I'll punish you with pleasure, and pleasure you with pain

Patient 13 was… something else.

Back in med school, "13" used to be a bad joke nickname for crazy people – the number alone somehow represented a demeaning way to refer to the sick of mind. It wasn't until I manifested my intention of becoming a psychiatrist that it started bearing any real meaning for me though – from that day on, that's how my colleagues would call me.

In the International Classification of Disease code, F13 covered a different range of mental illnesses caused by the prolonged use of sedatives and hypnotics, explaining the number association with the sick of mind. Did that mean patient 13 turned out the way he did due to drug abuse? ...Was his disorder even a part of the F13 medical code? Hard to tell. The previous psychiatrist's notes didn't help me the least, nor did those from the ones before him: they all contradicted each other greatly, some even seemed to have given up altogether. They might as well have written 'Damaged' on his report and left it at that. 'Crazy', they should say – paint a big, red "13" and file his papers away, call it a day. Did my interest in cracking this code mean I deserved the nickname after all?

But I didn't resent the bullying. It's not like I couldn't see where they were coming from – I could, especially now, sitting in my office, reading my first patient's folder under a dim lamp over my desk, late at night. I should have been home three hours ago, and yet there I was, trying to make some sense – any sense out of that peculiar case. I wondered if the choice was some sort of heartwarming welcome gift. People in Arkham Asylum were as cold and negligent as they come, and yet they seemed to have taken their time handpicking my first patient. All my specialization colleagues were being handed suicide victims and broken-hearted fifteen-year-olds in state hospitals across Gotham; rookies such as I were rarely ever trusted with the real 'fat of the land' when it came to the complexity of human psyche, and yet here I was, staring down the file of a patternless multiple-homicide convict no one could throw into jail, yet no one could diagnose either. But I wasn't complaining – hell, if there wasn't a little excited swirl agitating my stomach, I wouldn't be doing overtime in my very first day.

Colleagues-wise, the little conversation I took part in in the cafeteria this morning was pretty much like they were in college: "Are you crazy?", "How can a beautiful, fragile girl like you choose psychiatry?" "Do you have a thing for crazy people?" "They're gonna eat you alive!". I shouldn't be surprised at not finding a single sympathetic soul there to befriend, but I thought I'd feel more at home here, surrounded by people who made the same choice as me. Instead of the shy, petite Asian doctor with a brilliant mind and an unsubdued passion for science I fantasized about meeting, every brutish, old and bitter employee in the place seemed ready with a pack of money in their hands to bet on how long the Barbie doll would last between the psychos. To think that not even in an Asylum my profession is respected is disheartening to say the least, but it didn't work to quell my interest for the job. Lucky for me – I sighed – peer socialization wasn't a part of the job requirements.

Despite what their mocking tongues might say, I did not have a "thing" for crazy people – some did, however, fascinate me. The more complicated the case, the more twisted a human's mind, the more I wanted to study it, to listen to their delusions and try to understand where they branched from. Some of them were pure genius, some of them were incredible artists… All being consumed, helplessly overtaken by their own powerful minds – and therein lay my passion for psychiatry: I didn't think they were weak - it wasn't lack of a strong will that rendered them sick. Rather, something in their upbringing or in their very conception happened to loosen the breaks of the imagination, their minds were too overwhelmingly dominant over the body, a tidal wave of perhaps all the mysteries of the grey matter flooding out into awaken conscience. A sickness, indeed – I was sane enough to acknowledge – but a beautiful one to unveil.

"And the sicker, the better, Harleen!" I sighed to myself in solace when my back ached in the poorly lit room, to the soundtrack of distant, constant cries, trying to put my heart at ease as the picture of my patient stared back at me from the folder: Glacial blue eyes, bulged out as he grinned at the camera, baring a set of big, perfectly lined teeth. Lime green hairlocks fell unruly over his pale forehead. The way he smiled – the way he disturbingly gazed at me, fully aware and comfortable with his condition, it seemed like he knew- like he echoed my thoughts, acutely aware of his sickness, but cherishing it... like it empowered him. His mindful, smart eyes looked promising for the progress of my studies.

"Who knows what scientific breakthroughs you'll guide me towards, Mr. Joker..." I mused as I stared back into the lively picture, allowing the sinister aura around his eyes to contaminate me... It seemed if I stared long enough, I'd find the answer right there...

A shriek of the damned filled the air, echoing in the open space and reverberating through the walls. It started me irrationally away from the contemplation and sent my heart racing. When the passion subsided, I held my fingers to my temples, holding a headache that had yet to get used to how noisy that place was! I drank my cup of coffee and took up a book to study the case – tonight, I wasn't returning home!

