Order [Harleen]

[The Joker]

Humans worshipped Order, as if she were a goddess up high vowed to keep their lives in perfect control. Gotham citizens lived a conventional life, each day unappreciated how entirely useless their lives were and expecting to wake each day without problem. Each city he visited was the same, all humans were the same. They prized themselves of being above animals that live only instinctually by feeding, eating and sleeping. They panicked when things didn’t go according to their days, they panicked when someone changed their scheduled and they certainly panicked when he told them they were going to die. Because it wasn’t apart of their order. But he had found the worst of it all; worse than any city he had seen, worse than Gotham … was Arkham.

It was an institute of creative individuals with different plans than society, but shoved in concrete walls and forced to conform to the ways of the world or rot. They controlled when you ate, when you slept and what you could have in your room. They controlled you in every possible manner, trying to break you down day by day until you were so worn from their routine, you stopped fighting it. Most stopped fighting in time.

Except Joker.

He got a good laugh out of those that settled into the Order. He enjoyed watching the orderlies try and maintain him in a certain plan. He laughed when he killed that nurse. Laughing was his best defense against the presumption of them. They looked at him like he was crazy, an outcast of the world never meant to have been born unless he conformed. Crazy. Crazy.No one was truly crazy here in Arkham because crazy didn’t exist. Crazy was a way of telling people they didn’t fit, that they needed to be fixed so they did fit or shoved away, hidden from the public so the public didn’t panic. Crazy is subjective. Crazy is only a name.

Pressing his clean face against the glass of his cell, his eyes peered down the hallway for any sign of life. Any sign of human activity he could toy with and entertain. It was, after all, what little entertainment he had for himself and he suspected they were catching on. People had stopped passing by his cell quite as often as they used to and they spoke even less than they had before. Dinner was a one-sided show with an uncooperative audience. Turning his back on the glass, he pressed up against it while staring into his empty room. He was reduced to the bare minimum because of the nurse incident… apparently they couldn’t take a joke. There was now just a mattress with a single, weak sheet that would not support a hanging body nor survive long enough to choke someone. All utensils were only available during meals, which were supervised in silence and the utensils were of shitty plastic. No pens or pencils were allowed in his hands, the shoes were cold hard sandals and the toilet was drained of water. Though it was a meager living, Joker found their attempts to control and sustain him within normal life hilarious. Squinting into the room, his scars smiled when he didn’t, but he always found things funny.

The scars reminded the world that he was always laughing at their order and their plans. Always.

[Dr. Harleen Quinzel]

Analyzing madness on a daily basis has a tendency to do one of two things to a person. It might wear them down completely, make them pessimistic, sour about humanity, and send them to an early retirement, or worse, an early grave. Or, it might catch their fascination and spur them on to deep thoughts and great things. Harleen Quinzel, for one, liked to believe that her career would take the second path. True, psychiatry had not been her lifelong dream. But, really, how could gymnastics ever get anyone anywhere? Discovering a hidden passion for the process of human thought had been a blessing and had probably saved her from becoming a cranky old gymnastics instructor, or worse, some minimum wage burger joint girl.

However, as much as she loved her field and what she accomplished in it, she also saw how the work she did had changed her and her preceptions of the world. Over the last few years she had slowly come to the comclusion that there are really no absolute truths. Everything, really, is quite relative to one's current situation. Take the ideas of chaos and order, for example. In the outside world, the world of loud and bustling Gotham, "order" meant calm. Not necessarily peace, but calm. The sense that the world as a whole was progeressing as it should. Chaos, conversely, meant panic. In other words, the mess that occured when something sudden and out of the ordinary occured.

That was the way the two terms, order and chaos, were seen in Gotham and most of the civilized world for that matter. They were opposites, two states of existence that would never and should never meet. Not in Arkham.

