Bad Jokes (JokerxHarley Quinn)

and we're just following the flock

And we're just following the flock,
Around and in-between,
Before we're smashed to smithereens
Like they were, then we scramble from the blame.
-The Last Shadow Puppets, My Mistakes Were Made For You

Chaos. Explosions, gunfire, and chaos. Smoke was everywhere. I could barely see the Joker through the thick haze, but there he stood, his face ghastly white, gripping a double-barreled shotgun with both hands. I tried to run from him but I couldn't get any traction—couldn't seem to move from my spot. I tried to scream but only helpless squeaks made it out of my mouth.

I looked over my shoulder as he pointed the shotgun and pulled the trigger.

BZZ.

He pumped the gun and shot again—BZZ BZZ BZZ BZZ BZZ.

The irritating noise guided me from my unconsciousness, and I suddenly realized that no, I was not in some smoky alleyway with the Joker—I could feel my warm blankets, could see light streaming in from my window. That incredibly obnoxious noise was coming from my alarm clock. My hand shot out from the bundle of blankets and slammed down on it, cutting the noise short.

I was still exhausted, but I was in no danger of going back to sleep—I remembered immediately what was in store for me, and I rolled out of my cocoon of blankets and checked the clock. 8 AM.

"Dammit," I muttered. Three hours of sleep just wasn't enough. I stood and stretched—my muscles were tired, borderline sore from lack of sleep. "Great job, Quinzel!" I congratulated myself sarcastically. "Get a bad night's sleep right before one of the most important days of your life. Woohoo." I groaned, and then headed for the bathroom.

I went through my morning routine like a zombie. The lack of a good night's sleep showed on me, as it always had—my face was pale and there were dark purple circles beneath my eyes.

"I'm gonna get slaughtered today," I mumbled to myself, standing in front of the mirror, but I could say one thing for the sleep deprivation—it made it hard to find the energy to be properly afraid.

I tried to make up for the evidence of my long night with some extra attention to my makeup and clothing. I managed to conceal the shadows to a degree, but the paleness was a lost cause—I wasn't one for coating my face in dark powders and creams. I left it alone, flicking on some mascara.

I chose a simple, knee-length black skirt, pairing it with a red top and black pumps, attractive and businesslike but not seductive, because this was going to be difficult enough without me looking like a sexy librarian. My hair, I twisted and clipped back. I was too tired to try and make it do anything it didn't feel like doing—plus, I didn't want to take too much care with my appearance, lest the Joker call me on it and attach a reason to it that I didn't want attached.

I glared at my reflection. "You're over-thinking this, Quinzel," I announced aloud to myself. "Get in, do your job, get out. Stop being such a scaredy-cat."

With that in mind, I grabbed my bag and left for work.

. . .

Unfortunately for my nerves, I would not be facing the Joker first thing in the morning.

Ideally, Arkham Asylum would have been located somewhere outside of the city, somewhere greener, with more fresh air and more room for the inmates to move around. Unfortunately, the out-of-date surveillance equipment was simply evidence of a long history of budgetary restraints as far as the asylum was concerned. There was simply no money to move or expand from the increasingly deteriorating island that was the Narrows, and so the administrators and doctors at Arkham just gritted their teeth and tried to do good work.