Hi everyone!

I've been reading everybody's amazing stories for months now, and so thought it was high time I added my little Harley and Joker fantasy to the pot. Disclaimer: I own nothing of DC, am not making any money off this, etc etc.

Slight Update: This is the first installment of the edited version (woohoo). If anyone wants the original version (trust me, I don't think you do), I still have it and am happy to send it out. Happy reading!

The mildly entertaining game show Harley was watching switched channels suddenly, depicting a dark street illuminated by burning buildings and the flashing red and blue lights of police cars. Surprised, she choked on her caramel ice-cream and hit her chest several times to dislodge the spoonful sliding down the wrong pipe. The bottom of the screen read 'Breaking News' as the camera focused on a slim, red-haired reporter. Harley fumbled with the remote control and quickly turned up the volume.

"—irmed that the notorious mob boss known only as the Joker, has once again been caught by Gotham's own vigilante, Batman. Police report that that Batman apprehended the Joker after being alerted of a hostage situation during a bank heist in Downtown Gotham."

Harley straightened and gaped at the screen as live footage of Batman restraining the bruised and bloodied gangster flashed on. The Joker was…well, he was laughing. Hysterical, really. His cackle was loud and biting, and each individual sound pierced her ears like a nail pounded by a hammer. His eyes met the camera and he howled even louder. Harley subconsciously ran her tongue over her teeth. He must have lost his at one point for them to be covered in so much silver. Then again, it could have been some kind of underground fashion statement; his shirt, a pretty wine-red colour, complemented the vivid green hair that hung lank over his eyes, and—

Is he wearing bling?

Huh. So, gangsters actually did that.

The reporter's voice continued on: 'The Joker is to be taken into police custody for questioning, and it has been speculated that he will return to The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum in the following weeks to undertake treatment."

The channel switched back to the gameshow.

Jaw slack and eyes wide, Harley stared at the television unblinking. The contestant she had been half-heartedly rooting for was eliminated, although not even the disappointed booing from the onset crowd were registering with her at that moment. After what felt like an age, her body caught up with her brain and she moaned long and loud, shoving the ice-cream tub out of the way and smacking her head down against the coffee table. She gazed blankly at the swirl of colours running through the timber.

This was a good thing.

The Joker was Gotham's most chaotic and dangerous citizen, a fact he frequently reminded the populace through senseless violence and suave criminality. The city—as infected with corruption as it was—would be an infinitely safer place with him locked away behind steel walls and a straitjacket.

This was a good thing.

Harley was one of the city's minority he hadn't affected directly. The most she could boast of having been terrorised by him was when she had been stuck in a three-hour traffic jam six months ago. He and his thugs set a number of shops ablaze in a high-end shopping district after pilfering anything of worth. Just his usual Sunday afternoon activity.

This was a good thing.

Well…at least, it would be if one didn't work where he'd be locked up for the rest of his days. Which Harley did. It wasn't that he scared her—although, he would if he had a gun to her head, duh—but the thought of how his presence would slowly choke the life out of her already stifled work environment made her cringe. She turned the television off and put the ice-cream tub back into her little freezer, resigning herself to the fact she'd need to buy at least another dozen pints to compete with the emotional exhaustion his arrest was sure to bring. Harley hadn't been at Arkham the last time he'd been admitted for treatment, but she just knew: work, for the foreseeable future, was going to be hell.

Grey, foreboding clouds floated above Harley as she locked her car and pocketed the keys. Her breath left her in white puffs, and she shoved her hands in her coat pockets as a meagre defence against the weather. It would be winter in just a few short weeks and Harley was already starting to grumble and moan to herself about the cold. Summer she liked; autumn was a five out of ten—it would rate higher if not for the miserable season that inevitably followed—and spring was equivalent to a hunkalicious Frenchman asking her out for hot chocolate. Winter, though, was like waking up in some type of torture chamber, an old scientist with sweaty palms and a body odour problem proceeding to pluck her toes and ladystache while playing country and western songs on repeat.

