AN: Own and make nothing. People with claustrophobia may be affected by certain scenes. If you are suffering from claustrophobia, Professor Crane would love to see you. Schedule an appointment at the front desk.


"Well, Joan , it happens to the best of us, doesn't it? Now, where's that lovely smile of yours?"

Dr Leland's lips twitched obediently, but fell back into her frown. Gods, she'd give anything not to have to be here. The staff kitchen was rarely crowded. Nor was it now, saving a small line to the coffee machine - a line in which she found herself trapped between Dr Janssen and Dr Washington.

"I have to admit, I'm surprised," said Dr Janssen as he turned to look at the other two. "To be honest, Dr Leland, I was sure they despised each other. Harley seemed very apathetic towards my patient!"

"Can we… Can we not?" Joan replied meekly.

The 'talk' she had had with the higher ups was bad enough.

"That is quite below what I'd expect though," continued Dr Washington, looking up from the newspaper, which told of the exploits of Pierrot - as Tarquin Brook now called himself, and his new henchgirl. "Perhaps you've made a difference after all!"

He lowered the paper and smiled widely at her. Joan sighed. Yes, it was a robbery and it hadn't been well executed. It lacked the panache of his escape from Arkham. Brook was almost caught but he did manage to make a rather grandiose speech before escaping. No one had seen Harley, but Tarquin Brook had certainly made it clear she was part of it and so Joan had no choice but to face that her best patient had made a terrible relapse. It seemed as though wherever Harley was, she had let go of the reins. That was what worried her the most. Harley was out there, somewhere, plotting. Considering she was probably one of the few people with access to fear gas, it might be the end of Joan's career. She'd vouched for Harley. But no one ever found the Scarecrow's last hide-out and that meant Harley had both weapons and the spoils of their exploits. It was enough to make one cry - if one was so inclined. Joan was a professional.


Ragged breathing in the narrow, enclosed space. The dust and dry air filled her lungs and chapped her lips. She was thirsty. Desperately so. She'd barely slept, taking only naps in between listening. The vents were loud when one moved. Every other second she felt she heard voices, warning her of potential discovery.

'Wakey-wakey, sunshine… How'd it work out so far?'

Harley closed her eyes, ignoring the voice of Dr Quinzel and tried to focus her eyes upon what lay beyond the vent.

'Really mature,' professional Harley responded in a huff.

Before long she'd have to try moving again. She had some idea of where she was but it was only really truly safe to move at night. Water was becoming an issue. Harley carefully stretched out her arms and began shimmying forwards, pausing whenever there sounded a particularly loud creak from the metal shaft.

She wasn't certain at this point how many hours she had spent in these claustrophobic shafts - but one thing was certain, she couldn't cope much longer. She saw stripes of light ahead as she neared another hatch. Her movements became slower. Her ears perked but no immediate sound reached them and she continued forwards until her cobweb-covered face was illuminated by the slits beneath her. Freezing in an instant she heard a sob, which thankfully camouflaged a creak in the metal.

Harley held her breath. Her eyes could barely focus enough to see through the slides beneath her. There, she saw a tiled floor and the dark hair of her psychiatrist. Dr Leland hastily wiped her face with a tissue before turning and storming out of the bathroom. Dr Quinzel said nothing, nor - surprisingly, did Harley. She was so very tired not even a giggle at the expense of one of her former captors could surface. Instead she began snaking forward again. Dr Leland would have been alone.


Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Getting impatient, Dr Isley? I can assure you, so am I!" sighed Jonathan Crane at the ceiling.

"What am I supposed to do?" she replied. "What's that unmedicated brain come up with anyway?"

Her voice was still tired. No doubt, his own was very hoarse at this point.

"You are supposing I would bring you along," he replied.

Thankfully the tapping had ceased.

"You'd have to," Poison Ivy replied coldly. "Harley wouldn't have you any other way. Besides, you're not getting out of here without me keeping quiet, are you?"

"As you say," the professor replied.

