Arkham Asylum: Doctor's Orders

Arkham Asylum: Doctor’s Orders

• Dr. Harleen Quinzel stood alone in her new office, accompanied only by an overwhelming feeling of nervousness. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting a harsh glow over the sterile gray walls and the faint smell of industrial cleaner that clung to the air. A wooden desk, a filing cabinet, and the patient chair, that was the full extent of her kingdom in Arkham Asylum. The only touch of warmth was the half wilted poinsettia she brought from home.  Harleen turned to the small mirror next to the landscape picture she had hung, meeting her own reflection staring back at her. She adjusted the lapels of her crisp white coat, rolling her shoulders like a boxer before the first round. "You got this." Her voice was steady. Confident. She was Dr. Harleen Quinzel, PhD. Summa cum laude. Top of her class. More than qualified for this position. And yet… Her fingers wrestled in her hands like she had only just been given them. The last psychiatrist to hold this office had been carted out, their vacancy filled without so much as a whisper of what happened. She swallowed hard. Her mind knew she was ready, her résumé said so, her professors said so. But in the pit of her stomach, something uneasy lingered. A quiet, gnawing voice whispering, “Are you sure about this?” She inhaled deeply, forcing the doubt down, burying it beneath her best clinical smile. This was her office now. Her patients. Her job to do. And if she was going to survive Arkham Asylum, she had to believe she belonged.

• Que a knock at the door. Sharp, precise, and measured. Dr. Harleen Quinzel barely had time to straighten her posture before the handle turned and in stepped Doctor Hugo Strange. His pristine Arkham coat barely shifted as he walked, hands clasped neatly behind his back, his piercing eyes scanning every inch of the room, and her. “Dr. Quinzel.” His voice was smooth, unwavering. “I trust you are settling in.” Harleen forced a polite smile, even as her fingers itched to tighten the buttons on her coat. “Just getting comfortable, Professor. Big first day.” Strange gave a slight nod, stepping further inside, his gaze never quite leaving her. “Indeed. Which is why I am here, to remind you of our rules.” He moved toward her desk, fingers brushing across the bare surface, as if committing its emptiness to memory. “Arkham Asylum does not operate like other facilities, Dr. Quinzel. You are not dealing with ordinary criminals.” Harleen crossed her arms, “I’m aware, Professor. I’ve studied every—” “—Patient’s file,” he finished, cutting her off gently. “Yes, of course. And yet, no file… no psychological profile… can fully prepare one for the reality of being in the same room as them.” Something in his tone sent a chill up her spine. She forced a breath through her nose, nodding. “I understand the security measures.” Strange’s lips curved ever so slightly. “Good.” He gestured toward the panic button embedded into her desk. “This will summon security immediately. Do not hesitate to use it.” His eyes flicked up to hers, unblinking. “Some patients have a… knack for manipulation.” Harleen held his gaze, unshaken. “I know what I signed up for, Sir.” Strange studied her for a moment too long, as if peeling her apart layer by layer. Then, he simply nodded. “We shall see.” With that, he turned, making his way toward the door. But just as he reached for the handle, he paused. A small, satisfied hum left his lips. “I must say… you remind me very much of your predecessor.” Harleen’s stomach tightened. She didn’t ask what happened to them. And Strange didn’t offer. Instead, he opened the door, stepping aside with a gesture of welcome. “Shall we begin?” And just beyond him, her first patient waited.