The patients at Arkham, for the most part, thought their days were ruled by some perverse, overpowering order. An order that controlled ever aspect of their lives "for their safety and the safety of others". Most hated it, all fought it, the majority eventually gave in. However, as an outside observer, who was not really on the outside, Harleen saw that the order they implemented in Arkham was tenuous. So much so that at times the line between the asylum's daily routine and all out chaos seemed blurred to the young doctor. The sheer magnitude of the madness housed behind the walls of the facility made the idea of order rather laughable as patients screamed and shrieked and lived in worlds entirely of their own creation. How could there be any order in that?

And so, Harleen concluded, order and chaos, like many other things, were really a matter of perspective.

And what was her perspective now? How ordered were her thoughts and emotions as she strode, at once too slowly and too quickly down the halls towards the high security ward. In some respects, she was in perfect order. Her grey slacks were pressed, her navy blue blouse was free of wrinkles, and her blonder hair was neatly arranged on the back of her head with a large clip. Her thoughts too were for the most part as they should be. She knew where she needed to go, what she needed to say, and what questions she needed to ask.

Then again, from a different angle, she was a mess. She was paler than usual under her tasteful makeup, her palms were just a little sticky against the papers she held, and her fingers shook ever so slightly as she scanned her personel card to get into the ward. Those thoughts that were organized were merely a memorized agenda. The rest of her head was filled with a buzz of thoughts, springing up and out in every direction but with one singular point of origin. The fragments of information flew so rapidly around that she couldn't make sense of any of them, let alone analyze their usefulness or meaning.

Then, all at once, the build-up really didn't matter because she was standing there in front of the clear glass that seemed so insubstantial. The confusion in her head was gone in a flash, replaced by an eerie sort of quiet, all her thoughts focused on the strange, surreal image in front of her.


{{OOC- So very, very, very sorry I took so long to get back to you!! I promise this won't ever happen again, I just wanted to make this a really good post and didn't have any free time there for a while. }}

[The Joker]

The messy eyebrows on the heavy face lifted up, causing the folds in his forehead to bunch together. Even for as absurdly aware of his surroundings he often was, it was not difficult to hear the sound of feet in the densely quiet hall of the asylum. It was not mealtime, not nearly. Passer-bys simply didn’t happen anymore. No, these footsteps were solely meant for him. In place of smiling the scars did the work as he still stared into the room, completely calm in appearance though his heart began to stir at a faster pace. His head lifted slightly as he almost seemed to sit up straight for the visitor but instead the back of his head pressed against the glass and his back moved away. A few loud cracks echoed in the tiny room of the popping vertebrae in his back. Those safely behind the televisions may perceive him preparing for her at first, but his body then relaxed and slumped against the glass once more.

As the steps grew louder, the Joker did nothing still. Sitting with his back against any visitor, he was unmoved by the prospect of conversation or more. The doctors had already tried a few, testing their skills by hovering around him and taking notes. What was he to them? Crazy, yes. Unfit for society, of course. But their little pens and pencils scribbled away when their mouths were clenched shut and their eyes glazed over him. What they wrote in essence was inconsequential to him but it didn’t stop the wonderment of what they perceived of him. Perhaps an animal at a zoo for the pleasure of the PhDs of Gotham or a rubik’s cube waited to be solved and sold in books to the world. His favorite part of the whole ordeal was when they offered their names. They wore their badges and they told him their names perhaps for his comfort or their own. But he never forgot a name or face that wouldn’t serve him a greater purpose later. The doctors of Arkham would dance to the tune of bedlam before he was through with Gotham.

Blinking slowly, his thoughts had led him somewhere deep enough to realize the footsteps had stopped and he hadn’t noticed. Unmoved still, the Joker opened his mouth and smacked his lips together as the first sign of life before the blonde. Letting his tongue lash out and water his lips, he closed his eyes and tilted his head to left first, turning his face upwards to cause a crack in his neck. Then his head moved to the right, popping a few more times before his eyes opened to reveal the blonde before him. His eyebrows rose and fell, as if saying “not bad” and he pressed half his face up against the glass while staring at her.

