Joker's Wilde Pt. 01

In this story, I take liberties with places and people created by DC Comics. The setting of my story is Gotham City and the main characters are Dr. Harleen "Frances" Quinzel/Harley Quinn, The Joker, and Dr. Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow. These and all other specific details (Arkham Asylum, the Falcone Crime Family, E.Nigma/The Riddler, Alyce Sinner, Alfred Pennyworth, et al) are inspired by the Batman comics, movies and shows: especially the episode "Mad Love" and the movie "The Dark Knight". I'm not a stickler for continuity outside of my own story, which is entirely my fantasy.

Part One of Joker's Wilde contains two chapters- the first is non-erotic and the second contains a non-consent sex scene.

*****

Chapter One: Meet Joe Kerr

The inside of Arkham Asylum lived up to its unsettling outward appearance. Lights flickered constantly, wind whistled through the barred windows, screams could be heard down every hall, doors shrieked open and made a doleful creak as they closed. If it weren't for the fact that Frances had seen its corporeal staff and patients, she would have believed the rumors that the decrepit Gothic structure was haunted by Amadeus Arkham himself.

Frances had been warned that few interns ever lasted the entire semester without cracking under the pressure- apparently treating Gotham's most troubled citizens combined with the asylum's own gravitas was too much for them to handle. But the risk was outweighed by the fact that the chief of the psychiatric staff, Dr. Jonathan Crane, was well-connected throughout the city, if not all of the state. Besides, she could take it.

After all the shit she'd been through growing up- one of the reasons she was passionate to help others- Frances felt like she could handle a few madmen who were actually restrained and unable to cause any harm. Physically at least. The other part was emotional, as Dr. Crane had explained.

"This particular patient is rather manipulative and his IQ is...formidable. As is his thirst for blood." He rifled lazily through a stack of pictures depicting a grisly murder scene- presumably by the hands of her next patient. Crane left them spread out on his desk and studied his intern with a cool, inscrutable gaze.

Frances couldn't help feel that underneath his strikingly beautiful face and slim, poised figure was a well of sinister thoughts and emotions. She never wanted to be on either side of psychoanalysis with this man. Either this was a test or he just wanted to see her squirm.

"Do you still think you can handle it? He may try to prey on the fact that you are an attractive young woman." Dr. Crane's ice blue eyes surveyed her body with clinical interest.

"He wouldn't be the first man to have tried," Frances replied confidently. "I think I can handle myself, as well as Mr. Kerr," she added, catching a glimpse of his name on a folder next to the gruesome photos.

"Well, I admire your veracity, Dr. Quinzel," he chuckled. "He's proven to be difficult to control so far- even heavily medicated. I look forward to hearing your opinion. He's got me at quite a loss," he said with a frown, handing over the thin dossier labeled "Joe Kerr", quotations included as if that wasn't his name at all.

Even his mug shots were surreal- staged almost. Mr. Kerr wore a plum colored suit, dark shirt and pinstripe vest with ink-bottle green tie that matched his greasy hair. His face was ghostly from white paint and the unforgiving flash. Two black splotches on his eyes and a red line across his lips in the approximation of a smile stood out starkly against the pale background. The colors seeped into the lines in his face, making the effect even more lurid.

Frances flipped through her patient's file until she found an impressively long list of attempted medication. Currently he was on a Risperdal-Compazine-Diazepam cocktail. Would he even be able to speak?

"It doesn't say anything about his history. Any prior arrests or institutionalizations?"

"Most likely. It seems he was involved with an organization known as The Black Glove, where he acquired quite a reputation on the streets as the Joker. Has a fetish for dressing up like a clown, as you can see- God knows where that came from.

"He had identification for one Joe Kerr, but the police found nothing on that name older than a couple of years. For all we know, this man's a figment of his own disturbing imagination. He'd been living in a lavish hotel room but the only personal items found were a handmade suit, a greasepaint kit and a collection of knives."

"Hmmm..." The woman smirked as if amused by this piece of information. "Thank you, Dr. Crane."

"Many people are afraid of clowns. Ironic, since they are symbols of mirth and merriment. Are you one of these people, Dr. Quinzel?"

