It was glaringly sunny as she... nope. Ok... It was a gloomy overcast day with sweeping wind and rain as she... muuuuch better. Ok.
Ignoring the brilliant sunshine that cut through the cheap curtains of her apartment Harleen Quinzel continued to write about the "storm" that plagued her steps as she walked up the steep driveway to her first day as an intern at Arkham Asylum. A walk she had yet to make. As her pen scratched feverishly across the hard-backed journal she had picked out for exactly this occasion she jiggled one leg beneath her desk. Her heels beating a steady staccato rhythm into the wooden floor.

Every few words she glanced at the clock on her kitchen wall yet it seemed determined to stay static. Anxiously awaiting the events she detailed in the journal, she had been dressed and ready to leave three hours ago. Though not expected for her orientation as a psychiatrist for yet another three, she watched the clock and jiggled. Bit her nails and jiggled. Scribbled out a sentence furiously and jiggled...
"BAH!" she slammed her pen down beside the mess of crumpled pages, and snatching her handbag from the floor, she strode out the door.

Keeping a sharp eye on the other doors in her less than glamorous building she fumbles to lock up her apartment securely. Multiple deadbolts sometimes took a while. Testing they are in place with twist of the tarnished doorknob and a small kick she buries her keys in her bag once more.

Despite the fine day, a rarity in Gotham city, by the time Harleen reaches street level the light seems more gloomy, the sunshine muted by the everyday pollution of cars, taxis, and unidentified smog that drifts west from the industrial district. She sits in her vehicle staring at the hazy glow for a long moment before starting the ignition with a savage flick of the wrist and pulling out into the traffic.

She kills time by getting lunch at the same old diner shes been frequenting since university, forcing herself to make pleasant small talk with the fat hairy man who runs it. Not only does staying on his good side ensure her food remains free of spit but it keeps her in practice at feigning interest and sincerity to people that repulse her; a necessary skill for her workplace of choice. His waffles are cheap yet divine, even if the pube-like curled hair blanketing his shoulders and upper arms does appear to be held on by grease alone. Surely its been enough time by now... she glances at the time and decides better to arrive early than to be so insane from waiting that she needs to be admitted instead of hired. Wrinkling her nose at the tar-like substance in the coffee machines she opts for a small bottle of soda on her way out, knowing that her favourite flavour contains enough sugar to make up for the loss of caffeine.

"Harleen Quinzel?" Rings out a voice as she stands gawping in the reception area after trying on her new doctors coat. Turning hurriedly to its source pushing her glasses more firmly in place "I'm Joan Leland." remarks a severe looking woman in a similar coat.

"Hi, Joan." Harley smiles and frees a hand to shake the one being offered "Call me Harley. Everyone does."

The two women walk down a series of long sloping hallways then downstairs into a large underground room bristling with armed guards. On either side of them are the clear walled cells that house Arkham's most dangerous inmates.

"I must admit I was surprised you wanted to intern here at Arkham."

"Well, I've always had an attraction for extreme personalities. They're more exciting. More challenging..." Harley trails off as Joan gives her a wondering look.

"And more high-profile?" she interjects with as scathing gaze but Harley merely shrugs.

"You can't deny there's an element of glamour to these super-criminals."

"Ill warn you right now: These are hard-core psychotics. If you're thinking about cashing in on them..." Leland lectures as Harley's eyes go wide as she recognises the man in the cell nearby. "...by writing a tell-all book, think again."

Harley moves over to where a pale and defined figure reclines against the stone wall of his cell. Her eyes locked onto the signature bright green hair of the Joker. THE Joker...! Harley marvels her breathing shallower and faster than usual. Her eyes trail from the hair, to the glinting metal teeth... and then get momentarily lost descending the scarred and tattooed planes of his torso and coming to a rest on the muscled v that disappears into his Arkham uniform sweat pants.

"They'd eat a novice like you for breakfast." Leland states firmly and begins to lead the way back down the hall. Harley's eyes snap upward to the Jokers as he regards her piercingly through the glass, the intensity makes her smile nervously as she turns to leave, she could have sworn she saw him wink.

