Session 1: An Exercise in Trust
"Well, Miss Quinzell," Warden Sharp said, barely glancing up from his papers as she entered the office, "We followed your recommendation regarding Miss Isley, and according to the reports from the orderlies, with favourable results.
"I'm very glad to hear it," Harleen replied, taking the seat. "And it's Doctor Quinzell, by the way." She had decided to remind him once per day, in the hopes that eventually it would get through to him without her coming off as pushy.
The warden waved a hand in acknowledgement, still not looking up from his papers. "You may be aware that Miss Isley acquired metahuman abilities when she injected herself with an experimental biological compound. One of these powers is a powerful pheromone that she uses to seduce men into doing what she wants. However, you, as a member of the fair sex, will be immune to her feminine wiles."
Harleen hid a smirk. She'd had her fair share of experience with 'feminine wiles' in college; she'd never been particularly good at giving them, but she'd been on the receiving end of plenty, and had even given into them on occasion. She felt no need to disclose this fact, however, to a warden who would be unlikely to understand or care.
"In light of this fact, and your success with the patient, I have decided to overlook your previous indiscretion and assign you full-time to Miss Isley." Sharp shuffled some papers. "I had you previously working with the clown today; I'll get Miss Terrence to take over there. You're dismissed."
...
Doctor Isley was still wearing the straight jacket, but her arms were free. Her hair was still unkempt, but it was pushed out of her face; Harleen could see the same pain she'd noticed before, simmering away behind those bright green eyes. She settled herself on the floor once again, a non-threatening distance away from the woman who was now officially her patient. She'd been offered a chair, made of lightweight plastic and soft rounded edges, but refused it after learning she was forbidden to bring one for Isley as well. "Thank you for upholding our agreement," Harleen said.
"hmph." Doctor Isley gave a half-shrug. "So? You here to get me out of this place?"
"Yes, I am."
This reply caught Dr. Isley off-guard. "You are?"
Harleen nodded. "I'm here to help prepare you to leave this place."
Dr. Isley slumped back against the wall. "Oh. I almost believed you then, but you're just another shrink who thinks she's clever."
"Doctor Isley, maybe everything you've said to me is true. I wasn't there, so I can't say. Maybe Woodrue did all you say he did, and none of this is your fault. If that is the case, then you have experienced something deeply, intimately traumatic. Nobody goes through that without getting a little broken; that doesn't make you insane, it makes you human. And here, sitting in front of you, is little old me, a certified therapist who got hired to work in a place that's notorious for extreme cases." Harleen paused. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to brag. My point here is, I can help you, and you don't have to call yourself insane to accept that help."
Dr. Isley's pale face became slightly greener, and Harleen was concerned until she realized that the woman was blushing. "Please," the woman shot back. "You don't believe my 'trauma' is real. You're not interested in helping me process it, you just want me to suppress it until I believe it never happened!"
"Actually, according to the latest studies out of GCU, trauma from an imagined or hallucinated event is indistinguishable from trauma from a real one." Harleen frowned. "Mind you, Dr. Crane did some pretty unethical things to prove it, but the data is sound. So, helping you to process this as though it really did happen would be my first step either way. After that…" She shrugged. "Maybe we figure out that it didn't happen that way, and explore why your mind is telling you it did. Or maybe we just reach a point where you feel comfortable lying through your teeth to the board about it, and you believe it happened and they don't, and it ends there. Maybe you walk with me that far and then refuse to go any farther; I'm never going to force you to do therapy, it doesn't work that way."
"Are you saying I can refuse right now?" Doctor Isley's voice was guarded, suspicious, but just a little less venomous.
"Of course," Harleen replied. "Consent is vital in all things. The fact that someone took it away from you does not mean you aren't entitled to it." Harleen leaned back, smiling. "We'll just sit here in silence, or talk about the weather, for a few hours a day." She glanced at the padded walls. "Maybe I can get them to paint some of those squares black and we can play chess."
This elicited a small smile from Dr. Isley, possibly the first genuine smile Harleen had seen from her. "An excellent use of Gotham's taxes. Doctor Quinzell, you may be telling me the truth; if you are, you'll understand why…why trusting you isn't easy for me."
"Naturally. We work at your pace, and I'll earn your trust."
Dr. Isley's gaze became unfocused, as though she were looking into the far distance, and the fires of anger in her eyes were replaced by a great weight of sadness. "In the greenhouse of GCU, there is a crimson orchid. It was a favourite of mine before…when I was studying there. It's dying now; the kid who took over greenhouse duty is careless in his work, and is overwatering it." The woman focused back onto Harleen. "There is so little left in this city that is green and growing. They are poisoning the air, the soil, and the water. Please, rescue my friend. If you do that, I'll work with you."
"You want me to sneak onto a college campus and steal a flower?" Harleen asked. "You know I won't be able to bring it to you, right?
"I'll know if you do it." Dr. Isley assured her. "I can feel all things that grow in this city. Like...little lights on the edge of my awareness."
"Sounds like that could be overwhelming, even in a place as industrial as this. Do you want to talk about that?"
Dr. Isley shook her head. "Save my friend first."
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Harleen had lunch with Doctor Jessica Terrence, the other, more experienced therapist who had been assigned to work with the Joker in her place. Harleen apologized for the extra work, but Doctor Terrence waved this away. "He's a really interesting case," she said, between bites of a BLT. "I enjoy a challenge. I'm going to reform him, you'll see."
During the afternoon, she sat in on the tribunal as they reviewed Edward Nygma's case. He was doing well on the current medications, and had apparently stopped writing on the walls, but the council decided to continue observations a little longer to ensure a relapse wouldn't occur. She filed some paperwork recommending a few minor cosmetic changes to the Asylum, which she hoped would be an easy first battle in her campaign to improve the place, and then she went home and waited for the sun to go down.
Harleen had, just as Dr. Isley guessed, attended university in Boston. The school had an open layout including a few roads that passed directly through it, and although it was away from the more heavily trafficked areas, it was still open to public through traffic and visitors. As a result, this was Harleen's mental image of a college, and, as such, Gotham City University cashed horribly with it. The entire campus was enclosed by a thick, twelve-foot-high wall, and the sturdy gates at the front were chained shut with three different types of locks.
Fortunately, Harleen had no need to get the gate open. Glancing around to ensure nobody was watching, she removed her trench coat and let it drop into the bushes, revealing a black and red checkered leotard. She'd graduated top of her class through her own hard work and intelligence, but she'd paid for her degree in gymnastics scholarship money. Scaling the gate and landing silently on the other side was a decent warm-up but not really a challenge; the chains holding the gate shut made for very convenient handholds, and soon she was on the other side, gathering up the tools she'd slid through the gate previously.
The architecture of Arkham Asylum probably held the record for most perfect embodiment of the term 'imposing,' but the school was certainly attempting to give it a run for its money. Perhaps they were counting on that as a deterrent, or the low priority of the flowers, but the greenhouse building was unlocked. After some investigation, Harleen found what she was looking for. "Well, hey there, Red," she addressed the wilting orchid, "What's a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?" She put her flashlight down and held up a trowel. "Wanna come home with me tonight?"
In her cell in Arkham, Dr. Isley's skin turned a little less pale, and she breathed a little easier.