Jonathan needed a ride out of Gotham. Although Batman had returned in a blaze of glory after hiding for eight years and averted yet another nuclear disaster, Jonathan had drowned more police officers than he cared to admit. Since the police now appeared to have regained control of the city, he needed to get out of there, fast, before someone threw him into the river. Poetic justice and all. Heh. Knowing the excitable residents of Gotham, throwing him into an icy, godforsaken river was exactly the sort of thing they were planning right now. Was it too much to ask for a car with a key in its ignition to figuratively fall into his lap?

Yes, it was. If he tried to cross the bridge now, there was always the risk the guards might recognize his face and put several bruises on it. Really, perhaps publicly drowning police officers hadn't been the best idea… He had nearly achieved obscurity as an extremely unreliable drug dealer, but no, he just had to get involved in all this drama. Because Jonathan Crane had never wanted obscurity.

Well, it wasn't the first time Jonathan had done carjacking. Was it the first time he had forced someone to play chauffeur? Well, yes, but there was a first time for everything. Pardon the cliché. He was sure things would go just swimmingly. Walking through the trash-strewn streets of Gotham, he dodged several screaming citizens. He kept his head down, trying to discreetly brush straw off himself. When he stood, panting, at the bridge (he really wasn't as young as he used to be, and eight years without running from Batman hadn't done anything for his heart health), he walked in the middle of the highway, empty except for a lone brown Ford going 20. The lines and contours of the boxy car reminded him of something—but he couldn't place the memory. Although his brain told him something was important about the car, he continued to walk, holding his arms up. Most Gothamites would be too afraid to hit him—too afraid of blood, of gore, of breaking society's rules. Sure enough, the Ford slowed. Trying not to smirk too villainously, he strode up to the driver's window.

"Hello, I'm sorry to ask this, but would you mind giving me a ride? I don't have a car, and I think a bomb just went off…"

No one ever said carjacking had to involve violence. Or did they? Well, he had a can of toxin, just in case she said no. Offering a smile to show his harmlessness, he was rather dismayed to see that the driver was female, as a woman would need more persuading to take a strange man for a ride. But her eyes, barely visible under her wide-brimmed sun hat, showed no fear as they appraised him. In fact, they seemed almost amused.

But she smiled right back, not recognizing him at all. "Trying to escape?"

"Yes, from radiation."

"Gotcha. Climb aboard, then."

Trying not to grin to himself, he took the passenger's side. Turning to thank her, he was confronted with a bald woman whose face was streaked with angry red lines, flaring and fading and crisscrossing, each one with its own story of suffering. Skin graft scars, he would guess. He wondered how she had gotten them—in this town, it could have been anything, from arson to a bomb to a stove left on. What had gone through her mind, he asked himself, as she lay, bloody and helpless on the ground—or was it the floor of her home? Had she lived a normal life before her accident? What had she felt as the pain washed through her, as everything orderly and sane had collapsed around her? Oh, what wouldn't he give to know each story behind each scar.

"Curious?" Her eyes remained on the road, but a faint smile played on her mouth.

"About what?"

"My scars."

"Scars like yours aren't very common, and humans always find the uncommon curious."

"I'll take that as a yes. The short answer is—well, someone didn't like me very much."

"Is there a long answer?"

"I'm afraid not. What about you? Where are you from?"

She just had to ask that, didn't she? "Vermont," he answered, naming his favorite fictional birthplace.

Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she smiled faintly again. "Vermont, really? Is that what you're telling people now?"

He gave a smile just as cold as hers. "Should I be telling people differently?"

"Yes, I think you should, Jonathan Crane."

His fingers, which had been playing with his suit lapels, stilled. "I don't recall telling you my name."

"I've seen your face on the news."

"It hasn't been on the news for a very long time, at least not since I released toxins in the city's water supply."

"Hmm, yes, a very memorable occasion. If I remember right, you also rode around in a straitjacket quoting FDR. Good times."

