Session X: Breakout
Time passed. Harleen met with Isley three times a week, the maximum allowed for high-security patients under Arkham's standard procedures; this was apparently to "protect those in regular contact with the criminally insane against undue psychological influence." She also conducted a handful of sessions on these days with Arkham's low-security patients, an ever-changing collection of former mooks, recovering victims of joker-venom and other supervillain attacks, addicts who had turned to substance abuse to deal with the stress of living in Gotham, and so on. This section of the asylum was only moderately less nightmarish than the high-security wing, but the constant flux of new patients coming and going led Harleen to hope that psychological progress was being made in spite of everything.
Isley's progress was slow but promising; however, after about a month, the events of one night changed everything.
Pamela sat alone in her cell. The dimmed lights were less harsh, but no less clinical, and only served to imbue the room with a sense of gloom, on top of the usual coldness. Curled up in one corner, Isley hovered on the edge of a fitful slumber when her reverie was abruptly ended by a deafening boom that rocked the entire building and knocked out the lights. A single, flickering bulb irregularly illuminated the darkness, intensifying the constant background terror of the asylum as Isley scrambled to her feet, panic rising in her chest.
She fought to control her breathing. In, hold, out, as best she could, as Dr. Quinzell had taught her. When she felt her hyperventilation slow enough to speak, she launched into the mantra she had chosen just a week before, murmuring quietly but as clearly as she could manage. "Pamela Isley. Bellis Perennis. Taraxacum Officinale. Narcissus Pseudonarcissus. Hyacinthus Or—"
With a rattle and a thud, the door to her cell swung open to reveal a tall, thin man. His orange prisoner jumpsuit, not at all standard issue for Arkham, clashed horribly against his lime-green hair. A broad grin spread across his heavily painted face.
"Behold!" the man spread his arms theatrically. "Your freedom is at hand!"
Ivy took her first look at the infamous Joker of Gotham, seeming equally ridiculous and dangerous under the irregular lighting. "Somehow, I don't think what you're offering me is freedom," she said quietly. Then, slowly, she continued her mantra.
The joker lowered his arms, peering into the gloom. "Oh, my my my," he said, his tone full of concern and interest. "What have we here? The promising young upstart, Doctor Poison Ivy, alone in the darkness and gone native? That simply won't do!"
He reached out of view and, from somewhere, produced an Arkham lab coat and clipboard, then strode confidently into the room. "Never fear, the true head doctor of the asylum is here to help!"
He approached her, coming to a halt at more or less the same spot where Harleen usually did, and struck a studious pose, invisible pen poised against the clipboard. "So tell me then, Doctor," he said. "What does freedom mean to you?" When Isley just glared at him, continuing her mantra, he added, "Indulge the curiosity of a man obsessed with ideas of chaos and freedom. Where's the harm in just talking?"
"Freedom isn't chaos," Isley retorted. "Freedom is...control, I suppose. Freedom is I get to choose who I am and what I do. Freedom is not looking over my shoulder for the police or the heroes or some man who thinks he can give me freedom telling me what to do. Goodbye."
"Ah, what a beautiful sentiment." The joker mimed wiping a tear from his eye. "Truly, a wonderful dream you have there." He sighed, and as he did, he seemed almost to deflate, trading his wide smile for a more somber expression. "But it is a dream, you know, and someone needs to wake you up before it kills you. Tell me, Greenie, do you know how many people have been discharged from this asylum? The full-time occupants, I mean."
Pamela shook her head mutely. The Joker grinned. "None! Zero! Not one!" He whooped and spun on the spot, causing Isley to flinch and draw further into her corner. "There has never been a single villain released from this building, because Arkham does not exist to cure people. Surely you can see that, yes? I mean, just look at the decor. And those lights," he stared up at the flickering bulb with a look of exaggerated concern. "My oh my, are we up to code in here? I think not."
"But you know what?" he continued. "Maybe I'm wrong. It's happened before, goodness knows. So, let's say you do manage to get yourself discharged. I'm simply dying to hear your plan for getting rid of all that green." he fell silent, watching her eagerly.