Joan Leland leaves Harley an hour later with a stack of paperwork, an ID badge and another set of warnings outside a faded paint and chipped metal door. It reads DR. HARLEEN QUINZEL in fresh paint below the large aged number seventeen. Harley opens the door and steps into the darkened room. The fluorescent lights flicker into life above a square table and chairs that are bolted to the floor directly in front of the entrance, within sight of the small high set window pane in the door. To the left of this table the space is set up like an office, desk, filing cabinet, a few reference books. A vase with a single rose features prominently on the desk.

Flopping the pile of paperwork unceremoniously onto the desk corner Harley's hand picks up the rose. Reading the card reveals the inscription: COME DOWN AND SEE ME SOMETIME - J. She doesn't know a "J". Meeting Joan Leland today certainly didn't leave her the impression she was the type to send welcoming flowers, besides her office was a few floors above this one, not "down". The only other name beginning with J with relevance today is the Joker. She sniffs the rose and smiles thoughtfully as she takes a seat. Must be a joke, something they do to try to psych out new interns, make them think the patients are after them from day one. She struggles with indecision for a moment not wanting to play along with others games if this was the case... but the Joker... imagine if it was from him. Her hand inched to the small journal in her coat pocket.

A sharp rapping on the door flung her from her reverie.

"Doctor Quinzel?"

"That's me!" She cried leaping to her feet.

The man at the door chuckled softly and straightened his glasses as she blushed furiously and smoothed her clothing self-consciously.

"Id say "penny for your thoughts" but aside from that saying being almost as old as I am I believe it to be a dangerous sentence in a place such as this." He murmurs from beneath a salt and pepper mustache. "Jeremiah Arkham"

"Sir!" she clacked forward, arm outstretched eagerly "Pleasure to be here"

"Pleasure to meet someone who hasn't had the enthusiasm shocked out of them, yet" they shake hands and the corners of his mustache ruffle in what she assumes is a smile and she rewards him with one of her own before clasping her hands in front of her.

"I make a point to greet all of my staff on their first day" he begins in a somewhat practiced manner "The name of Arkham has long been stamped upon these walls and the legacy of my family has been to safeguard the mentally unwell in order to, in turn, safeguard the well-being of those around them. Here in Gotham we have our fair share of citizens in need of that help. With luck, patience and the implementation of tried and trusted psychiatric tools we can try our damndest to lesson the number that require... asylum in these halls." he monologues as Harley nods at what she hopes are the appropriate places.

"...We shall see about assigning you some patients once we take store of the level of difficulty you can cope with on a weekly basis, no use if the doctors become so overwhelmed they become a patient in turn..."

"With all due respect sir I'd like to get stuck in immediately. I didn't get this far by taking things easy" she interrupted hoping she sounded authoritative.

"Well," he floundered briefly his script clearly not taking into account interjections "Well, I, uh, suppose given your, keen work ethic we can see about perhaps shadowing an existing doctors patients. Some of the more, uncooperative.. patients can benefit from a team of doctors to provide more round the clock care."

"Uncooperative meaning high risk." she concluded reading his hesitation.

"Well... I suppose you could put it that way. It is difficult to justify more man hours being spent on a single patient unless they are prone to... complications."

"The normal ratio of patients to staff being... " she lead.

"Sixteen to one" Arkham replied drawing himself up pompously to full height at her accusatory tone "well within industry standard."

Quickly she switched to her blondest wide eyed expression at his hint of offense.

"I hope you didn't think I meant... I'm just excited to know how many people I can help!" the bright idealistic intern impression was not too far of a stretch for her to pull off.

"Yes, well" Arkham relaxed slightly, pausing to wipe down his glasses with the edge of his sweater. "We'll have to see who has a suitable session this afternoon, see if we can whet your appetite for rehabilitation."

Harley barely concealed her smirk as he bid her farewell and good luck, promising to have someone email her before this evening with a prospective session. You'd think that someone trained in psychology themselves would see through falsehood and manipulation more readily, but if anything, she'd had experienced the opposite. The more sure of themselves a person felt, the less they concerned themselves with the actions of others. Protagonists in their own story. How many times had it been said by victims, loved ones, coworkers, "I cant believe it, they seemed like such a normal/nice/good person" even as a new patient was admitted. She unveiled a limp prepacked sandwich from the depths of her handbag and picked at it with a sigh.

