Young Writers Society

QUICK RECAP: Batman and Catwoman have successfully apprehended Joker after he killed Barbara Gordon and went into hiding.

Batman leaves Ace in her stall inside the stable and takes a walk around the manor—it has become sort of a habit. He can’t remember the last time he took the front entrance.

Dawn seems to be upon Gotham, the sky filling with shades of blue, like a litmus paper drowning in alkali. Batman has no time to appreciate the effect—he can hardly keep his eyes open anymore. The clown having been dealt with, it’s finally time for the Bat to sleep.

He takes the back-entrance, strolls through a stenchy tunnel and finds himself walking into the Batcave.

“So you’ve kept your promise,” says Alfred, who seems to have been waiting for him.

Batman takes off his cowl. He’s just Bruce now. The bags under his eyes are finally visible in the light of the cave lamps. “What?”

“You said you’d be back by dawn.”

“Oh,” Bruce mutters. It is not unusual of Alfred to stay awake if the mission of the night is dangerous. This is why Bruce concealed the details from him, but that effort seems to have been in vain. The butler must’ve sensed something. Alfred’s arms are crossed behind him and has a troubled look on his face. It is unusual for Alfred to continue to be worried once Bruce returns home. “What’s the matter?”

“You have a guest,” he says.

This irritates Bruce very much. “At this hour?” he asks, squinting. “Give me a minute then. I’ll change into… a more appropriate suit.”

“Don’t bother,” says Alfred, wavering. “They know.”

The remark impacts Bruce like a bolt of lightning, jolting away all his sleepiness. Bruce collects himself and nods, although still shaken. Who could it possibly be?

He drops the mask on his study desk and follows Alfred, up the stairs and through the halls. Both of them maintain a dreadful quietness. Once they arrive at the living room’s door, Alfred, deciding to stay behind himself, gestures for Bruce to go in.

Bruce looks inside the room and locates a head wearing a black bowler hat. It’s the guest. They’re sitting in a sofa facing the other direction. As Bruce enters the room and walks past the sofa, he notices a newspaper in the person’s hand. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet but the living room has a tall, giant window, so, although faint, there is light enough for reading. But the paper is held up way too high, uncomfortably so, almost as if they’re trying to hide behind the pages. Bruce finally sits down in a couch, facing this guest. It occurs to him that this person is wearing a black overcoat. An unsettling thought frequents Bruce’s mind: Is this the stranger that all the guards described?

“Did you find him?” asks a feminine voice.

Bruce raises his eyebrows in befuddlement. “Yes,” says he. Further questions aren’t asked, so Bruce doesn’t say what state he left Joker in, that last he saw, Joker was unconscious.

The guest lowers the newspaper and reveals traces of long blonde hair and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses.

Bruce leans forward, hands clasped. “So the man in black is actually a woman in black,” he wonders.

“You’re thinking,” she says.

“Yes.”

“You must be wondering who I am.”

Bruce leans back. “I have no doubt as to who you are, Dr. Quinzel. I’m just wondering why.”

“Why what?”

Alfred returns to the room with a tray. On it are two ceramic plates and two cups—fried egg sandwiches and tea.

Bruce’s mouth waters and stomach growls at the sight. He remembers that he didn’t have dinner and now that he remembers, the hunger is unbearable. So, he grabs a sandwich and takes the biggest bite. He chews and chews, momentarily forgetting to even breathe, and sinks into a reverie until, after a few moments, he looks up from the half-eaten food. “This is delicious,” he says to Alfred.

Alfred grins, clearly happy to see Bruce finally eat something, and leaves the room.

“You handed him over to the police, didn’t you?” Dr. Quinzel asks, head tilted and looking away.

“Do you have a problem with that?” Bruce mumbles as he continues to gobble up the rest of the sandwich.

“No, of course not. You did the right thing. It’s just that he…” She pauses with her lips sucked in. “He had something of mine. If the police get their hands on it, I’m going to be in trouble.”

Bruce finishes his sandwich first and reaches into a belt-pouch. “Tell me if this is what you’re talking about.” He opens the letter and holds it up for Dr. Quinzel.

She stays silent, but from the way that she slouches into the sofa and sighs, it’s clear that she is somewhat relieved.

“I understand that the two of you exchanged letters.”

Dr. Quinzel only nods. Her eyes are fixed on the piece of paper. “You’re not going to just hand it over, are you?”

