Author's Note – Thanks so much everyone for the continued interest and feedback! Here's chapter 5! Enjoy!

A Darker Shade of Love

Chapter 5

The alarm clock pierced through the quiet, dark room. Begrudgingly, Harleen reached her hand out from under the warm covers to silence the shrill noise. She blinked and groaned as she stared at the glowing red digits. The sun wasn't even up yet. Well into her second month at Arkham, the early starts were taking their toll. What she wouldn't give for those early days in college, where a lazy lie-in, and a late afternoon lecture, were just part of the course.

Stifling a yawn, Harleen sat up in a bed littered with papers, textbooks, and files. She'd been up late studying. Something that had become routine. She didn't remember going to sleep. Her laptop, and a half-eaten takeout carton, sat on the night stand. Her newly-acquired romance novel sat on top of her books, the shiny cover flecked with dust. She'd been so excited when she'd picked it up from the bookstore, but had neglected to start it. She mentally promised herself a hot bath and a night off when she returned later.

But, for now, she had the day ahead to contend with. She threw off the bed covers much to Spinee's distaste. The dog whined in protest, yet didn't so much as lift an eyelid.

Harleen crossed the bedroom, ignoring the chill that hung in the air. She flicked on the coffeemaker before heading for the shower. She stood under the hot spray washing away a sleep induced fog. Her mind mentally drawing up a to-do list while she shampooed. She had a meeting with Leland to check-in with her progress. A meeting she'd spent the last two nights preparing for.

Her newly-assigned patient was Lila Stark. The former femme fatale, who'd once terrorized Gotham, and killed nearly a dozen men, resided in Arkham Asylum's infirmary, in a permanently vegetative state. A car accident had resulted in major head trauma, leaving Stark unable to move, talk, or kill again.

It was an interesting case in theory. Many believed patients like Stark were gone from the world, completely lacking in awareness, and brain dead; though others, like Leland, believed they were minimally conscious, and still capable of thought, far from brain dead. Harleen had felt honored when Leland appointed her to Stark. Her assignment was to study Stark in order to prove Leland's theory.

Was the former mass murder still capable of conscious thought? Was she aware in the motionless shell of her body? The assignment meant many, long hours spent at Stark's bed side, or in the observation room, analyzing computer screens for the slightest chance of a blip of brain activity.

It also meant Harleen was unable to talk to, or analyze, any of the inmates that were capable of holding a conversation. This led to much ridicule from her fellow interns. They believed Harleen was being 'benched', and sometimes Harleen found it hard not to wonder whether there was a nugget of truth in their teasing.

Still, Harleen was determined to make the best of it. If she did make a breakthrough with Stark, it would do wonders for her career, and her reputation. Not to mention, it may win favor with Leland. So she put in the hours, read up on all studies conducted on patients in a persistent vegetative state, and didn't complain.

Once showered, she dressed quickly, securing her still-damp hair into a tight knot. She grabbed a cup of coffee, and gathered up her files and pages. Ready for another uneventful day.

Mostly, Arkham's infirmary was a quiet place. Sick, or injured, inmates weren't kept in the hospital bays for longer periods than necessary. Most were patched up, maybe they'd spend a night under observation, and sent back on the general wards.

Only Lila Stark remained as a permanent fixture. Stark had a private room, located at the very far end of the infirmary. Stark's motionless body lay rigid under the neatly folded blankets. Her ashen face was freeze-framed in the eye of her accident. Her eyes, and mouth, wide in a never-ending scream, like she was reliving the car crash over and over.

Stark's stare had made Harleen uneasy to begin with; but now, after spending so many hours at the woman's bedside, she felt only sadness. Patients like Stark were often written off; a life cut short as their minds failed them. Lost, forgotten, and trapped in a useless shell that had abandoned them too. In normal, civilized society, Stark's would have been a sad and regretful case. The woman hadn't even reached thirty. No family came to visit her.

But Stark was a murderer; a cruel, sadistic killer. Most firmly believed she deserved her fate.

Presently, Harleen sat in the observation room, overlooking Stark's bed. Rain poured from the sky, beating against the windows. She sat at the desk, sipping cold coffee, gazing at the computer screen. She took off her glasses, and massaged her temples with her fingertips. She was getting a headache. Her eyes stung from staring at the monitor, and her back and legs hurt from sitting for so long.

It was late. Most of the doctors and office personnel had gone home hours ago. Though Leland had scheduled a meeting last week, to discuss Harleen's progress, she had cancelled. Harleen had no reason to stay. She could go home and crack open her novel.