The stringy brown grass crunched under Harley's heels as she made her way past the entrance and into the vestibule of Arkham Asylum. Rummaging around in her bag for her ID tag, she listened to the various sounds of the asylum; doors open and closing, shuffling feet, quiet chatter. She couldn't hear if any of the patients had started screaming yet.

Harley traded grim smiles with passing orderlies and nurses, walking quickly to her office. Everything seemed muted this morning; colours were hiding behind ominous shadows and sounds seemed to be muffled behind an itchy wool blanket of anticipation. It may have passed for quiet or peaceful if not for the tension evident in people's gait, the way their body language radiated faint levels of instinctual fear and unease. It was as though they had all become little pigs in a straw house, just waiting for the big bad wolf to come and blow it all down with his wicked laugh.

Harley could feel the despair of the staff soak deep into her skin, and by the time she reached her office, she half wondered if she would ever be capable of smiling again. She walked past the couches placed in the middle of the room; they were a small place of safety reserved for her and her patients. Moving past her small fan heater and hopping somewhat gracelessly over a stack of boxes hidden behind her desk, Harley opened the curtains and gazed out to the brick and stone and general absence of life that seemed to characterize Arkham Asylum.

She had both seen and heard a cornucopia of stories about the Joker, ranging from homicides to bank robberies to blockbuster worthy car chases—he thrived off the attention, in her opinion— but she had hoped the possibility of his being transferred to the asylum would never have affected the staff in such a way. Not so easily.

Letting loose an almighty sigh, Harley sat at her small, albeit lovingly decorated desk and started on a small amount of paperwork and phone calls. A PA announcement interrupted her work, calling all doctors to the second floor staff room. The voice over the system crackled and sputtered in and out. A considerable amount of renovations were sorely needed at Arkham; it was a mystery as to how the place had passed health and safety checks with its decrepit scaffolding and rat-infested grounds. And the heating system was pathetic; penguins debating the merits of wholesale fish mongering in the middle of Antarctica were probably more toasty than the patients in the asylum. Reluctantly, Harley left her work haven and dragged her feet to the second floor's staff room.

In a stark contrast to the funeral-esque atmosphere in the hallways, the doctors seemed to be buzzing with nervous energy. Very few of them had chosen to sit on the fraying settees scattered about the room, instead opting to pace, lean against walls, or fidget. Aggravated whispers arose from every corner and a light scent of sweat caused Harley to scrunch her nose in revulsion. It was strange and unnerving and a little bit scary to witness smart, rational people act like the building was about to cave in with bullets.

Harley settled herself in the back corner of the room, content to keep herself company. Minutes crawled by, enough for her to start day-dreaming, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when Doctor Leland grabbed her arm. Worry lines marred the woman's swarthy skin.

"Harleen, did you hear?"

Harley gave the woman a pained smile. "Yeah, that is—you're talking about the Joker, right?"

Leland nodded and ran a hand over her face. "I didn't know until I heard it on the radio this morning. I swear, I nearly drove my car right off the bridge I was so shocked."

Harley made a sympathetic noise. She knew Doctor Leland had been employed at Arkham when the Joker was last admitted for treatment; ever the optimist, she tried to find some silver lining. "He might not even be admitted here, don't you think? He's escaped Arkham, what, twice? Three times? Surely the board would consider sending him somewhere else?"

Leland huffed a little. "Are you kidding? Do you know the amount of funding the asylum got last time that guy was in here? Half that amount and my children's children would still be set for life."

Funny, Harley thought, I wonder just whose bank account that money's sitting in. Cause it sure ain't being used for the good of the asylum.

Leland continued, "Also, it wouldn't surprise me if the Joker has amassed a big enough fortune to pay off the entire justice system. Arkham's facilities and procedures are familiar to him, so I doubt his visit here will last any longer than a few months." She paused and muttered, "I only hope I'm not one of the casualties."

Harley felt a bit sick. She knew Gotham City was the country's pinnacle of crime, but hadn't considered its overarching influence great enough to reach her workplace; a place meant to help people, a place to battle personal demons and keep them from returning.

