Categories
Rated - IntenseSolo
Tags
JokerHarleen QuinzelDCSolo
She's heard the whispers. Frail and stemming from dubious sources, they came one day to permeate the eerie atmosphere that constantly shrouded Arkham asylum with more doubt, presaging terror.
There is a new occupant in the padded cells. Nothing is known about him and only a select few among the staff have seen him. Clown and freak are only some of the epithets hurled at him. The guards laugh at him. No-one could imagine at the time that beneath the blood red smile lay a deranged showman, a criminal awaiting to associate himself with the darkest pages of Gotham's history.
The whispers continue to spread and maim, slowly elevating him to horror beyond comprehension. He's irredeemable. A monster. The face of ultimate evil. She ignores them. "He's just a man", she reminds herself as she walks through the halls of Arkham, hurrying to her next session. "He can be cured."
Enough of her coworkers get assigned to him. Men and women of solid reputation, with years of experience under their belt approach him with caution, ready to take on this so-called new level of twisted. They fail and the whispers become roars. Voices desperate and panicked. He can't be handled, can't be stopped; he's completely unresponsive to treatment. His powerful presence dominates the asylum; he makes it empty of hope. Nobody's laughing anymore but him.
And Harleen keeps walking down the halls with the same air of casual unconcern. Even when her colleagues are sent home broken. Even when others don't make it home at all.
Inevitably his file ends up in her hands. She thinks them capable but finds them shaking. A ghost among the living. No personal information, nothing of substance but a long list of crimes. All they have is a codename; the sound of it as mocking as the look in his eyes every time someone enters his cell, foolishly thinking they can fix him.
Joker.
There is a new occupant in the padded cells. Nothing is known about him and only a select few among the staff have seen him. Clown and freak are only some of the epithets hurled at him. The guards laugh at him. No-one could imagine at the time that beneath the blood red smile lay a deranged showman, a criminal awaiting to associate himself with the darkest pages of Gotham's history.
The whispers continue to spread and maim, slowly elevating him to horror beyond comprehension. He's irredeemable. A monster. The face of ultimate evil. She ignores them. "He's just a man", she reminds herself as she walks through the halls of Arkham, hurrying to her next session. "He can be cured."
Enough of her coworkers get assigned to him. Men and women of solid reputation, with years of experience under their belt approach him with caution, ready to take on this so-called new level of twisted. They fail and the whispers become roars. Voices desperate and panicked. He can't be handled, can't be stopped; he's completely unresponsive to treatment. His powerful presence dominates the asylum; he makes it empty of hope. Nobody's laughing anymore but him.
And Harleen keeps walking down the halls with the same air of casual unconcern. Even when her colleagues are sent home broken. Even when others don't make it home at all.
Inevitably his file ends up in her hands. She thinks them capable but finds them shaking. A ghost among the living. No personal information, nothing of substance but a long list of crimes. All they have is a codename; the sound of it as mocking as the look in his eyes every time someone enters his cell, foolishly thinking they can fix him.
Joker.