Post by Harleen Quinzel on Jun 23, 2009 21:50:56 GMT -5
HARLEEN ELIZA QUINZEL
Nicknames: Harley, Leeny, Harls, Harleygirl. In all honestly, she'll respond to anything.
Alias[es]: Harley Quinn.
Age: 28
Physical Appearance:
Harley has a very average look for the most part. Her face is rather square shaped and her jaw is strongly set. Straight teeth from years in braces peek out behind a pair of cupid’s bow lips. Her nose dips a little low for her taste, and the bridge is rather thick for a female nose. It made it hard to find a set of reading glasses to perch on her nose that weren’t uncomfortable during her doctor days. Her grey-blue eyes are too small for her face, but are as expressional as eyes can get; ranging from large and watery to narrow in distrust.
Laugh lines are beginning to decorate her face like little scars. It’s only her eyebrows, as dark as her natural hair color, that betrays her hair to not be as blonde as she bleaches it. Her body isn’t very curvy or womanesque. She’s fine with her sizes; both under and outer clothing wise, and neither of which has changed since her junior high school year. She stands at and impressive lack of height at 5’1”.
During her doctor days she was constantly in skirt-suits and heals, both of which were too high for her own good. Her hair was tucked into a tight, professional bun while dark lipstick and darker framed glasses decorated her visage. Now, when she’s out of the costume, her outfits consist of tight fitting jeans and tshirts- funny ones. After all, she hardly looks like the infamous Harley Quinn without her greasepaint on. It makes it easier for her to do errands and whatnot for Mistah J. However, both in an out of costume she dons a set of childish, low hanging pigtails.
When in costume, she jauntily perches a cap with two black and red low-hanging liliripes upon her pigtails- often spray painted the color coordinate with the rest of her outfit. Her makeup is a layer of white greasepaint, and black diamonds surrounding her eyes. Black lipstick spreads up her cheeks messily, much like the rest of the coating on her face; a coating that usually slips off by the end of a night on its own.
Her clothing consists of a set of pants- one with a black leg, the other red- and heeled ankle boots (that took a few days to get used to performing black flips in) of black leather. They match the black leather belts that hang from her hips- for guns. It turns out Miss Quinn has a sharper aim then most thought. Her shirt is tight as well, half black over one breast and over part of her stomach- the other red. The long sleeved shirt is cut to show off her very apparent gender- distraction?- and black and red ruffles decorate her neck and wrists, followed by more leather in the form of fingerless gloves. Her palms tend to get roughed up from constant contact with gravel, dirt, and concrete.
Distinguishing Marks:
Harley has several dark spots on her legs from the constant banging and falling of her teenage years as a Gymnast. An oddly diamond shaped birthmark resides on her thigh, just above the knee (and when skirt-suits of old times, it was plainly seen by patients and friends alike when she forgot pantyhose.)
Played By: Kristen Bell
Strengths:
She spent most of her teenage and childhood years training with vigor and diligence that's only seen by most Olympic stars. Hours were spent tossing herself to the ground, into the air, and landing on sore, tender limbs. Often, she wasn't so lucky to land correctly in the early years. This not only built up her physical strength- something she finds both useful and amusing to use on heists and while plodding after the Joker on his endeavors- but a high pain tolerance. She couldn't count the number of times she'd had to use torn, sprained, and twisted parts of her body on one hand before her college years- and now she was lucky if she could count the number on all of Gotham's hands.
Harley's constantly watching, constantly absorbing information. It's what helped her survive her schooling and later career. Her eyes and ears are constantly open and constantly learning. She can mimic, mime, reenact, and repeat what she'd picked up hours and years later. Patient care was easy to repeat from one to the next- especially when she'd seen other doctors do it to similar patients. Getting information from victims was made infinitely easier by mimicking and remembering what she'd seen all the other criminals do- especially the Joker's actions. Getting it from the unawares was even easier; who paid attention to the blonde in the corner? Or the shadow in the alley? She's constantly listening. Then she could report it, or let it slip, depending on her mood.
