Author's Note: I was inspired to start this fic after playing through Batman: Arkham City. I am a long-time fan of Batman in general and I will be amalgamating a lot of different villains/stories into this interpretation. I really appreciate any reviews, so please go ahead! Also, if you liked this, I'd love you to go take a look at KayMoon24's stories - especially her Arkham Asylum series.

Chemical Compound: UNKNOWN

Core Material Temperature: -47

SENDING DATA ANALYSIS: 2% COMPLETE

Between the searing cold ebbing out of the floor, the sting of his wounds and minor injuries and the melodramatic sobbing, the sobbing was probably the most irritating.

"Oh, oh, oh. Ooooh no, no no no no. Awwwhahahahahawww."

The cold was making his nose run and the fine cut on his chin sting. That sample would be enough: it was time to get going.

"Ooooooooooooh..."

His solid boots on the cold steel floor put the sobbing to a startled stop. She hadn't forgotten he was here though: he knew it was just an act. Beaten and proving unreasonable and volatile, she was secure in a small holding cell. While this fate wasn't the most pleasant, it was better than leaving her to the mercy of the inmates and thugs roaming the Asylum, searching for scraps of trouble. Besides, time was getting tight. Minutes were a precious commodity, and they were going down the drain.

"Naaaaaaaaaaaaaw."

Squaring his shoulders, the man in the bodysuit climbed the metal stairs in quiet steps, poised on the balls of his feet. Every movement was measured, every square inch of the surroundings was scanned, and every moment accounted for.

"Mister Jay?"

His eyes squeezed shut in exasperation. "Just stay in your cell."

"Oh, it's you."

He turned around, his boot grating on the metal. The woman was pressed up against the grating in desperation. Her provocative outfit was thrown into contrast the look of pathetic sadness on her face.

Bruce Wayne had seen his fair amount of desperate cases, and this woman was just another one. He knew she was beyond a pep talk and a slap on the wrist: Alfred had taught him to pick his battles carefully, and he had so far regretfully ignored her campaign of self-destructive behaviour.

"It's - it's OK," she sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand like a child and smearing white paint on it. "Mister Jay's gonna come back for me, you'll see. He's gotta have his favourite girl at his own party, right?"

Bruce began to turn away. Sensing she was losing him, Harley Quinn gripped the bars of her cell tighter and bounced on the balls of her feet. "Hey, Bat. You wouldn't go to a party without your own girlfriend, would'ja?"

Irritation made him snap; "Your romantic entanglements are of no interest to me, Doctor Quinzel."

The comment knocked the wind out of her. Her head dropped, and she pressed her white forehead to the bar in despair. He felt a pang of impatience. It was not his job to console her, and he had used up every modicum of the allotted time for her.

But if he didn't, who would? She was a laughing-stock. He had listened to plenty of Joker's thugs while hiding in secluded spots around the Asylum: consensus among the more sane inmates and the Blackgate gang members was that Harley was an object of desire: either to kill or to claim as a conquest. The way they spoke about her with twisted, grizzled lips and lewd gestures cheapened her from a young lady with a doctorate into a trophy. While touring the party circuits, Bruce Wayne had encountered a boorish young man who counted the women he'd known intimately by cutting a niche into his four poster bed. In his experience, Bruce had noticed people who objectified their fellow beings came in different strengths: and he had seen the topmost end of the scale tonight, holding a number of the doctors hostage.

But this dawdling was ridiculous. He wasn't a psychiatrist.

"You should just stay here. It's safer."

Her face was set, but she carried on in the same blind, love-drunken vein. "Mister Jay's gunna spring me outta here. He don't want his special girl left out here…in the cold…"

Her psyche baffled and delicately intrigued him in equal measure. Was this her genuine belief, or an elaborate ploy to weaken him and escape incarceration? The tears at least were genuine, because he could see them making a mess of her face paint. Black and white were mingling, making her face look shaded and inhuman.

"Batman," said a calm, measured voice in his ear, "What are you doing?"

"It's alright," he muttered, twisting his mouth so he was speaking into of the corner of his cowl. He kept his eyes on Quinn. If she was listening to him, she was doing a good job of masking it.

"I hate to state the obvious, but you're wasting your time here."

He ignored her, even if she was the voice of reason as usual.