Pamela re-processed the Joker's last comment and realized she'd been asked a question. "I'm sorry, what?" Pamela asked.
"When you leave, how are you going to make yourself normal? You know, tan skin, brown hair, a distinct lack of plant-related powers? I find it all overrated, personally, but you never know, I might find a use for that kind of life-hack someday."
"I-I don't—" Isley began.
"Oh, but you must!" the Joker said. "After all, you said you wanted to be in control of who you are and what you do. You want to define those terms and have other people respect them, don't you? Well, what do you think people will think you are, out there in the real world around normal people, with your bright green skin and ability to kill with just a kiss? That's what they're saying about you, anyway. Do you think they'll listen when you tell them you aren't the notorious Poison Ivy?"
"If I'm really the first person ever released, then I'm sure people will know about it," Pamela challenged. "They'll know that I'm, I don't know 'reformed,' or whatever they call it."
"You really have no idea how the world works, do you?" The Joker said. "Listen, have you ever met Superman? I've met Superman. I've fought Superman. He is the most boring goody two-shoes you'll ever meet. He's practically a goody three-shoes." He looked at her with a cocked eyebrow. "No? You're right, that was a terrible joke. Disregard! My point is, people don't even trust him. Lex Luthor's "Extraterrestrial Deportment Initiative" had over five thousand supporters last time I was in Metropolis. He has a digital billboard that displays the number, can you imagine? No class whatsoever. But really, if they don't trust him, what makes you think they would ever trust you?"
"Not everyone is like that," Pamela said quietly.
"Ah! You refer, I assume, to the lovely new lady-doctor who's been working with you. What was it, Doctor...Quinn?"
"Quinzell," Pamela corrected, a little too forcefully. The Joker smiled. "Ah yes. Yes, I'm sure she's all kindness and patience and promises to "take things at your pace" and "respect your consent." What a feather in her cap it will be, being the first doctor to ever cure a patient at Arkham. Maybe then people will stop ignoring all the changes she's been recommending for this place. She's sure to get plenty of attention in the presses, and probably a raise, too."
Pamela could see where he was going with this. "She's not like that."
The Joker put his hand on his chin and regarded her thoughtfully. "I like you, Green. Hope is not a common quality in this place, and neither is naivety. You're a real breath of fresh air. Thank you for this conversation." He tossed the clipboard aside and dusted himself off. "If you're set on gambling on your doctor, I can hardly stop you. Besides, it probably won't be so bad if you're wrong. I know plenty of men with a taste for the exotic who'd be happy to keep you company at night." Pamela shuddered visibly at this, but the Joker seemed not to notice. "Sure, you won't really be more than an experience to them, but they're generally pretty good at hiding that fact. At least," he added conspiratorially, "That's been the case with the men I've experienced."
"And on that note," he said, turning and moving towards the door, "good night, Green."
As Pamela watched him retreat, she struggled with the swirl of thoughts and emotions inside her. Should she really be trusting Harleen, when trusting someone had put her here in the first place? The Joker definitely couldn't be trusted, but if he was right, if people would never see her as anything but her past and powers, then the only freedom she would ever have would be how they saw her: as someone to be feared, or something to be desired.
"Wait!" Ivy blurted. The Joker stopped halfway to the door, but didn't turn around. "I don't trust you. I'm not as naive as you think. I'll leave with you, but once we're out of the building I'm going on my own. If you try to stop me…" she hesitated.
Still facing away from her, the Joker smiled, the triumphant, sharp-toothed grin of a tiger. Then he turned, and was once again all charm and bravado. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, my dear. Like I said before, freedom is important to me, even if we define it differently. Step this way, if you please." He gave a showman's flourishing bow and gestured towards the door.
a/n: This chapter was especially challenging for me, because the Joker is such an iconic and hotly-debated character. I hope my take on him is satisfactory. I look forward to hearing your thoughts on the matter. As always, thanks for reading.