A knock sounded at the door, and Riggs pushed it open. He smiled as he entered. He often came to visit at the start of his late shifts, she appreciated the company. It wasn't like her fellow interns came to check on her progress as they chose to exclude her from their group.

"How's it going?" Riggs asked.

Harleen sighed heavily. "It's not."

"Figured you could use this?" Riggs set a takeout cup in front of her.

"Thanks!" Harleen took a grateful sip of a pumpkin spice latte with cream and cinnamon. The sweet treat was purchased at a local café, and a far cry from the muck the coffee machines spewed out.

"Leland still got you on the bench I see." He joked lightly but as much as she tried to deny it that was pretty much how she felt at times.

"It could be worse," she joked back. "Stark's a really good listener."

"Can I ask you something?" He pulled up a chair next to her.

"Sure." She took another long, grateful sip of good coffee.

"Why did you decide to go into psychiatry? Here, I mean. At Arkham?"

Arkham, and its notorious reputation, put a lot of trainee doctors off. It took a special kind of person to work here. Most people were surprised to learn Harleen had gone as far as volunteering to come here.

Harleen shrugged, the answer, to her at least, was simple. "I wanted to help people. People most had given up on."

"Do you really think you can help these kinds of people? Get through to them?"

"You don't?"

Riggs' brow furrowed, "I've been here a long time. Seen these people at their best and worst. And honestly, their best ain't much prettier."

Harleen smiled; she liked Riggs' honesty. They might not always agree, but Tim Riggs was the only person she ever got a straight answer from at Arkham. And for a girl who pretty much wore her heart on her sleeve, and who couldn't lie if her life depended on it, she appreciated it.

"I'd like to think I can get through to them. Some of them. Even one," she laughed a little. She'd be called an optimist, an idealist, and maybe she was. But she believed in herself and her training. "I became a doctor to help people."

Riggs smiled. "Okay, I got to get started. Let me know if you need anything."

"Sure, thanks."

Riggs was barely out of his seat when the uproar exploded.

The old, creaky building went from eerily quiet to a beacon of activity at the click of a button. Alarms rang out. Lights blinked and whirled. Shouts could be heard down the corridors. Orders from the guards; shrieks, and roars, from the inmates.

"Oh hell," Riggs uttered under his breath.

Harleen sprang to her feet, bumping her knee against the table. It hurt but she didn't care.

"What do we do?" she asked quietly. Riggs, always so calm and professional, didn't seem fazed by the turn of events. He was a true soldier in this fight against the crazy men and women of Arkham. This wasn't the first rumble of trouble for him. But for Harleen, who'd never been in this situation, it sent her into a full panic.

"Stay in here! Turn of the lights and lock the doors. Don't let anyone in."

Harleen nodded. She could do that.

"You ever fired a gun?"

"What?" Her eyes widened when she saw the weapon he offered in his outstretched hand. "No. Never."

Riggs clicked off the safety. He handed it to her. "Just point and shoot."

Harleen took the weapon from him, staring down at the metal. The weight of the situation hung in the air. She'd never fired a gun. Never imagined having to think about firing one. Not even when she'd been granted her internship.

"Harleen? You with me?" he asked urgently. This was about survival and his firm stare told her that.

"Yeh. I'm fine.

"Stay here, and stay quiet. If anyone gets in, don't hesitate. Hesitation gets you killed."

Harleen nodded again, she willed herself not to cry. He had a job to do, and he couldn't be worrying about her. She was strong and capable. Though, in that moment, she didn't necessarily believe it.

"Lock the door behind me," Riggs reminded her before exiting the room. He caught her gaze, "I'll come back, I promise."

Harleen smiled at him. She hoped she looked confident. She felt like a bag of jangled nerves.

After he'd left she followed his orders, turning the lock, and flicking off the lights. She moved hesitantly to the computer monitor and switched that off too. From the observation window she could see Stark's form resting in the bed.

Gun in hand, Harleen crouched on the floor in the furthest corner of the little room. She rested her head against the wall, and tried to concentrate on her breathing. For the first time since she'd entered through the asylum's gates she felt afraid. Afraid and powerless. All she could do for now was wait. In the darkness.

Chaos was gathering speed, carried on the shoulders of the madmen who'd breached their cells. Joker laughed. He laughed long and loud. He didn't care if he attracted attention. He lay on his bed, staring upwards. His hands were folded neatly on his stomach, listening to the storm raging indoors. This was his show. The doctors, and the guards, knew it even if they did try to deny it.