Harley has never been one to do anything half assed or half as well as she can. Tasks are taken under with all of her strength and mind- as if they're the only thing in her life. She leaps to extreme bounds to please those around her, herself, and to finish tasks. Her personalty doesn't escape this either- her emotions ranging from ecstatic, drearily bored, and desolate with out many stepping stones in between. This affects everything about her- making her a valued partner in crime- even if she does something intensively wrong.
Weaknesses:
No matter what happens, to Harley it isn't serious. In fact, she views most things- including death- to be reversible. Mistakes, mess ups, and anything going the wrong way can be fixed- just not by her. It's the same attitude most children have about letting paint go past the edge onto the kitchen table, or breaking apart toys. She's an unreprimanded, unguided child. Of course, not all of her mistakes are fixable and shouldn't be taken so lightly, this often causing drama between her, the Joker, and anyone else she's involved it. Broken bones, breaking out of Arkham, and broken plans are all the same to her- no big deal.
Harley, whether this is a new found thing, or all through her life has been naive. She'd thought the world good, and everything innocent. Of course, now she knows how dark and twisted the world can be thanks to the Batman, but she still retains the belief that everything she does it just for giggles. Deep down, she knows that it's for far deeper emotions and reasons then amusements, but Harley isn't the kind to dig deep down to the scary, serious part of her mind. Where she's not likely to wander the darker streets of Gotham alone at night, unless it's for a specific reason that makes it useful to the Joker or herself, she'll protest her innocence to the last fiber of her being. It's only wrong if you know it is.
As intense with her personalities and her actions as she is, Harley lacks the backbone to stand up for herself when someone degrades her or simply orders her about. Her doormat personality leads for both of her friends- and some enemies- lets them push over her. This is something she's been trying to work on, simply because she hates looking weak, but it's hard when you seem to be the least powerful and scary amongst the Rogues Gallery.
Personality Traits:
Harley, for lack of a better description, lacks the social grace and understanding that most women her age know by second nature. She's often giggly and giddy- even at the smallest mishaps and unrefined jokes. She only has a vague understanding of how to take care of herself and more often then naught relies on those around her for care and instructions. Of course, this is only post her stint at Arkham, and most Doctors agree her mental warp to an almost adolescent mindset was made easier by her unfriendly childhood environment- the 'Daddy' complex, in layman's terms. This, of course, would have made it easy for any genius to skew her hold on reality- if they could play the right cards, so to speak.
Harley is a bundle of extensive and excess energy that never seems to be worked out of her system. She has to have to be in constant movement, constantly talking, or at least constantly processing what's going on around her with wide eyes- no matter what it is, she has to be doing something. Even when she's physically exhausted, her mind is reeling -often not in reality- and about anything and everything (though, usually the Joker is the lead character in her imaginings).It's attributed to her long hours of practicing the Olympics and her long hours of med school; both giving her a high, if albeit different type, of endurance. However, deep down she knows it's due to the overwhelming sense of unimportance and disregard she feels when she's at ease.
She's undyingly loyal to both of her friends- and to her fellow criminal comrades on occasion. She'd leap through rings of fire to protect and help them, and often does much worse for their benefit. Both of her closest associates, the Joker and Red, more of then naught seem to take her intense protective, defensive, helpful, and loving nature towards them for granted. Harley never seems to notice, however, and continues habits regardless of how they treat her. But when push comes to shove, the Joker takes the ace over everyone in her life- including herself. She's been known to renounce (though not for long) other friendships when harm has come his way because of them.
Secret(s/)Motive(s):
Harley does everything and anything simply for the praise of the Joker. She's likely to commit murder for a simple smile (or, really, just a look in her direction as his face is constantly smiling at her) or a nod of approval. She's also just as likely to do far worse for a pat on the head or more then a simple smile. She lacks self worth because she's got it drilled into her head that without Him she is nothing. Doctors try to pull cards like impressing her neglectful mother, revenge on her abusive father, and retaliation against her advantage taking professor but she knows it's all folly. They just don't want to except that someone like Him could be worthy of all such attentions or that one of their colleagues could become so enthralled by the Clown Prince of Crime that they'd become as twisted as she.