• The door swung open, and in stepped Aaron Cash his hand firm on the shoulder of the man he escorted inside, that hand that wasn’t a hook, that is. Edward Nigma. The Riddler was no longer the smug, taunting mastermind Gotham knew. Not today. Dark circles etched beneath hollow eyes. His fingers twitched at his sides, restlessly tracing invisible patterns in the air as if solving equations only he could see. “Sit,” Cash instructed, pressing him into the chair across from Harleen’s desk. Edward didn’t resist. One plumped down, his uncertain lips quietly whispered, “Who? Who? Who?” over and over again. Cash shot Harleen a quick glance, wordlessly checking that she was ready. She gave him a small nod. Harleen folded her hands on the desk, studying Edward. “You’ve had a rough go of it, huh?” Edward’s fingers twitched faster. His jaw clenched. Silence. Harleen leaned in slightly. “Why are you here, Edward?” A slow, shaky breath passed through his nose. “Because… Batman put me here.” She tilted her head. “Why?” A flicker of something sharper flashed through his eyes. His fingers stopped twitching. “Because I made a mistake,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Because I… I had him.” Harleen nodded, encouraging. “Had who?” Edward’s hands gripped his knees. “Batman. I—I solved it.” His voice quivered between certainty and doubt. “I knew his identity. I knew it.” Harleen’s gaze didn’t waver. “Why?” His eyes snapped up to hers, the muscles in his jaw ticking. “Because I’m the smartest man in Gotham. Because I see the patterns. Because I know things no one else does.” His voice shook, caught between desperation and pride. “Because I looked at the evidence, and it all pointed to one name—Bruce Wayne.” Harleen tapped her fingertips together. “So… why don’t you feel like you won?” Edward flinched. His breathing shallowed. His hands went to his temples, pressing against his skull. “Because he—he knows that I was wrong.” Harleen’s voice softened, but the precision remained. “And why did that get to you?” His fingers dug into his scalp. “Because I never get it wrong.” “Why does that matter?” Edward’s hands curled into fists. “Because I have to be the smartest.” “Why?” His breath hitched. His shoulders tensed. A fracture cracked across his expression. “Because if I’m not…” His fingers grasped at nothing, his voice barely a whisper now. “Then what am I?” A deep silence followed. Harleen leaned back slowly, giving him room to sit with it. Edward’s hands trembled. Aaron Cash watched quietly from the door, his usually wary eyes holding a flicker of something else. Understanding. Harleen let the weight of the moment settle before finally speaking. “You know, Edward,” she said, voice calm, steady. “There’s more to a person than being the smartest in the room.” Edward stared down at his lap. He opened his mouth but for the first time in his life… He had no answer.

• The heavy oak door groaned as it swung open. Oswald Cobblepot waddled in, his posture rigid, his beady eyes darting around the office like he expected a trap. “Bah,” he spat, straightening his collar with his stubby fingers. “This ain’t a fit place for a man of my stature.” Aaron Cash kept his grip firm on the Penguin’s arm. “Sit.” Oswald huffed, yanking himself free, but he sat, grumbling. Harleen postured, “Rough transfer?” “Don’t play coy, doll,” Penguin said, his thin lips curling into a sneer. “We both know what this is.” She lifted a brow. “Oh? And what is it?” “A damn setup, that’s what.” He tapped his shoe on the floor. “They didn’t like me running my old clink like a business. So they sent me here.” His small, sharp teeth flashed. “Bet they think these nutjobs will be tougher to get in line.” Harleen tilted her head. “Will they?” His sneer widened. “That remains to be seen.” She leaned forward. “Oswald, do you know why you’re here?” He let out a gruff laugh. “Because some pencil-pusher at the DA’s office got a bug up his ass and decided I was ‘insane.’” He rolled his eyes. “Please. I ain’t crazy, Doc.” Harleen watched him, unflinching. “You don’t think you belong here?” His expression darkened. “No. I belong out there. In Gotham. Running my businesses. Collecting my dues. Keeping the streets in order.” “Order,” she repeated, tapping a nail on her desk. “Interesting word choice.” Penguin smirked. “Unlike some of these lunatics, I understand the natural order of things. Gotham’s got a food chain, Doc, and I was at the top of it.” Harleen nodded slowly. “And when Gotham’s justice system was corrupt, that worked out great for you.” His expression twitched, but he didn’t deny it. “But now that it’s clean,” she continued, watching him closely, “you’re struggling?” His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, there was a crack in his composure. A flash of resentment. “Gotham’s ‘justice’ system ain’t as clean as they like to pretend,” he spat. “The whole damn city’s a racket, always has been. The only difference now is that the crooks wear suits and sit in courtrooms.” Harleen let the silence hang. Then, softly, carefully,  “You mean people like Harvey Dent?” His fingers tightened around his umbrella. His jaw locked. “Dent,” he growled, voice thick with hate. “That two-faced son of a—” He cut himself off, piercing his lips in disgust. Harleen said nothing. Just waited. Oswald leaned forward slightly, gaze sharp. “The thing about Dent, Doc, is that he used to be the problem. A player in the game. But now?” His grip tightened. “Now he’s one of us.” Harleen watched him. “And you hate that.” Oswald let out a low chuckle, bitter and cold. “I hate a lot of things, Doc.” She studied him a moment longer. Then, slowly— “You know, Oswald, not seeing your own actions as wrong… does make you sane?” His eyes flickered. For the first time in the session, he hesitated. Just for a second. Then he puffed out his chest, straightened his vest, and smirked. “Eh,” he shrugged. “Agree to disagree.”