There were no clocks in his cell, and yet he could tell the time perfectly. He timed the course of each day through staff changes, meals, and drug rounds. The riot had stirred into action just as the late shift began.

He saw Officer Frank, and his Neanderthals appear like clockwork. They'd had to begin their shift on red alert. They scuttled into the center of the maximum security zone to ensure all the cells were locked and secured. Satisfied there was no imminent threat in zone one, Frank radioed in over a crackling frequency.

Joker smiled as they jogged on by. They were unaware he was watching. Too intent in going to lend a hand elsewhere. Joker swung his legs over the bend and bounced up to his feet. Excitement overtook him. They didn't know what was coming. But he did.

He waltzed over to the glass. He wanted to see Frank's face when the shit hit the fan.

Many hours had been spent cooking up this little fiasco, and nudging it into motion. Whispering nuggets of evil, subtly and stealthily, neither of which came easy to Joker, to the cannibal. Influencing him to work against his own interests. Joker hadn't had to work too hard in pushing the poor, unhinged cellmate over the edge of the abyss.

It was the oh-so- fragile cannibal who'd started the riot. Joker knew it. The guards didn't, not just yet. The cannibal was free; how careless, such an oversight. Joker tutted audibly over the guards' incompetence. It was so easy and convenient to be surrounded by pawns and futility.

He'd called in a few favors, offered a few bribes to the less-than-saintly guards who loved to make a fat wad on the side.

Joker laughed again. Much to his pleasure, young Officer Dennings turned at the noise. He paled when his eyes met with Joker's. Seeing Joker standing at the glass, Denning's gestured to Frank. Old, balding, Frankie Boy turned in response.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Show time.

All the lights went out. The room hung in a black, breathless, hush, before all the secured doors opened. Joker's grin spread, his door opened. The little red light flicked to green, and that's when Frank caught on. Cuss words died in the air, Joker strutted toward the dim-witted troll.

Time to make his next move. But not before he settled an old score.

Riggs raced from the infirmary to the control center. In event of emergency this was the sergeant's first point of call. The best place to lead, and manage, the dire situation.

The security station was a beehive of activity; guards at the work stations, and guards on the phones. Fortunately, at least for now, the inmates hadn't penetrated beyond the wards.

"What happened?" Riggs barked to the nearest officer.

"He got out?"

"Who got out?" Riggs demanded. His mind immediately flashed to Joker. Since Carly's death he'd been looking, and waiting, for his time.

"Hester! Martin Hester!"

"The Cannibal?" Riggs digested the information. Still not ideal, but better than most. Hester was dangerous, but given his size, and the strength of his medication, he was slow. "How did that happen?"

"He got out of his restraints while on the way back from the therapy suite," a surveillance tech supplied.

"The guards escorting him?"

"Dead, sir. It wasn't pretty."

Damn! Riggs didn't need to know the horrifying details. He'd seen photographs of Hester's unfortunate family members. He didn't want to think of good officers, good men sharing that fate. He pushed those thoughts away, he'd mourn the loss of good friends later. For now, all he could do for them was get the situation under control. Get Hester locked up.

"Do we know where he is?"

"Negative!"

"We got bigger problems," another surveillance officer, to Riggs' right, called out. He pointed to Camera A. Camera A was always focused on the max security ward. Camera A offered a dismal sight.

There were no signs of the inmates on the screen. All the cells were wide open. The men were gone, and destruction lay in their wake.

"Oh hell!" Riggs grabbed the radio. "Officer Frank, do you read me?" Nothing but static. "Officer Frank, do you copy?"

"This is Officer Dennings," the young officer murmured weakly over the frequency.

"Dennings? What's happening down there?"

"Someone disabled the security doors in zones one and two. They're out! Joker's out! Officer Frank is dead." The younger man's voice was haunted by what he'd witnessed.

"You hurt?"

"I'll live," Dennings replied cynically. Riggs suspected, right now, he didn't fell to happy with the prospect of going on when his colleagues lay dead in front of him.

Riggs digested that piece of information. "Hold tight, Dennings!"

"Get hold of Commisioner Gordon!" Riggs barked. "Get as many bodies here as you can. We're going to need them."

The wait felt like an eternity. Harleen stared at the clock, its hands slowly ticking away the minutes. Thunder rumbled on outside, rain coated the ground. Winds wiped through the trees, and branches taped against the glass. Harleen decided she'd rather be out there, in the dark, wet, night.