"Surely that won't happen, though. I mean, with the funding…" Harley began, her voice faltering at the patronizing look she was receiving. Leland gave her a little pat on the shoulder.

"Well, I suppose we'll just I have to see. I hope you're right, though. Gotham needs that type of hope in its children."

A petulant reply of "Well, Gotham will have to get its own children—I'm from Brooklyn" almost escaped Harley's mouth, but she bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself. Thankfully, another doctor caught Leland's eye, and with a quick 'see you later', she was off.

It wasn't until after a few more minutes of staff gossip that the asylum's director strode through the door and brought everyone to attention. Doctor Jeremiah Arkham was a balding, older man, who gave Harley the heebie-jeebies for reasons she couldn't quite pinpoint. Tall enough to look down his nose at almost everyone, he was the type she could imagine growing more cynical with age; he'd turn into one of those old men that waved his cane angrily at kids from his comfortable porch chair, shouting out ready-made insults and always having a complaint up his sleeve.

"No doubt you're all aware of our soon-to-be newest patient," he said, and then muttered to himself, "although 'new' is not an apt description." He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and straightened his back. His tone was blunt and cold. "None of you will be treating him—the board is instead sending for an acquaintance of mine from abroad to take on the job. Doctor William Monroe will be here in a matter of weeks."

A heavy weight seemed to lift of many of the senior doctors, Harley noticed as she looked around, most of them looking like they'd been given a shot of knee-wobbling relief. Contrastingly, grinding of teeth and crossing of arms seemed like the answering body language of the younger doctors who'd wanted the chance to crack the toughest nut they'd ever get.

Sensing as much, Arkham gave a small, sickening smile. "As is such, I expect you all to continue working to the best of your ability. If any of you have any issues with these expectations, I suggest you get over them quickly. Get back to work." Last to arrive but first to leave, he didn't give any of them a backwards glance on his way out.

Right…well, guess it's back to work, then.

Staff members clustered in groups again, talking and gesturing and looking like work was the very last thing they intended to do. Following in her boss's footsteps, she left the room, mind already focused on the patients she would be seeing that day.

It was during lunch time in the cafeteria when she was approached by Doctor Arkham. Chatting to Jonathan Crane and safe in the knowledge that Doctor Leland had an appointment scheduled (Leland disapproved of their 'lunch dates' mightily), Harley had made herself as comfortable as possible on the plastic bench that would be more suitable as some sort of torture device. Conversations with the professor were always fascinating. He was a quiet man until he became comfortable with you; then he was still a quiet man, but also a sardonic and derisive one.

Harley still hadn't quite figured out why she liked him so much.

They were on a topic they often discussed—a topic that had something, anything and everything to do with his…problematic obsession with fear and phobias—that of psychiatric theories. As was typical, Harley tried to distract him and allow his mind to focus on other things, ideally without him realizing it.

She flattered herself that her hit rate was about sixty percent. She hoped today, what with everything else going on, would be one of the successful days.

"Freudian psychoanalytic theory of ego defence mechanisms verifies that the mind is in a constant state of fear; the subconscious can only stand to repress the anxieties for so long before it succumbs to the inevitable downward spiral of madness," Crane preached at her, having well and truly found his soap box for the afternoon.

Harley scoffed. "That is not what those theories mean to prove, and you know it. Yes, they are coping mechanisms, and yes, they are a defence fuelled by the subconscious, but no, that doesn't mean everyone's sanity is liable to snap at the drop of a hat." She paused for a moment and then clicked her fingers. "Hey, that rhymed! Snap and hat."

He did not look impressed.

Harley spread her hands in front of her and shrugged. "There's a glower placed on your handsome face—oops, did it again."

Nothing.

"Um, talking with you about psychoanalytic theory makes me feel exceptionally…cheery?"

Crane's expression cracked, a miniscule smile forming on his pale lips.

"And now you know that's the truth because I could have used any number of words there; weary, teary, dreary, eerie." She thought back to what she had said, then muttered, "Although that last one doesn't really fit the context here."