• The door creaked open again, but this time she felt tense. It wasn’t the sound or the massive silhouette being carted in that made Harleen tense. It was the smell. A mix of damp sewer rot and old blood. Waylon Jones ducked under the doorway, as he was carted in with a muzzle on. His sheer size dwarfing the office. His scaly skin stretched tight over muscle so thick it strained his jumpsuit paints. Aaron Cash kept his distance. He had good reason. And yet, as he slumped into the chair, Harleen didn’t see hunger in his eyes. She saw weariness. Croc sniffed the air, licking his lips inside his new muzzel. “You smell nervous,” he rumbled. Harleen responded, “Do you want me to be?” Croc grumbles, “Figured you ought to be. The last guy that say in that chair? Most of him ended up in my stomach.” Harley’s eyes widened in fear, wondering if the the restraints would hold. If she didn’t already smell like fear, she did now, “Mister Jones, you, you ate the former psychiatrist?”  Croc let out a low, gravelly chuckle. “Yeah. Guess I did.” She tilted her head. “May I ask why? I’m sure it had nothing to do with the prison food.” His yellow eyes narrowed. “He pissed me off,” Croc said simply. “Made me feel bad.” His jaws clenched. “I don’t like feelin’ bad.” Harleen didn’t flinch. “And I imagine people have made you feel bad nearly your whole life.” Croc let out a short, rough exhale. “No kiddin’.” His thick fingers drummed against the armrest. “People took one look at me, figured I was a freak. Threw me in with the monsters, so I became one.” His jaws tightened. “Might as well, right?” Harleen leaned forward slightly. “That’s what you think? That you didn’t have a choice?” Croc’s heavy brow furrowed. He was thinking. Silence hung between them for a moment before Harleen spoke again. “You ever feel like maybe… you got dealt a bad hand, but you didn’t have to play it this way?” Croc’s massive shoulders tensed. Harleen could tell no one had ever asked him that before. He didn’t answer, so she pivoted. “I heard you like wrestling.” Croc blinked. A pause.Then, a toothy smirk. “Yeah,” he rumbled. “Used to love watchin’ the big guys throw each other around.” Harleen smiled. “You got a favorite?” Croc answered instantly, “Always liked the Andre the Giant when he was in the ring. No nonsense. Just power.” Harleen chuckled. “I don’t think he had a choice not to be powerful.” Croc shrugged. “Still counts.” The clock on the wall clicked. Their time was up. Aaron Cash entered to cart Croc out. He grunted,  “You’re alright, Doc.” Harleen let out a deep exhaled only when the door shut behind him.