What was wrong with that place's lightings? I flipped the switch up and down, hoping the lamp would eventually burn brighter… Vain effort: a yellow glow made the letters over the table only barely distinguishable. I guess that was just something else I'd have to get used to: that a mental institution had interrogation rooms designed to make the interns as uncomfortable as a precinct's.

Giving up on trying to fix the environment, I sat down and scribbled an overview of patient 13 that gathered all the essentials I knew of him so far, for a quick screening in case I needed it.

…Though it might not have looked like it, I was nervous.

I pulled my glasses to the top of my head – the lens, in the dark, made my eyeballs hurt – and glanced at the great mirror before me. Being watched from the other side didn't give me any sort of anxiety… On the contrary: knowing I was completely alone and unsupervised did! But just how hard could I screw things up after all those years of med school? Truth be told, I hadn't needed my professor's surveillance for a long time now, I just liked the reassurance his presence provided – a mere symbol, really, and one permanently replaced by the diploma. I was my own master now: Dr. Quinnzel. If I couldn't handle patient 13, there would be no one to hand his case over to.

And speaking of the devil, I heard the heavy metal hinges turning – A guard's firm shove pushed inside my patient, who chuckled as he stumbled forward, nearly losing his balance. I lowered my glasses back again, letting them fall over my nose, pushed down the button on the recorder, scribbled on the time, the date, the feeling his entrance perspired… My fingers were shaking.

He paced around the desk, before me, during those notes – Though I didn't immediately lift my eyes to meet him, I could feel the heaviness of his mocking survey over me as he took in his first impression. Mine was yet to come - I liked to focus on my notes during the first seconds of my introduction to a patient: it helped dissolving the stiffness of formalities; it also usually made them think I was cool, collected, more professional than my few years of experience allowed.

"Blonde… Doctor… Lady…" he spelled slowly, and smiled at the end. "What a pleasure to meet your acquaintance!"

I lifted my eyes at last and met his frame: He was but a few centimeters taller than me. The messy hair in the picture was now neatly combed back, the bright green color slightly more faded than I expected; his blue eyes looked metallic in the shadow of the poorly lit interrogation room, and his smile looked almost unnaturally large! Below that came the uncomfortable part: he wore nothing over his chest, and a dark grey pair of pants covered his legs with the institution's logo. His torso was skinny, but his muscles were toned, pronounced both by his low body fat percentage and by some religious exercising he probably did in his spare time. I took a note on that, too. Massive black, faded tattoos covered his chest and arms; dark circles that were either makeup or sleeplessness surrounded his eyes, his lips were dark red, artificial-looking…

"It's nice to meet you, too!" I sighed in response, crossing my legs and trying to look impartial.

He continued to pace slowly about the table, eyeing me like a wild animal would.

"And to what do I owe the honor of your visit?" His grin widened as his eyes tried to pierce into mine.

"Why don't you have a seat so we can talk?" I suggested, made uncomfortable by his restlessness.

"Oh, my apologies! How rude, it is you who visits my house, newbie doctor, and it is I who has to be offered a chair! Pardon me, I am not always this timid…" And, without taking his piercing wide eyes from me, he pulled a chair, sat himself elegantly, crossing a leg over the other. He smiled eagerly, as if I should compliment him on his performance, or thank him for it. "Perhaps it is not too late to remedy the situation? Do take a seat, doctor Quinn!" He lightly patted his knees.

"How very original, sir! Harassing the female psychiatrist! That has only happened to me a billion times before!" I appealed to his pride, taking him for the type that likes to stand out for his uniqueness "And it's Dr. Quinnzel!" I corrected.

"I know, but I like Dr. Quinn Better!" He stretched a more natural, sideways smile now, engaged in the conversation "You know, it makes for a funny play-on-words with your name…"

"Harlequin…" I anticipated, my eyes narrowing at the vivid throwback to a scorching hot day, the sun beaming high, reflected on the sand of the playground, children chanting, skipping in circles around me. "I know – nothing I haven't heard before!" I cleared my throat, pretending to be bored.

"I'm sure you have: it must have been a mean nickname in school! Did the big boys make you cry then, Dr. Harlequin?"

"They certainly tried! That is also not very original on your part: Trying to intimidate the shrink through casually disclosing you have done your research on her beforehand…"

"Research? By no means! I have merely asked my guard friend your name: it's rude enough that we have not been formally introduced, at least one of the parts has to know what they're doing!"

"Part which is clearly not me… as I happen to not know your name… Mr…." I awaited.