"My dear, how you manage to remain optimistic when faced with the degradation of the human mind never ceases to amaze me." There was a dry quality to Crane's words that made Harley roll her eyes. Slowly getting off topic. Keep it going, Harley.

"If you're just going to insult me," she said good naturedly, "how about we talk about something else." She fished around her mind for a subject that would interest him.

How would he react to—

Don't do it.

But—

You know it's a bad idea.

Oh, come on. It would distract him, and Crane wouldn't talk to anyone about it.

He might.

He wouldn't. Let me tell him.

Silence.

Harley looked around quickly to ensure no one was paying them any attention. Satisfied by the other occupant's soft murmurs and empty stares, she picked up her cup and spoke quietly into the rim. "Batman caught the Joker yesterday."

She kept her eyes on Crane's face, wanting to analyse every second of his reaction. She thought he might be interested, maybe even ask her for more details on the situation. She was disappointed. Aside from his mild expression of distaste—the kind of expression one pulls when discussing a rectal infection in polite company— his body language and general countenance didn't even twitch. In fact, his response had been so microscopic compared to what she had hoped for, it was like he was a statue. A thin, venomous statue that was apathetic towards almost everything apart from himself and his theories. Which is fair enough, Harley. He is a patient at a mental institution—or did you forget that? Still, Harley tried not to pout at his apparent disinterest.

"Is your look of mild boredom directed towards Batman or the Joker?" She asked.

Chin resting on his steepled fingers, Crane answered, "Both, if you must know. But in this instance, perhaps more so for the clown. Egotistical megalomaniac." The last part was muttered under his breath.

Operation 'distract-Crane-from-depressing-fear-thoughts-and-pave-the-road-to-recovery' successful for today!

Still curious of his opinion and happy with her small victory, she added impulsively, "Yeah, well seems like the stock market's gone up since he was caught." Harley was a liar, liar, pants on fire. She had no idea if the stock market had gone up. She did know, however, that the stock market was on the almost non-existent list of things Crane liked—coming in a close third after 'proving his intelligence in the most patronizing ways possible' and, 'making snide comments'—and would, therefore, not be averse to talking about it with her.

His eyebrows dipped into a deep 'V'.

"It has not," he said, slowly. Testing out the waters to see if she was baiting him.

She nodded. "It has! Remember how you were explaining to me a few weeks ago that when something good happens, people feel safe taking more risks with their investments, or something like that? Well, it looks like that's what's happened."

He squinted at her through the dirty lens of his wire-framed glasses, a smirk hitching up the corner of his mouth.

"My dear, I spent the morning watching news reports on the television in the common room. The stock market has not been affected by the Joker's capture. He may rule the majority of Gotham's underworld but I'm not quite sure he has enough influence to impact the supply and demand of the entire country." Crane snorted, somehow making the action seem cultured. "Nice try, though."

Oh, poo. Didn't even think of that.

Harley smiled guiltily. It also explained his less than impressive reaction to her news; apparently, he already knew it. Crane opened his mouth to say something that was most likely insulting, or belittling (she figured she deserved both after trying to trick him—sooo not professional), when his eyes caught on something over her shoulder and his mouth snapped shut.

Harley turned to follow his gaze and was taken aback to see Doctor Arkham striding towards their table. She had an irrational moment of panic that Leland had walked passed, seen her conversing with Crane again, and dobbed her in. Quickly dismissing that idea, Harley straightened her back and slipped her glasses back on, pushing a few stray hairs behind her ear. Feeling like a child about to get scolded by the principal, she cleared her throat.

"Hi, Doctor Arkham."

Awkward pause.

There's meant to be something after that, isn't there. Oh, yeah— "How are you?"

Crane did one of his stupid, elegant snorts again in the background.

Yeah, I know. Silly question.

Arkham looked between Doctor and inmate. "Mm," he grunted. "Coping rather well, considering. I'd like to see you in my office once you've finished your lunch, Doctor Quinzel."

Harley blinked.

"Oh. Okay. Is…everything all right?"