"Not at all. Are you?" Frances asked rhetorically before walking away.

It was a long trip down a narrow hallway to the High Risk ward and then a routine security check before she could scan her badge and enter. A guard stood outside the patient interview room as well- he eyed her with a faint smirk and wished her luck before she scanned her badge again to unlock the door.

Frances entered the sterile room with a stainless steel table in the middle and a man slumped on the other side. Without his bizarre getup, he was actually an attractive young man in his early thirties- tall, muscular, a dirty mop of blonde hair crowning a handsome face. He was so nonresponsive that Frances wondered if he was even aware of her presence.

But as he looked up and Frances beheld a pair of deep-set green eyes glittering deviously, she realized the abject expression was only a mask. His face was apathetic but his malice was so evident that Crane seemed positively charming by comparison.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Quinzel," she said slowly, determined not to let her nerves show.

Her patient didn't respond verbally, but instead broke out into a maniacal grin. It was like he'd put on another mask. Clearly he wasn't sedated beyond communication, but he wasn't in a cooperative mood either.

"Joe Kerr, very clever," mused Frances aloud, sitting across from the shackled man in question. "Would you prefer me to call you Joe? The Joker? Or would you like to tell me your real name?"

"What's your first name, Doctor Quinzel?" he deferred, his speech perfectly pronounced.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours, Mr. Kerr."

"Maybe I could guess yours. Yes- that would be a fun game." This was a live one.

"Do you like games? Is that what murder is to you?"

"Amber," he said, ignoring her question.

"I've seen the photos and it doesn't look like that was your first time."

"Brandy?" her patient continued, his fiendish smile cutting a wound across his face. She could imagine bright red extending it even further and realized how much more intimidating he would look in his war paint.

"Dr. Crane told me that you were one of the most intelligent criminals he's ever come across. But all the mess you left behind was quite sloppy. Amateur if you ask me."

"I appreciate the flattery," the Joker sneered.

"You lost control. Unless you wanted to be caught," Frances concluded, giving him a pointed look.

After a long pause, during which she thought this Joker might be composing a longer response, he merely said, "Corrine?"

"I think you have a serious illness. One that I'd like to help you with. But I can't if you won't admit it."

"Daria? Erin? Fiona?" he guessed in rapid succession.

She was slightly relieved that he didn't say "Frances".

"Or maybe you know you have a sickness but you enjoy the power it makes you feel," she posed, switching tact.

"I know- Georgette."

"Have you ever been hospitalized before? Not every doctor wants to change who you are. I think genius is often paired with a mental illness; but there are ways to express yourself without hurting others."

"A doctor once told me that if he was allowed to kill a patient, he would kill me then and there. He would slit my throat and throw my body in a dumpster like the filth I was." He giggled, as if the idea was a hilarious prospect.

"Do you know what I did to that doctor, Harleen? Well, do you!" he growled.

Frances realized she was shaking. For a moment she forgot that he was chained securely to his chair and was about to run for it. No, calm down. I'm safe.

"Very good- you already found out my first name from Dr. Crane," Frances said, attempting to compose herself.

"You don't remember me, do you Harley Quinn?" the man asked, looking slightly disappointed.

No one had called her that for a very long time. Not since she started going by her middle name, Frances. Not since her father...

Crane did say the Joker was manipulative. He certainly had a knack for getting personal, but then again, so did she. Since asking about his past didn't work, Frances decided to focus of his present.

"It says here that you've been diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder. 'Psychosis paired with acute mania'," she quoted. "Do you understands what this means?"

"Fucking crazy with a side of nuts." His jeering face did nothing to contradict his statement.

"'Loses touch with reality and is compelled to perform violent or otherwise illegal acts.' Would you agree with that?"

"On the contrary- I'm never as lucid as when I'm doing something despicable," he drew out the last word so malevolently that Frances shuddered at the implications.

"But I am compulsive," he admitted. "I'm not one for planning per se. I just open my bag of tricks and viola," a flourish of his shackled hands alluded to some feat of legerdemain.

"You thrive on chaos," she inferred.

"Yes- how very succint of you, Harley."

"Then it must seem very surreal here to you- in a structured environment where you can no longer instigate said chaos."