She was mostly correct, but he didn't have the energy to argue. The locks here were old, not the high tech ones in high security. That wasn't uncommon. Many cells in Arkham had outdated locks. Rather they relied on the guards, the cameras, the gates and walls to keep you in. If only they'd let him have his glasses. In which case, he could take them apart and use the pieces to pick the lock. Trouble was, that his vision without them wasn't anywhere near sharp enough to perform such a delicate task. And besides had no obvious way as of yet, to pass any improvised 'tools' to Dr Isley, nor any indication she would honour the gesture by freeing him. Had he a more reasonable partner in misery, he might have come up with some solution. The difficulty lay not only in freeing them both, but freeing them in an order that would not leave him at the mercy of the red-headed creature.

He got up and walked, for the hundred-something time, to the door. Jonathan ran his fingers over every bolt, hinge and lock. He'd done it some many times by now, that the patina had disappeared in some places, leaving the metal less matte.

"You didn't answer my question," Poison Ivy called to him.

"Nothing complete as of yet," he replied. "I need information. I cannot acquire that here."

"Figures," she snarled. "Well, while you're at it, figure out how I get rid of this… headache."

"You wait. Undoubtedly a foreign concept to you," Jonathan calmly explained as he continued his futile examination of the door.

That was really unwarranted and he received nothing but a derisive snort in reply. Poison Ivy was very capable and certainly not impulsive. She was clever and thoughtful. Clever enough to figure out his plans when no one else could. Clever enough to set a trap. Dumb enough to lead the Joker straight to Harley. Vengeful enough to send him here to waste away. Though it might have been the clown's violent rage that nearly took his life or Batman's interference that he brought him to Arkham - it was, in fact, she who had bested him. Of course, he wasn't going to praise her if he could help it.

"It's hopeless then?"

Her voice sounded smaller, unsure.

"Perhaps not," he said.

"That's reassuring. "

"I do not appreciate that tone," he sternly told the ceiling. "I am considering everything."

"Except getting better mental health?" she snapped, ignoring his admonishment.

Jonathan rested against the door, hunger came with unsteady legs nearly as much as the drugs did.

"He does not want that from me," he replied, after a pause.

"What then?"

She was talking simply to make conversation by now. It almost brought a smile to his lips. She was terrified. Ivy wouldn't admit it though. Not to the Scarecrow certainly. Dr Isley had never been cast into these depths before. She certainly was considered to be among the most dangerous inmates - and yet, had been given many privileges, quite like Harleen, for being 'reasonable'. She didn't know what to expect from Dr Washington. Why now? That question clawed at his brain.

"Submission. I am considered to be incurable by most," he finally explained.

Indeed, he was. Even in his own opinion - because he wasn't insane, simply determined. Yes, the Scarecrow was a monster, but they didn't understand. There was reason behind that mask. Logic. How could they understand? Mediocre minds. Mincing sentient lab coats. What understanding did they really have of true science?

"Have you tried that?" she laughed.

No. No, he hadn't tried submitting. The professor gave no reply to her snide remark, but returned to his cot and sat down upon it. Dr Washington - if such a man was worthy of the title, irked him exceedingly. On principle alone, Jonathan would never have given him anything he wanted - but the man had gone out of his way to make it a personal matter. Of course not through words, but Dr Crane read him just as well - if not better than he read him. Perhaps it was because he was a psychologist. Jonathan had considered that before. A psychiatrist with such disregard for therapy and such enthusiasm for overusing psychopharmaceuticals could have little respect for psychology as a whole.

But perhaps, the idea was not entirely without merit all together. Despite the spirit in which it was said, it was true that Jonathan had no real idea what would happen, had he faltered under the influence of the medication and provided what was asked. There was a chance, however small, that it might give the psychiatrist a false sense of security. The risk, however, was much too great. Handing him further ammunition to torment Jonathan with.

Then again, being trapped here with the bane of his scarce joy in life, was torment enough. He waited. Poison Ivy vomited again after an hour or so, and as he heard nothing further from her, he gathered she had succumbed to sleep once more. When the footsteps came and her door was unlocked she said nothing - nor when her tray was replaced. Asleep then. Good. He wouldn't want her to meddle in this. He slumped onto the cot and unfocused his eyes purposely. A snap decision, a gamble, but he was out of ideas. The lock turned and heavy, hasty steps followed.

"Wait," he whispered. "Please… No more."