"Yes, yes, fine. I'd just like to have a word with you about a patient."

"Oh. Okay. I'll, uh, I'll just finish and…be right in." Harley winced at her lack of articulation and considered which of her patients he may be referring to, but came up short. Doctor Arkham nodded once and turned, walking out of the cafeteria and leaving Harley to stare after him in confusion. Crane quickly regained her attention.

"That man is disgusting." He spoke softly, through clenched teeth.

Harley ignored him.

Slid her hands down her face.

Rubbed at her eyes.

Whined.

"I don't want to go. Can you stage a breakout so I don't have to go?"

Oh, if looks could kill.

The oil paintings in Arkham's office resembled mould farm cultivations far more than any type of art. The office smelled musty, like old medical tomes, and Harley had to make a concentrated effort not to sneeze. She half expected a giant dust monster to jump out of the closet.

"Well then," Arkham started once she'd made herself comfortable in the chair across from him. "How are you enjoying your work here, Doctor Quinzel?"

Harley clasped her hands together nervously. "I really love it, actually. It's tough, but rewarding."

"Good, good," he nodded to himself, and wrote something on one of the files in front of him.

She waited but when he didn't say anything else, ventured, "So…Which patient did you want to talk about?" She was tugging on the end of her ponytail, running her fingers through the split ends.

Gonna have to get it cut soon.

Arkham removed his glasses, letting them hang from the cord around his neck, and stared at her, his beady eyes burning holes into her face. Harley crossed her arms and swallowed. Noticing her discomfort, Arkham said, "I don't mean to unnerve you, Doctor. It's just been a trying day, as I'm sure you can imagine."

Harley nodded and said, "Yeah, I imagine it's been pretty bad."

"Yes, well," he sighed. "I've been looking at the progress reports you've been documenting. Very good work, if I say so myself."

Harley's face lightened, surprised at the praise. She went to thank him, but he talked over her.

"Many of the male patients seem to react uncharacteristically well towards you. Your relationship with Jonathan Crane, for example, as was evident in the cafeteria. The most he does in his psychiatric sessions is fling not so subtle insults at his doctor. But you," he said, squinting at her, "you he talks to."

Arkham looked at her like she was a rare and exotic bug the world sort after, yet all he saw was a plain old ant or earwig.

Although if I had to choose, she decided, I'd rather be an ant. But if I had the option of a ladybug, I'd be one of them. Black and red with cute little polka dots and all that.

Not quite what he wanted to hear, Harley kept her mouth shut. Lifting his chin, Arkham continued his bizarre little speech. "Doctor Quinzel, what I am about to suggest is unheard of, but due to the nature of this situation, the Asylum board and I have decided that some extreme measures are in order. Do I have your word that the following conversation won't leave this room?"

Harley looked around the room, fighting the sudden urge to flee. She shook her head clear, and shifted in her seat.

"Yes," she said. "I won't say anything."

Arkham stood and made his way to a filing cabinet, pulling out a ratty manila folder and handing it to her. Motioning for her to open it, he leaned back in his chair and watched. Harley looked inside, her forehead immediately crumpling at what she saw. Several pictures were scattered on top of a thick pile of paper, all of them of—Harley's head whipped up without her consent, and she stared wide eyed at the man opposite her.

Oh, hell no. No way.

Doctor Arkham, ready for her reaction, was quick to explain. "The doctor I was speaking of this morning won't be able to make it here for a number of weeks. That being said, the asylum needs a doctor to treat the Joker in the interim. Legal purposes, you know."

Harley considered feigning confusion, or whipping out a quick, 'would you like me to recommend someone then?' but decided against it, as that was so obviously not the case. "Oh," was the only thing she could manage to respond with.

He waited a beat as if expecting her to continue, but when she was no more forthcoming, clasped his hands in front of him again. "I'm asking you to do it."

Well, duh, she thought. Was he actually serious? He wanted Harley to do it? The Harley that was one of the most junior staff members of the asylum? The Harley who would eat the saddest looking apple out of the fruit bowl first so that it wouldn't feel left out? She still got scared of the dark in her apartment sometimes—what made him think that she could handle Gotham's King of Crime?

