[Author's notes: Beginning a new novel from scratch. Oh, Batman, how I've missed you! I watched the newest movie for the first time a few weeks ago and looooved it. Definitely gives Nolan a run for his money. As always, I've always taken a liking to the villains of Batman than the heroes. This story will focus mostly on Joker, Edward Nashton, Harleen Quinzel, and my own OC Coralline Atkins, who I forgot about like 10 years ago. But I've come backand revamped her. Given her a brand new origin story, last name, and a few other personality changes. I hope you like this little sneak peek of the story so far and continue to read on! Don't shy from any critique or advise, I love any opportunity to learn! But with no further ado, let's be off! Take it away, Joker]

Chapter 1: Home Sweet Hell

Creaking and clanging of metal and chain. Tap of leather boots. Echoes. So many echoes. Muffled and out of sight, but when you hear it, you know it. You breathe it. As familiar as the heartbeat in my ear against my pillow. Yet I stare at these four concrete walls. A room with just my own mental chatter, but so alive. The sounds ruffle and mismatch into complete opaque noise. Like I can hear every churn of my stomach, pulse of my blood, whoosh of my lung. In this cell I am just a small creature inside the beast that swallowed me. While it works its utmost to digest me. The howling of the others be fellow victims. They resist so much to be digested but can't see they've already been. They only add to the ambiance of her digestive tract. She does not regurgitate what has been fed to her. For we sorry fools may as well belong here. We are her. The keepings of this concrete matriarch all tell a story of insanity. Without us, she wouldn't be Arkham. That goes for the constant blaring radios, the clapping of the boots outside the door, the rattling chains and intercoms. It all belongs to Arkham. Whether you work here or live here, you are part of her chaos. This is my home. Yup. You heard it right. Home Sweet Hell. Don't forget to wipe your heels off.

Don't even bother dragging in any of that shit from outside with you. This place ain't a fragment of reality you'll want to bring anything in. Leave it all behind. Hold that person you thought you were in the palm of your hand, and blow it away like ash. You won't keep it long anyway. Might as well give it a sentimental goodbye. Best thing I ever did, that. Now I'm whatever she wants me to be. Oh, I'll bend to her will. Perhaps one day she will bend to mine.

The others still have a ways to go. That's okay. A lot of newbies joining the ranks of Hotel Hell, lately. Gotham is the putrid gullet, and Arkham the churning stomach. We all eventually end up here. This is the finish line. The crescendo. At no later than five am in the morning, we all get a brutal reminder of that. Well, our wake-up call is at seven am on the dot. But… Ms. Atkins is a real early bird.

I'm not sure why or how, but that girl has lungs that could stop a whole military convoy. Why the government hasn't seized her already as a weapon-grade air horn is beyond me. Just throw her in a four-by-four concrete room, be late with her medication regime, wind her up and let her go. Every morning, since the day she got swallowed in this bottomless pit with the rest of us, the girl shrieks like a banshee from hell. Every morning, five am. Call it the opening to an opera that lasts the entire day. Sometimes it's her shitty bed, her meds, her nightmares, or even just plain-Jane boredom, but she'll scream. Every day. Five am. Naturally her screams set everyone else off, as well.

"Shut the fuck up, Atkins!"

"What the liver-fried fuck are you on about now, you cunt?!"

"Two hours! Please! Goddammit! Just wait till seven!"

They can plead all they want. Poor girl. She's only serenading her chorus of Arkham. Whether they like it or not, Arkham wouldn't be Arkham without those ear-splitting howls every morning. She's really charmed the place up in my opinion. If madness is the answer for the day, might as well answer it early. The guards usually try to ignore her for the first little while. But… the other inmates start squalling, shit getting thrown, spirits getting too amped up for correction. They do step in eventually. Usually, a tranquilizer in the ass does the trick. Those guards don't leave Ms. Atkins cell without a few new decorative bumps and bruises though.

She falls back asleep quickly after that. The rest of us aren't so fortunate. After Ms. Atkins chorus there isn't a soul in HRS wing that can sleep. Where is my tranquilizer in the ass? Nevertheless, another day in our home rises. We get up. We stretch. We scream. We cry. We shit. We cry some more. We stare out the window in hopes a jetliner will fly through. Then we make our beds. A beautiful Tuesday morning. The bay is still, spring sun is shining. Maybe some speed boats out on the water today. Just a little taste of outside is good enough. At least until we get our airing. The twenty minutes of that.