She is right. In the minutes since realizing who the guest really is, Bruce has been thinking up a contingency. “No,” he tells her. “In fact, I’m never handing it over. Let’s call it a sort of mutual insurance. You have my identity; I have this letter. As long as you don’t reveal who I am, or prove yourself to be of further harm to the city in any way, you don’t have to worry about the letter.”

“That,” says Dr. Quinzel, looking ecstatic, “sounds reasonable to me.” Then she laughs, almost to herself. “So that’s it?”

“Only if you are in a hurry to leave.” Bruce picks up his cup of tea and sips, loudly.

Dr. Quinzel gracefully picks up hers. “I’m in no such hurry.”

“In that case, I have some questions. They have to do with him.”

“Oh I don’t mind.”

Bruce takes another sip and then squints as he asks, “Have you been synthesizing an antidote to the fear toxin?”

“No!” She cocks her head in astonishment.

“I believe you,” Bruce says. “I’ve checked the records for all the doctors and psycho-pharmacologists currently practicing at Arkham and they don’t imply anything like that.”

Dr. Quinzel finally takes a sip on her cup of tea. “Then why do you ask?”

“Because I’ve been wondering how it is that the toxin did not have an effect on either one of you.”

“Actually,” she says, “it affected both of us, just not in a regular way.”

***

Harleen takes another sip and remembers a conversation she and Joker had a week before the break-out.

“This is a bad idea, Jack!” she objected, referring to Joker’s suggestion to use fear toxin.

Joker wavered and chuckled. “Don’t worry now. I’m going to be fine.”

“You idiot!” she snapped. “It’s not you I’m worried about! I’m worried about the guards … You know what, I’m worried about myself!”

“Why don’t you build a gas mask?” Joker suggested.

“Huh?”

“The toxin… it becomes like a gas, right? So, a gas mask,” he said, resting his chin on his knuckle, “by definition, should protect against it.”

“No such mask exists.”

“That’s why I’m asking you to invent one!”

Harleen just sighed and shook her head. “Fine.”

She sighs again now in Wayne Manor’s living room.

“The mask wasn’t quite the finished work, so the toxin affected me but only barely. In the moment, it was a little… dizzying, that’s all. But I’ve been having these nightmares ever since. I see bodies hanging off the oak trees in the asylum premises.” She feels horrified remembering the imagery. She never thought the toxin would be so effective, so intrusive. From the way Joker explained the plan, she imagined that the drug would, at best, incapacitate the guards and, at worst, temporarily paralyze them, caging their mind within a nightmare world. But they just… they went off and slaughtered each other. They’re dead because of her actions, although she never intended it.

“That and the fear of losing my job because of one dumb letter has made it impossible for me to sleep at night.” Harleen suddenly grins. “Even then, dear god, my eye bags aren’t half as bad as yours.”

“What about Joker?” Bruce says, completely disregarding the remark.

Harleen blushes. She is furious at herself over the failed attempt at lightening the mood. She decides to continue talking like nothing happened. “With him… it’s different. When exposed to the gas, he doesn’t see monsters like the rest of us, because monsters don’t scare him. Not anymore. His psychosis torments him on a daily basis. To simplify, the toxin basically makes your mind race, right? You see things, hear things, that aren’t there. He is used to all of that.”

“Besides, he wears his base impulses on his sleeves all the time anyway. Exposing him to the toxin would be like trying to refill a full cup.”

“Exactly!” Harleen replies. She is pleasantly surprised that Bruce Wayne is agreeing with her. “Did you have any other questions?”

***

Bruce does have another question but he hesitates, unsure how she’ll take it.

“Go on,” Dr. Quinzel encourages him.

“This might be a little too personal,” says Bruce, “so I understand if you don’t want to answer.” He sighs and begins, “How could someone as smart as you fall in love with him? He’s a maniac, he is abusive, manipulative—”

“Oh, for goodness sake!” Harleen cringes, shaking her head and peering at Bruce. “Did you even read the letter, Mr. Wayne? As I wrote, you only ever saw him on his worst days. That gives you zero right to judge him. Do you hear me? If you interact with someone in their worst state and then dub them a bad person, it says more about you than it does about them.”

Bruce wonders how Selina would react to that defense: A what? A… bad person?! He is a murderer, miss! And she would be right, Bruce thinks.

