The annoying sirens wailed in the distance, as the Master of Fear puffed heavily and came to a stop at the boarded-up door of the old sawmill. Was it really a smart idea to hide in here tonight? He looked nervously over his shoulders. The police cars came closer and closer with every second. The former psychiatrist took a deep breath and pushed himself through the narrow gap that had not yet been closed, cursing angrily as a part of his black coat ripped in this process. Immediately the darkness of this place hold a grip on his slim body, brought back some gruesome memories. This was an old hiding place of the Joker. One of way too many in Gotham, in which Scarecrow had visited the self-appointed prince of the underworld a few times. Their rarely collaboration has mostly been crowned with success, even if they didn't get along very well. Jonathan let out a long sigh, watching his breath in the form of the white mist in front of him. He couldn't see much further right now. The darkness was somehow special in this place. The older man looked in his rags for a flash light. It was small in his bony hand, but could light up the surroundings a little. The brown-haired man aimed randomly into the blackness around him and came to a stop on an old metal staircase. Up there were the old offices of the business. The gaunt man frown a bit. Offices, that Joker had probably use for his own dirty desires. The clown had never tried to hide his abnormal wishes in terms of weird intercourses. Jonathan rubbed his neck a bit and pushed away the disturbing thoughts, then concentrated again on the big hall. How long has this building been empty? Probably around fifty years since the great global stock market crash. Many industrial companies were unable to recover from this, including this sawmill. The former psychiatrist moved almost silently through the darkness, lighting his way carefully. He put his scythe down on one of the concrete pillars and pulled the dirty mask off his face. It feels so much better without the leather on his skin. A slight breeze touched the man's petrified features. He leaned against the concrete and slowly slid down, closed his eyes for a moment and enjoyed the silence. The sirens were almost gone by now. They were probably looking for him in the theatre district. Fine for him. The Master of Fear let out another gush of white smoke from his mouth. It still tasted of iron and death in these great halls. Suddenly, he heard a faint noise in the darkness. Jonathan raised the flash light again and shone it into the blackness. How high was the possibility, that the Bat found him after such a short time? He pushed himself up on the pillar, slowly walking towards the source of the noises. The next moment, a huge rat jumped out from between two barrels, seemed to be blinded for a moment by the bright light. The former psychiatrist let out a relieved breath. Just an animal.
The older man gave a small laugh and touched his sweaty forehead. Who would get lost here anyway? Maybe one or two homeless people, but even these avoided the Joker's old hiding places. Evil curses apparently hung over the prince's buildings and whoever stayed in them too long would die a terrible death. It was just a rumour, of course. Jonathan went back to his scythe and leaned against the pillar. The coolness felt incredibly good. That break-in hadn't gone too well this night. To make matters worse, there were also Poison Ivy and Two-Face in the chemical plant's buildings. The gaunt man shook his head slightly, rubbing the cold sweat from his forehead. Now was the time to recover from this failure and plan further steps. He was clearly not allowed to appear in public places for the next few weeks. Gotham was a city that could easily forget things if someone didn't move lightly through the streets for some time. To make matters worse, there was the damned Bat, who was really a master at tracking down rogues. Well, what else should you expect from a detective? It was only a matter of time before Batman would find him. Until then he would at least try not to be seen so much outside of his own hideout. Suddenly, there was another loud noise in the darkness. Jonathan flinched and looked around, but saw no possible attacker. He crept through the dark, covering the beam of his flash light with the filthy rags he wore. Out of nowhere the sound of a shot boomed through the silence. The former psychiatrist came to an abrupt stop on the metal stairs and looked up at the offices. At that moment he saw a small streak of light coming out of the wooden door. Scarecrow reached for his belt, took out his pistole carefully and released the safety catch of the weapon. He went cautiously up the first steps, listening for more noises. As he approached, a faint whining reached his ears. He paused confused and continued to listen into the room. The voice was clearly feminine. It sounded somehow familiar to him. With these thoughts he pushed open the door to the office, startled at the horrifying sight.
His weapon lowered slowly. Harleen Quinzel, better known by her alias Harley Quinn, sat on the dirty wooden floor. She shivered, turned as in slow motion to the former psychiatrist. Her make-up had run off and ran down her cheeks in rivulets. Her lower lip literally trembled and the blue eyes looked right through him into an unknown distance. A rusty revolver rested in her hands. Jonathan couldn't tell from a distance whether it was loaded. The shot shortly before, however, indicated it. The older man snorted softly and tried to stop the racing of thoughts in his head. At that moment a thousand words rattled in his mind, but clearly not the right ones. Harley was crying bitterly now, holding the revolver with shaking hands. She tried to put on a smile, then whispered, barely audible: "Hey Johnny. How are you today?" The gaunt man paused for a moment, blinked a few times. He finally slipped his gun into his belt and took a step closer to the woman on the floor. Harley immediately raised the gun, pressed it firmly to her temple. She sniffed a bit louder and muttered tearfully: "Don't come a step closer, Johnny or I'll pull the trigger. This time where the bullet should actually go in the first place." The Master of Fear stopped short in his movement, raised his hands soothingly. He breathed a little faster than usual and replied all the more calmly: "Harleen, please, what are you trying to do?" The young woman pressed the barrel tighter to her skin, looked at Jonathan with tearful eyes. She shivered again and pulled the trigger halfway. Harley yelled loudly into the room: "Are you fucking kidding me? What do you think I'm doing here? I'm ending this whole wretched life for good! Just look at me, Johnny, at what I've become in the last years. How often did I run after him and how often did he use me again only for his evil purposes? How could I have been so blind all my life to do whatever he asked. I've suffered so much from this monster and you know what, Johnny? I still love him. I would probably love him for the rest of my pathetic existence!"