The Joker raised a skeptical eyebrow. "But on the contrary- Arkham is pure chaos. If you're looking for realism then look no further. Take Edward Nigma for example- a bit paranoid but that doesn't mean they're not out to get him. Or my old friend Spades who just wants to bash someone's face in to watch it bleed.

"And then take our dear Dr. Crane who is supposedly in charge of this little utopia of free thinkers. He's so sick it makes my skin crawl. Thought he'd hypnotized me once and you won't believe the things he said..."

"So only the insane are sane," Frances summed, ignoring his bait about her superior.

"I'm not insane. I'm the product of an insane world. I am the child of Chaos and Fear. I am the King of Arkham. If there's anyone here who needs his mind adjusted it's Crane himself.

"But that's not really what you want to talk about. You want to pin down why I seem so very familiar," he drawled evilly.

He did seem oddly familiar, but Frances decided not to respond. "I'm concerned that your medications seem to be completely ineffective. Would you agree?"

"Harley Quinn and The Joker make quite a nice pair, don't you think? There's sort of a ring to it," the man continued, undaunted by her lack of a reaction.

"I'm going to suggest you have more extensive blood-work done and see if we can't figure out a more effective medication regimen."

"Still have your daggers, Harley Quinn? Ever let them loose once and a while, see what you can hit?"

"Unless you object, I'll give my recommendation to Dr. Crane this evening."

"If you really don't remember, why don't you ask the good Doctor to hypnotize you? I'm sure he'd enjoy the opportunity to get inside of that pretty little head of yours," he said gruffly.

"The next time we meet, I'd like for you to call me Dr. Quinzel. And focus more on why you're here and how I can help you get better. That's the only way you'll get out again."

"Oh, I can think of a few more," the Joker said slyly. "But you're right- you will help me get out of here, Harley Quinn. I swear it on my mother's grave."

For some reason, this last statement haunted Frances most of all.

She hurried past Dr. Crane's office, through security and out the front door. Once outside, Frances gulped the fresh air like she'd been holding her breath for the last twenty minutes. She thought she had gotten over anxiety attacks.

Just as she was about to get in her car, a limousine pulled up behind it. Crane got out and said good-bye to someone that Frances couldn't get a glimpse of before the door slammed shut and a dark tinted window obscured her vision. One of his "well-connected" friends?

"Dr. Crane- I was just about to get some lunch," Frances said smoothly.

"That seemed brief. Any difficulties?" he asked, scanning her face as if he was trying to read her mind.

"Not at all. I just didn't want to push my luck. We'd developed a sort of rapport, I think."

"Well that's excellent." Crane took her by the arm with more familiarity than she cared for. "Why don't you let me drive us somewhere to eat and discuss your breakthrough. Do you like Italian?"

Frances loved Italian but she was too on edge to eat much. Luckily, Dr. Crane didn't ask many questions about her first interview and Frances decided not to ask whether he'd somehow revealed her first name. Crane might suspect the patient had gotten to her and she didn't want to be taken off the case.

Dr. Quinzel's other patients were standard enough: a drooling schizophrenic who like to start fires; a wise-guy who was obviously pretending to be insane; a burglar with delusions of persecution and a penchant for riddles. None of them intrigued her quite like the so-called Joker. She'd made it a personal mission to find out who he was and whether or not they'd met before.

Frances did some of her best thinking when she was working out, so she changed directly into a pair of biker shorts, a sports bra, tank and tennis shoes and headed to the gym. To counteract a somewhat sedentary job, she liked to stay fit and limber. And besides, it felt good to know that she could defend herself if necessary in a place like Gotham City.

After warming up around the track, she found an empty studio with mats, a punching bag and plenty of space. Frances took out her earbuds and got down to business. She jabbed, hooked, elbowed and punched while practicing her blocks and dodges. Pounding the shit out of the bag felt good, but without any protection her knuckles were soon raw. She kicked a few more times before giving her victim a rest.

Sweaty and red-cheeked, Frances stretched in front of the mirror. She had a lean, toned body paired with a generous bust and hips, cinched tight at the waist. Before she'd developed all of her womanly curves, gymnastics had been one of her favorite past-times. Her father had even paid for lessons, back when he could afford to care.