The guards usually take two of us at a time to the shower block. Women first, of course. Chivalry is needed even for the maddened fairer sex. You always know it's Ms. Atkins turn.

"I said I needed to shit first you fucking hack! Don't touch me! You're harassing me! I'm harassed! Let go!"

Yup, real firebrand. Then the men. I and neighbour, Edward, are usually the first of the Y chromosome to go. Sometimes I forget he is right next to me all day. Can probably hear the creaks of my bed when I turn over, the spontaneous laughter I crack when I'm bored, and ripping farts from my cell at high volume. But he doesn't say a word. He's like a mouse. I occasionally hear the scribbling on paper, scratching of his feet dragging against the stone floor but that's it. Without the mask he's almost like a mute. We come out of our cells and lock eyes; I don't even see his staring back at me. Just the reflection of myself in those lenses. Everyone knows how I just loooove seeing that in the morning. Expressionless like a mannequin. He just stands there as the guards shackle him in chain and me— always trying to get a cackle from Officer Morello. Maybe one day I'll give that girl a smile. I'm sure it's a beautiful one, too. Riddle-boy and I have our showers, of course with the guards watching our every move. Sometimes I like to put on a show, try to do the 'helicopter' for Officer Bolton. He always shows his praise with a hardy punch in the jaw. He really goes the extra mile some days.

After that little splash, we get kicked back into our cells. Sometimes literally. Well, in my case, mostly. Uh-oh. Edward is crying again. I'll try to cheer him up. At least he's a quiet weeper. Doesn't wail like some of the others. What's the point of crying when there is screaming? Ms. Atkins taught me that.

After our shower comes a contemporary breakfast. You could say it's the most important meal of the day. But not even the rats in the vents would eat this slop. Looks like it squeezed out of at least seven different assholes before meeting our trays. I usually take it from the slot, so the guards keep their cuffs on, then set it on my desk and try to catch a nap. The smell usually wakes me up, though. I don't think Edward eats it. Just leaves it at the floor of the door and back to his obsessive scribbling. I know I can hear Ms. Atkins throwing the tray at the door window making abstract art for the guards. Colours of vomit green, piss orange, and blood red from the boiled beets. A true Picasso. Turning shit into a masterpiece. The guards don't think so, but an artist is rarely appreciated for their craft. Her compliments to the chef.

Then the airing. Finally. Time to be jammed into yet another four-by-four metal crate, except a bit breezier. We get to breathe in the decay of the Arkham garden's neglect. Twenty minutes. No chairs. We don't even get a smoke. Just the stone plaintiff under our heels. Thank fuck its spring. Some guards just throw you out there if they are running dry on punishment tactics. Winter or not.

A little after noon, the squad of lab coats come marching down High-Risk Security Lane. Like lemmings. On the bright side, the leader of their pack is a face I've waited for. Dr. Harleen Quinzel. By her side was Warden Javier Santos. Fickle man. The ones in power always are. He took a liking to Ms. Quinzel. Can't blame him there. She passed my cell and of course, my face is nearly pressed against the glass. As always, she notices me.

"Hello again, Jay. I'm excited for our session tomorrow."

"Counting down the minutes, Harley."

"Dr. Quinzel. Come on, Jay, we've talked about this…"

"Harley suits you…"

"Goodbye Jay."

She left with the army of comb-overs before giving a wave to Edward. Those high heels meeting stone is a sound to drown in. Each tap exalting more speed with every step. Feminine but powerful. Demanding but vulnerable. The gears that roll in that woman's mind are a mystery I crave to unravel. The deepest and dirtiest secrets she holds will be mine one day, I'm certain of it. I won't have to work too hard; I know she wants me.

Boredom is the greatest trick of Arkham. A true testament to how human beings were meant not to live. But the belly of the beast isn't a sanctuary for the insane. It's the hub of it. If you were crazy before you came here, you'll be deranged in a few weeks. If you're not crazy, you'll sure as shit be. Boredom is the mother of insanity. When our minds are meant to sit in a cell for 23 hours a day with no other stimulation than ourselves, anything is meaningful. Even violence. Is that jetliner here yet?