The orderly in question still picked up the old tray.

"Not like you finished the other one, eh professor? Guessing it's still not good enough for you."

"Just… I need… To see the doctor," Jonathan insisted, hoping he wasn't overselling it.

He was weak enough as it was so sounded the part, but he had never asked for Dr Washington and the staff knew it. It had to be believable. Desperate. The man considered it, neglected to replace the tray and took a few steps forwards.

"No! No! Please, don't. My head! It's… Get away! Where's the doctor? Where…?"

Jonathan tasted the bitterness that he felt at being reduced to such an act. Certainly he had begged and screamed before - but saving one specific instance, it had always been caused by his own toxin. There was no dishonour in his own toxin working as intended. The orderly threw a fist at his face, only stopping a inch from his nose and Jonathan flinched and squealed obediently at the mimicked assault.

"Well, look at that. Not so tough now!" The orderly gleefully announced. "Dr Washington's gonna be damn pleased with this!"

He then turned and left the room, locking the door and leaving Jonathan alone without the usual replenishment of medicated bargain-cuisine. The doctor would not be as easily fooled. Jonathan lay still. Had he not abandoned the religion he was raised with, he might have prayed that Ivy was still asleep. As it was, he merely hoped the silence meant just that. The only thing more humiliating than this charade would be having such a witness. Or worse yet, her knowing it had - in a way, been her idea.

It took a long time. Hours, supposedly. One could hardly tell. A loud bang sounded sour of nowhere and the ventilation shafts above him shook violently. Dust and cobwebs snowed down over him. The wretched lady had risen and resumed her noise-making. How on eart she had managed to reach shafts which he, the much taller of the two, could not escaped him. Perhaps she had had regained some balance and her throwing abilities.

Poison Ivy's voice immediately resumed complaining and moaning alternately. Jonathan tried to tune her out. Every inch of him was pure exhaustion. Footsteps in the corridor. Then they returned and his heartbeat quickened. The line had been tossed, the bait had been taken. Dr Isley stumbled off of her cot and presumably made her way to her door with great difficulty. In the end, she did get there and she began pounding on the door, crying out for the small group of orderlies and guards to remove her from this place. Jonathan rolled his eyes as she spewed accusations. It didn't matter to them whether Jonathan had, in fact, tried to kill her - she knew that. Desperation. It came more naturally to her it seemed. He made no move when they opened the door. He barely complained as they roughly chained him and dragged him into the hallway. He let them carry him - it was neither in his best interest nor within his strength to attempt to walk and keep up.

"Stop! Don't! What the hell are you doing? Please, don't!" Dr Isley screamed, pounding pathetically at the metal.

But she would be left there and he would be removed. Jonathan chanced himself a smile. He was supposedly mad anyway, surely he could grin when he pleased. He'd had weeks - months? Months of solitude in that hole. She'd realize soon she had it easy with at least him for company. He could survive stillness. The abyss. The abandonment. He had before. It gave him his best friend. His true self. He much preferred the cell to Dr. Washington. She would as well - in time. The hallway door slammed shut behind them, muffling Poison Ivy's screams.


Her eyes watered. Dust swirled around her head. Harley barely managed not to sneeze again. Another vertical shaft lay before her. She let her finger fumble around the edge, but could see nothing in the darkness. Indeed, she was glad she had had the sense to remove her contacts early on. Vision was of very little use - and her visual impairment had never been much of an obstacle. She wiggled her body and moved forwards and over the edge. Her hands found the sides of the shaft and smacked into either side, forcing her torso upwards and holding on by sheer friction. She needed to get as far up as she could, enough that she could get her legs to the edge. You didn't want to go down one of these headfirst, she'd learned that much.

In a very risky move she let go of the sides and barely braced against the far side of the shaft before falling. Carefully, she moved the feet the last bit forwards, took a deep breath and went over the edge. She immediately braced against the sides with her legs and arms, but she still went down at an alarming rate. She didn't keep quiet. Perhaps it was lucky she was as hoarse and tired as she was for it was only hissing her throat could manage as she plummeted downward. She fell far too long for what she'd assumed she would and when her feet slammed into metal beneath, her knees buckled and the entire narrow structure shook around her with a loud thump. Harley desperately clawed at the sides, trying to find something to hold on to. Any second the shaft could give in to her weight and cast her into whatever lay beneath. Her struggles made the shaking worse and when she finally calmed slightly, she sat there hyperventilating and coughing. Her eyes continuously watered from the years of dust disturbed by her descent.

