Post by Harleen Quinzel on Apr 5, 2010 15:41:43 GMT -5
HARLEEN FRANCIS QUINZEL
The proceedings for this session with one Harleen Francis Quinzel can now commence
after being prolonged since April 2nd. Subject is female and to refer
back to their date of birth we are able to assume they are Twenty-Eight without
suspicions of falsehood—as of yet. Suspicions are being made based on however
the following question: if they were to describe themselves in one word, which
they stated: “Quirky!”
Individual’s preference on the generic scale is straight where as they expose
themselves to such affiliates as the Rogue's Gallery.
Thus their career path though has us wondering whether or not being a villain is
truly right for them. The patient has also reassured us that we may call them by the
following title(s), Harley Quinn. But of the questions asked we are most disturbed to find that
they believe quite adamantly that they resemble Kristen Bell; such a claim raises many questions. [/color][/center]
distinguishing features
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self-presentation
Laugh lines have begun to form on her face like tiny little scars. It’s only her eyebrows, as dark as her natural hair color, that betray her hair to be the auburn brown it naturally is (The carpet/drapes question often lewdly asked, is canceled out by the existence of hard wood floors). Her body isn’t very curvy or womanesque. She’s fine with her sizes, however, both in outer and under clothing. Her sizes have not changed since she was a junior in high school. She stands at (in an impressive lack of height) at 5’1”.
During her doctor days she was constantly in skirt-suits and heals, both of which were far too high for her own good. Her hair was tucked into a tight, professional bun, and dark lipstick and darker framed glasses decorated her visage. Now when she’s out of costume (which is rarely ever during the day; it’s like her second skin) her outfits consist of tight fitting jeans and t-shirts, always decorated with funny pictures and sayings. Without her greasepaint and pleather clinging to her skin, she hardly looks like the infamous Harley Quinn- making it much easier to go out and weal and deal for Mistah J’. However whether she’s in or out of costume, Harley always dons a set of low-hanging, childish pig tails.
When in costume she jauntily perches a cap with two black and red low-hanging lilliripes upon her pigtails (which are often spray painted to coordinate with her costume). Her makeup is a layer of white crème facepaint- distinctively different from Mistah j’s grease- accented by black diamonds pressed over her eyes with her thumb. Black lipstick spreads up her cheeks messily; much like the rest of the coating on her face (though she claims each messy streak is purposefully done). She sets her makeup pointedly every day, leaving a layer of baby powder over her clothing, hair, and usually her Puddin’. Because of this, she often has that baby fresh scent lingering about her.
Her costume clothing consists of her a pair of pants (the legs red and black, opposite colors), high-healed ankle-high black boots (that took a few days to learn to perform astonishing back flips in), and a pair of black belts slung low across her hips to hold her guns. As it turns out, Miss Harls is a rather fine shot. Her shirt is tight as well, half black and half red and divided into four parts. The shirt is cut at odd angles, showing off her gender (distraction!), and black and red ruffles decorate her neck and wrists. Her hands are (sometimes, if she doesn’t forget) covered in fingerless black leather gloves. Her palms tend to get roughed up when she does forget them, torn from the constant contact with gravel, dirt, and concrete.
However, Harley's straying from her one-trick pony habits. No longer does she have ten of the same outfit, no; She's begun to accumulate a variety of 'outfits' that continue her red, black, and ruffles. These outfits include little dresses, stockings and garters of all styles, tshirts and tank tops, and mini skirts galore. Really, she gathers and wears things depending on adventures soon to come.
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likes?
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dislikes?
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personal strengths?
Harley’s constantly watching, constantly absorbing information. It’s what helped her surviving schooling and, later, her career. Her eyes and ears are constantly open and registering information. She can mimic, mime, reenact, and repeat things she’s picked up- either hours or years later. Patient care was easy to repeat from one to the next ( and B.s. to make it feel special), and even easier if she’d gotten to watch other doctors work with similar patients. She’d start to mimic her patient’s actions and quirks, making other patients start to trust her more easily. She’s also quite unnoticeable when not doing back-hand springs down the highway in face paint. Who notices the petite blonde in the corner? Or the shadow in the alley? She’s constantly listening, the perfect spy. Then she can report it ( or let it slip accidently).
Harley has never been one to do anything half-asses or half as well as she can (college included, she would have never been able to pass without outside means, even if she put all her effort into it). Tasks are taken up with all her strength, cunning, and mind power as if they’re the only thing in her life. She leaps to extreme bounds to please those around her, especially one certain man in purple. Her personality leaps to please and reflect those around her as well. Her moods range from ecstatic, drearily bored, and desolate with more stepping stones than she can count in between. This affects everything around her, making her a valued partner in crime (If you can stand her mood swings, rattling voice, and odd…habits and tastes).
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personal weaknesses?
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phobias?
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motives?
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evaluation summary
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As we come one step closer to the end of this session, we reach the basis if not roots
of our subject. We began with questions concerning their immediate relatives.
The persons responsible are/were "Gramma Harleen".
Then we asked about siblings to which they responded: ”Whoda let my mother reproduce after makin' me? heh.”
Lastly we inquired about significant others who have had held or who hold in a role in
their lives: ”Mistah J' o'course!”
background check
She'd applied for an Arkham Asylum position the month after her graduation. 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, and 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.
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We have now come to our conclusion of this session. To finish we ask first for the name
of the patient’s doctor, MARIA!. Next we need to know your time
schedule, Eastern. Then we need to know if you
have anything at all to share: ”:)”
Lastly before we forget—your past experience in the field would be an excellent finishing touch:
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.
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I'M NOT MAD BATMAN! by a.l.e.x. of caution 2.0?
