The next morning, the maniac was delivered to Arkham as promised, but Harley was shocked to see that he had clearly been beaten. "The police had no right to do that to you!" she hissed, as the guards left the maniac in her office.

"It's fine – it's not real," he replied. "That Bolton guy might be real, but the beating wasn't real."

"The pain isn't real?" she asked. "It looks pretty real to me."

"Well, it's not," he replied, hissing as he adjusted his arms. "No matter what I feel, it isn't real."

Harley sat down opposite him. "Why do you think it's not real?" she asked. "Why do you think you didn't murder those people yesterday?"

"Because they weren't real," he retorted. "They appeared to be – they were walking and talking, and if you touched them they would feel real. But they weren't. This whole reality is a simulation that we're living in. I know it. I remember…I remember what reality was like, and it wasn't like this. Even this place…it's all wrong," he said, looking around. "The vision I have...associated with the name Arkham Asylum isn't a pretty, clean, sterile hospital like this. It's the stuff of Gothic nightmares."

"Don't you think it's a little far-fetched that your reality would have an asylum that looks like something out of a horror movie?" asked Harley. "Which is more likely?"

"I don't care what's likely – I'm just telling you what's true," he retorted, studying her. "You're real – you must know that something about this all feels off. Haven't you had any inkling that this is all a simulation?"

"I think you've been watching too many movies, Mr…" She trailed off. "Did the police manage to discover your name when they fingerprinted you?"

"They gave me a name, but it's not my name," he retorted. "Joseph Kerr. But it's not my real name. I don't remember my real name. I don't know that I ever did."

"How are you so sure what you think is real is actually real, and that this isn't?" asked Harley. "Most of the world thinks it is."

"The majority believing something doesn't make it true," he replied. "And I just know it. I feel it, in my gut, and somewhere in…in my mind."

He put a hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. "I can see it if I concentrate – dark cells behind bars…and a clown."

Harley stared at him. "A…a clown?" she repeated.

"A clown, grinning, beckoning, whispering," he murmured. "Not just one clown though. There's another, a woman…a beautiful woman, who loves me madly."

He looked at her, and Harley stared back, stunned at encountering the clown image again. First her, and then Dr. Crane, and now this lunatic…it couldn't be a coincidence. Could it?

There was a knock on her office door, startling her. "Dr. Quinzel, Mr. Kerr's wife is here to see him," said a guard, poking his head in.

"Oh…send her in," stammered Harley. "I didn't know you had a wife."

"She's not real," he muttered, glaring down at his hands.

"I thought reality was a beautiful woman who loved you madly," she said.

"It is," he agreed, looking up at her again. "And it's not her."

Harley met his eyes, once again struck by how familiar they were. And then a woman entered the room, an incredibly beautiful woman. "Joseph, dear, there you are!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck. "I was so worried when you didn't come home from work yesterday! I went to the police station and they said you were here – they said you killed some people?"

"They're lying," he muttered. "I didn't kill anyone."

"Your husband is having trouble distinguishing reality from unreality," said Harley. "That's why he's here. I hope to be able to help him with his problem."

The woman looked at her with barely concealed contempt. "You know nothing about my husband, so I doubt you'll be able to do that," she retorted.

"Well, that's why we're talking," said Harley. "So I get to know him. That's sort of how therapy works."

"He doesn't need therapy," the woman said, firmly. "All Joe needs is the love and devotion of his adoring wife to make him right as rain. Isn't that right, darling?" she sighed, draping herself over him again.

"Did you know he had a gun?" asked Harley.

"No, but I know this all has to be some misunderstanding," said the woman. "My Joe wouldn't hurt a fly."

"I saw him gun down those people myself," replied Harley. "Though maybe I'm starting to understand where his unreality delusions come from, since you seem to share them."

"All I know is that my husband is the kindest, sweetest man in the world," retorted the woman. "And if you're implying otherwise, if you're implying he's some crazy murderer, then you're the crazy one here, Doctor!"

"Jeannie, get off," muttered the maniac, pushing her away. "She's not crazy. You just don't know who I am."

"That's not true, Joe!" she exclaimed. "I've known you your whole life – we were high school sweethearts! If I don't know you, nobody knows you!"

"Nobody does," he muttered. "Not here."

"This is the first time he's lashed out violently like this, to your knowledge?" asked Harley of Jeannie.

"Yes, he…he isn't a violent man," stammered Jeannie. "He's a good man, a sensible, sane man. A hard-working man too. He provides for me…"

"Where does he work?" asked Harley.

"A chemical factory outside of town," replied the woman. "He's been there ten years – never any complaints. I'm telling you, you've got the wrong man. This isn't something my Joe would do. It doesn't matter what you saw. It's not true. It can't be true."