She cried silently for a minute.

'You're useless! Can't even do this right!'

Her professional side was silent and did not appear to disagree with her. For the first time since disappearing into this vast, outdated maze, she wondered: Would she ever find her way out. There was only one purpose: Find professor Crane. Find Pamela. There was no room for fear when one was determined, but she'd been in the shafts for at least 24-hours. There was no light in these lower shafts. The air was stale. Harley knew she'd have to twist her body tremendously to position herself so she would be able to crawl forwards again. She ached all over. She was tired. The task seemed impossible. Futile. Perhaps she'd be trapped here and some unfortunate janitor would find the remains in twenty years. Those she loved? They'd die in this hole eventually, thinking she had gone off with Tarquin of all people and forgotten them.

Then - in the distance, began a muffled knocking sound. Harley's body stiffened. Scream? Cries? Yelling. Far away and yet… Not. Curiosity poked the alleycat in her. Someone was nearby. This place - wherever it was, was not entirely devoid of people. A groan and several hisses escaped her lips as her limbs inelegantly attempted the maneuver. It took her long. Much too long and too much pain. Dust caked to her damp cheeks, but she could not - would not, falter so close to a potential way out of this hole.

'A 'lil bit of adrenaline wouldn't hurt ya,' she urged her brain.

She crawled. Using mostly har arms to pull herself along. One hard pull after another. The voice became clearer and more human by the yard. Ahead slivers of light, a few yards in between. Grates.

'Faster. Come on, Harley. Faster!'

It was her her own professional voice speaking. Urged on by it, Harley skipped breaths and clawed her way vigorously.

"Come back! You can't do this! Why?! It's not fair!"

Harley paused. The screaming was furious. The pounding relentles. The voice? Familiar.

'Red!'

No sooner had she though it than she inhaled and cried out in a croaking scream:

"Red? Red! Is… That you? Red! "

Not a second after she had, she realized what a stupid move that had been. They could be torturing her for all she knew - and now she'd given her position away.

'Tsk. Tsk,' noted an echo of the professor's voice in her mind.

Harley swallowed the guilt and concern. She had to see her. Had to.

"Who's that?!" cried Pamela's voice.

Where Harley got the energy from, she didn't know, but she moved with exceptional speed. Her movements were much too loud, but she threw all caution to the wind. It was after all a talent of hers. She was close enough now to clearly hear Ivy's voice.

"Red! H-Harley! It's.."

She barely had the air to breathe, let alone yell.

"Harley! I'm here! How did you…?"

But the sentence was not completed. As Harley passed over the first smaller grate to get closer to the voice, a loud deep crack was heard. Harley didn't have time to do anything before the shaft trembled and bent. The snapping of screws followed and with an ear piercing scream, Harley and the shaft fell - so near Pamela but now out of reach. The metal twisted around until she fell through the now open end, catching but briefly on rugged edges and protruding spikes. The harlequin landed first on a semi-soft surface but bounced off of it to find a concrete floor below. The shaft groaned again and a whole section now completely dislodged itself, crashing into disfigured pieces around her.

"Harley! Harles'? What happened?" cried Pamela from what sounded like the ceiling.

Harley could barely form a sentence in her mind, let alone speak it. She couldn't get up. Not yet anyway. It hurt like hell and she didn't know what the damage was. She looked around as best she could from her position. It was a cell. Her heart sank. There were old padded walls on the sides. The awful shaft - or what was left, above her. A very bolted-seeming door right in front of her and… Blood. Not much, not enough to worry. On the floor. On the walls in places. It wasn't all that old. The more she stared, the stranger it looked. Numbers, shadowy figures, symbols seemed to appear between the myriad of stains and splotches on the walls. Mostly a reddish-brown.

"Harley, for crying out loud! Tell me you're alive!" cried Pamela's voice.

