Day 1:

At last, my plan's petals start to unfurl into sweet fruition. Oh, lord, I must sound like Poison Ivy- then again, I might not. Well, I'll guess I'll find out tomorrow- my first day at Arkham. I estimate about three years before I've gathered enough material to write my stunning memoirs.

What about Harleen Quinzell- or should I say Harley Quinn? "Looking into the abyss" and "He who fights monsters" and all that. What guarantee do I have that three years in Arkham won't corrupt me just as it did the Joker's henchwench? Well, I'll tell you: I plan to get a second perspective on my subjects- behind a crimefighter's gloved fist. I figure that seeing what my patients are really like will 'immunize' me, so to speak, from the sympathetic slide that characterized Quinn's fall from grace - and just think what a story it would make?

More to come in following chapters, Journal. I must get as much sleep as I can- I'm certainly going to need it for this ordeal. Some might call my plan insane- dangerously so. I say the best genius is always tinged with a hint of madness. Looks like I'll fit right in at Arkham, eh? Pleasant dreams, Journal- and who knows how may I'm going to get in the following days?

Day 2:

I got ready for my first day at Arkham with barely suppressed excitement. As I absent-mindedly drove up the long, winding drive after it' wrought-iron gates, I could almost hear the sound of maniacal laughter. Wait, that was maniacal laughter!

I heard a sudden thump, and looked up just in time to hear a thump, and see a straitjacketed, green haired, pasty faced inmate, go flying over my windshield- Funny, that looked just like the Joker. Wait, that was the Joker! In my rear-view mirror I could see him, now pinned down by guards, feebly shaking his fist at my retreating vehicle. Slightly shocked, I kept driving until I reached the parking lot. once there, I let out a low moan and leaned my head against the steering wheel.

If every day at Arkham was like this, I thought ruefully, I'd be straitjacketed in no time. I stepped in the front door, and asked the pretty if careworn secretary for Director Arkham. A security guard stepped forward, pulling out a metal-detection wand.

"What are you doing? Don't you trust your staff?"

"After the last six incidents- no. And that's just this year." The guard nodded to the secretary, and I was passed through to Doctor Arkham's office.

"Welcome, Doctor." Arkham greeted me as I entered his room " Please. have a seat. Cigar?"

"Sorry, I don't smoke." I said, taking a seat opposite him.

"Don't worry, after a few weeks of this,": He gesticulated at the surrounding walls "You will. By the way, excellent initiative with apprehending the Joker. If we had more staff like you, we'd have no use for orderlies."

"I see you don't have much practical experience with abnormal psychologies, so we decided to start you off small. However, the potential for career advancement here is great- we just can't seem to keep anybody. Anyway, Christine out front has your files. Ask one of the other doctors if you have any other questions. Have a nice day."

As I suited up for the night's activities, I reflected on the day's events. Arkham had set me up with a fairly run-of-the-mill array of psychopaths- no 'superstars'. I guess they don't want anybody just running into arkham for a true confessional story and then running right out again. Well, I have time.

As I finally strapped on my last vambrace, I caught a glance at myself in the mirror. Full plate isn't exactly the most acrobatic armor-especially full plate proofed to withstand bullets. But I wasn't worried about that. I checked my left arm for the most essential part of my superheroics- a small vial of pills. A friend at Ivy Town U was doing graduate research on a scientist named Tyler's early work and he came up with a chemical that boosts speed, strength and stamina for about half an hour per pill- precisely what you need to go tooling around gotham in 60 pounds of armor. Bring on the supervillains!

I stepped out onto my fire escape, and blessed the fact that I lived on a low floor. Although popping a pill would allow me to leap down easily, I have only a limited supply, so every minute counts.

My first crimebust came only a few minutes later. Some teenagers though that it would be a good idea to make an ATM withdrawal with a crowbar. They had just succeeded in shattering the screen when I intervened.

"Step away from the machine." I said, stepping out of the shadows(Which they seem to have a surplus of in Gotham), and casually tossing a pill into my mouth (my helmet has a swinging visor). Immediately, I felt the blood start to rush in my veins, and flexed my gloved fingers (I can't exactly go around hitting people with gauntlets, now, can I").

"Aw look, Lancelot's come to save the day. Where's Excalibur?" One of the young thieves smirked.

Arthur's the one with the sword, punk, but I responded only with another "Get away from the ATM." (My banter needs work.)

"Just trash him, Jackie!" His pierced and tatooed girlfriend called out.

"With pleasure, babe!" he smirked, and swung his crowbar in a wide arc. The only thing more satisfying than the look on his face when I caught his crowbar (did I mention the pills also enhance reflexes?) was the loud thump as my fist connected with his jaw. (No gauntlets, but a couple ounces of lead never hurt.) He hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"One down. Four to go." The rest of the gang took off running. I withdrew a handy roll of duct tape(man's best friend) and a cell phone. A call to the police and a binding later, and I was on my way.

Now this crimefighting business might seem a little bit easy to you, Journal. but you have to realize the situation- super-strength and full plate versus a bunch of teens. I'm sure the first time I go up against Clayface or the like, things will be a bit more difficult.

Two more attempted robberies, one attempted mugging, and one attempted rape later, I'm back here writing. The police scanner seemed awfully quiet tonight- but then it would, being on the wrong channel. Oh well- to make an omelet, must one not break a few heads? And besides, it actually felt a little bit good to be out there "making a difference.". Not as good as sleep would, though- luckily, my friend's "miracle drug" takes the edge off of sleep deprivation. Nevertheless, I must be going to bed now, Journal. Another day beckons- actually it already has. Goodnight

-Lancelot?(I really must get a codename)