She embraced him again, whispering tenderly in his ear. He said nothing, just looked at Harley. "He won't be held here, will he?" asked Jeannie, turning to Harley desperately with tears in her eyes. "He can't be locked up."

"Why not?" asked Harley.

"Because I can't be without him!" she sobbed. "Not now! Not now, Joe," she whispered, placing his hand on her stomach.

"It's not real!" he roared, snatching his hand away.

"Joe, you can't say that!" she sobbed. "The doctors have confirmed it! It's your baby…"

"There is no baby!" he exclaimed. "Can't you get that through your thick skull, Jeannie?! It's not real! You're not real!"

Jeannie stared at him in shock, tears trickling down her face. Harley buzzed for the guards. "Please take Mrs. Kerr to the canteen and get her some water," she murmured. "I'll be in to talk to her shortly."

The guard nodded, escorting Jeannie from the room. The door shut, and Harley studied the man in front of her, the man known as Joseph Kerr. "I think I'm beginning to understand what's happened," she murmured. "Your life has been normal and predictable and safe for so long. And then you're suddenly confronted with the pressures of fatherhood, and you realize your life is too safe, too predictable…"

"No, that's not it!" he exclaimed, standing up. "That's what you're supposed to believe, but it's not true!"

"Something had to trigger your shooting spree," said Harley. "If it wasn't the baby, what was it?"

He said nothing, sitting back down slowly and burying his face in his hands. "Jeannie…told me she was pregnant," he murmured. "I was overjoyed, at first. We'd been trying for a long time, and now finally we were gonna have everything we always wanted. I took her out to celebrate, to the carnival. I didn't wanna take her on anything too thrilling in her condition, no roller coasters or anything like that, but I thought the Ferris wheel would be nice and romantic. And it was. We stopped at the top of the wheel, and I held her, with my hand resting on her stomach that sheltered our baby. And I knew that I was the luckiest man in the world. In that moment, I knew I could never be happier. And then that moment ended. We got off and passed the shooting gallery, where a man was encouraging passers-by, including me, to try their luck. Jeannie teasingly told me to go for it, so I did…"

He trailed off, running his fingers through his hair. "I held that gun, and it jolted something in me. I had…held a gun before. It felt like an extension of my arm - completely natural. I knocked over everything in the shooting gallery, everyone was stunned, including Jeannie. She didn't know I had practice with shooting, and I didn't. I couldn't remember ever firing a gun before and yet…I had. I know I had. There was the proof in front of me. It was weird, but I tried to just put it down to beginner's luck. We moved on, passing by this ventriloquist act, and this guy who was supposed to be half-man, half-crocodile. And…I got this feeling of déjà vu, like I had seen these exact performers before, but I hadn't. The carnival wasn't local to Gotham – these people had traveled in from a long way away. But the dummy…I recognized the ventriloquist's dummy. And the crocodile man. I was sure I had seen them somewhere before. It was like seeing something you dreamed about come to life – it was freaky because it was inexplicable, and yet it was real. And then Jeannie and I went to the funhouse. It was one of those classic ones, you know, weird tunnels and a hall of mirrors. I felt unnerved and uneasy being in there, and I didn't know why. But then I found out. As I looked into the funhouse mirror, I saw…I saw a clown grinning back at me. This clown face…my face. It was there everywhere I turned, whispering something, a name, my real name…"

He trailed off. "And what is that?" asked Harley.

"The Joker," he said. "The Joker."

Harley's brain jolted – that name was familiar to her too, but familiar as in some hazy dream…

"I was terrified," he murmured. "Jeannie…Jeannie didn't see it…she just saw the mirrors making you shorter or taller or thinner or fatter, but they all reflected the Joker back at me. He wouldn't stop grinning, he wouldn't stop laughing, he wouldn't stop talking, I can hear him now…"

He put his hands to his ears. "He told me to wake up," he whispered. "That this wasn't real, all of this wasn't real, and I knew he was right, deep down. But I was scared…too scared to do anything else but go home. Jeannie knew I was spooked, but I couldn't tell her why. I didn't know why. All I know is that when I held her hand as she dropped off to sleep, it didn't feel real anymore. And when I dreamed that night, the clown was there again, speaking to me. I was awake. I knew now. It was all a lie, everything, my perfect life…"

He trailed off again and started pacing the room. "The next day I went to work as usual, thinking sleep would have made everything better. It didn't. It made everything worse. I kept thinking about what the clown had said – he was still talking to me, distracting me, I could see him everywhere. I was working on some acid and he made me drop it...it burned onto my skin, and I didn't even feel it," he said, rolling his sleeve up to show her the chemical burn on his arm, which left his flesh unnaturally white. "The supervisor came over, said I should go to a hospital, but I didn't feel any pain. I didn't feel…anything."