• Doctor Quinzel’s office temperature plummeted the moment the door opened. A slow, mechanical hiss followed as Victor Fries stepped inside, encased in his cold armor. The glass dome over his head fogged slightly as he exhaled, the air around him crackling with frost. His heavy boots left a thin layer of ice on the floor with every step. He simply sat. His eyes scanned the room like a man observing a snow globe. And when he spoke, his voice was measured, steady, almost soothing. “Pleased to meet you, Doctor Quinzel,” he greeted. Harleen’s breath came out in a faint mist, “Doctor Fries,” she nodded back. He clasped his gloved hands together, metal clinking softly. “I assume this is meant to be a baseline psychological evaluation,” he said coolly. “That’s the idea,” Harleen said, crossing her legs. “How are you feeling?” “I am fine,” he said, a little too quickly. Harleen raised an eyebrow. “You sure? You’re the first guy who’s come in here not blaming the system, not convinced someone is out to get them. That’s… refreshing.” Victor tilted his head slightly. “I have no interest in delusions,” he said. Harleen leaned forward slightly. “Then tell me, in plain truth, what’s on your mind.” He exhaled, a faint frost swirling inside his dome. “My wife, of course,” he said, “Nora.” The way he said her name, it wasn’t just love. It was worship. He continued. “She remains in cryo-stasis, waiting for a cure that I will find.” Harleen nodded slowly, “And how long has she been waiting?” His jaw tightened, “That is… irrelevant.” “Is it?” Quinzel questioned. Victor twitched,  “Science requires time,” he said. “Progress is slow, but inevitable.” Harleen wrote on her paper pad, “You don’t think it’s possible you’re holding onto something that might never happen?” Victor’s red eyes flashed. She stayed quiet, “But Wayne Industries has your wife now, right? You speak as though they have exhausted every effort to assist her.” Victor’s tone hardened. “My institution cut my funding. They forced my hand. If they had cared at all, we would not be having this conversation.” His hands clenched into fists, ice chipping across the desk before he caught himself. Harleen watched, waiting for him to realize what he’d just done. Slowly, he relaxed. The ice stopped breaking. “I will save her,” he murmured. “She is waiting for me.” Harleen’s voice was gentle. “And what if she isn’t?” Victor didn’t answer. For a long moment, it was silent. Then, a soft, mechanical hiss as he stood. “Our time is up, Doctor Quinzel.” Harleen nodded, watching as he walked to the door, each step leaving a thin layer of frost behind. He paused before exiting. “She is waiting for me,” he said again. And with that, he was gone.

• The door swung open, and the energy in the room shifted instantly. Like a storm with green hair had just waltzed in. “Well, well, well!” The Joker grinned as he was escorted in, wrists shackled but posture loose, as if he were strolling into a dinner party instead of a psych evaluation. Harleen barely had time to compose herself before he flopped down into the chair across from her, legs crossed, hands folded as if he were the picture of civility. She met his gaze, already knowing this would be different from the others. “Joker,” she greeted. “Misses Quin!” he said, dragging out the words with mock delight. “I must say, it’s an honor to be your first session. Or am I lucky number three? Four? You look like you've had a day.” Harleen didn’t flinch. “Please, I prefer Doctor. Why don’t we cut through the show?” she suggested. “Tell me about you.” The Joker’s eyes sparkled. “Oooh, an origin story, is it? You do know I prefer my past to be, how shall we say, multiple choice?” He grinned wider, as if daring her to push. Harleen didn’t bite. She just tilted her head, waiting. And, as if accepting a challenge, he sighed dramatically and leaned forward. “Well, since you insist,” he drawled, “I suppose I could tell you about dear old Dad.” A pause. Then, his tone shifted. He lowered his voice, leaning in like he was about to share a secret. “You see… my father was a drinker. And a fiend. One night, he comes home crazier than usual. Mommy gets the kitchen knife to defend herself. He doesn’t like that. Not. One. Bit.” His voice took on a rhythmic lilt, like a bedtime story twisted sideways. “So me, watching, he takes the knife to her, laughing while he does it! Then he turns to me, and he says, ‘Why so serious?’” His eyes were locked on hers. Harleen’s heart twisted. The way he told it, the way he painted the scene, was this real? Was there something beneath all that chaos that was true? The thought lingered in her mind, pulling at her emotions. Until Joker suddenly clapped his hands, “April Fools!” And just like that, it was gone. Harleen’s face hardened. Joker burst into laughter, doubling over as if he’d just pulled off the greatest prank of all time. “You should’ve seen your face, Doc! All sympathetic, ohhh, I almost had ya!” Harleen exhaled sharply, forcing herself to unclench her jaw. “Is there anything real you’re willing to share?” Joker wiped a fake tear from his eye, his grin never faltering. “Aww, Doc, you wound me! But tell you what, how ‘bout I let you figure it out?” He stood, stretching as the guard moved to escort him out. As he reached the doorway, he turned back, wagging a playful finger. “One day, Quinzel, you’re gonna get inside my head. I can feel it. Either that, or it’ll be the other way around.” Then he was gone, laughter echoing down the hall. Harleen sat there, breath steady, frustration boiling beneath the surface. She had gotten nothing. No answers, no insight, no truth. But one thing was certain, one day, she would.

