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In which your lovely author has approximately 62% of a BA in psychology, just finished a neurosci course, and is writing this instead of studying for her statistics final.
Okay, so I am aware this looks bad.
I want to set the record straight, hand to god, that the convulsing Robin on the floor is actually not my fault. I am making good choices now. This is one of them.
I think.
At the present moment, Scarecrow is having one of his... tantrums. Something to do with eternal darkness and childhood fears and -- I'm going to be so real? I sort of zone out when the monologuing starts. If I listen too closely, I start going all Dr. Quinzell on em, and like? I do not have the mental energy to try to fix Scarecrow. Hell, he's got his own degree. He can fix himself.
I am aware of how hypocritical that sounds.
Shut up.
You're not the one holed up in a CVS with a screaming preteen while Batman exchanges blows with the other psych degree holding freak in Gotham.
Okay. Fuck.
It's the Robin with the sword, the youngest one. Batsy's kiddo. Meaning, for those of you just joining us, I am so dead if I somehow make this worse. Thankfully, your intrepid narrator picked a gotham CVS for a reason.
Like I said: Scarecrow isn't the only psych degree holding freakshow in Gotham. And this one was allowed to write prescriptions.
The kid's screaming louder as I hop the pharmacy counter. There's definitely like, a million silent alarms going off right now, but I've got other problems. Okay. Harley, think. You have a motherfucking PhD. Mechanisms of fear. What in the brain must Scarecrow be working off, and how can you turn it off?
Pregabalin is a start. GABA's the main inhibitory neurotransmitter, the one that tells the brain to stop doing things. The kid's small, and I don't want to put him in a fucking chemical coma, so anything super strong is out. Okay. Pregabalin to chill his CNS out, that's a start. And yeah it's used as an anxiety med but somehow I doubt that'll be strong enough to counteract Crane's bullshit or everyone in Gotham would have a stock.
SSRIs take too long to act, and the serotonin hypothesis is weak anyway. Fuck, fuck fuck!
The kid's screaming louder. I've got a shelf in front of the door, but the place has mostly glass windows. If someone comes in here to finish Robin off then I'm going to need to act fast. I mean, he's probably got about a million hidden weapons other than the sword I took away from him.
You know, I remember when the Robins were throwing rocks and smoke bombs and bad puns. Who gave this one a SWORD?
Okay. Focus, Harley. Pregabalin's a start, calm the kid's CNS down. What other mechanisms is Crane working on?
It's been a while since my pharmacology course. Okay, fear, fear! FEAR! Patient S.M. reported loss of ability to feel fear with severe damage to the amygdala. Amygdala. Centre of emotional learning and consequences, like FEAR!
Great, okay, what drugs make that thing stop working?
Okay. Physical symptoms. Tachycardia. Heart attacks from fear toxin aren't unheard of. Beta blockers are so not my area, but I shake a couple tiny propranolol pills into my hand. 50mgs pregabalin, 40mgs propranolol. I don't think that's enough. 100mg pregabalin. 60mgs propranolol. He's small though. And, I cannot stress enough, if I kill Batman's kid, I'm dead next.
If he's hallucinating, I need something that works on D2 in the visual cortex. First Gen antipsychotic? Maybe? fuck fuck which drugs did that?
Lithium is for bipolar. That's a mood stabilizer, but high risk of toxicity.
How the FUCK am I going to get the kid to take these pills?
Come on, Harley. You worked at A rkham. You can get people to take pills, no matter what's going on in their head.
WHAT THE FUCK CHEMICAL WORKS ON THE VISUAL CORTEX?!
Okay. Fuck. Antipsychotics. Harley think, what do you take?
Trifluoperazine. It's first gen, so it'll only mess with dopamine, but I'd rather that than risk mixing a cocktail of neurotransmitters that fucks the kid up worse.
Why the fuck do I not know this? Shit, Harls, hospitals have to have procedures for this.
Phone's dead, and I can't -- shit. Okay.
