A/N 1: Trigger warning: mentions of rape.

A/N 2: I am not a psychiatrist, and everyone's journey of healing is unique. Harleen's advice herein is not a substitute for seeing a therapist.

Prologue: Intake

The bare concrete walls of the narrow hallway absorbed light and reflected sounds, filling the nightmarish gloom with the sounds of dripping water, moaning winds, distant screams and crying and, more disturbingly, a horrible manic laughter. It was, in the opinion of the recently graduated Dr. Harleen Quinzell, the exact opposite of what an asylum ought to be. She rifled through the pages of the orientation packet on her clipboard, searching in vain for some solid starting point, any sign of something being done right that she could build from. No such refuge appeared. She had known, when she chose to apply to Arkham, that things were bad here, but this was beyond even her expectations. She would have her work cut out for her, it seems.

"...but of course, security measures are considerably higher here in the Meta wing," her tour guide—Harleen glanced down at her clipboard—Mr. Boles, was saying. "You should probably avoid being alone here, at least until you learn all the protocols."

"Right," Harleen nodded. They were beginning to pass cell doors now, huge, steel portals with locks reminiscent of a bank vault. There were no names on or around the doors; only serial numbers, carved directly into the doors themselves in jagged and not entirely level numerals. Arkham asylum had the worst patient record in the country, and it was clear why; the place seemed more likely to drive people insane than cure them.

Dr. Quinzell took in a slow, deep breath of musty air. She held it for a moment, focusing on the mix of emotions swirling around inside her: fear, frustration, sadness, excitement. I see you, I feel you. You are valid. She let the breath out.

They turned a corner and found one of the massive doors swung open, another man in a security uniform standing in front of it. He turned to look at them. "Ah, Frank. This the new hire, then?"

"'S right," Mr. Boles replied. "Mr. Bolton, meet Miss Quinzell."

"Doctor Quinzell," Harleen corrected, reaching out to shake the man's hand.

"Of course," Bolton replied with an odd smile as he took her hand in a crushing grasp.

"Golly, you're strong," she said, because it was something she'd found men liked hearing. The guard's smile widened. "Glad to have you on this side of the walls." She'd come here to make things better, and she'd need all the friends she could get to do that.

The men chuckled at that. "This is the staff room," Bolton said, indicating the open door. "Come meet the others." He took a half-step forwards, then hesitated. "Ladies first, of course. After you, Miss—er, Doctor."

Harleen stepped through the door, smiling at the guards, and then stopped. This was not a staff room—it was a padded cell. She turned to ask the guards a question, and jumped as the door slammed shut behind her with a heavy bang. She ran back to the door to try to open it, but heard the massive bolts sliding home.

She felt panic rising within her. She felt her heartbeat racing. She felt herself beginning to hyperventilate. I feel you. You are valid, but you are not useful, and you are not in control. She took a few controlled deep breaths. This was probably just some kind of prank, a trick played on the newbie. She noticed the camera installed in one corner of the ceiling, and considered giving the guards the show they were no doubt expecting. But no, she thought. Better to prove herself capable in a crisis. She settled down on the cushioned floor to wait.

"What are you supposed to be? Some kind of trick?" A voice said. Harleen's head whipped around. In dealing with her panic, she had failed to notice the cell's other occupant. The speaker was a woman in a white straight jacket, curled up in a corner of the room. She almost blended into the walls entirely, but for the tangled mess of bright red hair that fell around and over her face. What skin was visible below the curls was extremely pale, with a faint green tinge to it. One visible eye glared balefully back at Harleen, and she could almost see the rage and pain boiling away inside the other woman.

She picked up her clipboard and searched through her orientation packet for the patient overview section. "I am Dr. Quinzell, a new psychiatrist here. And you...You are Miss Pamela Isley, yes?"

"Doctor Isley," the woman snapped.

Harleen glanced down at her file, which clearly said "Ms. Pamela Isley, Alias 'Poison Ivy'". However, this was an asylum, and a poor one at that. Even if the records were correct, arguing such an inconsequential delusion with a patient was hardly a productive way to start things. "Okay, Doctor Isley, then."

Doctor Isley lowered her gaze. "Have you come to inject me with that filth again?" her voice was tired and husky. "You'll need to bring the guards. I'm not going to stop fighting."

Doctor Quinzell suspected the other woman didn't have much fight left in her, but didn't say so. She unclipped the packet from her clipboard and flipped it to the blank back page. "I'm just here to listen," she said, in her most pacifying tones. "Why are you resisting medications?"