"Why, were you there?"

"Maybe. As a matter of general interest, do you have any hobbies besides wearing a potato sack and terrifying people?"

"Now that's just mean," he murmured.

She was prevented answering by the swarm of soldiers at the bridges. Driving slowly, she was stopped by no one; they were all gesturing at the atomic blast.

"I should mention that if you notify anyone that I'm riding in this car, I have several canisters of fear toxin available," said Jonathan.

"You know what, I honestly hadn't thought of telling anyone until you mentioned it."

Exchanging glacial smiles, the driver and passenger turned to the windshield and right window respectively.

"How did you know I wasn't born in Vermont?"

"Maybe I went to high school with you. Maybe I worked at Arkham and found out when I went through your personal files because I thought your methods of therapy were suspiciously ineffective."

Not many things disturbed Jonathan Crane. He had laughed at mob bosses waving guns in his face, he had even run into Joker one or two times and lived to tell the tale, and he had worked with murderous psychopaths on a daily basis. However, people who pried into his business annoyed him. People he couldn't read annoyed him. People who just couldn't keep their mouths shut annoyed him.

"There was only one person in high school who knew where I was born. As for Arkham, I don't recall any of the staff being curious, brave, or enterprising enough to break into my office."

"Maybe…I was that one person you told in high school." She looked him full in the face this time, waiting for his reaction. Most likely, she was disappointed, for he only betrayed a slight smile.

"That's impossible and you know it."

"Why?"

"Because," he said, striving to cleanse his voice of impatience, "that person is dead."

"Am I, Crane?"

"If you are the person in question, I am probably hallucinating."

"You can always try jumping out of the car. If you wake up in a warm, comfy bed, you can forget all about me. If not…well, I'll be a Good Samaritan. Reluctantly."

Showed what she knew. It was, in fact, an utterly terrible idea to do anything drastic when one suspected hallucinations. Once, after Batman dosed him with his own toxin, he had thought a swarm of vampire bats were assaulting him; he had broken his hand pounding on the walls in an attempt to fight them off. As long as she wasn't hurting him, he was better off staying still and waiting for the strange dream to end.

"I don't think I'll attempt anything extreme," he said placidly. "Most likely, this is all an illusion; perhaps caused by some other real life trauma. Maybe the Gotham police are beating me up right now. You'd like that…wouldn't you, Miss Dawes?"

"Yes, Jonathan, I would. After what you've done, don't you think you deserve it?"

"What have I done to deserve a brutal beating, Miss Dawes?" He didn't demand explanations as to her presence; if it was all an illusion, what was the point?

"You really need to ask?" Her voice was scathing. "Okay, one, you make innocent people suffer for no reason, two, you completely violated the Hippocratic Oath, three—I nearly lost my mind because of you."

"Doubtless, the last charge has far more weight than the former two."

"For me, yes, but obviously not for you. Tell me, Doctor, why do you do what you do?" With that, she returned to placidity, which nearly made Jonathan's lips twist in irritation. With her former anger, he could have gotten the better of her.

"For several reasons, Miss Dawes. The human mind fascinates me. Besides, how can we overcome fear if we don't understand?"

"Yeah, I'm sure reducing people to quivering wrecks is really illuminating, Crane."

"Quivering wrecks tell interesting stories. Now, if you don't mind, Miss Dawes, could I ask a few questions?"

A grim little smile stealing onto her face, she stomped on the brakes, coming to a shrieking halt in the middle of the highway. The car vibrating under them, she let the smile slide off her face. "You're the one hitching a ride. Be nice."

"The highway is completely empty," Jonathan observed. "Odd, isn't it, considering that a nuclear blast went off near a city of twenty million? You know, I'm really beginning to think this is all in my head. Which means I can do whatever I want to you, can't I? I always wanted to see what you were made of, Rachel. You were so brave, you know; do you know what courage it took to stand up to Falcone? Or did you not know what they could do to you?"