Inside the building no one was safe. The storm of guards versus inmates raged on. She didn't know who was winning.

Harleen wondered where the infirmary's doctors and nurses were. Though most had left for the evening, she knew there was a skeleton staff to cover the nights. There was still Lila Stark to care for. Maybe the night staff were holed up in another room close by. If there was, she hoped they were safe and unscathed.

Occasionally, her line of sight travelled to Stark. The hospital apparatus illuminated the woman's grayish skin. Stark remained rigid beneath the covers. The woman dreamed on oblivious, and not for the first time that evening, Harleen envied her.

She thought she heard something above her. She told herself she was being paranoid; the sounds had to be coming from outside the room. The whole asylum was alive with noise. She was perfectly safe. But she didn't feel it. Or believe it. She looked up at the paneled ceiling.

She strained her ears. Was someone above her? In the ceiling?

Her heart hammered at the thought. She'd let her mind drive to a place that there was no going back from. No matter how much she tried to stay rational now, she'd planted the seed, and it was growing.

The thumping sounds grew louder, and the ceiling panels curved under the weight of whoever was above. She hadn't imagined that. Her mind wasn't playing tricks on her.

Harleen pressed her hand to her mouth, afraid of her involuntary whimpers would give her away.

Thump! Thump!

The footsteps were heavy, and purposeful. Whoever was up there wasn't hiding. They weren't trying to conceal their presence.

Harleen crawled closer to the locked door. If the person above was hostile she wanted to be close to the only available escape route.

"I can smell you!"

The statement, and the words, caused Harleen's heart to leap up into her throat.

"Little piggy!"

Feet stomped down on the floor above. They were trying to break through. There was no other way down, at least not a quick way, and it didn't seem like the person wanted to wait. A loud crunch of wood and plaster, and the ceiling gave way.

Harleen screamed as the figure fell with a crash. The man, dressed in the same orange attire as the other inmates, got to his feet, dusting of plaster and rubble.

By some tiny glimmer of fortune, he'd landed on the other side of the observation window. But she knew she was in trouble. He approached the glass, and she knew who she was up against.

"So pretty!" He pressed his hands, and his face, against the glass of the observation room. The cannibal; everyone referred to him as the cannibal. His name was Martin Hester. A small man, nearing fifty, with thinning hair, and beady eyes.

She'd read about him. Studied his case at college. He'd killed and eaten his whole family. He'd justified his exploits in court, he swore he couldn't control his urge, and the judge had ruled him criminally insane. He'd been sentenced to a lifetime at Arkham.

Hester was prone to severe bouts of depression; he'd expressed remorse for killing his family on many occasion. He'd been put on suicide watch more than once. With a carefully controlled cocktail of medication, and bi-weekly sessions of ECT, Hester had mellowed somewhat.

Unsteadily, Harleen pulled up to her feet. He'd seen her; all she could do now was try to reason with him. She knew it was the anniversary of his family's deaths. She knew he was sensitive around this time of year. It was her job to try to reach out to him. That's what she'd wanted to do since she'd arrived at Arkham. To talk to people and help them. And now, when it counted most, this was her chance.

"Martin. Can I call you Martin?" She moved slowly to the glass barrier that separated them. He ignored her so she continued. "It's okay, Martin. My name is Dr. Quinzel."

"I know. I know." His voice was almost a hiss. He pressed his fingers to the glass. "So pretty. Good enough to eat."

Harleen swallowed down her fear as best she could. She needed to keep calm and focused. She searched through memories of her training. She'd been taught how to conduct herself in a therapy session. She'd been taught about body language, posing open-ended questions, keeping all discussions focused around the patient, keeping the boundary of patient and doctor firmly in place.

She was the doctor, and he was the patient. Though being this close with a killer, it was hard to think about anything other than the way he was licking his lips and pressing his body up against the glass. He made no attempt to hide his intentions. In his mind he was the hunter and she was the prey. All he needed to do was pass the barricade.

"Let me in," Hester whined.

"Martin, I…," Harleen faltered. He had this look in his eye that she didn't trust.

"I didn't mean to do it. Didn't mean to hurt them."

"I know, Martin. I know."

"I just couldn't help myself." He licked his lips again.

One of the interns here had mentioned Hester had filed his teeth into sharp points. Seeing him up close, Harleen knew it was true. She tried not to look at his mouth, his teeth. She tried to remain calm and focused.

"I understand, okay. We can talk about it."

Martin smiled at her, "you're scared of me. You think I'm a monster."