All five stages of grief play over and over in a day. We relive it all again tomorrow. We grieve that it will all be the exact same. Till the last breath we take. We will be bored. We will be restless and untested. Gotham is content in keeping it that way. So, for our time spent here, we eat at ourselves. The curse of boredom travels along the cells of the HRS wing. Starting with Ms. Atkins, of course. She'll kick off the show with a shriek. Soon the rest of the performers join in. The screams almost harmonize. Even mousy Edward starts to reign in the chorus. A man who won't speak, but let me tell you, he can sure yelp.

"What takes up space but doesn't have use?! Huh? What?!"

"Get back from the door, Four-Eyes. I'll gas you again."

"You! Piece of shit!"

I raise my hands like I'm the conductor as they rip their souls apart. I dare not join. I've already been digested. Their time is soon approaching. When that happens, their spirits will break. Because this is our home. The Bat will keep bringing more to be digested. They too will call this home.

"You nervous?" Warden Javier asked to Dr. Harleen Quinzel, fussing with her lab coat.

"Not at all. Excited. People wanted change so it's about time we give it right? Start from the source?" Harleen replied with her eyes straight ahead to the stage. Her Yiddish accent stronger than normal.

"I'm trusting you on this, Harleen. I want change too. Just don't deviate from your cards," Javier stepped a little before her, catching her eyes, "You did bring the cards, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. You know me, boss. Won't need em' cause those cards are my words. Words that have been hiding behind my teeth for too long. It's time for some change. Hey, do I have lipstick on my teeth?"

She stretched her mouth and bared her teeth, Javier nearly rolled his eyes.

"Right, sorry. Maybe a little nervous…"

The announcer on stage spoke under a limelight. His custom-made suit shimmered off the phone lights along the seated crowd. He tapped the microphone, "Hello everyone. We have another Talk from a psychologist from the Arkham Hospital. She has been licensed four years in the practice and has shown a righteous passion for the care and well-being of these residents. A liberal standpoint that will either divide or unite under two actions: forgiveness and understanding. We welcome her today to introduce a new method of healing. A method for not just the most dangerous and depraved of Arkham, but for Gotham's innocent. I'd like to welcome Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Let's hear it!"

The crowd erupted into claps as Harleen stepped ahead under the light and into stage view. A young woman with neatly quaffed blonde hair held back in a clip. Her black heels could be heard tapping in the microphone, but her strut was straight— confident. A beaming white smile framed in red lipstick. She pushed her glasses up her face as she gently grasped the mic handle and set her cards to the podium. The clapping settled. The lights from the crowd blurred all the faces. She felt alone on that stage with only headlights staring back at her. Her nerves eased. She cleared her throat and spoke clearly.

"Thank you all for coming," she glanced down briefly to the cards and raised a smile back up to the seating, "I am on a mission for change. It starts in Arkham. These recent years our city have seen the truest evil. Gang violence, mob lords, serial killers, and indiscriminate hate. Gotham has become a home to crime, and I'm choosing to fight against it. I won't be needing a mask and fruity alias to do it, either."

The crowd lightly tittered as she breathed a smirk into the microphone.

"We've been preyed on by corruption, we've been flooded and bombed, we've been poor and destitute. We catch these criminals and throw them into Blackgate or Arkham and pray the problem goes away, but it never does. It always comes back. A fight against crime means nothing if these criminals work under the mob. Or worse, suffer from such intense hysteria that their only motive is to do it all again. Even behind bars. I'm looking to change the problem before it becomes one. For myself, that begins with Arkham. This hospital is home to some of the most depraved killers our city has ever seen. They weren't sent to Blackgate for a reason. Arkham is and always will be a hospital. A place of healing. And like any cancer, disease or plague— the sickness of the mind is just as imperative to cure. However, our healing journey with these people is no longer curative. It's become a blight on our city that keeps on giving to the chaos. This in mind, it's granted myself a different outlook. It's caused me to wonder how we feel, how do we think, how do we take the lessons from our lives in action to the future? What part does trauma play in our decisions and thoughts?"