"That's what I carry a Taser for," she said, not lifting her foot from the brake.

"Reckless bravery it is, then. I couldn't help being fascinated with you, Rachel. Of all the idiots in Gotham who could have gotten in my way, you were the only one. That's certainly a testament to your character…"

Yes, yes, flatter her, draw her into his web, just like a spider. All the while reaching into his pocket for that canister, one hand inching towards the gear…

"Jonathan, you even surreptitiously parked the car so I wouldn't make any sudden movements and send us both to our deaths when you spray me with toxin. Good thinking."

"And you aren't even panicking. Well done."

"Should I be? I survived Joker, didn't I? You rely on chemicals to do your dirty work. Joker IS the dirty work."

"Well, Joker must be dead, or you'd be appearing in his head instead of mine."

"Joker's head isn't a very nice place to be."

The canister was free.

"What, so you've tried haunting him too and failed to get to him? Not at all surprising. But before I have you in terrified convulsions, tell me: are you an illusion, a ghost, or real?"

Opening her mouth, she closed it, only to open it again. "Are we really going through with this? You know, the whole villain routine? "But before I kill you, I just want to know this one thing," you know what I mean? I thought you were better than that, Crane."

"Are we going to engage in witty banter for half an hour, or are you going to try to escape?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes, actually. I was hoping that, instead of answering my question, you would finally leave."

"I'm flattered that the annoyance of my company outweighs the fun of reducing me to a quivering wreck."

"Yes, well, much as I'd love to find out all about your boring childhood, I've gotta go. So get out. Go on, escape the madness."

"You forgot one thing, Crane."

"What?"

"This is my car."

"And you're not getting out of it. Of course. Silly me, thinking you'd generously leave me your only way out of this dung heap. Spraying you won't work because you only exist in the realm of the mind. I suppose I'll find another ride, shall I? Preferably from someone not dead." Keeping his eye on her, he reached for the door, pushing it open with a small click.

"I think you put too much faith in reality, Cr-" She was cut off by a stream of white vapor to the eyes and nostrils. Sticking his head out of the car to avoid the fumes, he failed to find a single other driver.

Coughing slightly, she wiped clear liquid—almost like sweat, but thicker—off her mouth. "Ugh, this stuff tastes terrible. Remind me never to talk when you do that."

Judging it safe, he got back in the car, leaving the door open. "Well. Either it works or it doesn't. Shall we turn off the car?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulled the key out.

"I don't think it's working," she said thickly, now ministering to her forehead. "Last time, it was much quicker."

"Is your heart rate speeding up? Maybe you feel just a slight chill?"

"No."

"Oh, so you are a phantasm, then? Miss Dawes, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but do you mind if I touch you? Just to see if you have substance? The thing is, sometimes the people I see are incorporeal; sometimes they aren't."

And then, she smiled at him. In anyone else's face, it would have been charming, but on her, it was like seeing a skeleton's grin. He wondered suddenly if her skin felt like an old woman's.

"Back to playing the psychiatrist, huh? Do you always try to diagnose people you think are figments of your imagination?"

"Of course. After I treat them, they always go away. Fear is at its most potent when it is of something unknown."

"Are you saying you're afraid of me, Dr. Crane?"

"Not of you specifically, though I have had extremely realistic nightmares of Batman."

She snorted, not even bothering to conceal a smirk. As he had expected; he liked to throw bones to people, make them think they were the ones in control, right before that soft velvety Persian rug was yanked out from under their feet. That made it so much more fun, so much more satisfying.

"Well, fine, go ahead, touch my shoulder. See if I vanish."

"Well, only if you don't mind—"

"Crane. Please stop pretending to be a psychiatrist who cares about my comfort. Okay? You're not fooling either of us."

"Actually, it's just a habit. Politeness always got me places; rudeness never does."

