Session 3: An Exercise in Frustration

Mass Breakout!

Thirteen Supervillains loose in Gotham!

Warden Sharp slammed the newspaper onto his desk. Below the headline was a photo of the asylum's front office in shambles, papers everywhere, tables and chairs upended. Worst of all, just visible in the corner of the photo was an unconscious security guard bound with thick vines. "Damnit, Quinzell!" the warden barked. "You told us your patient wasn't a threat, you insisted she didn't need sedation, and now look where that got us. A dozen of Gotham's most dangerous are in the wind, the media is dragging our name through the mud, and Ms. Terrence was taken hostage. Well, as far as I'm concerned, the blame for all of this falls on you, Miss Quinzell, you and your incessant recommendations."

"But sir," Harleen began.

"Be very careful what you say next," the warden growled. "You're on thin ice, Quinzell. If I hear one more complaint from you about how I run my asylum, I will take it as proof that you are acting with malicious intent, rather than simple incompetence, and have you fired on the spot. No second chances, y'hear? You're on your last straw."

Doctor Quinzell swallowed her protests and objections, with some difficulty, and managed to say "Yes, sir."

"You're dismissed," the warden picked up the newspaper and opened it, a clear barrier between himself and his vexing employee.

Harleen left the asylum in a mixture of anger and shock. She was being scapegoated. She'd known things were bad, known her calls for reform were being met with resistance, but for them to so blatantly ignore proof of the problem whilst simultaneously using it to discredit her warnings was a level of stubborn ignorance beyond anything she could have believed.

Yet even more shocking was the fact that Isley had left with the others. They had been making such good progress, hadn't they? She'd been making it work, hadn't she? Perhaps she hadn't left willingly? But then, what of the security guard?

She chased the thoughts around in circles in her mind. So deeply engrossed in thought was the good doctor that she did not even notice as her feet took her into the shadier part of Gotham; indeed, she did not become aware of her surroundings until she walked straight into someone and fell over.

"Sorry," she said automatically. Only then did she notice her surroundings and the details of the man she had collided with.

He was a large, muscled individual in workman's clothing. Most concerning, however, was the full face of clown makeup he wore; complete except for the smile that was also absent from his own expression.

"Oi, it's Miss Quinn," the man said. "Just the person we was hoping to bump into." He smiled a smile that was devoid of warmth, and also missing several teeth. "The boss wants a word with you." He reached into his bag and produced a length of heavy-looking pipe. "Is you gonna come quietly or is we gonna play?"

Harleen scrambled backward away from the man, her mouth suddenly too dry to speak. The cracked concrete ground of the alleyway scraped against her palms and they propelled her backward into something solid. She looked up into the face of another burly man, similarly dressed and made up. He cracked his knuckles menacingly.

"Playtime it is," the first man said, and lifted the pipe into the air over his head.

Something small and fast flew through the air and struck the pipe, knocking it out of the man's hand. The object itself clattered to the ground at Harleen's feet. It was a thin shard of black metal, shaped like a stylized silhouette of a bat. The three occupants of the alley looked up to see, perched atop an adjoining building, the crouched figure of a black-cloaked figure.

The fight lasted perhaps half a minute, silent except for the grunts of pain from the two men as the Bat of Gotham quickly knocked them unconscious. Harleen, who had gotten to her feet and retreated down the alley away from the fighting, focused on controlling her breathing as the bat restrained the unconscious thugs, ignoring her entirely. Only after the work was completed did he rise and turn to address her.

"This is a poor day for a woman to be out alone." His tone was detached and level, with no indication of the flurry of exertion he had just been involved in. "You need to go home right away and lock the door."

There was one thing you could say about the Batman: even in the muted daylight, even knowing her own innocence, he was intimidating. The cloak, blacker than black, was a solid mass; light failed to reflect off folds of cloth, making the man's exact build and posture impossible to guess, which made him seem much larger than he surely was. The deep cowl entirely obscured his eyes; only his mouth and chin were visible, pale against his costume, so pale as to seem almost supernatural. Harleen found herself feeling like a child being scolded by her parents.

She swallowed hard. "I was-was looking for, um, a friend," she offered, a half-truth spoken as a half-excuse.

"My team is out in full force today, and others are headed here to help." The Batman turned and moved towards the mouth of the alley. "We will find your friend. The best thing you can do is stay out of our way so that we can focus on bringing justice to these streets."

"And what about the people who justice has failed?" She called after him. "What about those who get overlooked?"

The man stopped dead in his tracks and turned slowly. For a long moment, he stared at her in silence, his expression unreadable.