Family Members:
Harleen Marchand
Elizabeth Quinzel (née Marchand)
Joshua Quinzel.
Partners:
The Joker, though more like his assistant then partner.
Pamela Isley; Poison Ivy on occasions in which she has a serious tiff with the Joker.
History:
Harleen Quinzel was born in the early hours of a cold, wet April morning. Her mother, a tight laced Born-Again had been in labor for an ungodly amount of time-all through the immature pranks the nurses and interns had pulled in honor of the first of the month. Harleen's grandmoher was one of the best of Gotham General's nursing staff. The elderly woman, for whom Harleen was named, had attempted -through shift changes and carefully planned routes to her patients- to be with her hysterical daughter throughout her entire labor. Mr. Quinzel had not been sober enough to watch his daughter come into the world.
The brunette, blue eyed girl grew up on the second floor of a triple decker. Her mother and Father (when he was at home, which was rarely) inhabited the back, large room while Harleen and shared the corner closet room with her grandmother. With her mother constantly at odds with life in general (and spending the hours she wasn't in church) and her father lacking sobriety and a sense of obligation, Harleen spent a good deal of her time with the elderly woman- who quickly dubbed her 'Harley'. After all, she reasoned, Harleen was such an old, serious name. Not the name for any fun loving, high energy toddler.
Harley was eight when her father left. Like many nights of the years leading up to that one, he'd returned drunk with energy and a barely kept in line temper. In that time period, Harley had apparently increased her naughty behavior, disobedience, and rude language. Her father's remedy was the worn brown belt that kept his nearly always unbuttoned pants off the floor. When the man finally left, the elder Harleen convinced her daughter that the child needed to be enrolled in something. She was quickly growing shy and serious for such a young age. Gymnastics offered her a sense of confidence, that she could do something right and well, and let her spend time away from her disgruntled family. The elderly woman's life was fading and she passed on the winter before Harley turned sixteen.
Harley withdrew into herself, increasing her efforts in her sport of choice. She flung herself into training and competitions with reckless abandon. She began fighting more frequently with her mother, using the sport as an excuse to spend as few hours home as possible. Her coach, a thickly-built, middled-aged woman, promised her scholarships and chances at the Olympics if only she dedicated herself entirely to the sport. Time spent on school work was cut, and the girl who had never really had a social life to begin with ignored her growing teenage urges.
Her years at Gotham University were an important turning point for the now bleach-blonde girl. She had managed a scholarship that, combined with a high-interest loan she had no dream of repaying soon, allowed her to attend college long enough to continue her training in preparations for the Olympic team tryouts. However the urge to seek out peer companionship had finally hit the girl hard enough for her to let her interests stray. The opposite sex was discovering Harley at an alarming rate. She couldn't help but discover them to. Her training took a back burning to her new social- and sex- life. Tuesday nights were spent in dorm rooms and weekends she was too hung over to hold her breakfast down as she mounted the uneven bars.
Her dreams of going for the gold were quickly ended and she was faced with the idea that she'd actually need job outside of her schooling. And one that could pay of her quickly growing debts. She decided, with the help of the television and friends, that what she needed to become was a doctor. Harley, however, was never one for surgery and stitches- and there was no glory in the nursing field. She quickly launched into an 'easier' doctor route- psychiatry.
But for all her years of work and not-so-vigilante study sessions, nothing would amount. Her social life still held a priority and her grades barely clung to a pass. What job would hire her with such low recommendations? And, as her professor told her, and earnestly awful thesis. Harley Quinzel turned to what she knew best- earning her outstanding grades and highest recommendations on her back.