"Oh, but I'm sure you have it in a note there somewhere, Miss Quinn!" he looked down on my file.

"I see nothing close to a birth name here!" I played dumb, looking down at my papers.

"Oh, let me get that for you…" he casually announced, getting up in a quick movement and bending forward, leaning against the desk.

I startled and jumped back on my chair, holding tight to it as my heart skipped a beat. That was either another welcoming gift from the staff, or the guards were simply too used to patient 13's invasion of personal space to deem it dangerous, for no one came in to pull him back to his chair! He stretched his slim arm toward me, teasing the small distance separating us… then he placed a tattooed hand over my file and slid it to him. Flashing me a comfortable smile, he sat back in his original position.

I breathed.

"Ah – here it is, doctor! Right under 'delusions of grandeur', 'Paranoia', 'Abused as a child'. It says "The Joker", doesn't it?"

I cleared my throat, swallowed the unprofessional lump growing there, and carried on:

"That is not a name!"

"But what is a name, do tell: Not all of us have had the privilege of eight years of superior education to elucidate so feeble a concept! But I'm sure you know better, doctor."

I nudged my glasses upwards, embarrassed by the lecture.

"I would very much like to know your true identity."

"Well, so would I!" He grinned. "I was told therapy can help with that"

Unpredictably caught up in this careful snare, I couldn't help but smile myself.

Pleased, my patient cleverly observed:

"And now you understand my choice of a name, doctor. As it turns out, it has been given to me much like your mother has given you yours..."

"Self-given or otherwise?" I readied my pen.

"I don't really know. Do you remember when you decided to do as everyone else and call yourself Harleen?"

I stared blankly at him.

"Will you eventually call yourself just 'doctor'?"

"I'm not called that as often as you think."

"But if you were... If working as a doctor was all you did and all you knew..." he teased, peering intensely into me: a way of bullying me out of changing subjects. "...would that become who you are, body and soul?"

"I don't think so."

"Then we're back to square one, doc..." he sighed, leaning back on his chair as if disappointed.

"As we should be!" I took the cue, realizing a dejected patient looked less intimidating than an enthusiastic one "For we're here to talk about you, p-" I caught myself nearly calling him by his assigned number. A correction in the angle my glasses fell towards seemed enough to rectify the error.

"It's Mr. Joker to you."

"Fuck!" I thought, in a rare moment of mental obscenity.

"You seem uncomfortable at the idea of calling me that, doc! Is that how we come to naming people? ...Because we don't like who they really are?"

"I just don't happen to find you that funny" I retorted, avoiding his musings.

"Oh, but I haven't even gotten started now, have I? That is just unfair!" He leaned back on his chair, crossing his legs again. The muscles in his abs tensed, I looked away.

"Do you dislike your real name? Is that why you embraced 'the Joker'?"

"How about I ask the questions here for once? Do you dislike my unreal name?" He fell back on the table, resting on his elbows and excitedly smiling at me.

I looked into his eyes – they were amused and determined. It annoyed me more than it should…

"To be plain honest, I would prefer to call you by the real one."

"Why?" He thundered, baring his teeth in a wide grin "Don't you like jokes, Ms. Quinn?"

"That is beside the point…"

"And what isn't?"

I sighed again, and only then noticed I heaved lightly, sign of a trivial anger I wouldn't have noticed otherwise.

"You have seen the face of fifteen unsuccessful psychiatrists before me..." I shrugged, affecting detachment "I'd like to try taking a different route."

My patient began chuckling, and his chuckle grew into a rude laughter. It made my blood boil...

"If you can get me to be honest from the start, then maybe I won't have to hide under so many masks, do you think? Unquestionably, it will be easier for you to 'figure me out' if I don't fake it so much..."

I blinked composedly, feeling, however, the heat go up to my cheeks: not only had my strategy failed, it had been awkwardly exposed.

"...And if I casually tell you my name, without noticing the importance of it, I'll inadvertently slip like butter into this self-righteous path of truth and atonement, coming out diagnosed – and hopefully healed – on the other side!"

I feared my tense jaws were exposed by the hard way I swallowed.

"...Isn't that right... good doc?" His eyes sharply, amusedly sought the answer in mine – as well as the satisfaction of getting under my skin.

"So, is that what it is, your nickname? A tab to separate one person from the other?"

"You're off the beaten track, at least: Multiple Personality Disorder is a first!" He disdained while inspecting his fingernails.

"That's not what I mean: not present personalities, but perhaps someone in the past? Someone you don't want to be?"

