After lunch, Harley returned to work, turned her computer back on, and was immediately greeted by the blue screen of death. "Oh God, not again!" she hissed, frantically pressing buttons. "That's the third time this month this piece of junk has crashed!"
She reached for the phone. "Could we get tech support down here, please? My computer has just crashed."
"Sorry, Dr. Quinzel, but the tech team are away today on a mandatory training course," said her secretary. "Can it wait until tomorrow morning?"
"Not really – I had some forms I needed to submit tonight," she said, removing her glasses and rubbing her eyes. "I'll just take it over to one of those computer repair places downtown to see if they can fix it – hold my calls."
She closed the laptop, popped it in her bag, and once again drove into Gotham City. A light rain had begun to fall, which wasn't unusual in Gotham, but it did make trying to read the neon signs difficult. At last, she spotted the store she was looking for. She parked the car, and then hurried across the street, trying futilely to avoid getting wet. As the door opened, a bell rang, but the man behind the counter didn't look up – he appeared to be playing an odd maze game on his phone.
There were plenty of other customers in the store, but the man didn't appear to be occupied with any of them, so Harley approached him. "Um…excuse me," said Harley. "Do you think you could take a look at my computer?"
"All right," said the man, looking up from his phone. He looked at her computer, and then immediately returned his attention to the phone. "There. I looked at it."
"Uh…that's not…quite what I meant," said Harley, slowly. "It's not working, and I was wondering if you could figure out what's wrong with it."
"Of course I can figure out what's wrong with it," retorted the man. "This nametag doesn't say 'genius' just for show, you know," he added, pointing at his nametag which read E. Nygma – Genius.
"For the last time, Eddie, it only says that because you're working at the Genius Bar!" shouted someone from the back. "It doesn't make you an actual genius! Now put that stupid riddle game down and help the customer!"
The man sighed audibly, and called back, "Yes, Mr. Mockridge!" He reluctantly put down his phone and held out his hands to take the computer from her. "If you'll just wait over there," he added, pointing to a chair. "This shouldn't take long."
Harley obeyed, taking a seat and watching the other customers milling around, trying to decide on computers, phones, and gadgets. It was getting dark outside, and the rain was falling harder. A man in a trenchcoat and broad-brimmed hat suddenly entered the store, soaking wet. At first it seemed like he had just come in to get out of the rain, but he suddenly pulled out a gun and began shooting people, in what seemed like almost a casual and relaxed way. The customers began screaming and panicking, racing for the exit, except for Harley, who seemed frozen in place. She saw the man turn and notice her, he raised his gun to her face…
And then dropped it suddenly. He raced over to her, seizing her shoulders and studying her face. "I know you!" he whispered, excitedly. "You're real!"
Harley didn't know how to respond – she was shocked by the shooting, and by being the object of the shooter's attention. She just stared at him, stunned. She had never seen him before, she was sure of it. And yet…there was something familiar about him. Something about the wide smile, and the bright, intense, green eyes beaming at her was recognizable, like a memory from a dream.
"Mr. Mockridge!" shouted the man behind the counter. "That maniac is back, and he's got a gun!"
"Go ahead, call the cops on me, Eddie!" exclaimed the maniac, turning to him and chuckling madly. "Riddle me this – how can this be real and not real?"
"I don't know what you're talking about…" began the man behind the counter.
"Riddle me this!" shouted the maniac, seizing his gun again. "Answer the riddle! What's going on?! How can this be real and not real!? How can you be Eddie and not Eddie?!"
"You're insane…" began the man behind the counter.
"No, I'm not!" shouted the maniac, pointing the gun at him. "I'm not!" he said, in a broken voice that ended in a sudden sob. "Now answer the riddle or I'll shoot you, I swear to God, and then you won't be real or not real anymore!"
"Excuse me," spoke up Harley, barely above a whisper. She didn't want to draw the maniac's attention back to her, but she didn't want to see a man get shot in the face either. "I'm a psychiatrist, and I'm wondering if I might be able to help you."
The maniac turned back to her. "Help…me?" he stammered. "Yes…yes, I'm sure you can. You're real too, I know it, I know you, but I don't…I don't know you."
