From the moment he saw her, he knew she was something he could use. Something he could fully exploit to get results, meet a need, serve a purpose. There was something special about the way she calmly carried herself; something masked by the neat, tidy bun she wore and the white medical coat that draped around her and clung just right; something constricting – just bursting at the seams to be free.
Jack could see this clearly and could relate. He, after all, had had his own wild-card inside him – eager for a hand or any chance to escape.
When he thought clearly about it, sitting in the corner of his dimly lit cell, maybe “fate” was the right word to use for their meeting. Maybe he saw fireworks and felt warm, saw a reason to change his ways, felt a greater good in life that he’d never experienced before. Maybe he reached out for a kindred soul and found one, bound and chained by access cards and ball-point pens, clawing for the surface and screaming out in a whisper. Maybe he wanted to saver her.
Or that’s what he’d tell her.
He learned early on that all psychoanalysts loved vague nouns.
He didn’t really take a serious interest in Harleen Quinzel until after fully seeing her for the first time. The brief glances he’d stolen of her were enough to excite other parts of him, but his mind had automatically pegged her for another hard-ass lesbian, like Leland, and thought nothing more of it.
Then he caught her eyes for the briefest of seconds, just after one of her sessions with Nygma, and he knew. Instantly, the wheels inside Jack Napier’s head started turning. When he heard about Ed’s release, things were in full motion and he confirmed his beliefs. A smile never left his face. He had found himself a very good tool.
Jack Napier was a devil of a man, but the Joker? He was pure, laughing, maniacal evil. And people still remembered this well. Sometimes, all Jack had to do was laugh at a passing nurse and her pace would quicken, a sharp clack of linoleum resounding in the halls like a frantic heartbeat. He was drunk on the power he still retained, drowning in it. Life was his own private joke.
His attack on Crane, while unexpected (and satisfying), worked to his advantage too. People tiptoed around him more so than ever, were appeasing to him, even easier to manipulate. It was one big, fucking game and he was racing to the finish line. It didn’t take much to find out his case was being passed off – he even thanked Crane for it, or tried to.
Now all he had to do was get Quinzel interested.
All he had to do was play his cards right and he’d stroll out of Arkham with a new toy and his freedom.
That’s what people were to him; nothing more than objects; utilities to accomplish a goal; a means to serve an end. No one mattered to him, except for himself. The important thing was making people believe that they mattered. Then he could get them to do anything he wanted. He could get them to do things they never imagined themselves doing. And he could take pleasure in knowing that he was the cause of it all.
Jack Napier was the center of the universe. He was the very hinge that all life revolved around and he took great enjoyment in watching things spin, and spin, and spin, always changing, never static, never the same. He enjoyed throwing things off balance, knocking things off their axis, seeing very lives come crashing down in a lovely pile of chaos, all surrounding him. When all was said and done, destroying lives was one of his favorite joys.
Jack Napier was the center of the universe and he was about to draw Harleen Quinzel into his fold.
He tapped on the glass of his cell, wry grin on his face and drew a finger at the nurse passing by, sly and coy, gentle devil clad in white. He sweet-talked her quickly, charmed the pants off her faster than any of the others, and slipped a note through the door with instructions. She was hesitant at that (he was the Clown Prince of Crime, after all), but after 5 more minutes of flattery, she complied with ease.
Things were set now; he just had to take one final step.
Jack Napier was a devil of a man, but the Joker was calculating evil.
To Ms. Harleen Quinzel