The thought of him made Frances want to punch something again. Instead of maiming her hands even further, she reset the room and decided to see if she still had it. Cartwheel, back flip, somersault- it was a good start. Heart racing now, she went to the corner of the room and tried a few front handsprings in succession. Back handsprings were scarier but easier to do. She even managed to land one with a layout.

As her physical memory started to take over her rational mind, Frances soon found herself remembering how to do a roundoff, a front tuck, and a back walkover. After going through her tumbling repertoire and finding herself giddy with exhaustion, she felt like she could take on anything. Dripping with perspiration, Frances skipped the shower and went home to make a call she thought she'd never make in a million years.

"Hello?" A television was blaring in the background and he was still chewing. Potato chips from the sound of it.

"Dad, it's me."

Her father swallowed and turned down the television. It was still audible.

"Hey, girlie. I didn't think I'd ever hear from you again," he slurred. Of course he'd be drunk.

"I didn't ever think I'd ever call you again," said Frances brusquely.

"If you need money you're hittin' up the wrong sugar-daddy," he chuckled, crunching on another chip. The sound of his mastication made her ill.

"I don't need anything from you. Except answers."

"Oh? Well that depends on your questions," he said, taking a swig of what she presumed was the cheapest beer he could find.

"Did I ever dress up as a Harlequin when I was young?"

Her dad coughed for a minute, during which Frances secretly wished he would choke- but then she'd never know.

"You mean other than the Halloween you dressed up like a fucking circus slut? Not that you weren't always dressed that way- a slut, I mean," he clarified darkly

"When I was a little girl, I mean," she pressed on despite his vulgarity.

"Maybe. Your mother liked to parade you around in costumes. Yeah, now that I think about it, you went as Harlequin for Halloween when you were five or so."

"Was anyone dressed up with me?"

"It was Halloween, what the fuck do you think?" he spat.

"I mean to match. Like a fool. A joker," Frances said patiently.

"How the hell should I remember?" Deception was clear in his voice.

"Why don't you try? I'm sure you can remember how I looked that night. Was there a boy with me who was several years older? In a purple suit, with green hair and facepaint?"

"Who have you been talking to?" he accused furiously.

"Is that a yes?" she persisted.

"The past is past. This is a road you don't want to go down, girlie," her father warned.

"Who was he? What are you trying to hide!"

"Don't fucking call me ever fucking again. You're dead to me- both of you- do you understand me? Leave me the fuck in peace!" he yelled before hanging up.

Frances had never heard her father sound so frightened in her life. And, having worked for Sal Maroni and by extension the infamous Carmine Falcone himself, her dad had seen his fair share of violence, murder and mayhem. What could be so much worse about this boy turned Joker- who had, in some way or another, been a part of her formative years?

If crime ran in his family like it did in hers, then Maroni might be part of their connection. Frances stuck that in her "maybe" pile. She'd seen a child psychiatrist around the same time she would have been dressed as Harlequin; or rather, "Harley Quinn" as her mother had dubbed her since birth and her father had since twisted it into a painful reminder. This she also considered a possible common ground.

Something that connected them on another level was the loss of their mothers- that is assuming the Joker was being honorable when he made his vow. But Frances decided that wasn't a topic she could broach, even if it could serve as a bond. Their first encounter had been peculiar enough and she had the feeling their second would be even stranger. Discussing something that personal was more than even she could handle.

Frances brought an assortment of her own tricks to her next session with the Joker.

Dr. Crane had politely listened to her recommendation for a rigorous blood analysis of "Joe Kerr", but assured her that he'd already investigated the matter to his satisfaction. Frances had pointed out that it would be helpful to her learning experience, but didn't press further. So she broached her new idea with some trepidation, but Crane had an unusually enthusiastic response.

"Oscar Wilde said 'Man is least himself when he talks as his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.' Perhaps this will prove true with the Joker," he commented thoughtfully. "As long as it doesn't disturb any of the patients...more than they are already...then yes. I'll allow it."

"Thank you, sir. Before I go, may I ask for your notes on the hypnotherapy sessions with Mr. Kerr? There seems to be no record in the file," she said sweetly.