It was close. She had to be in the next room, Harley surmised. So close.

"Hghn…" she tried. "Y-yeah… Hurts."

"Okay, okay! Keep it together! Keep it together! Are you bleeding? Did you… It's alright. It's alright. Shit. Shit. Shit," Pamela frantically ranted.

Harley managed to roll a little onto her side. There was a light on in the room. Not a particularly bright one, but the sudden contrast partly blinded her. It sat high in the ceiling somewhere. She closed her eyes.

"Just a moment… Needa rest," Harley called out quietly.

"No, Harles'! Talk to me! Are you hurt?" Ivy cried.

"No!" Harley replied.

"Quit lying! You haven't even checked, have you?" Pamela replied.

Harley grit her teeth and struggled to get up into a seated position. She managed to slide a little along the floor, pushing metal aside with her body but it had been a rough landing. The wall was not far and she rested her torso against the old padding.

"I'll check, just gimme a minute," she called to Ivy.

There was no reason to think anything was broken initially. Everything seemed to hurt equally. Laughter erupted in the next cell. Harley's eyelids fluttered as she tried to focus her eyes.

"Jesus, you sure know how to make an entrance!" Ivy said, with a tinge of sadness despite the laughter.

"Wasn't planning on that," Harley acknowledged with a smile of her own. "Wasn't plannin' much at all, really. Don't think nuthin's broken by the way, so relax. I shouldn't 'ave moved that fast. I was nearly there."

"Don't wish to be in here," Ivy replied, ceasing the laughter. "Everything stinks - me included. I've been… Sick."

Harley shuttered. The staff here were controlling, overbearing… Annoying, but not generally cruel. Why wasn't Ivy in the hospital wing if she was ill? Mr Tetch's words replayed in her mind. The look on his face when he told her where he suspected they were. There was something he had left unsaid. Something - which the joy brought on by the prospect of finding Jonathan and Ivy had blinded Harley to. She should have asked, she knew that now.

She rose to her feet, using the wall as support. Looking around, she surveyed the damage. Sounds from the cell next door, told Pamela was indeed not well, but Harley didn't comment. Most of the vent lay in two large chucks on either side of a cot. The floor and bed was now littered with metal scraps. The bed itself had only yellowed sheets and restraints. There was a toilet and sink - quite like above, but no windows. Harley stumbled her way to the bed, brushing off the metal as best she could.

"S-sorry," called Poison Ivy as she finished. "It's the drugs. I don't know what…"

Harley registered the voice but didn't really listen. She had crawled up on the bed hopihn to lie down a minute and rest her throbbing head, but once again the walls had caught her eyes. The more she looked, the more the walls revealed to her. There were stains everywhere but many had probably been there for years if not decades. There was no telling the difference between dirt, bodily fluids or other things at this stage. However, there was indeed more recent additions in various places which Harley was certain couldn't be anything but blood. The numbers, letters and symbols, which she had first spotted, were not randomly placed. They snaked their way in between filth and stains. Thin, flowing patterns. Sometimes sentences written in a hasty scrawl, sometimes sequences of symbols.

'Not words. Math or… Chemistry.'

Where there were only words, they were unreadable to her. Perhaps they were written in delusion, perhaps they were written in the dark. The letters were distorted and desperate. The figures, she initially perceived, seemed to only exist in the corner of her eye. Eyes, mouths, teeth. Or were it simply some sort of Rorschach-test created by years upon years of staining. Regardless, she felt watched.

"Red?" she called, fiddling with the leather belt fastened to the side of the cot.

"Were you even listening to me just now?" Poison Ivy replied.

Continuing the trend, Harley said: "Who's cell is this? Who was in here?"

There was a long pause from Ivy, in which Harley continued to look around, constantly keeping a watchful eye on the perceived demons in the wall 'tapestry'.

"No one…" Ivy replied softly. "Just some lunatic. They took him away. It doesn't matter."

"But…"

"They tried to kill me, do you know that? We should… Find a way out. They'll come back."

Harley started. That couldn't be. Dr Leland would never… But who even was Ivy's physician now?

"Just let me rest a minute," Harley begged.

Red objected but exhaustion would not let Harley heed her warnings.

TBC