Eventually, he spoke. "I don't know who you are referring to, Doctor Quinzell," he said. Harleen started. How had he known her name?

"However," he continued, "Let me warn you not to follow in my footsteps in this matter. The line between vigilante justice and supervillain behavior is very thin. Ensuring I never cross that line requires that I keep a gun to my head at all times. This is...not a path that most are able to endure. Whoever it is that you feel has been failed, my advice to them is to find closure elsewhere. The world isn't fair, despite the beliefs and efforts of some; it is better to come to terms with that than risk becoming part of the problem." So saying, he turned, his cape flaring out around him, and vanished around the corner and out of sight.

Harleen stayed where she was for several moments, shaken, the Bat's words echoing through her mind. She realized that she had a very strong desire that this man and his inscrutable ideas of justice did not succeed in finding Pamela.

She set off with renewed purpose, stepping carefully over her unconscious would-be assailants. If Isley had left the asylum freely, then Harleen had a good idea where to start looking for her. She exited the alleyway and turned, not towards home, but towards the university.

The gates of GCU were open this time, but the building seemed only marginally less imposing. Fortunately, it appeared that, while the school was open, most classes had been cancelled, and the campus was more or less deserted. Harleen headed straight for the greenhouse.

Inside, the warm, humid air washed over her, and with it, a sensation of being watched. "Hello," she called, in as casual a tone as she could manage. "Hope nobody minds if I let myself in here. Not that it seems like there's anyone here, of course." She found a bench nearby and sat down on it. "Yep, seems like this place is deserted, which is fine by me, I'm not looking for anyone, just thought I'd come and hang out with some plants."

There was a small potted pine next to the bench, and she turned to address it. "There was practically no traffic on my way here, something about a big breakout making everyone stay home. Bit of a welcome change of pace, honestly. Seems like there's always something backing up the commute. Like last week, there was some bizarre villain team-up that left half a mile of highway covered in frozen mayonnaise. Condiment King, I mean, really.

"I was quite worried about my friend, though, who went out last night. I was surprised that she left, and now I'm afraid she might get into trouble. I'd really like to make sure she's okay, and find out why she left."

She sighed, leaning back in her seat, and closed her eyes. "Living in Gotham is certainly very different to living in Jersey. You're probably used to it all, having grown here. But the closest we get to anything like this out there is—"

There was a rustling of leaves nearby. Harleen opened her eyes to see Poison Ivy standing across from her, glaring at her.

She had shed the straightjacket and asylum uniform, and was now wearing only a leotard made from a dense layer of moss and leaves. This change was quite flattering, and Harleens eyes lingered for just a moment on her patient's curves before jumping up to meet the woman's fiery gaze.

Isley's eyes blazed with an anger fiercer than Harleen had seen them since their first meeting, and her voice was laced with venom. "Doctor Quinzell. Why are you here?"

"Oh, hello Doctor Isley," Harleen said, willing herself not to look away. "I was just having a conversation with a tree." When this statement got no reaction from Isley, she continued. "He's not very talkative, though. You can take his place, if you like."

She patted the bench next to her. Ivy didn't move. "What is it that you want with me, Doctor Quinzell? Do you think you're going to make me go back?"

"I'm never going to make you do anything, Doctor Isley. Oh, and also, I'm not on duty right now, so you can call me Harleen. I'd like to know why you chose to break out, and to help you, if I can, to work through what you're dealing with. But now that I've chatted with the foliage I'm willing to leave, if that's what you want."

Isley threw her hands up in frustration. "Ugh, you are so infuriating!"

"I'm very sorry to have distressed you," Harleen said calmly. "What can I do to make things more comfortable for you?"

"Be honest with me about what you expect to gain from all this. Why are you so intent on helping me? Is it fame? Money? Just tell me!"

Harleen looked at Isley without speaking for a long moment, her expression soft. "Pamela," she said, kindly, "I understand that your trauma inclines you to believe people are out to manipulate and use you. I promise you, I swear on anything you like, that I am not one of those people. My reward in this is nothing more than seeing your suffering lessened and a path to living well opened for you."

"Maybe—" Ivy faltered, her emotions swirling behind her eyes. "Maybe that path is already closed to me. Maybe it was never there at all."

"The path is always there, for anyone," Harley said. "But some choices can make the path longer. Be sure about your next choice before you make it."

"You really only want to help me?" Ivy asked.

"I do," Harleen confirmed.

"If that's really true...then you'll forgive me for this."

Harleen didn't even have time to react before Isley closed the distance between them, leaned over, and blew a cloud of scented green smoke directly into her face.

Next chapter: An Exercise in Romance