The former psychiatrist took a small step forward, but kept his arms raised soothingly. He spoke softly, trying not to startle the poor woman any further: "Harleen, listen to me. Whatever the clown did to you, there is another way than this one. Trust me. Please lower the gun and we will talk about it." The girl snorted loudly, wiped her wet cheeks with her free hand. The make-up just smudged more over her skin. She swallowed what appeared to be a gigantic lump in her throat and replied weakly: "What difference does it make whether I die here or someday by his hand. I'll never get rid of him. Never." Jonathan nodded slightly, stayed in his position for a moment. In this conversation he had to prove that he had learned more than just unnecessary and marginal nonsense at the university in Gotham. To make matters worse, Harleen had once studied in the department for psychology and psychiatry herself. She should knew the simple tricks. Jonathan took a deep breath, then talked to the young woman again: "You have a chance, Harleen. Everyone has it. You just have to take and work with it." The young woman closed her eyes tightly and pressed the barrel firmer to her skin. She was shaking more and more – so much that Jonathan feared, she might accidentally pull the trigger. He took another step towards her and spoke up again: "Please. Allow me to help you." The addressed shivered strongly under the cold of the office, cried even more bitterly than before. An absolute breakdown. The older man looked at the harlequin's tearful face, carefully took another step forward. He held his hand forward and was almost within reach of the young woman. His voice was unusually gentle for him as he breathed softly: "You don't have to end this path. Come with me and I will make sure that you can heal. I can't take the scars away from you, of course not, but they will fade over time. You can trust me." The Harlequin bit her lower lip hard, trembling clearly visible. She weighed her will to die against her will to live at this moment. The struggle she was fighting inside with herself was almost exposed to the outside. After a few seconds she suddenly growled deeply, hissed angrily: "Why the hell should I trust you, Johnny? You're not a bit better than all the other villains in Gotham. You kill people without blinking an eye and now you want to help me? God, give me a stupid reason to believe you, Scarecrow! Only one!"
The Master of Fear paused immediately, thinking for a moment. A really good question. He fiddled with his rags and finally replied: "I may not be an angel. No, I'm probably the recantation of the devil, but I can assure you of one thing – you have always been important to me, whether in the collaboration with Joker or the many times we were stuck together in Arkham. I never hurt you and was always careful to keep you away from the clown. I was there when literally no one else was there for you. Maybe I'm not the right company for you, but the fact is that I'm right here with you and willing to help you. I will not go until you've made up your mind, Harleen." The young woman sniffed a few times, then looked up with fearful eyes. The fingers around the revolver released slowly, opened leisurely. Slowly the gun slid to the floor and hit the floorboards hard with a thump. The Harlequin put her face in her hands, now crying without any restraint. Jonathan took a step forward, grabbed the revolver with his hand. He picked it up and placed the weapon in his belt, only then drop on his knees next to the young woman. He hesitated for a moment, but finally took Harleen's delicate hand in his own. The former psychiatrist felt a slight pressure on his side. In the next instant Harley released his hand and wrapped her arms around his thin neck. Her face was now hidden on his shoulder, continued to cry muffled in the dirty fabric of his costume. Jonathan froze for a moment, thinking briefly what to do next. He let his instincts decide. Slowly his arms wrapped around the petite figure of Harleen. The older man just held her close to his chest and felt how his rags gradually getting wet. His fingertips caressed her back gently. He closed his eyes and whispered softly: "It's okay, Harleen. Everything is okay."
The addressed did not react, just kept crying on his shoulder. Jonathan didn't know how long they had been sitting in this room together. Finally, Harleen pushed away from him and looked up with watery eyes. She whispered softly: "I don't really know what to say, Johnny. I guess thank you?" A small smile played on his lips. He removed the hand from her back and placed it on her cheek, gently stroking the tears away. His words were gentle and unusually warm: "Anytime. Shall we go now?" He got up carefully and pulled the young woman to her feet with him. She looked at him almost confused and asked shyly: "And where should we go, Johnny? We don't have a place that is safe, do we?" The older man wiped away a stray tear with a smile. He calmly replied: "Yes, we actually have a place to which we can return at any time. Arkham." With that idea, Jonathan pulled out an outdated cell phone and quickly tapped in the emergency number. A woman answered the line. The former psychiatrist hesitated for a moment, but then spoke up: "My name is Jonathan Crane and I'm right now in the old sawmill. With me is Harleen Quinzel, my partner in the last robbery this night. We'll surrender without a fight and are ready to face the consequences of our actions." With this information, the gaunt man ended the call. The Master of Fear held out his right hand to Harleen. The young woman showed a very small smile and took the hand slowly. Together they stepped down the metal stairs and opened the heavy door to the empty street in front of the mill. The sirens were slowly approaching to their position. Jonathan looked up at the old halls of the industrial district, spotted on one of them the dark shape of a well-known Bat. He nodded briefly to the Dark Knight, which the hero apparently replied. In the next moment Batman was gone. The former psychiatrist held Harleen's hand a little tighter and spoke softly: "Let's go home. Together."