The rage was back in Doctor Isley's eye as her head shot back up to glare at her. "You can't possibly be that naive."

Harley shrugged, splaying her hands. "Like I said, I'm new. Brand new, in fact."

There was a long moment of silence. "Why do you think I'm in here, Doctor Quinzell?"

Harleen floundered momentarily as she flipped back through her papers. "Ah, well I...hm, I understand that you were responsible for the death of—"

"Killing Woodrue would have got me thrown in Blackgate," the other interrupted her. "Do you know why I'm here? I'm here because of why I killed him."

"Why did you kill him?" Harleen asked.

"The man was...my professor." Dr. Isley took a shaky breath. "He—he...Well, he did things. Things...he shouldn't have done. He made me do things. And then…" she lapsed into silence, shaking.

"That took a lot of courage," Harleen said softly. "You don't have to say anything you aren't ready to face."

"He b-betrayed me, took advantage of me, and then made me a lab rat and left me for dead."

"And that's why you're in here?" Harleen guessed.

"No." Dr. Isley shook her head. "I'm in here because I told them about it, and declaring me insane was more convenient to them than tarnishing the good name of their beloved professor. Even dead, a man's pride is more important than any woman." her voice was laced with bitterness and venom so strong it shocked Harleen almost as much as the woman's claims.

Dr. Isley looked up at Harleen and smirked at her expression. "Of course, you don't believe me, look at you. Privileged Doctor Quinzell, the golden girl of your university in...Boston, am I right? Top of your class, popular with the boys, I'm sure. Well, let me tell you, Doctor: The world is not fair, and it isn't in your favour. You'll see, one day. Maybe they'll give us neighboring cells."

Harleen let the other woman's jibes pass without comment. She was quite right; there was no way that Dr. Isley's interpretation of events was correct. In this situation, however, the truth, as well as her own pride, were not important. "I won't argue with you. But resisting the administration of medicine does not help your case of being sane. The injections—" she stopped when she saw how the other reacted at that word. It was exactly as her textbook had described reaction to a trigger. Things clicked into place.

"Dr. Isley," she said. "If I could arrange for the medication to be administered in a way that doesn't require a needle, would you be willing to cooperate?"

"I don't need medicating!" the woman snapped.

"Sure, sure," Harley said, diplomatically. "And once you've shown them you're not hostile, we can work on getting you off of them. Anyway, it can be dangerous to just stop taking these kinds of meds all at once. I know, I know they aren't pleasant, but this is the best way forward for you, I promise."

The intensity of the woman's gaze didn't change, but she slowly nodded. "Fine."

The conversation was cut short by the squeal of the door being opened again.

"Miss Quinzell," The man behind the desk said, with an air of strained patience. "I appreciate that you are new here, and unfamiliar with protocol, but I would expect even you to understand how dangerous it is to enter the cells unattended."

Harleen blinked, surprised. "I could hardly have locked myself in there, Mr. Sharp. The guards told me it was a staff room. Some sort of prank, I'm sure. And it's Doctor Quinzell, thank you."

"Mr. Boles and Mr. Bolton both claimed you entered the cell while their backs were turned." the warden said, giving her a severe look. "The closed and locked the door as per protocol for everyone's safety. Lies will not make you any friends here, Miss Quinzell; I advise you to own up to your own actions."

"Fine," Harleen sighed. This really wasn't worth fighting. "It won't happen again."

"I hope it doesn't," Mr. Sharp replied, "However, I have no choice but to make a note of this on your record. Dismissed."

Harleen stood. "Oh, by the way," she added. "I spoke briefly with one of the patients, Pamela Isley? She agreed to cooperate with being given her medications if they are not injected."

"And you believed her?" the warden scoffed.

"As the Psychiatrist you hired," Doctor Quinzell said slowly, "it is my professional recommendation that you alter her treatment to oral medication."

"Yes, fine." Sharp didn't look up from his notes, and waved her away with one hand. "Please see yourself out, I'm very busy."

Doctor Isley's words echoed in Harleen's mind as she made her way home. The world is not fair, and it isn't in your favour. Was it possible the woman was right? Surely not. Yet, in spite of the circumstances of their meeting, Dr. Harleen Quinzell found herself hoping that today would not be her last session with Dr. Isley.

A/N 3: This is my first time writing these characters and these genres. Please let me know what you like or what you don't, it's the best way for me to improve.