Chapter 2
That night, barley a whisper of the wind rustled through the tall buildings of Gotham. The sky beheld thousands of tiny and sparkling stars, usually hidden above a city of such great size. Even the petty criminals in the streets took a moment to appreciate such a perfect summer night in Gotham. But Harleen Quinzel was restless, turning over and over in her bed, and sleep seeming hours away.
If anyone had asked her, she would have said nonchalantly that her preoccupied mind was focused on work related business. But Harleen knew deep down that her head was only full of one thing. One person, really.
She tried picturing him a thousand different ways. She of course had an idea of what he looked like, you'd have to live under a rock not to. She knew that he was of fairly average height and build, had facial scarring on either side of his mouth, and dyed green hair. But she wasn't working with any point of reference, merely a mixture of gossip and newspaper articles.
She wondered restlessly if a doctor had yet to have the opportunity to speak with him and analyze his behavior yet. Harleen realized that there might be someone out there who knew his secrets: childhood memories, idols, even his motivations for his lifestyle. She wondered if he was awake at that moment or was passed out on the recurrent sedatives doled out in Arkham.
Eventually, her curiosity overtook her better thinking. She flipped open her laptop and typed "The Joker" in the search bar. She waited for the results to pop up; her head constantly twitched. She was suddenly paranoid all that someone was watching her.
It's three o'clock in the morning, Harleen. No one is even awake right now. And no one is curious as to what's on Harleen Quinzel's computer. Besides, you're not doing anything wrong. This is just plain and harmless curiosity, she told herself.
But after pages and pages of vague and ridiculously bias newspaper articles about spats between the Batman and the Joker, Harleen was hacking into the GCPD firewalls. Now she had something to worry about, at the very least that her actions were no longer legal, but her attention was diverted into her findings.
A slightly blurry mug shot of the Joker, five years ago, grinning like a fiend. Data reports: height, weight, fingerprints (with no known match), clothing samples, dental records (also with no match). An IQ test: he had actually tested surprisingly well for someone who didn't know he was taking one. Harleen guessed he must be at genius level, if not above.
And then the analyses: Harleen flicked through them impatiently, bored by the overstated concerns and ridiculously repetitive and ignorant phrases.
Possible split personality. Aversion to childhood. Takes pleasure in bloodshed and violence. Possible schizophrenia. Possible bipolar disorder. Lack of regard for human life. Very dangerous. Aversion to past. Obsession with psychological games and testing.
Harleen floated back to the newspaper articles, reading about Joker's attempted escapes, murders, and various crimes. He had actually been successful in a surprising amount of his endeavors. There were many banks, bodies, and buildings lying either destroyed or empty in his wake.
But Harleen soon caught the pattern. When the Batman became involved, more times than not, the Joker was either apprehended or stopped. Seems like the police aren't doing such a dandy job, Harleen thought with a snort, thinking of her ease at accessing the restricted files.
Her eyes eventually rested on a picture taken by a bystander at a crime scene the week before. The Batman, all muscles and black armor, had the Joker pinned to the wall by the collar of his purple suit. Harleen found her almost (dare she even think it?) pitying the Joker. She ignored the crumpled bodies at his feet; instead she stared at his bruised face and impossibly grinning face.
A rush of fiery adrenaline hit her veins and she felt a stab of anger directed to the Batman, hurting the Joker like that. Obviously the Joker had made some mistakes, but did he have to nearly choke him like that?
"But you never stopped smiling," Harleen whispered aloud, her eyes alight on the Joker.
She jumped slightly and shut the laptop with a snap, finally remembering what she was doing in the middle of the night with work the next morning. She tossed her body back under the covers and slept fretfully.
The next morning, Harleen remembered that she had screamed during the night, over a nightmare that had left her with a clammy feeling all over. But though it had obviously terrified her, she couldn't quite remember what she had screamed about.
"Are you even awake?"
"I'm sorry?" Harleen jumped. Truth be told, she had been dozing off.
"You look tired, Harley-girl. Boy troubles?" Pamela Isley grinned impishly at her, glad to see the tables turned.
Remembering her place, Harleen asked, "Does that interest you? The thought of my association with men, Ms. Isley?"
She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. The brilliant red-headed former botanist, Dr. Pamela Isley was once destined to do great things in her field. But after a horrible incident the previous year, Dr. Pamela Isley had transformed into a type of hybrid: a woman with plant DNA who went by the name of 'Poison Ivy'.
"Whatever, Harley-girl."
"You mean, Dr. Quinzel, of course."
"Yeah, whatever."