100mgs pregabalin. 40mgs propranolol. 10mgs Trifluoperazine. That's a lot. I'm aware it's a lot. Crane does not fuck around and I don't think he was worried about paediatric dosage levels when he misted the kid in the face. Does Bats even know where his kid is?
Whatever. Okay. I shake the pills into my hand. Let's see.
The kid's on his feet, which is going to make this so much worse. His sword is out of his reach (I put it on a high shelf). His eyes are wide and he's holding a posture I've seen in too many patients; he doesn't see me as me.
Fuck, I mean. He probably sees Harley Quinn, Joker's girlfriend, getup and all.
I'm not even in crimefighting cloths. I'm in a fucking Gotham U Intramural Basketball t-shirt I thrifted and a pleather jacket I borrowed from Pammy. I was only in the neighbourhood picking up my own meds, now I'm doing this shit.
I don't know why I'm surprised. I live in Gotham.
"Stay back, Quinn!" He's shaky. He's got a batrang (robin rang? Birdarang? Need to check on that) poised to throw. I don't super trust anyone's ability to aim on fear toxin, but I also don't want to test that theory.
Scared people will do almost everything to get away. Thankfully, yours truly is trained in this.
I let my shoulders fall. Deep breath.
"Hey -- hey kiddo, you're safe, alright? Batsy's just-"
Then he's jumping at me. Sidestep. Sweep kick. The kid doesn't hit the ground. He's wobbly. I pray my hand doesn't sweat and I don't melt the stupid pills. Okay. Okay Harls.
"Get AWAY!" the kid shrieks. Fuck. He's so scary most of the time but he actually looks his age when he's backing away from me. Are those tears behind the mask? My heart says I'm not qualified for this, my brain knows I am. No sudden moves. Walk forward. I've got him backed up against the counter. Cornered people are the scariest because --
Then he's on the move again. A blade connects with my gut. Fucking ow. I pull an arm around his throat use his momentum to throw him onto his back. I'm used to fighting people double my size. He moves easier than I expect him to, even disoriented.
Yes, it's sad that a drugged preteen is actually an even match for me. Shut up. I don't need your judgement.
He's screaming, for Batman? For Bruce.
Pills in my hand. I put my knee on his chest. One hand pulls his jaw open, one forces the pills into his mouth and holds it shut. This movement? I've done this a million times. It's sad how easy it is. Muscle memory from a past life comes back.
He's definitely crying. Fuck, Bats, this is a child. He's not strong enough to push me away, especially with gravity on my side. He's terrified.
I don't want to know what Crane has him seeing. I hate that I'm probably the monster of this story to him. I hope he doesn't remember this.
It'll take a few minutes for the pills to hit. He's freaking out. Fists strike against me and a blade goes into my ribs. No major organs hit. The hidden blade isn't long enough. I've taken worse from Arkham patients. I can't be mad at a terrified kid. Okay. Grounding. I shift my weight to be pushing more into his chest.
"Hey, hey Kiddo? You're safe, alright. You got dosed with some fear toxin, but you're safe now. If anyone comes in here, I'll fuck them up so bad. You have no idea."
He doesn't speak. Well, he can't. My hand is still holding the pills in his mouth. I have to wait till either they dissolve or he swallows then, which I doubt is going to happen. Pharmacies don't exactly stock Arkham grade injectable sedatives, so this is what we're going to do. Even if I get stabbed a bunch in the process.
Batman is so paying my medical bill.
I pull the mask from the kid's face. He claws at it, sure, but I need to check his eyes. Pupil activity, focus, all that. Crane is always changing the bullshit in his toxin, I need to make sure the kid isn't going too badly into shock. Okay. Pupil activity normal. Eyes unfocused. Wide. Staring at me like I'm going to snap his neck.
The comlink in his ear. With my free hand, I pull it from him. He grabs my wrist, tight. Like he's going to snap it.
"Okay, kiddo, I will put you in a sleepers' hold if I have to. Do not test me."