"I don't know... what do you think?" he probed cynically.

A jolt of excitement filled my stomach as the gears in my brain began turning.

"I think it's plausible. Maybe this new persona is an emancipation from who you were..."

"But why would I hate myself so?" he winced.

"It's not necessarily hate. The person you were might bear memories you don't want to face. Things you'd rather keep a secret, even from yourself."

"A secret identity!" He marveled.

"Precisely!"

"...And what secrets do you think these are?" He leaned forward, whispering with a sense of gravity, as if he feared discovering.

"Maybe violent... atrocious things..." I fed his memory. "Things you did and wouldn't like to share..."

"Violent things..." he nodded, comprehending. "Like murder?"

"Murder, yes. Among other things."

"Such as?"

"Such as..." I enthusiastically began, the list forming in my mind... it was only the mocking light in Joker's eye that brought me back to reality. Having been so easily played with, I felt the blood in my veins run cold.

Holding his file under my hands, having read it over and over preparing for this interview, it's like at some point of having patient 13 in front of me I forgot what he was – a sadistic, dangerous murderer.

The late association made me fearful in retrospect: I watched his hands folded over the desk, imagining all the blood staining them invisibly and picturing the strength it would take them to end me, if he decided he really didn't like where I was going with my interrogation.

"Good doc..." he began; his voice tone serious at last, imbuing me with dread "if I hide in my past worst crimes than the ones that got me here..." His hands migrated, moving around the desk, until his fingers were casually close... so close they fiddled with the button on the sleeve of my lab coat "...and if I went through such troubles to hide them... What makes you think I'd so carelessly tell you?"

The fear I felt grew – his hand inched closer, the tip of his finger softly brushed against the knot of mine, but I dared not pull away.

When a crooked smile accidentally stretched his lip upward, however, proving him pleased and successful in his feat to menace me, the animal fear I felt turned into rage.

"You're fifteen years too early, doc." He sentenced "Come back when you've more to offer me than that self-help psychology you learned from your very worn-out copy of 'He's just not that into you'"

I squeezed my knuckles shut.

"...maybe then I'll have something to tell you."

He fell back on his chair, looking annoyed and disappointed.

I dropped the pen I held in my hand – it made it too bluntly obvious that my fingers shook nervously.

"Now, before I return to my cell, do tell me: who do you think they'll assign next?"

I reached for my glasses – a bit of a vice when I struggled to hide my emotions, and one that happened to fail miserably this time around. Joker laughed, reading me.

"We're not done with our session..."

"Then say it! Just say it, and I might stay!" He threw his hand upwards, impatiently "Say my name out loud: I swear it won't make you feel funny..." his voice grew in intensity "I swear it won't make you feel any different from now…" Leaning forward on his elbows, his face drew closer to mine in the poor light – his eyes flickered, thrilled "It won't make you like or dislike me more, it specially won't make us two birds of a feather…"

My eyes skipped to the door, giving away the panic that shadowed my heartbeats during that unwelcome proximity. Joker's eyes followed mine, and he laughed:

"Oh no, don't expect him to come to the rescue: I might have promised our guard friend I'd behave for an entire week if he let me have a private moment with the doctor…" He winked, and shook while grinding his teeth, as if to hold in a laugh. My eyes grew wide.

"See? I do like to play a prank here and there…" he sighed, satisfied, and fell back on his chair "Do you trust me now, Miss Queen? The Joker…" he moved his index finger across his tattoos: a skull on a joker's hat, a successions of "hahaha's"across his chest and arm…

"Alright, you've made your point, Joker: An impressive introduction! Tell me, now: Do you always like to control the situations around you?"

He tensed his eyebrows, genuinely surprised:

"Me? Control the situations? My good doctor, I would have lost – or rather found – my mind a long time ago in this place, if that was the thing to make me tick: Imagine! Having a schedule for when to sleep, when to wake up, when to walk in a small square of sunlight, when to eat and when to… you know! I won't say this unpleasantries in front of the lady…"

I rolled my eyes.

"I do have a soft spot for controlling people…" he stirred in his chair, smiling a distant, pleased smile that seemed to answer to his memories. I felt a dark dread when I thought of asking about them. "…People are completely different from situations: They aren't quite as irreversible."

"What do you mean?" I wrote down the subject.

"Ah! I see you have finally found me interesting enough to deserve the tip of your pen… Alright, I'll let you in on my secret pleasures, if you insist so much: Once you've manipulated a situation into happening… Well, time takes it from your hand and drags it away, the moment is lost! No turning back the clock to play with it again! Do you understand?" He moved his hands together, gesticulating his mental picture. I nodded. "Whereas… when you control people… Oh, there's a whole lot more to enjoy!"