Slowly, he let his hand drift towards her, touching the velvety black surface of her shirt and found her to be of substance. Just his mind playing tricks on him again.

"If you're done copping a feel, can we go?"

He considered it a measure of his restraint that he didn't scowl at the window, though it was nice that he didn't even have to suggest that she turn on the car. The road stretched ahead of them, vast and uncompromising. It was just him and Dawes, all alone. The thought did not comfort him.

"I assume that you do have somewhere to go in mind?"

She gave him that skeleton grin again. "How about Georgia?"

Though he bristled, he hid it behind a polite smile. "Well, if you like a population with a literacy rate of 83 percent and an overabundance of trailer parks, be my guest."

"Georgia it is."

"Why don't you just turn around and drive straight back to the police?"

"Because, making you go to Georgia is way more interesting. How's your grandmother, by the way?"

"Dead."

"Not because of you, I hope. I really liked her."

"Oh, no. It was heart trouble. Do you have a map? We should probably start plotting our roadtrip."

"It should be in the pocket behind your seat."

"Oh, thank you." Taking off his seatbelt, he twisted and scrabbled until the map was within his grasp. It left him in an annoyingly vulnerable position, but as she was driving, she probably wouldn't try to knock him out with a brickbat. Hiding behind the wall of paper, he informed her that he actually didn't mind going to Georgia that much, as not many people knew he was born there. Alas, she did not betray the faintest hint of annoyance. Instead, she chirped, "Awesome! I've always wanted to see if it was everything Ethel said it was."

"I would think that you would be more eager for revenge, Rachel. Or are you so obedient to the law that…such a thing has never even occurred to you?" Hopefully, this would inspire her to take him somewhere she thought he'd hate. Like Las Vegas. Actually, he would hate Las Vegas; why not make it Los Angeles? That would be fun; he had always wanted to see Grauman's Chinese Theatre.

"What can I say, eight years is a long time. It gave me time to think. I don't really hate you, Crane. Do I think you're a pathetic, emotionally stunted sociopath with an obsession over nineteenth gothic novels? Yes. Do I want to see you bleeding all over the floor? No."

"Since fear toxin doesn't work on you, I'm completely in your power. Why haven't you taken me to the police?" Not completely in her power; getting tied to a chair in a giant explosion must have been even worse for her health than not running from Batman had been for his. In other words, he doubted that she'd win in a physical fight.

"Because, this is the most interesting time I've had in years, Crane."

"What do you find interesting?"

"Well, I'm playing chauffeur to psychotic mass murderer who thinks he's scary when he puts on a potato sack… I mean, really, Crane? A potato sack?"

"As far as I know, it was never used to store potatoes, Dawes. In any case, you'll note that the mask is only effective when the patient is under the influence of toxin."

"You know, I also find it interesting that you admit to seeing non-existent objects."

"Of course I do. The Batman gave me the same dose I gave you. Just, don't you think?"

"From a purely technical standpoint, I suppose so, but I really wouldn't wish that on anyone."

This was really too much. Leave it to Dawes to be insufferably self-righteous. Actually, no, it was good that she didn't want to torture him; the toxin wasn't working anymore. The wisest course was to placate her.

"So, how's Batman doing?" Neutral subject, no?

"How should I know, he's been in hiding for eight years."

"And he never once contacted you? Interesting; I got the impression he was quite fond of you. Did you ever find out who he was?"

"Crane…"

"Or would you rather talk about Harvey Dent?"

Pursing her lips, she kept her eyes on the road, she uttered a very short no.

"Interesting."

"What now?"

"I was just thinking how focusing the conversation on the other person is either a sign of dominance or submission. A person has no desire to talk about himself, so he demands that the other lay himself bare before him. Or he submits to a boring recital of the other's woes and joys."

"Whatever you say, Jane Austen."

He pushed his glasses up his nose. "That did not sound like Jane Austen."