He does not let go. I resort to speaking super loud and praying Oracle hears,
"HI, HARLEY QUINN HERE, I HAVE THE CHILD. WE ARE IN A CVS. HELP."
I let go. He shoves it back into his ear. Please god let someone else calm him down via that.
It's another 20 minutes of this. Every now and then, he finds a new blade and jabs it into me. I'm running off adrenaline. I am not going to let Crane fuck up a kid.
I am a motherfucking psychiatrist and I am going to do some good with that goddamned degree.
Robin isn't fighting me anymore. At least, not with sharp things. Either he's out, or his brain chemicals were going all sorts of wild. Probably both. He's just crying. Finally, I take my hand off his mouth.
"Okay, kiddo, hey... hey. You're safe, a'ight? I know, it feels real bad and you probably aren't totally there right now, but help's coming. Just stay there." Okay, shit, uh, grounding. Grounding...
Sure. Whatever. I slide my jacket off and pull the kid to sit up. He doesn't fight me. He's muttering to himself, not in a language I speak. Okay. Bats can sort that out, my job now is to keep the kid calm. My jacket goes over his shoulders. It's comfy as shit, I would know. I got this thing for non-restrictive clothing, and ya-girl has some C-PTSD of her own.
I lean Robin up on one of the shelves and he pulls his knees to his chest. Fuck. Especially without the mask, he just looks like a freaked out child in a halloween costume.
I make a mental note to put the fear of god in some of Scarecrow's goons later and decide I am allowed to keep stealing from CVS given the circumstances. Okay. Most medications should be taken with food, and it may help the dosage in his system stop like, freaking the fuck out.
No clue if the kid has any allergies, but that's fine. That's manageable. I don't want to leave him alone, but we're currently hunkered in the band aid aisle. Where the fuck are the other bats?
This entire time, I haven't been paying attention to the chaos outside. Someone crashes into a car parked outside the CVS. I don't bother to check if they're wearing a cape or not as I speedwalk to the snack aisle. Fucking giant windows on the pharmacy front door; I can't risk anyone knowing I've got Robin in here.
I grab a handful of chip bags, some candies and a milk to-go. When I get back, the kid's pulled his hood up and is tucked into his knees. The Dr. Quinzel part of me notes that the CNS depressants probably dulled the worst of the outright panic, and now we're just looking at more of that horrible anxiety you get for no good reason at 1am.
You know, the kind kids get when they're scared of the dark.
I kneel down next to Robin and dump the pile of the snacks on the floor. He doesn't look at me. That's worrying. From what I've seen, the kid's usually aware of everything all the time. God, Bats, come get your kid so he can see someone who knows what they're doing.
That someone used to be me. I'm not sure if it is, anymore. I don't think it has been for a long time.
Harley this is NOT the time for a crisis about how you're losing your worth. Stop it. There is a screaming child on the floor.
Because, yeah, he's screaming again. It comes on suddenly, and he's shoving away from the shelf and trying to get to his feet but, spoiler, it's sort of hard to stand on a fuckload of CNS depressants. It's all I can do to keep him from slamming his head on the floor when he comes down,
"Fuck, kid! You're going to be fine-"
I'm doing this. I'm really doing this. I, Harleen Quinzel, am sitting in a CVS holding the bat brat's hands and trying to calm him down. Jesus christ. I wasn't even in paediatrics when I was qualified.
This is going to ruin my street cred.
I pull one of his gloves off and squeeze his wrist. Pulse slightly elevated, but feels like normal range. Then he's fighting me again, but it's more dazed now. Fuck it. Okay. I pull the kid against me, both to check his neck for a better pulse and to maybe ground him?
Were the other robins this small? Was I helping Joker hurt kids?
I know the answer, but this makes it more real. Sitting in a CVS holding a shaking body, letting the kid cry into Pammy's jacket. Maybe I outta write Nightwing an apology letter.
I'm going to need Batman to hurry his ass up.