Harleen was well-versed in Pamela Isley's attitude. She had been serving as her doctor for the better part of a year, ever since Miss Isley had somehow convinced her previous doctor to break her out, steal nearly ten thousand dollars in cash, and in the meantime fall in love with her. It had been decided that strictly female staff was better suited to associate with Pamela Isley's person.
"So, what would you like to talk about today? What's on your mind, Ms. Isley?" Harleen asked her.
"What about where your mind is? I like your new outfit," she commented casually, examining her red hair.
"Thank you," Harleen answered, trying not to show any emotion. She was wearing one of her new black skirts and low-cut red tops. She tried to ignore the discomfort and embarrassment she felt whenever they touched her body. After her previous failed attempt, Harleen had reluctantly given up any hope of landing the Joker as one of her patients.
"Of course, compared to the garbage they make me wear, I think I'm glad to see anything that isn't made out of polyester," Pamela Isley prattled on, mostly to herself.
"Mhm?" Harleen commented quietly.
"Yeah, but seriously, honey. You need some boy advice, I'm always here," Pam winked. "If I could help you with anything right now, I'd say ditch the braid and pull down the top. You're not a nun, sweetie."
"Miss Isley," Harleen attempted to stop her.
"The trick with men," Pamela Isley informed her, "Is to let them think they have all the control. They always like to think they're the ones making the decisions. But really honey, all you've got to do is go to them all doe-eyed and whimpering and you've got their balls in the palm of your hand." She grinned.
Harleen had to stop herself from grinning back. What is wrong with me, she wondered, exasperated at herself for nearly encouraging a patient.
"Um, interesting. Let's . . . uh, how about we talk about your father, Miss Isley?" Harleen attempted to get them back on track.
Pamela Isley sighed. "We always talk about that, Harley-girl. If you must, I suppose –"
Harleen heaved a sigh of relief.
"So, it looks like Bradley might have to do some work, for once."
"What do you mean?"
"Another failed attempt at curing the Joker. I don't think anyone's lasted longer than a week. The guy's going to have to do something."
"But . . . No one way he's gonna work with the Joker. I can't remember the last time he left his office other to flirt with some cute thing in a skirt. "
"Doesn't look like he has much of a choice. They're running out of people to work with him. And the scum's got to be treated, or else they can't justify putting him in Arkham, can they?"
"Well, it's not like Blackgate wants him . . ."
"'Spose not. Hey, did you hear the other day that – "
Harleen overheard the conversation during her lunch later that week. She looked comical: her spoon of yogurt halfway to her open mouth in the cliché display of 'surprise'. But she wasn't just surprised, she realized. She was angry.
She stormed out of her seat, leaving her tray and food half eaten. She nearly sprinted to her office and locked the door with shaking hands. Harleen wanted to make sure no one could confuse her angry tears spilling down her cheeks for upset ones.
That ass is going to work with him and he doesn't even want to! That, or they'll send the Joker stock full of drugs to Blackgate. What a waste, just because the man is so goddamn ignorant, she fumed.
She knew that her anger was making her a bit irrational, so Harleen decided to take advantage of her fury while she could.
She pulled her hair out of its braid to trade it for a messy bunch of tangles. She undid the topmost button of her blouse, revealing just the hint of her lacy brassiere. She swiped on some dark lipstick and wiped away her tears, smudging her eyeliner. She caught a look of herself in the mirror before she left and nearly cried out in surprise.
She almost didn't recognize herself.
Later, she slipped into Dr. Bradley's office with a slam of his door and click of his lock.
He looked up in surprise. "Dr. Quinzel? What –"
She walked confidently over to his desk with a swing of her hips. His eyes had already been on her cleavage when she first walked in, but now that her breasts were at his eye level, he was having trouble looking up into her eyes.
"Is there something wrong –"he stammered.
Harleen walked around and assertively grabbed hold of his tie. The man dropped his glasses and pen on the floor.
Harleen pulled it a little harder. She enjoyed the startled look on his face.
"Look. It's very simple. I want something from you. And I'm sure there's something," she added seductively, "that you want from me. So tell me, Doctor," she leaned forward so that her mouth was nearly an inch away from his lips, "What can you do for me?"
Harleen observed the sweat dripping down his brow with a hidden smirk. "I, uh, -"he managed.
"Yes?" she asked innocently, dropping down so she was nearly straddling his knees and giving him an ample view of her breasts.
"I, I uh, I suppose I can transfer you Patient 034 to your rounds, Harleen."
"You promise?" she asked, her face suddenly switching to that of tragic child insecurity.
"Yes. I uh, I promise."
"Good," her voice switched back to its previous confident tone. "Then do it." She aggressively pushed his chair up to his computer.
She popped open a button on her top as he typed frantically.