• The door creaked open, and in stepped Harvey Dent. Or rather, half of him. The man that once held Gotham’s faith in the palm of his hand now sat before her, his face split between charming district attorney and scorned monster. Harleen folded her hands on her desk, watching as he adjusted his seat. Left hand, smoothing down his slacks. Right hand, clenching against the armrest. “Harvey,” she greeted. He scoffed. “That’s what we’re calling me today?” Harleen didn’t react. “Is that not what you want?” His jaw tensed. “I want justice,” he stated, voice firm. “This city, its criminals, its so-called heroes, they don’t know the first thing about it. But I do.” Harleen leaned in. “And what does justice look like to you?” His lip twitched. “That depends on who you ask.” His tone shifted, just slightly. “I built my career bringing criminals to justice. Locking them up, making sure they paid for what they did. But was that ever enough? No. Not when guys like Falcone walked free. Not when Lobe sat behind his throne  pretending he wasn’t part of the problem.” His fingers brushed against his pocket, where she knew his coin rested. “And then there’s him.” She didn’t have to ask. “Batman?” Harvey scoffed. “The Bat, Gotham’s so-called ‘savior.’ He’s got everyone fooled, doesn’t he? Judge, jury, executioner, all from the shadows. No accountability. No consequences.” Then a pause. Harleen watched as his face flickered, something soft breaking through. “But it’s not all black and white,” he muttered, almost as if to himself. “Not everyone deserves what’s coming.” He hesitated, then let out a dry chuckle. “Selina never did.” Harleen’s brows lifted. “Catwoman?” Harvey’s jaw tightened, his expression flickering between worn-out D.A. and hardened criminal. “She’s not like the rest of them,” he admitted. “She—” But before he could finish, a strange sound cut through the air.

• From the hallway, a strange noise rises, a metallic scrape, a heavy thud against the door, followed by the jagged hook of Aaron Cash tearing through the wood. Harvey and Harleen freeze, exchanging a look of confusion laced with dread. Then, from beyond the door, the unmistakable sound of manic laughter slithers through the air. The Joker. Harvey moves on instinct, snapping the lock into place and throwing his weight against the door. Harleen’s fingers dart to the guard button embedded in her desk, pressing it with quick, urgent force. Whatever chaos is unfolding outside remained a mystery, but the echoes of it are enough to send a chill through the room. For a moment, they wait, Harvey braced and Harleen tense. The noises outside gradually fade, swallowed by eerie silence. Sounds like the worst case scenario, Joker is loose. Harleen exhales, a mix of frustration and something else, something close to admiration. Harvey Dent, of all people, had acted like a hero in this moment? Still, she can’t shake the irritation bubbling beneath her skin. If Joker is gone, she’s lost her chance to unravel him, to understand him. But she pushes the thought aside. The Batman will certainly bring him home.