“Are you nervous?” he asked in his usual higher pitched tone.

[Dr. Harleen Quinzel]

It was so quiet. Once Harleen had stopped walking, come to a halt in front of the thick, dingy glass, there was nothing at all. It was like being caught in a vacuum, or a dream-like void. There was the beat of her heart, her breath, and silence. Nothing more. Even in her head, Harleen could find nothing but white noise. Where was the list of questions she had prepared? She couldn't even bring them to the front of her mind, much less debate which to ask first. Arkham itself even seemed to have been put on mute. Where was the screaming? The beep of medical equipment? The shuffle of feet? None of it was there. It was...calm. And in front of her sat total chaos. Lovely, another matter of perspective.

Then, he stirred. The figure behind the glass blinked, licked its lips, cricked its neck. Each movement was separate, and painfully slow, deliberate to the point of, well, madness. Harleen's whole being seemed to be waiting on the edge of a precipice. Something had to happen, or she would be stuck there in agonizing anticipation forever. But...what was she anticipating? Wasn't she supposed to speak first? Wasn't this her interview? Her job? But nothing made much sense, there was only overwhelming anticipation.

He spoke.

“Are you nervous?”

And so that was his voice. It was high, like what she had heard on the television, but this phrase was spoken without the loud, manical force of his broadcasted messages. He spoke those three words quietly and with control. Harleen was unnerved. For days she had prepared for this interview. Long before she was even assigned his case she had caught herself wondering what it would be like to speak with such a persona. She had been fascinated by the Joker, in a professional way, fancied she could find out what made him tick. Sure, she had felt fear, he was violent after all. But what she hadn't imagined was how completely unnerving his gaze along would be.

Glassy blue eyes bored into wide eyes of a similar shade.

Harleen felt her face flush. Her throat seemed to stick. Her mind was as silent as it had been since she'd approached him. For a few moments that seemed much longer she didn't move a muscle, she hardly breathed. Then,

"No."
Her thoughts had suddenly returned to her. As though she's come up with the correct password to break whomever or whatever had been holding her sensibilities captive.

Harleen was surprised at how stongly the word had come out. It was level, professional, in control, almost defiant...and also a complete lie.

[The Joker]

The lie didn’t interest him. Most people would lie when it came to such a question, particularly when they were protected by bulletproof glass. No, her lie was insignificant in comparison to the manner she held herself while producing the lie. The single word laid itself out like a pure fact and her face hadn’t faltered. Most signs of nervousness or anxiety would’ve been appropriate by now, though she masked it quite cleverly. The second interest was her lack of follow-up. She answered him and then drew silence again; it was one of the key reasons he had known her to be lying when she denied her fear, but it was also a sign of strength. Most people that spoke to him ignored his questions or attempts to drag one into conversation, and only spoke at him … not with. She enabled a conversation and allowed him the next hand in it. She may have the physical advantage over him, but she had just willingly donated the emotional higher ground.

Pulling himself away from the glass slightly, he lifted his hand to scratch the top of his head. His eyes never moved from their position on her as he continued to measure her, plotting without too much precision on how this one was going to fall. As the hand began to fall back into place, a finger, instead, pointed out of the cell towards her arms.

“You better start or they’ll – they’ll think you can’t do it,” he advised in a strangely quiet manner as the same finger indicated upwards. While his eyes didn’t move, if hers did, she would notice he was pointing directly to a camera where no doubt they were watching from a safe distance. It wasn’t what he was originally going to say, but his lips had parted just in time for him to see the name on her security tag. Things had changed.

[Dr. Harleen Quinzel]

Harleen watched and listented intently as he spoke. She could see that he was looking her over, measuring her up so to speak, and she was more careful than ever to keep her face and body language impassive.
“You better start or they’ll – they’ll think you can’t do it.”
The fact that he spoke at all was surprising as she'd been told he would likely not be willing to say anything at all. If she were to make any initial observations of the soul that was in front of her it would be that he was deliberate. Every word he said and every movement he made was slow and precise. Not necessarily planned or thoroughly thought out...just deliberate. He wanted her, and everyone else in the world for that matter, to see exactly what he was doing, to make them wait, and to pause and let him dominate their thoughts for a moment.