"Whatever, you've still been reading gothic nineteenth century novels again."

"Jane Austen wasn't gothic, you idiot."

"What about Northanger Abbey?"

"I haven't even read Jane Austen and I know that's a satire."

"Oh, you'll read Ann Radcliffe but you won't read Austen."

"Because nothing ever happens in Austen except random marriage proposals and abandoned pregnant fifteen-year-old girls."

"This is high school all over again."

"Hmph."

"Look, let's just get a coffee, okay?"

"Yes, good. We have a little catching up to do, don't we?"

"You think so? How are your former patients doing, Crane?"

"I'm afraid I've been so busy executing Gotham's finest that I haven't stayed in touch." He was pleased to feel a sudden swerve in the car's velocity. "However, I did have time to read the tabloids in Arkham, and I was very surprised to learn that you were having affairs with Harvey Dent and Bruce Wayne at the same time. Naughty, naughty."

No swerve. She had disappointed him.

The ocean had disappeared long ago; now they were passing a number of strategically placed trees. Just like the road he remembered, except there were no people to be seen. Dully, he wondered when this dream would end. Tree after tree…it was as empty as the road from his school to his home in Georgia. The only difference? It wasn't made of dirt. Rachel drove in silence, a little smile occasionally slipping onto her mouth.

This illusion was beginning to wear on him; he wished someone would snap him out of it. But before he could set about annoying Rachel again, a lone building sprang up on the side of the road. He didn't remember it being there.

"Why don't we pull in here? I could use a coffee, couldn't you?"

"Not particularly."

"I'm not leaving you alone in my car, Crane."

With a small sigh, he pushed his glasses up and followed her out of the car. The canister of toxin fell in between the seats.

It was the sort of coffee shop that had been put out of business by the depression during his childhood. A plain white building, yet with a vaguely Victorian frill. The inside was much the same, with white walls stained grey by cigarette smoke and dust. Her eyes flitting around, measuring the situation, Rachel Dawes strode to the counter.

"Let's see, I'll have one latte, with sugar, and what about you?"

"The same."

Once she had paid, she took a seat next to a chain smoker and his tattooed girlfriend, both of whom were eyeing her with evident dislike.

"You know," she said, tapping her fingers on the greasy table, "I meant what I said. Why do you do what you do? You told me before that it was because you were fascinated by the mind's power over the body. Was that your real answer?"
A fly landed on his hand and began to tickle him. He ignored it.

It was all an illusion; did it matter if he told her the truth?

"Well, Dawes," he began, eyeing the counter, "that would require telling my entire life story."

"I've got plenty of time."
"I would rather not tell my entire life story to you of all people. However, I will say that it started with a gradual descent. At first, I only experimented on myself. Then I began to realize that I was only one specimen, that my results were not universal. So I turned to experimenting on my inmates. I told myself they deserved it far more than I did. But then—I and they were irreparably damaged human beings. My experiments would have no scientific results until I included psychologically healthy people in my program."

"Did you consider me a psychologically healthy person?"

"Relatively, yes. But then, none of us have total psychological health, do we? You were healthy in the sense that you don't need to dress up in a cape and beat up criminals every night, but then, that goes for most of us, even me. And I'm not healthy at all, Dawes."

"But you think you're healthier than Batman, apparently."

"Well, of course. I may be a sadistic bastard, but at least I know I'm one. The Batman, on the other hand, causes pain and pretends it's for a just cause. I don't lie to myself."

"Batman uses violence to prevent criminals from doing harm to others. Is that worse than hurting random strangers?"

"Was violence the only route the Batman could take? There are plenty of other things to prevent crime he could have done."

Staring long and hard at him, she didn't even break eye contact when a grizzled old man appeared with the coffee, plopping it on the table without waiting for thanks. A few seconds passed before he realized that she had not answered. Which could only mean one thing: he had temporarily stumped Rachel Dawes, annoying lawyer extraordinaire. He found himself ridiculously pleased by this.