“On a regular day,” Dr. Quinzel continues, “he wasn’t Joker. He was just… Jack. Sure, he would make an insensitive joke now and then,” she pauses, “but they were just jokes.”

“Doctor,” says Bruce, calmly, “he blackmailed you.”

“I know, but… I mean, he wouldn’t…” Dr. Quinzel falls silent, as if struck by realization. Teardrops visibly gather on her lower eyelids and trickle down one by one. She quickly covers her gaping mouth, maybe in an attempt to hold back a sob.

“He blackmailed you. You may have loved him, truly loved him, but I doubt that he ever felt the same way,” Bruce continues to say.

“He’s just troubled,” she says in a voice muffled by her hand.

“He is. Deeply troubled and probably beyond fixing. You wanted to help him and I suspect that you still do, but you must not ignore the facts. I even suspect that exchanging letters was his idea, was it not?”

Dr. Quinzel says nothing for a while. She just stares into the corner of the room and then gives a slight nod.

“That means he had the break-out planned the whole time.”

“That might’ve been Joker, not Jack,” she finally says. “You wouldn’t get the difference. Maybe you would if you ever saw him as a patient in need of help, if not a friend, instead of beating him up at the first chance. That’s all he wanted, you know, for whatever reason. To befriend you.”

Bruce closes his eyes. He is diving deep into some memories, recalling the numerous duels between him and Joker, the many times he saved the clown’s life and even the few times Joker saved his. He nods a few times, subconsciously, like he is realizing some things. After a few moments, his eyes open. “Honestly, I’m probably the best friend he has ever had,” Bruce says. “I’ve had so many chances to kill him and yet… every time I defeated him, I threw him into Arkham. If I just wanted a place where he would be locked up, where he’d suffer and rot, I’d have arranged for him to be sent to Blackgate Penitentiary. Instead, I put all of them—Joker, Harvey Dent, Preston Payne, Oswald Kapelput—all of them, in Arkham.”

“Why?” Dr. Quinzel asks, her hands clasped upon her lap now and her head leaned forward in curiosity.

“Because I actually wanted them to recover. I had to believe that their minds were just fractured and that it was possible to glue them back together.” Bruce sighs and stares at the table between them. “You didn’t eat your sandwich,” he abruptly notes.

***

“Oh, uh…” Harleen manages to verbalize. “I’m not hungry.”

“Hope you don’t mind then.” Bruce stretches forward and takes it for himself. He bites big, again, and gobbles it up. Harleen grins at this. A middle-aged man in a bat-costume devouring an egg sandwich like there’s no tomorrow—an unusual sight if there ever was one. She then looks out the window. A brown-walled stable is visible from where she’s sitting; it’s difficult to grasp exactly how far away it is since there is nothing but grass between it and the manor.

“Good morning,” Alfred says from the doorway, startling both of them. “Oh… don’t worry, it’s just me.”

“Good morning, sir,” says Harleen, turning around in the sofa. “I was wondering. Are there any horses in the stable? Or is it just…”

“Oh there is, madam.”

“We used to have a stable too, when I was a kid. I always loved riding.” She paused. “Would you mind giving me a… tour, let’s say?”

Alfred looks to Bruce, looking very uncomfortable with the idea.

“Oh.” Harleen turns back around, blushing in embarrassment again. “What was that?” she internally yells at herself. “What was I thinking? Of course they wouldn’t want me anywhere near their horses. I’m literally the Joker’s ex-lover!”

“It’s okay,” Bruce assures Alfred. “I trust her.”

“Really?” She is taken by shock.

“Yes,” says Bruce, smiling.

***

“Very well then,” Alfred announces and leaves with Dr. Quinzel. Bruce can faintly hear him talking about the manor’s architecture with the doctor. Their voices soon fade and his mind wanders off. He thinks about Harleen Quinzel and her place in all of this. She only ever wanted to help Joker. Her heart was in the right place but it was taken advantage of. It is true that she is responsible for the deaths of a number of people, but so is he. Had he not gone lenient on Jonathan Crane, all this tragedy would’ve been avoided. Does he really have the right to handcuff another person anymore? It’s decided. He is going to let Dr. Quinzel be.

Bruce yawns, slouches and touches his head to the sofa’s headrest. His mind wanders off further… slowly, into sleep.