoothed away some of the tension in Amanda Waller's body. She had her.
At last, Dr. Harleen Quinzel sat upright in her chair.
"Where do I begin?"
End Notes: My rendition of Jeremiah Arkham is not based on any specific portrayal as I'm unfamiliar with the Batman media he's appeared in. This will be my own personal take on his character and may fall outside established canon, but certain key elements will remain intact.
Also, if you're expecting any Suicide Squad action in this story, I'm sorry to report you'll be disappointed. However, Amanda Waller will continue to be her usual, lovable self.
And while toxicology reports in the real world take an average of four to six weeks to complete, I figured it wouldn't be too much of a leap to assume Amanda Waller, of all people, has the resources available to her to expedite the results to a matter of days in this alternate version of Earth where superpowers exist.