"I agree. Batman could have gotten involved in politics, he could have donated to charity to educate impoverished neighborhoods, he could have done anything else and still remained within legal boundaries. I've always thought that his obsession with violently meting out justice to criminals was psychologically unhealthy."

Just when he was mentally running victory laps at having won an argument against her (finally) she opened her mouth again. Of course.

"But at least Batman is actually saving people's lives, even if I don't approve of his means. You are harming people because you have an addiction to the sound of screaming."

"Actually, it's for scientific study, which might save people's lives in the future. Batman harms people so that he can save others. I do the same."

Actually, it was more because he had an addiction to the sound of screaming, but Dawes didn't have to know that.

She gave him a glacial, superior smile, and for a moment, he could see the old Rachel behind her scars.

"And how is your research going to save lives?"

"I haven't really worked out the details yet," he said smoothly.

She lifted an eyebrow.

"Fine. I like watching arrogant dimwits scream for their mothers. Happy?"

"First time I've ever heard you be honest," Rachel murmured, her lips twitching with a faint smile. "Why do you like that? Everyone wants to get revenge once in a while, but very few people actually carry it out."

Cool blue eyes surveyed her behind spectacles. "Are you actually trying to psychoanalyze me?"

"Well, I'm not sure I would call it that," she protested. "I'm just trying to figure out what motivates you. Call it a victim finding closure."

"Dawes, I know you're not an idiot. Do you really think you're going to find 'closure' from me?"

"I didn't think so, but I tried anyway. Come on. let's go."

With her rapid moodswings, this shift in purpose didn't surprise him. "Is it any use asking where?"

With a twinkle in her eye, she downed the last of her coffee. "Nope."

The drive was surprisingly short; in fact, he regretted its end when Dawes pulled up into the driveway of Arkham Asylum.

"Oh, of course," said Jonathan. "I should have known. Here to see justice done?"

"Only if you want it to be," said Rachel, which didn't quite make sense.

"Arkham seems to have changed locations," said Jonathan. "Interesting."

"Of course it has," said Rachel. "I thought you'd already established this is all in your head. But just because it's in your head—"

"Don't quote Albus Dumbledore at me," snapped Jonathan.

Rachel smirked, satisfied with her victory. "Ride's over. Get out."

"After you."

Rolling her eyes to the heavens, she yanked the key out of the ignition and slammed the door. Going over to his side, she dutifully held the door for him while he took his time sliding out of the car, half-finished coffee in hand

"Are you going to lead me to my cell or not?" he said, scanning the parking lot.

"It's entirely up to you," she answered. "But you can follow me, if you want."

"Now I have freedom of choice?" he sneered.

"No one forced you to get into my car," said Rachel. "All I did was prevent you from stealing mine."

Since he couldn't argue with that, he devoted his mental processes to deliberation instead. He had quickly concluded that this hallucination was a wasteland, and he couldn't afford to get lost in it. Since Rachel seemed to be the guiding force in this dream, it was probably best to go where she led. Wasn't that how it worked? Follow the rabbit hole until you come to the other side? It was inevitable, he knew, that he would follow her, just as inevitable as the rows of A's on his college GPA and the face-full of fear toxin delivered courtesy of Batman. Had he ever been in control of his fate? Besides, it was just his damaged mind talking. The outcome didn't matter, so long as he escaped it unscathed.

"After you," he repeated. Smiling with all the charm of a brick wall, she used the old side entrance.

Arkham had not changed. The faded walls and mothy armchairs still stood proudly, and unbidden, he found his heart warming at the sight. He could almost hear the fevered pleas for mercy.

If Rachel noticed his slight smirk, she didn't comment.

"Here you are," she said, stopping at a cell. "All yours."

"I suppose this is where we part ways, Miss Dawes?" he said.