The ball was rolling, and Harleen stepped off the podium with her mic in hand and walked along the stage— speaking freely, "I've only been working at Arkham Hospital for two years. In such a short time some may think my opinion on care for these individuals shouldn't be taken too seriously. But I feel that it solidifies my objection to the treatment at Arkham even more. These people are subjected to no stimulation, whatsoever. No advancement in education, no positive experiences to help in retraining the brain, no lives. They do not have a future in those walls, and many of these residents are incredibly intelligent. But with intelligence comes cunning. If the chance was to come these people would riot, the collateral could be catastrophic. Why risk that chance? Why risk the innocent lives of Gotham because of our vengeance against the mentally ill? There is rue in Arkham today. Understandably these people must pay for their crimes, but first shouldn't they be made aware of it. This isn't Blackgate. These criminals are not guided by money, drugs, and subterfuge. They are guided by their trauma. By their mental disorders. The sickness that drove them to kill. I stand here today not to hold sympathy for the devil, but to understand him. Test that evil to see if it truly is evil. Or if it's just pain… and terror. Evil is not born it is made and can be turned back. As a psychologist that is my mission statement and I propose a trial to do just that. Through Positive Experience Therapy. This is therapy that is successful with traumatized children, but can it work with the criminally insane? I am eager to try."

The Warden patted the sweat on his furrowed brows as he watched from behind stage.

Harleen continued, "I aim to take my trial to the High-Risk Security Wing of Arkham, treating the most insidious criminals to reform. I choose not to do that by doping them up on anti-psychotics or locking them in a cell for twenty-three hours a day. These people were not given kind lives. The positive interaction in their youths was minimal if not baron. The only way to cope with this deep-seated pain in their minds was to kill. The time they will spend in Arkham under these conditions will only ignite fire with fire, and it will spread. Despite my sadness and anger from what they've done, I will choose compassion for these people, so the fire goes out! Let me explain, that all humans are social beings. We crave relationships, we crave stimulation from each other, and we all need gratification to look forward to a future. Right now, these people don't have that, but what if they did? What if they were able to have lives behind bars, not just rot in their cells, what if they could make something of themselves away from Gotham streets? Where this city can rest easy knowing they are in Arkham distracted, and not planning to escape or hurt anyone else?

I propose a trial to reintroduce them to their true selves, through positive interaction, personalized talk therapy, and meaningful relationships. This two-year trial will start small with a select few patients, and progress from stages of positive therapy. I do not wish to coddle or enable, but I wish to tame. Arkham is a zoo of wild animals that will always be looking for the next chance to escape and kill again. My goal is to make it so if the chance comes, they will not take it. They choose not to take it because they will be aware of the crimes they committed and feel remorse. They choose not to because the goals and relationships they've made in Arkham are too valuable to leave. They choose not to because they have vowed never to return to that way of life again. That is my treatment plan. The reform of monsters. Make them human again. For a safer Gotham. For a secure Arkham Hospital. Where the criminally insane will be addressed not forgotten. This all begins with compassion. So you can rest easy, I'll be it's vessel. Thank you."

Claps roared through the crowd as Harleen bowed and raised her hand in a gleaming smile to the shrouded faces of the crowd. The crowd scattered in whistles and cheers— and even howls of booing. She promptly stepped back to the podium for her cards and tapped to the back of the stage.

"Let's all hear it for Dr. Harleen Quinzel! An ambitious mission and we wish her luck! Thank you again, doctor!"

Javier's wide set eyes came into view as the lights faded behind the curtain, "I told you to stick to the cards, Harleen!"

"I did! Mostly… it was the same message, just with a bit of my razzle dazzle."

"You made Arkham sound incompetent," Javier snapped, "You made me…"

"I only spoke truth, Warden."

"Truth?"

"You wanted me here because I'm the best in my field, isn't that right?"

"Well yes but…"

"Then I'm doing what's best for you and your hospital. These couple years have taught me much. It's all I need to know about your Arkham. It's a beast that eats itself from the inside out. Instead of feeding the residents to it, I choose to make it a home that they'll never want to leave. A community. If I'm approved the grant, I will make great changes for you and your hospital. I will not sit back and let Arkham eat itself anymore. I'm choosing change."

Javier cracked a smirk and shook his head, "Quite the bluster for such a young doctor, Harleen."

"I wouldn't bluster if I wasn't good, boss. You can count on me."