Her eyes darted momentarily to the security camera when he pointed it out. He was right, of course, they were watching. They being Dr. Arkham, and probably every other doctor in the asylum, along with a horde of burly security guards all ready to jump in if the man behind the glass made even the slightest false move. Really, though, they were focused on her. Harleen knew this full well. They were all watching and waiting the pretty young doctor to see what she would do when faced with the mad, murderous clown.

He was right, of course. She had to start.

She grabbed a folding chair that was sitting to the left of the cell for the guards to use and dragged it so that it was set squarely in front of the green-haired figure, wincing inwardly as its metal legs squealed loudly on the concrete floor.
"Okay, let's start then,"

Harleen Quinzel glanced down at the generic yellow legal pad that sat in her lap. It was covered in her own messy doctor's script. There were dozens and dozens of questions there, from the benign to the philosophical, that she had spent several sleepless nights coming up with. None of them would do. She could see now that she'd been an idiot to think she could go in there and play twenty questions with him, he'd tie her up in her own words and give her only dead end, non-answers if she tried. She placed the pad on the floor.

She looked into the blue eyes that were in front of her, focusing, trying to be calm. She could still see traces of black paint caught in his eyebrows and in the creases of his eyelids.
"So...talk to me. How about you give me a name? Something I can call you?"

[The Joker]

The finger that pointed to the camera hovered for a few seconds, as if it were waiting for her to look up before he could relax. When her eyes parted from his face, the hand did just that and the finger was back to its normal, resting position. This woman before him was a prime example of the way the world had wanted her to become; bright and intelligent, she followed the path of a successful career woman, dressing neat and nicely for presentation and keeping her hair eloquently perfect for all the eyes that gazed upon her. His head almost turned to this side like a dog, confused with someone’s tone of voice, as she spoke and began to maneuver furniture around for her comfort.

When she gazed at her own notepad, he denoted a sign of hesitance that was quite different from the rest. Those before him carried a heavy weight of responsibility and fear on their shoulders that they presented, willingly or not, to him the minute they caught his sight. They pushed their shoulders back like some dominant creature to feign strength while their fingers fidgeted over the paper and their hand shook to write out false assumptions. Some stood in an effort to maintain a dominant position, as he often sat during these “sessions”, while others did exactly as she had now: sat in a chair to mimic an open and sentimental discussion between them. However much she liked to pretend she was just like them, she wasn’t. Her hesitation was different. She was not the same.

The pad hit the ground while his eyes refused to move to follow it. His attention wouldn’t be pulled from her, no matter what she did or tried. She, without doing much, had captured his entire concentration.

His eyebrows twitched in disapproval of her first question. It wasn’t strong. It didn’t deter from the others as everyone asked for a name. As if some sort of name would categorize him even better or explain who he is even more. He had often called himself the Joker for reference, though the name was given to him by someone else. He never introduced himself in that manner, nor would he ever, but he would respond to it and had taken the persona via his cards. But years ago, he had slowly discovered how uncomfortable it made them to not have a name, even one as unsatisfying and unreal as The Joker. Interested in the uncomfortable manner his lack of name created, he stuck with not giving one out. The corners of his lips twitched before a slow and small smile appeared on his face.

“That’s not what you want to ask,” he said matter-of-factly, his head shaking slightly as the dirty locks of faded green swayed to the beat and his eyes slightly narrowing. The same hand that had pointed to the camera earlier lifted up and shook a finger at her, like a disapproving or discouraging father. “Because – you already have a name for me.

“But what about you?” his tone changed with the question, becoming higher pitched as his interest was obvious in the new subject. “What is something .. I can call you?”

(( Sorry for the wait. Slowly but surely! ))