"But—but, I just don't—I just," Harley spluttered, then grew frustrated with herself. "But why?"

"Very few treatment plans were effective when he was here three years ago. There were several cases in which he managed to convince his doctors that they were making progress when, in reality, he was manipulating them; he would warp them with his little mind games." Arkham's voice was grim but laced with pain, like what he was admitting hurt his pride. "Three of the four psychiatrists working with him throughout the eight months he was here were men; we trialled a female doctor to observe his response—see if it made any difference to his behaviour— but It didn't. Absolutely nothing phased him. And, if anything, it appears that the last couple of years have done nothing but turn him even more volatile. "

Harley turned a wee bit cross-eyed at that.

Is this supposed to make me say yes?

"For this reason, I've decided to try something a little…different. This, Doctor Quinzel, is where you come in." Arkham took a deep breath and held her gaze firmly as he said, "Nobody can deny that you are an attractive young woman. Coupled with the hard work you've put in at this asylum, it presents us with an opportunity we didn't have before. A little experiment, you might say. In the eight months he was here, we learned very little—having been given another chance, I'm willing to go to great lengths to rectify that.

Frankly, Quinzel, I want to see how he reacts to you, study his responses. You can have free reign in your sessions—hypnotherapy, inkblot tests, word association, I don't care. Once Doctor Monroe arrives, the Joker will be taken out of your hands and you won't have to think about him another day in your life."

Doctor Arkham leaned back in his chair and smiled at her, although his expression was more akin to having tasted something a decade past its use by date. Thoughts buzzed inside her skull like wasps, screeching multiple opinions as to watch she should do.

How dare he! Just cause I'm a female he thinks he can—

Wack the misogynistic sleazebag with the file—

No! Think of the opportunity he's giving you!

And don't forget, he called you attractive. You can hardly hate someone who calls you—

Shut up! He doesn't even care about the treatment plan; he just wants you to distract him until the other guy arrives.

Harley clung onto the last thought with a death grip. "So, what you're saying is, you want me to distract him until the big guns arrive?" she asked, nausea swirling in her gut. "With what, my body?"

Arkham had the decency to look mildly uncomfortable. He clenched his fists on the desk. "I'm not suggesting you do anything indecent—I just want to trial a new approach in the hopes of garnering some results. Just until Doctor Monroe is here, eight weeks at the very most."

She had to stop herself from scoffing at his pretty words.

"Besides," he continued, "this is the opportunity of a life time for you. How many psychiatrists, especially at your age, do you think wouldn't kill for a chance to work with the Joker? I know I would have."

His comment caused Harley to pause. "Why aren't you in charge of his case? Surely as head of the Asylum…" the question lingered in the silence between them.

"As head of the asylum, I do not have the time to solely devote myself to a case as significant as the Joker's." He cleared his throat. "And you will, of course, receive a pay rise as a higher ranking staff member."

"How much?" Harley demanded.

The wrinkles surrounding Arkham's eyes deepened. "I beg your pardon?"

She took a deep breath and clasped her hands tightly. "Doctor Arkham, you're asking me, a young city girl—who is only half way through her residency I might add—to take on the Joker's case? To see if he's, what, heterosexual?" Hurt and exasperated, she shrugged. "Sir, I may be from Brooklyn, but I've heard the horror stories. Seriously—all I had to do a couple of nights ago was turn on the news to see latest building he was responsible for blowing up.

I also know that that violence, more than just the mind games you were talking about, has extended to his previous psychiatrists. So, if that's the 'amazing opportunity' you're talking about, well—" she shrugged, flinging her arms in the air—"I don't really want it."

That, she thought, and his justifications are flimsy at best.

The entire situation was unbelievably peculiar. If the Asylum's board wanted a young pretty thing to use, they could easily send for a doctor more qualified than herself, and in doing so negate all legal possibilities of negligence in the workplace regarding her probable incompetence in the face of such a crucial patient. Perhaps they wanted her as a scapegoat if something went wrong? Or someone others could easily dismiss? She imagined the staff gossip that would circulate if the treatment turned out badly: 'Doctor Quinzel? Oh, I remember her. Such a young thing—and so inexperienced! She didn't know what she was doing.'

