WriMo excerpt.

So Harleen's just been ...promoted?  Erm, well, she's just been told they're moving her down to the high-profile incurables ward.  To say that she is totally stoked is a massive understatement.  Dr. Crane (yes, I decided to go with the nolenverse concept of him working there, even though I'm using the looks and personality of the dcau Crane), who is someone important in this particular ward, is giving her the grand tour.

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    The hallway that stretched out before her was equal parts impressive and opressive.  The deeply dark floor was polished to a high shine, reflecting what little light shone in the passage way.  The ceiling rose very high, high enough that one small, heavily barred window let in a little natural light at the very pentacle of the arched hall.  The grandness of the hall way caused sounds to become muted in the height of the space.  The click of Harleen's stilettos seemed to echo into nothing.  A few sounds bounced around the space: muttering, a small burst of cackling.  Someone was quietly whistling a deranged little song.

    As they passed the first cell, Harleen glanced in to it from the corner of her eye.  All cells on this level were set into the hallway, with a large sheet of plactecine welded steel reinforced unbreakable glass serving as the door and wall facing into the hallway.  These inmates were granted no privacy, because it was too high of a risk.  The rooms were sparsely furnished, with only the barest of necessities.  Heavily armed, burly guards stood watch between every few cells.  Harleen subtly peered into the first cell.  She recognized the face... then with held a gasp.  The Riddler, also known as Edward Nygma.  He was one that Harleen had always found rather interesting.

   Harleen could barely spare him more than a glance as she hurried to keep pace with Dr. Crane, who was explaining various things to her as they walked.  With only a few exceptions, Harleen recognized most of the individuals in the cells.  They were all extremely high profile.  She could scarcely contain her sheer joy at the fact that she was surrounded by such criminal genius, and complete psychosis.  It was her wildest dreams, all come true.

   For as long as she could remember, Harleen had always been fascinated with the criminal mind.  Even as a young child, her favorite characters were always the "bad guys."  They were just so much more interesting that the heroes.  As she saw it, the rogues were always the ones with the complicated and fascinating back stories, the adventureous ones.  The ones to push the envelope.

   As they proceeded down the hallway, Dr. Crane continuing his speech, Harleen was careful to be very inscrutinous as she glanced into the cells.  She didn't want to make eye contact, or indeed even be noticed that she was taking in as much detail as she possibly could.  The whistling slowly grew louder as they went forward.  

   As they neared the end of the cell hall, headed toward the session rooms, they finally passed the cell that the nonharmonic, random whistling was coming from.  Harleen glanced inconspicuously to the side, then stuttered to a stop.  She could not help but look.

   The Joker.

   He stood leaning against the far wall of his cell, arms crossed and head bowed.  His whistling slowed as he slowly raised his head.  Dark rimmed eyes glanced up through dark green hair, and before she could look away, he locked gaze with her.

   It was as though she felt a bolt of electricity travel up her spine, followed immediately by a thrill of fear.  After a brief second that felt like an eternity, she tore her gaze away.  Eyes wide, she marched determinedly forward.  Dr. Crane was still talking, he had not noticed her slight twitch.  Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the Joker smirk.

   Harleen's heart felt as thought it was beating out of her chest.  Get a grip! she mentally scolded herself.  She squeezed her eyelids shut for a moment, clenching one of her fists.  Willing her pulse to return to normal.

   "...And that is how the architect of these fine halls we walk through daily ended up imprisioned within his own creation."  Crane finished, turning torwards Harleen as they reached the end of the hall.  "I say, my dear, are you quite all right?"