He sat down again. "I went for a walk downtown to try and clear my head, but I could see the truth now, and it wasn't real, none of it. It was like walking among shadows, every building out of focus and the people surrounding you colorless, shapeless blobs. Except…I walked by that computer place, and I could see through the glass that guy who was there yesterday. Nygma, Eddie Nygma. And he was real. I knew it. It was like seeing someone standing in front of a movie projector. You can see the difference between the people in the movie and the real person. And Eddie stood out. The clown whispered to me - I remembered Eddie somehow, from somewhere, and there was some association with riddles connected to him. 'Riddle me this' – the clown kept repeating that phrase over and over in my head. I went in to talk to Eddie, to see if he understood…but he didn't. He called me crazy and told me to leave. I honestly thought I must have been going crazy. I kept walking. I found a shooting range, went in and borrowed a gun, and did some target practice. I hit a bullseye every time. The people there said I must have been in the Army, special forces or a sniper or something, but I hadn't been. I had never held a gun before. But I could use one just like a trained killer."

He started pacing again. "I didn't know what else to do, to obey the clown, to wake myself up. I wanted to wake up, but I didn't know how. And then I thought maybe if I could make everyone see, all the real people would wake up together. So I stole the gun from the range and went back to that computer place. And that's where I saw you. You're real too," he said, approaching her and touching her cheek. "And I think you know that. I think you know that I'm not crazy. I know it's scary to admit it – I'm scared too. I don't know how to wake up. But you'll help me, won't you, Harley?"

Harley wanted to say she would, or that she could. But she didn't know if she could do either of those things. The things he was saying were completely deranged – he seemed too far gone to help. He was clearly having a complete psychotic break, brought on by the stress of his wife's pregnancy. And yet…and yet…

"I…" she stammered, gazing into his eyes. His eyes seemed to connect to hers, fizzling electricity into her body. "I…"

His mouth slowly dropped down to hers, and she unconsciously parted her lips to receive him. The touch of his lips was electric. She was suddenly struck by another jolting realization – she knew his kiss. It was warm and safe and familiar…so very familiar. She had kissed him before somewhere, and kissing him now was like coming home after a long way away. A flood of happiness and recognition washed over her as her mouth responded to the familiar curves and hollows of his. She knew it like she knew the back of her hand. She moaned involuntarily in relief, and she felt his lips part slightly from hers as they released a small laugh. And that laugh sparked a name in her brain. "Mr. J," she whispered.

"Harley," he murmured. "My Harley Quinn."

And then he was kissing her again. And this time her brain snapped back into gear – she couldn't be doing this! Kissing a patient, and a pregnant woman's husband! She shoved him away, panic and fear in her eyes.

"It's ok, Harley," he whispered. "I know you're afraid. They want you to be afraid. But you can't be afraid of me."

"Who's…who's they?" she stammered.

"Whoever is controlling this simulation," he murmured. "They're very powerful people. And they'd be angry if we woke up. But we have to wake up. I can't live a lie anymore, and I don't think you can either. Now that you know."

Harley said nothing, but went over to the buzzer on her desk. "Please escort Mr. Kerr to a private room," she said to the guard who appeared. "He needs intensive therapy, and will be staying here until he gets it."

The guard dragged Joseph Kerr off, but he kept her gaze in his. The moment he was gone, Harley's sanity reasserted itself in a rush of embarrassment and horror at her actions. She couldn't go comfort Mrs. Kerr after she had just been kissing her husband, not without feeling incredibly guilty. But she also couldn't just leave her without explanation.

She went to the cafeteria where Jeannie sat, sipping some water and gently stroking her belly. "How is he?" she asked, standing up as Harley approached.

"He needs to stay here for…a little while," stammered Harley. "It's not safe to release him right now."

Tears came to Jeannie's eyes. "Did…did I…did we cause it?" she whispered, touching her stomach.

"No, you mustn't blame yourself," said Harley, soothingly. "There's nothing you could have done to prevent this. I'll try to help him get better. But it will take time."

"He has to be ok, I can't raise this baby on my own," whispered Jeannie, tears trailing down her face. "I just can't."

"Now you shouldn't distress yourself in your condition," said Harley, putting an arm around her shoulder. "You have to be strong, for the baby's sake. I promise I'll do all I can to help Joker…"

The name just slipped out without her realizing it, but Jeannie must have heard 'Joe Kerr,' because she didn't seem to react at all. "Thank you, Dr. Quinzel," she said, squeezing her hand. "I'll be in your debt forever if you can bring my husband back to me."

Harley nodded, standing up and leaving her. But on the way back to her office, she had a horrible feeling that Jeannie's husband was gone. There was only the Joker now.