Gotham General was happy to have her. The hospital therapists were low paid and low energy. Her glowing bedside manner seemed to cover for her lack of skill. She'd been on the payroll for six months and three shifts when the unthinkable happened. The news had been following the crime creating clown for weeks. The bullets and car crashes marked Gotham permanently as his crimes haunted and marked the citizens. Death ran rampant amongst all classes and ages. Explosions occurred more often then fireworks in July. Harley, like the rest of the city, was captivated in a mixture of fear and curiosity. It was a morbid fascination she let herself indulge in, innocently. Long, boring nights in her freezing apartment were made more interesting by the news of hisnightly escapades. She blamed her therapist's mind for her interest. Her mother, who she still saw every Sunday for dinner, blamed the Devil. Whatever the reason she reaffirmed it to herself that it was innocent; after all, it didn't affect her in any manner.
That is, until it did. Because of the Batman's apparent camera shy personality the grease-paint covered villain was going to turn a hospital- her hospital more then likely- to dust. She'd been working in the Burn Unit with a petient who'd burned both legs in a Hot Tub (diabetics needed to learn to read the warning labels!) when they evacuated the building. The crispy critters and their doctors were ushered onto the last of the yellow school buses. Her patient clutched her hand, incessantly talking. Harley didn't look look up, just nodding her head along. Yes, they'd be moving soon. Yes, she'd be put into her own room again at the new hospital. Yes, that nurse coming out of the hospital was probably the reason they had fallen behind. Yes, black eye shadow did have a trashy affect on some women. No, she didn't think there was anything to worry about.
How wrong she was.
The nurse that had commandeered the bus was lacking in bedside manner. They also lacked medical knowledge. In fact, Harley decided as she was stripped and forced into a rubber mask and sweaty clothing, the Joker was just a downright awful nurse. She'd never held a gun before that night, and even with the duct tape holding her hands tight over the metal, she'd felt a sense of power from the weapon.
She'd applied for an Arkham Asylum internship the next week. Her interest had grown past a slightly curiosity. She'd told the old Doctor Arkham that the incident had made her want to help the man, an the other extreme personalities like him Arkham was playing host to as of late. She came with good recommendations once again, he needed another female to avoid government issues, and to top that off, she wasn't bad to look at. She used her old methods on the chief of staff to gain access to the Maximum security patients. It was months before they allowed her to even sit on sessions with Him. It was even longer until she'd had her own, one-on-one with him. She would do anything it took to get inside his head as his permanent doctor. Anything.
The meetings began slowly- him in chains and tied down and she in second-hand overly starched skirt suits. He, she wrote in her notes with a smirk, seemed captivated by her. It was only right she return the favor and become enthralled with him. She hadn't aimed to, but she understood him, and he understood everything. She let things slip. She let him unravel her mind. He twisted her name and broke her mind. It wasn't six months of therapy, two of which were spent breaking ever patient-doctor rule in the book, that she would do anything for his praise and looks of approval. Anything.
She couldn't help but help him escape. It was the six month anniversary of their first appointment after all. He just looked so bored and pent up, and he'd been so good lately. When they brought him back to her a month later, she was sick over the cruelty of the Batman. Her beloved clown was beaten and battered. It was clear to her who the real criminal in this case was. When she helped him escape two weeks later- in the Harlequin outfit that he'd mentioned numerous times would be quite something to see her in- she made it clear that she wouldn't have anything to do with a society as unjust and non-understanding as Gotham's.
And for two years she'd played the part of hench-wench in which she seemed to be doing more henching them wenching, in all honesty. Then there were times when she was doing neither. But in the most part, she stayed by her Mistah Jay's side through thick and thin- bruises and pats on the cheek. She wore her bruises like badges to the disgust of her only real gal-pal, Red, and the Arkham doctors.
Nowadays, with Gotham in ruins she gets to spend even less and less time in Arkham. She'd even managed to escape without help once or twice. However the tension between the rest of the Rogue's Gallery makes her nervous- nervous enough to try to mind herself around them, and to stay closer to the Joker.
Your Name:Maria
Age: 17
Means of contact: I own.