After giving up on the rest of her sandwiches (mostly crust as this point) an orderly wandered in and introduced himself. His name was Fraser but she doubted sincerely she'd remember that in ten minutes as she was far more fascinated by his long flowing hair. His rather nondescript face had the effect of combining with the curtains of fine blonde hair into complete gender ambiguity as he led her in a brief tour of the staff areas. Though Leland had given a cursory run around the patient areas, mostly just the shock and awe of maximum security, she had not touched on things like; bathrooms, where to seek coffee, lockers to keep personal belongings. Eventually the subject of his hair was brought up by the orderly himself as though he fully expected her to notice it.

"Its not particularly wise to have your hair down at work. Literally and metaphorically." he chuckled holding a door open for her. They entered a cavernous room filled with row upon row of slumped uniformed patients, a cafeteria. "There are some nutters who will get a bit grabby without their morning cocktail," he elaborated passing a table covered in dozens of small paper cups filled with pills "and others who will pounce on the slightest bit of personal information or moment of relaxed attitude to bring you down."

As though listening in, one of the patients stood with a pterodactyl screech and began beating the man opposite him with his plastic tray. When an orderly or two that were dispersed through the room keeping an eye on things approached him they received similar treatment with the tray. Chaos reigned briefly as those near to the altercation hid, shook, yelled, whooped, or joined in according to their natures. Anyone more than 10 feet away seemed entirely non perturbed, scooping the messy array of foods before them into their mouths indifferently. Those must be some drugs... Harley mused. Peace was restored fairly quickly. The involved orderlies retrieved individually packaged antiseptic wipes from their pockets with ease of practice, swiping them across the scratches and a bite-mark or two now adorning their faces as if it was the most normal thing in the world. When this was done they then crouched beside the patients with fresh wipes to give them the same treatment.

"Shouldn't any injuries be officially treated by the medical ward?" She questioned... god what was his name again... why do I keep thinking of penguins... penguins, Antarctica, cold, freezer "Fraser!" she said aloud almost triumphantly. Taken slightly aback by her tone he nonetheless replied.

"Well yes, officially... Not to put you off on your first day or anything, but minor injuries occur so often here that it would be bedlam to march every scratched, scraped, bitten, bruised, sprained so and so to the Doc and back." he said leading the way to the double doors opposite to those they entered through as she frowned. "Unofficially, unless its highly likely to get infected, fall off or otherwise impede basic bodily functions, whack a band-aid on it and call it a day. Except the reds."

"Reds?"

"Red wristband." he points to a patient twisting a white plastic hospital band around and around his wrist frantically. "Whites, either safe enough or too out of it to be concerned about handing them objects. There allowed personal effects once they're checked for anything dangerous. They follow a rough schedule but they're mostly here voluntarily. Yellows." he points to the tray whacker surreptitiously."They're still with it enough, or conniving enough to come up with ways to use objects creatively. The can have up to three personal objects in their rooms at once but cant walk around with them. They can leave more things with the office and sign in something and trade it for another as need be. Nothing sharp, nothing electronic, nothing edible. Their location has to be recorded once an hour on the hour. They're troublemakers, manipulators and prone to petty violence. Most of your patients will be Yellows."

"I see." Harley acknowledges, jotting down a few thoughts as he laughs.

"You don't need to take notes! Still in the schoolgirl mindset I suppose." he smiles and shakes his head condescendingly.

...orderly, lax about standards and rules, stereotyping patients, girly-man haired penguin face. She scribbles, just the sort of character flaws to bulk out her book. The rusted cogs of the machine...

"Then comes Reds. No personal kit. Locked in after dinner. Tend to either eat or shove into another patient anything you hand them. No band-aids. No pens. No plastic, easy to snap or melt into...things..." Girly-man-penguin... Fraser... continues. "Tend to be in here for the violent crimes but mostly with a type, or specific catalyst. Killed their family, their coworkers, several women but only those that are exactly 5 foot 4 and wear cherry lip-gloss. Things we can work around, look out for. Their "triggers" are laminated beside their rooms." He taps the plastic coated papers, also red, beside each of the doors lining this entire hallway. It looked more like a college dorm with extra locks than a hospital. "They can snap at the smallest weirdest thing, but we can handle them. Sedate-able, able to be overpowered. But Red corridors are off limits unless you have at least one orderly with you. Everyone travels in pairs."