"Hey B-Man," sniffed Quinn, "Did I tell ya? When all this is over, Mister Jay and I're gunna get married!" She squeaked the last word with glee. "And we're gunna live happ'ly ever after…because you'll be DEAD!"

That was enough. Even if she was a desperate case, he was definitely wasting his time now. "I'm on my way back to the Mansion," he said to Oracle. "I'll get there as quickly as I can."

He turned away and walked three steps towards the entrance of the holding bay. Prepping the Batclaw attached to his wrist, he raised a steady arm and squinted up at the first level, aiming for a grubby iron railing.

"Hey, where'ya goin'?" She sniffed.

For a moment he hesitated. Like so many others, she was a just a victim of The Joker's lies and dirty tricks. In fact, he could see too many situations where she had come off noticeably worse. And just why had Joker preyed on her, such a vulnerable and suggestive young woman? What was his perversion?

"B-Man?"

He lowered his arm and turned his head towards her. She was gripping the bars of the cell as if her life depended on it, and her knees were buckled against the door. She looked like a discarded puppet: an ironic coincidence.

"Stay here, Quinn. You're safest in here."

"Can'tcha just let me outta here, B-Man?" Harley jutted one hip and lifted her chest towards him. The gesture might have been seductive to many an Arkham inmate starved of feminine attention, but he could see the involuntary slackness in her muscles that gave her away. It was half-hearted now. She knew that she was in that cell for the long haul.

"I'll make it worth your whi-ile." She twirled a lock of tangled blonde hair in around her finger, her voice a sing-song whisper.

"No." He almost added a curt 'thank-you', if he hadn't been repulsed by the idea.

Her bottom lip began to protrude, and before his eyes she turned into an enraged animal, thrashing against the bars of her cage. "But I wanna get out! Lemme out, you stupid Bat bastard!"

Silently, he drew closer to her until he was a mere inch from the bars of the cell. Under his imposing shadow, Harley stopped her fidgeting and screaming and looked up at him.

"Listen to me," he growled. "If I let you out now, you'll barely last five minutes out there. Inmates will find you - or worse, Joker's thugs. And then what do you think is going to happen?"

"Those mooks answer to me," she pouted.

"Not when you're alone and vulnerable, they won't. And do you really think that your Mister Jay is going to remember you? Do you think he's going to send someone to look after you, or is he going to leave you wandering around in the Hell-hole he created? Or is he too wrapped up in his own plans to think about someone else?"

She blinked up at him like a startled animal.

"Stay in here, Quinn. It really is for your own good."

"You can't talk about my Mister Jay like that." She was loud, but he could see she was intimidated. Considering the provocative way she dressed and the company she kept, she didn't seem to like being near imposing men. Did she choose to act that way, or did Joker force her into it?

"It's the truth, and you know it. Now stop acting like a child." He rubbed his wrists. "Maybe I'm wrong; maybe the Joker will let you out in a few hours. Until then, it's safest for you to stay in here."

"You want me to be safe?" Tears were welling in the corners of her eyes. Without her eyemask, as small as it was, she looked a lot more like a person rather than a crude character. It was easier to look at her face rather than at her body.

"I don't want another bloodbath," he said stiffly, unsure of how to get himself out of that accusation. With an obsessive personality like hers, the merest hint of morality could be misinterpreted as interest. He shuddered involuntarily.

Suddenly and without warning she hopped up onto her tiptoes, thrust her face through the bars and touched her lips to his. After a few seconds, he flinched away. He staggered backwards, swatting at his face.

"Don't act like it ain't nice, Puddin'." Her voice was a soft whisper. She was weak at the knees and wilting against the bars, almost swooning; a helpless, pathetic gesture he had seen her make many times in the Joker's company.

"Pull a stunt like that again, and I'll make sure you're stuck up in here permanently. Understand?"

Undeterred, she kissed her hand and blew the kiss at him. He turned his head in disgust.

"What happened just then?" Oracle, ever the voice in his head, had obviously heard a little more than he wanted her to.

"Nothing," he muttered, before adding "She tried to overpower me." He slipped up the stairs next to Harley's cell, away from her sight.

"Are you sure? It sounded a little…odd, if I'm honest." Was she goading him, or was that genuine concern?

"It's fine," he said tersely. With a swift movement he aimed and shot the Batclaw towards the railings, swiftly clawing his way up into the darkness and leaving the women in silence.