"I…." Harleen's sentence died on her lips as he banged hard on the glass. She let out a scream and staggered back.

"I can smell the fear. It's intoxicating." He lifted his nose to the ceiling and inhaled deeply. "Do you know what I miss the most Dr. Quinzel?"

"No," Harleen was afraid to know the answer. "What do you miss?"

"The blood." He looked at her again. His eyes were black with hunger. "The taste of it."

She was losing him. The gun was heavy in her hand. Point and shoot. Hesitation got you killed. Could she bring herself to use it if necessary? She'd never thought about having to, needing to, for her own survival. She'd never imagined being pushed into a situation where she had to make the choice between her life and someone else's.

Hester's mouth gaped open. There was only one thing on his mind. He pressed his whole body weight against the window. With a hefty lunge, he crashed through the glass.

Harleen dashed towards the door and he followed. He grabbed her by the arm and, with brute strength she didn't know he possessed, threw her into the center of the room.

She landed in a heap, her shoulder pulsing in agony. Ignoring the pain, she pulled to her feet and darted behind the desk. She still had hold of Riggs's gun, and with a table between them, she felt ever so slightly more like she had a chance.

"You don't want to hurt me, Martin."

"No, no," Hester spoke in such a soft voice it was hard to believe what he was capable of. Though his involuntary actions gave his true motive away. He licked his lips again. His eyes glazed with hunger.

"Martin, I can help you. You don't want to do this."

"So hungry…. I can't help it…." His eyes were vacant, his mouth curled into an animalistic sneer, and a line of silver drool made its way down his chin. He rested his hands, curled into tight fists, on the table.

Hester vaulted the table and Harleen staggered back. Her shoulders banged against the filing cabinets behind her.

"Martin," Harleen stepped aside and he followed. "Martin, please."

Hester quickened in his pace while Harleen continued to draw herself away. Tears blinded her as she raised the gun. She hadn't wanted to use it.

"You aren't going to do it little girl." He backhanded her, his knuckles connecting with her cheek, and sending her glasses across the room. "You don't have it in you otherwise you'd have done it already."

Hester leapt forward, ripping the gun from her grasp, before sending both of them to the floor. Words failed her. His full body weight crushed her to the carpet. Air became an issue, pinned under a two-hundred-pound man.

His teeth sank down into her neck and Harleen screamed. From the corner of her eye she could see red blood staining the white of her doctor's coat.

I don't want to die.

Harleen struggled. The gun. The gun lay mere itching from where they'd landed. If she could just reach the gun she'd show him she had the guts to use. She stretched her arm as far as she could. She couldn't reach the gun, not yet, but she could fight.

Fight, and bide her time. Move and reach the gun. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all she had. She kicked, she scratched, she gave it all she had.

"Don't fight it," Hester hissed, his mouth covered with her blood.

Harleen struggled harder. She bucked, and she thrashed. Instinct took over. She wasn't going to die alone, at the hands of Martin Hester.

She head-butted his nose and it cracked under the force of the blow. She felt some sense of satisfaction as she saw his blood running profusely down his face.

With a loud groan, Hester brought his hands to his broken nose. Harleen seized that opportunity. She scrambled from beneath him. She moved for the gun. She stooped down to get it, her fingertips grazed its cool metal.

She didn't get the chance to pick it up.

Hester's hand wrapped around her ankle, with all his might he sent her flying. Her head connected with the corner of the desk. She tasted her own blood, her vision blurred, and she fell back to the floor.

Everything went black for a few blissful moments. Then she was back in the room. Back with Hester, the cannibal. He was on top of her, pinning her down with his weight. His hands were wrapped around her wrists. The gun was gone. She couldn't move underneath him.

Hester brought his sharpened teeth to her throat again. Harleen's sobs died on her lips.

But his bite never pierced her skin.

A shot, and the spark of a bullet, rang out across the blackened room. Martin Hester's body stilled in its activity before going limp and heavy. Harleen held her breath. She was afraid to breathe.

Harleen heard him before she could see him.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" His laughter filled the now silent room.

Harleen pushed Hester off her body, and he landed beside her with a thump. His beady eyes were wide in frozen surprise.

She scrambled unsteadily to her feet, weak from lack of blood and spent adrenaline. She'd lost her glasses in the struggle, but could make out the vivid green hair in the darkness.

Through intermittent flashes of lightening, she saw his pale fingers wrapped around the gun. It wasn't pointed at her.

Joker stood in front of her wearing a wide grin.

"You're a fighter. I like that."

To be continued….