He sobbed again, but the cry ended in choked laughter. "Kinda a tragic joke, isn't it?" he laughed. "Like déjà vu, only it's not déjà vu! It's real! You're real! But this isn't real! It isn't!" he said, gesturing around with his gun. "The people I just shot – they weren't real! They looked it, but they weren't! But you are!" he said, pointing the gun at the man behind the counter again. "And you are!" he repeated, turning it on Harley and then lowering it instantly.
"Please give me the gun," said Harley, holding out her hand. "And then I'll help you. I'm Dr. Harleen Quinzel, from Arkham Asylum…"
"Dr. Harleen Quinzel?" repeated the maniac, his eyes lighting up again. "Dr. Harleen Quinzel. I…I know that name from…somewhere."
He put a hand to his forehead, staring at her with his green eyes flickering in recognition, but looking lost, so lost. "Harley," he whispered. "You go by Harley, don't you?"
She stared back at him, stunned, both by the fact that he knew her name, and how familiar it sounded to hear him saying it. She knew his voice from somewhere...it was like a fragment of music heard long ago, music she had known by heart once. "How did you…know that?" she stammered.
"Don't you know me, Harley?" he whispered, approaching her again. "Don't you know me?"
His eyes searched hers, desperate and pleading, for some flicker of recognition. She knew those eyes…she had gazed into them before. They were windows to someplace safe and warm and wonderful and familiar…so familiar. But she had never met this man before, she had never even seen this man before…or had she?
"Who are you?" she whispered.
"I…I don't know," he stammered. "I mean, I do know, but I don't…I don't…I don't know who I am here," he said. "Here in this strange world – it's so unreal, like a dream. But it's not a dream. Is it?"
"I don't know what kind of trauma you've been through, but I want to help you," said Harley, slowly. "But you have to put down the gun first. Please. Just trust me," she said, holding out her hand. "I'll help you."
The sound of police sirens and flashing lights suddenly surrounded the store, and the maniac's hand tightened on the gun. "Please trust me," repeated Harley, reaching a hand up to his cheek and turning his face away from the window, and back to her. "I'll help you. I promise."
"You promise," he murmured. "I know…you'll keep your promise, Harley."
He released the gun into her hand just as the police entered the store. "Freeze!" shouted the officer in charge. "Let's see your hands!"
The maniac obeyed, lifting his hands above his head. The cops swarmed him, bending his arms behind his back and handcuffing him. "I'm Officer Lyle Bolton," said the police officer in charge. "Can you describe what happened here?"
"This maniac just walks in off the street and starts shooting," said Nygma. "And babbling some insanity about riddles and God knows what. He's seriously disturbed, Officer – he should be locked away in Arkham with the key thrown away."
"We try not to throw away keys at Arkham," replied Harley. "I'm Dr. Harleen Quinzel, Officer Bolton, I'm the head doctor at Arkham Asylum. I just happened to be here trying to get my computer repaired when the incident occurred."
"Lucky coincidence," commented Bolton. "I see you managed to disarm him."
"He gave me this," said Harley, handing him the gun. "He needs help, not a jail cell. If you'll let me take him to Arkham, I can start treating him first thing in the morning."
"I'll bring him over first thing in the morning," retorted Bolton. "We've got a couple questions for him down at the station tonight. Plus ID, fingerprints, that kinda thing. The usual formalities when arresting a murderer."
"I'm not sure he can be held accountable for murder – he's clearly not in his right mind," said Harley.
"Sure, that's what they all say," sighed Bolton. "No offense, Dr. Quinzel, but it's soft doctors like you that make our jobs much more difficult. You go too easy on these scumbags, and they don't learn their lesson. They think they can get away with murder, but they can't, not with Lyle Bolton around. Take him away," he ordered.
The maniac held Harley's gaze until he was driven out of sight in the police car, and she couldn't forget the haunting look in his green eyes. They felt so familiar, but they couldn't be. She had never seen that man before. But then why did it seem like she had? And why did he seem to know her? And how could she possibly help him?