Its not until they flash IDs at armed guards that flank the door leading to the inner courtyard that Harley realizes its been a long time since shes seen a guard. They cut across the meagre gardens and exercise areas outdoors to what appears to be a recreational hall at the other side. Guards once again wave them inside.

"Where are all the guards?"

"Were not a prison." he shrugs. "Police guards at all the doors leading to the outside. Including the court 'cause even though it has the building surrounding it on all sides, we've had climbers before."

"But not in the halls."

"Nope. Security guards, tasers only, two a floor. Mostly just to initiate lock downs. Watch the cameras. Above ground you're on your own" he grins wolfishly "excepting your friendly neighborhood orderlies of course."

"And below?" she probes, knowing hes deliberately building up to high security and max security patients, playing along.

"The Leathers. Two armed guards per hall. Locked in their rooms sans sessions, and exercise. Anywhere else they're restrained..."

"...in Leathers. Hard to bite through" she nods recognizing the casual term for the four point cuff system, wrists and ankles linked in a "T" shape.

"Most of them are chain nowadays, but some are much too slippery and need a booster shot too." he pats his chest pocket. "Law requires minimum restraints possible. Drugs over physical. Their checks are 30 minutes. 15 minutes if they've been disruptive or threatened staff or other patients recently."

Wringing out her own wrists back and forth from all the writing, she really should invest in a tape recorder, she wandered paced the Leathers wing as Girly... uh Fraser spoke with one of his fellows. An orderly with a clipboard walked door to door, peering in and making obvious tick motions.

"Show me some skin please Mr... Lunkhead." the orderly wrinkles her nose distastefully at the lack of a real name, then leaps back as a loud bang and a shuddering of the metal door beside her affirms the patients presence. With another tick she moves on.

That must get real old real fast... Harley decided, a boring yet effective punishment to have someone interrupt your day every 15 minutes...

"Later Joe," Girly man penguin... Fraser... G.M.P...Gimp hahahahaha said returning to Harley's side. She fought to keep a straight face. "I'm sure Joan gave you the Downstairs scare so that should be everything. I can walk you back to your office if you like."

"No charming nickname for the maximum security patients then?" She teased.

"Ahh... The Rogues Gallery"

The Rogues gallery... Harley typed up in-between refreshing her emails every few minutes. ...The reinforced glass doors bare all within the cramped and damp cells... cramped and damp... too rhymey... bare all within their dank, claustrophobic confines. Harley nods appreciatively and refreshes her email once again with a frown. Nothing. She flips through the notes she bullet pointed as Gimp (Her internal nickname for him had stuck) had led her back to this desk.

"Rogue gallery. Each one escorted into custody personally by our very own Batman. High tech surveillance thanks to a hefty top up of the accounts from the local playboy billionaire."

"Bruce Wayne?"

"How many playboy billionaires do you think Gotham has! HA! Yes, Wayne. Cameras," he pointed "Bullet proofing," he rapped on the glass of an empty cell. "Two whole guards per prisoner, armed to the teeth."

"Patients." she corrected firmly.

"Freaks. Madmen. Some say there are even Meta-Humans." he rebutted "No less than a dozen murders a piece, and for many of them, that's waaaay understating it."

"You're not supposed to be in here. No patient transfers untill 4pm" Barked one of the guards, having just questioned the security man who had waved them onward.

"Just a quick tour" Smiled Gimp placatingly.

"So you're a tour guide? Scrubs say you're an orderly. Take the orders"

"Sorry Harleen" Gimp grumbled as they ascended to the ground floor, clearly miffed at being put in his place by the guard.

"Harley." she smiled "and don't be, not your fault we lack the required stick up our asses to enter." she joked.

Tap tap tap tap... her fingers meandered across the keys sketching out initial impressions of everything from the food to the flooring as a small ding sent her heart racing and her hand shaking to reveal her new email.

"Room 22, report to Dr. Gould, 1545"