The thought made Harley want to stamp her foot. On someone else's foot. Hard.

"So yeah. That's why I want to know how much." She felt flushed and a little overwhelmed, but knew for a fact that what Arkham was asking her for was unreasonable. Fingers crossed, she hoped there wouldn't be consequences for voicing her opinion so freely.

Doctor Arkham gaze on her was flinty as he gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw. She thought he was about to say something cutting, when he instead let loose a tremendous sigh and started massaging his temples with bony fingers. Reaching into a draw to grab his cheque book, he wrote down a figure and then handed it to Harley. "Here," he muttered.

Chewing the inside of her cheek she took a quick look.

And then quacked like a duck.

At least, that's what it sounded like, and she clapped her hand over her mouth, feeling torn between doing celebratory cartwheels or shoving the cheque down her bra so he couldn't take it back.

No—hold your horses, Harley. Think rationally.

Okay, rationally. Rational she could do. She quickly weighed the pros and cons in her mind.

Oh, look—lots of money! A pro!

Being belittled by the asylum's board by working as a distraction because I'm blonde and have boobs. Con.

It's a once in a life-time opportunity; the Joker is the mob's kingpin. Everyone will be jealous. Pro.

No one will be jealous; sworn to secrecy, remember? Oh, and If he ever escapes, he might creep into your apartment at night and kill you. Triple con.

Following that line of thought, Harley asked, "Why is this secret? Because of me? You don't want people to know I'll be his doctor?"

Arkham's reply was quiet, yet blunt. "That is part of the reason, but only a small percentage. I can only tell you the rest if you agree to treat him, I'm afraid."

Hm. Bummer.

All that was left, then, was the question of the money. Was it worth it? Harley was a material girl; she loved stuff, loved her clothes, shoes and scented candles. She also loved not being homeless and having enough to afford a gym membership, car, and monthly magazine editions of 'Bake it Sweet'.

"The sessions will be monitored at all times," she asked hesitantly, "and I can have a sedative in my pocket on the off chance something goes wrong?" Doctor Arkham just shut his eyes and nodded, as though he had reached his limit—like he was sick of talking to her. Harley bit down hard on the inside of her cheek.

She looked at the cheque. Then looked at the folder sitting harmlessly on her lap.

Cheque.

Folder.

Cheque.

Folder.

Cheque.

"Okay," she squeaked, and then cleared her throat. "I'll do it."

He nodded again—without a hint of surprise— and said, "Good. The reason we'd like the Joker's treatment to be undertaken quietly is primarily to keep him from another escape. Eight men, all having had thorough background checks, will be on a constant pair rotation to minimalize the possibility of his escaping through inside help. He has been placed in one of the underground cells. They're so rarely used nowadays that he'd have had no opportunity to become familiar with their layout—"

"What?" Harley interrupted, several things stumping her in that sentence. "'He has been placed'? You mean he's already here?"

Annoyance at her interruption clear in his voice, Arkham explained, "I received a call last night from the police commissioner, informing me that the Joker was being transported here immediately in the hopes of foiling any imminent rescue attempts that might be directed at the police department from his groupies. You are one of the few people who know about this, which does mean you will need to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

As I was saying," he said, lips pursing, "we've put him in the underground compartments. Very few workers have the clearance to go down there which only works to our advantage—the police want as few people knowing his whereabouts a possible until it becomes unavoidable."

Harley nodded and slipped a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

"You'll need to have your security access changed, so leave your card with reception for the afternoon. Take his file with you and study it—but do not let it out of your sight. It's all we have on him. Your first session with him will be on first thing on Monday. Do you have any questions?"

So many.

So many questions that she didn't seem capable of voicing right at this moment. And so all she did was gaze stupidly at the folder and smooth out a torn edge.

"No," she answered. "None."

And she's off!