Passphrase:staff edit
Roleplay example:
Brillo pads. That’s what being in the cells in Arkham felt like. A small cot sat in the corner, wire poking through the plastic covered mattress. A brown, scruffy blanket lay strewn across awaiting the nurses to make the bed when it’s occupant went therapy. There were no sheets; she wasn’t permitted after the last few times they’d been used to escape. Now, when she slept, her skin stuck to the plastic wrapping; just like it did when she’d lay down in the nurse’s office during school with a fever. There was a desk and chair, bolted to the ground, in another corner. Crayons and large newsprint paper were on that, a half finished picture Poison Ivy’s newest plant was most prominent on top of the other brightly colored pieces. The cell’s occupant wasn’t a huge fan of her friends’ leafy loves, but this one had been a motley mixture of all her favorite colors; red, green, purple, and black.
But back to the brillo pad theory. The floors, walls, and ceiling were all the disgusting gray black color of the kitchen tools. The bed, the blanket on the bed, the floor the bed was on, and nearly everything else in the cell was scratchy and itchy- down to the green scrubs she wore to designate her as a maximum security patient. And to top it all off, the walls, windows, and asylum in general had holes throughout it. You could almost see through them to the outside world but it would take years to dig your fingers through the holes and untangle the wires to find freedom. It was much easier to let someone do it for you, especially someone with explosives.
Harleen Quinzel, better known as Harley Quinn nowadays, was the occupant of the aforementioned cell. Her blonde hair had been given several good scrubbings since she’d been captured again by the Batman. The red and black that had been carefully sprayed in like a human graffiti project had been washed away. Her face was clean and her eyes revealed unrest. She’d been let out of solitary a week ago and had been given common room permission two days ago. But that didn’t matter now, in the late night hours. She was alone in her cell and most of the patients were asleep around her. Those that weren’t were not the kind you disturbed at late hours of the night. It wasn’t as if she could call across, through the small window in her door, at the others- she’d tried and ended up on heavier sleeping medication.
She slept so little when out of Arkham the doctors had thought her sleep deprivation would require no sleep medication- that she’d just fall into deep slumbers on her own at night. But she was already so accustomed to the sleepless state of being (she had gone to med school, after all) that she just spent most nights lying awake on her little cot. They’d begun to put her to sleep chemically, but she’d get used to the medicine within a week and return to her insomniac habits soon after. When the medication did work, when she was able to sleep, the dreams were a horrifying mixture of blood and her childhood. She preferred the drunken feeling of sleep deprivation to those.
It was one of her sleepless nights tonight. She could hear the other patients moaning and groaning around her, the footsteps of the night watch men and night shift nurses, and drops of the leaking roof by her cell door, and the very loud sound of her heartbeat filling her ears. Harley lay on her back in the cell, her hair and head hanging off the edge of the bed. Mistah J had once told her that the best ideas came when the world was turned upside down and she was desperate for an escape plan. She needed human interaction like Red needed plants, and she needed the Joker like the other woman needed oxygen or carbon dioxide- or whatever she was breathing now.
Plus, being in Arkham bothered her. She knew that the doctors didn’t really care about their patients- just their wallets, she knew what they talked about around the water cooler, and she knew what certain doctors did with certain patients behind closed doors. Her own doctor, Joan Leland, her been like a mentor to her before the Joker came along. The woman kept trying to ‘bring Harleen out’, bringing up memories and talking about her months on the payroll at the asylum. She didn’t get it. Not a lot of people got it. He did.
She heard unfamiliar noises just then; scrambling of feet- jumbled words she couldn’t make out. She hoped it was just the morning coming along faster then she’d thought- or break out. If it wasn’t, that meant a patient was being brought in or having an episode. One meant annoyance, the other could mean danger for the few of the rogues that weren’t locked away at the moment. She rolled off her bed with a thud, running to the little glass window in her cell door. Harley pressed her nose to the glass, trying to catch of glimpse of what was happening.