"If you want," she murmured. Because this was the delusion of a madman, he stepped into the cell, placing his coffee on the floor, and allowed Rachel to lock him in. The room had no nightstand to place his drink. It was one of those cells. Shedding his jacket and waistcoat, he collapsed on the pallet.

He only woke because of a particularly persistent lump in the mattress digging into his side. Shifting, he realized he was on a dingy grey pallet. The all too familiar holes in the sheet did not cause the panic that it should have. Just empty resignation. He had known it would end this way, really. He didn't feel disappointed, not at all.

His eyes happened to fall on the door, and beside it, the cup of half-finished coffee. Swallowing, he scampered towards it and lifted it gingerly. It was ice cold, but it was the same coffee Rachel had bought him.

"You're dead, Crane." There was Rachel, her hideous face impassive in the glass window of his cell. "I knew you'd be in denial, so I didn't want to mention it, but…yeah. I don't know how you died. I just know that it's…the only way you could be here."

"Well, one doesn't hear that every day," he said pleasantly. "Thank you for that info. You know, I only agreed to this because I thought I would wake up in my comforting, coffee-free, blood-spattered cell. You know, the real one."

"I assume you want me to let you out?"

"That would be appreciated."

"But then where will you go?"

Letting her question hang for a moment, he slid on his waistcoat with meticulous care. "Why do you care, Miss Dawes?" Looking up from his buttons, he found her expression in the same cast as before.

She struggled to maintain her iron face, but a ray of sadness crept through. "I always end up caring, in the end. I wish I didn't."

Raising one eyebrow in response, he waited for clarification of that baffling statement.

"I'm dead too. Have you noticed? The lack of emotion? I see with more clarity now, and I could hate you, sure, but…it's just not worth it." Recollecting herself, she squared her shoulders and began the speech she had most likely spent the night preparing. "You don't have to stay here. There are no rules now. Prisons only exist in our own heads. I don't think there's really a sense of place or time."

"Then why did you take me to Arkham?" he said testily, donning his jacket. If he wasn't mistaken, it was slightly wrinkled. He would have to find an iron.

"I didn't. You did."

Up went his eyebrows, again. "Explain."

"Arkham is the last place I want to go. But you expected to find it, so you did. You wanted to wake up here, didn't you?"

This was true, but he chose not to acknowledge it. "You have no idea what I was thinking, Miss Dawes. Either I am hallucinating or I am dead. Both are a matter of equal indifference. However, if there are no rules, than why should my thoughts influence my surroundings? 'No rules' implies a series of random occurrences that—"

"Do you want to stay here?" she interrupted.

"—We have no control over," he finished. Gazing at a bloodstain on the ceiling, he felt a measure of regret, as he had accomplished some of his finest work here. But no work could be done now, not with any patients—

With a muted surge of horror, he realized that he had designed the perfect punishment for himself. An empty insane asylum without minds to play with would have been the worst torture imaginable, and he could have trapped himself here forever, not knowing a way out. Rachel had saved him. That last thought was among the most unnerving.

But why had she rescued him from his own reality? The answer lay in her eyes, which narrowed with the pleasure of the hunt. Of course. She had not yet gotten the better of him. The answer was simple, so Dawes, that he nearly laughed. However, he could use her company; a spare mind to shatter was always welcome.

"I don't want to stay here," he decided, "It's simply not interesting. Since you have the car, is there anywhere you want to go?"

"In here, places come to you," Rachel answered, "so I don't know. But you're up for the roadtrip? Great. I'll get the keys." Sliding the door with a caustic smile (because she found it just as absurd as he did), she left it open and disappeared. Straightening his jacket, he sauntered into the hallway, where she emerged from the lobby.

"Found your keys, darling?" he said, just to make that stoic expression flicker. Besides, he did find the situation ironically domestic.

Outside, the brown ford still sat in the parking lot, where Jonathan held the driver's door for her and delighted in the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. By the second week of his company, she would be on the floor screaming for mercy.