TWO

They ordered a new one. And so soon, too. Joker is amazed that Arkham has enough money to buy another life. He wonders how many more doctors it will take for them to realize how downright pointless these little sessions were. Two? Twenty-two? Two hundred twenty-two? At this rate, it seems endless.

But no! This chick really knows what she's doing! She's the best in the biz! The number one psychiatric physician in the entire country; maybe even possibly the world. If anyone could fix him, she could. But of course, that's what they always say.

With his arms wrapped uncomfortably around him, courtesy of the stylish jackets Arkham supplies, he is strapped down tighter than ever before. So the last incident had been a bit – sticky, what can you expect with only a paper clamp? If they wanted the inevitable incidents to be less grotesque, they should really provide him with better materials.

One guard, two guard, three guard, four. It's as if they don't trust him at all. Then she follows.

Unlike her predecessors, her hair isn't bundled up in a librarian like bun, square-rimmed glasses don't cover her oh-so-bright, bright blue eyes, and she doesn't wear fancy stilettos that serve no purpose here in an insane asylum.

She turns around on the spot and catches the eyes of the guards before her. What's this? No protection? Too brave for burly henchmen? What a dumb, overly-confident little doctor. Dumb, dumb, dumb doctor. Three of the four leave without hesitation, without a care in the world for another doctor death. Arkham couldn't dock their pay anymore than they already have. But the last one does hesitate. He's the new guy, Hank is it? He doesn't want any blood on his hands. But he'll get used to it. Oh he'll get used to it. She smiles sweetly and nods and tells him "It'll be okay" all with her eyes. He leaves.

Turning on her heal, she sits herself down on the steel chair that must freeze through her thin pencil skirt, and slaps a relatively thick manila folder atop the table separating them.

Joker rocks back and forth in his own steel chair, trusting the chains that chafe his ankles to keep him from falling. He waits impatiently for her to break the ice, but she doesn't. She only flips through the manila folder, scribbling here and underlining there.

"Hi!" Joker says finally, bored with being ignored.

She looks up to face him and meets his coal eyes. Completely bare and natural, he isn't quite what Harley had expected. He looks like a man, not a clown. Just a man with unfortunate Glasgow scars and exceptionally yellow teeth. "Hi," she responds, somehow managing to keep the fear out of her voice. "So here's the deal." She slaps her hands over the manila folder. "I'm going to stop you on all your medication. No doubt you just vomit up the oral ones anyway, so it shouldn't affect your system too much."

Severely intrigued, Joker listens intently while shimmying his wrist free of one of the clasps. "And why is that doc?"

"Well, for one, you aren't crazy."

His brow furrows and he is somewhat ashamed of his obvious confusion. "I know that."

She nods. "Yes, and it's true. Although no one seems to believe how a perfectly sane person can reveal the madness of the world in such a horrid way. But I believe it. So I'm stopping all your medication."

He ponders the idea. "Interesting choice of treatment. Don't fix a dog if it doesn't need it, eh?"

"I do, however, think you're in the wrong ward," Harley continues.

"I just go where they tell me to." He stops and thinks over his word choice. "Or where they throw me in."

Harley leans in just half an inch closer. "Most mental health counselors start off with a very positive, completely false outlook with their patients. But that's not how I do it." Joker slides his tongue quickly over his bottom lip while she blabbers. "I'm a straightforward type of person. So, I'm going to have to say that there's no way you will change your ways, even though that's what I'm getting paid to do. Because you aren't crazy, this is your lifestyle, and psychiatrists can't change a lifestyle."

"The incurable ward, eh?" He stares for a moment and then begins to burst into impossible laughter. It's enough to make any normal person run far, far away, but Harley just watches him in interest. "You – you really don't know how deep the water is."

Harley weaves a pencil in between her delicate little fingers. She could have expected this. "Maybe not, but I'm not completely unaware."

"Oh?"

She stops for a moment, and then changes the subject. "What's you're name?" she asks pleasantly.

He cocks his head and wonders what she's implying? Is he crazy enough not to know his own name, or is she just making conversation? "Clown Prince of Crime. The Ace of Knaves. Harlequin of Hate. Mongrel of Mountebanks." He smiles to himself. "Joker. And yours?"

"No, no. Not that name. I mean your real name. The name on your birth certificate, assuming you haven't permanently disposed of it yet."

He starts laughing again. "Names are so – unconditional. And I prefer things to be more… relative."

"I see."

"You didn't answer my question, love."

"Which was?"

"Your name?"

She laughs this time, much less maniacally. "If you won't tell me your name, then I won't tell you mine."

There is a definite crack as Joker dislocates his right arm. The only effective way to completely remove a straight jacket. But she doesn't seem to notice at all. "Ah, so that's how you play then, is it?"

"I suppose." Harley lowers her eyelids at him and examines him thoroughly. She leans in over the table so that she is only inches away from his face. "You kill everyone who ever comes in this room eventually. Maybe you won't kill that new guard today, but you will, eventually. You think I haven't noticed how you're completely free of your restraints and now just trying to think of a fun way to do it." With that, all four guards rush in, are ever-so-shocked to see that he managed to escape from his bindings (again), and restrain him. "I'm not completely unaware of how deep the water is."