"Do you care to elaborate on that?"

He grinned, seeming to almost salivate …

"Well, you can make them come and go at your will – People are such feeble minded creatures, wouldn't you say so, doc? Give them hope, and they're all glad and smiles… Take it away, and they feel fear… Give them fear, and they show you the very fabric of their existence. These fabrics, if you can grab them quick enough, are like strings: And there you have it! Your own human puppet!"

I couldn't help but narrow my eyes at his proud smile.

"But… you wouldn't understand it! You doctors are much more the situation type, aren't you?"

"And why would you say that?"

"Well… for one, you're a psychiatrist. You've come to Arkham Asylum, a den full of the worst criminals in the city… As if that wasn't enough, you've come to interview me…" he cocked his head sideways, stretching his lips in a curious excitement, like a child's "What compels you other than the pleasure of being face to face with danger, controlling its massive soft body with chopsticks to keep it from smothering you in your little, insignificant square of safety?" And, with his index finger and thumb, he simulated the movement of a pair of sticks snapping against each other, clicking his tongue and laughing at my expression.

"Do you consider yourself to be a 'massive danger', Joker?"

"I don't necessarily do… but you can't seem to think about anything else!" He chuckled, teasing me. "What with the hair on your nape sticking to your sweat and all…"

My insides stirred in a unique mix between dread and irritation as I automatically brushed my hand through my neck. Joker's eyes narrowed and his smile stretched.

"The air conditioner is broken…" I sighed, feigning – this time with more effort – causality.

"…And Arkham nights are very cold ones!" he murmured through a low, intense tone.

I took notes, pretending to ignore him.

"I'll tell you what, doc: Why don't you let me read whatever you've written on me so far? We can discuss whether you think I'm dangerous or not then" he winked.

"Is that you trying to control me?" I smiled for the first time – it was slightly unprofessional, but I wanted to see how he would react if I forced him to step down from his pedestal "You will find an attack to be less effective when you announce your main weapon!"

"Oh, but not at all! What type of fool do you take me for?" his grin stretched back. "If I try to control you, doc, you won't be able to tell! Rest assured on my innocence here!"

"You seem to derive a pleasure from scaring away your shrinks, Joker. You haven't had a single session in the last two months, because they couldn't find a willing doctor!"

"Oh, you know doctors! They're all… delicate and whatnot! Stab their hands to the table, and they give you the silent treatment for a year! I like to think I was merely browsing for the right one, and though we're off to a rough start, I like you already, Dr. Quinn! But what about you? What have you seen in me that made you so… willing?" he investigated.

"I have seen a sick little man dying to draw attention!" I replied, losing my composure.

Joker's smile faltered… shrunk a bit… settled into an expression that examined me slowly, scheming… enjoying whatever crossed his mind. Iron determination shadowed his pupils then, giving me the shivers.

"Can I play that game, too?" he said softly at last, his chest shaking with a giggle "Can I play the game of figuring the doc out?"

"I don't think that is how this works!" I answered, pursing my lips and gathering my stuff under me.

"Oh… but we can make it happen!" he sung "With the right tools…" he stopped to smile "I can dissect the doctor 'til I find those strings I told you about…"

I picked up my things – half a session had gone by, but I figured that was enough for a first time. It was, at least, much more than everyone thought I'd endure…:

"Goodbye, joker!"

"Ah! Going so soon? But we were just getting down to the fun part… Oh well! Goodbye, doc! It was nice meeting you!" He pushed his chair back, blocking the door and smiling at me as I walked around the table, challenging me to move him away.

"Excuse me."

"But of course" he stood up before me, as close as weirdness allowed, and looked down into my eyes with a moderate smile. He glanced at me as if he challenged me not to feel it, too: not to feel what that small distance meant to him, not to feel how small a movement kept him from assaulting my lips with his.

"Guard!" I screamed through a chocked voice, and Joker smiled, victorious.

The door was barged open – I lingered in his eyes, afraid of what I'd be giving away if I escaped them too quickly… but I eventually did, eager to leave that now suffocating dark little room.

"As I said, nice meeting you, doc!" He screamed from the room, sitting relaxedly again.

I couldn't help but turn around and talk back, my blood boiling:

"You are not controlling me into giving up, Joker! Next week is when I'll see you again! Now, enjoy your day!" I nodded, proud of myself, and walked away.

Joker's smile as he listened to me chased me a bit down the hall, however. He looked excited… Like he had just controlled me into staying.