Author's Note:

This idea sprang in my head randomly during school. Naturally I thought "IDEA! :3" and wrote it down. Of course, the moment I wrote this, I really had no idea what I was going to do with it. SO, it sat on my computer for the longest time… Then I played Batman: Arkham Asylum. :3 I got to thinking about this lil' old file, and decided that this would blend perfectly with the game! So yeah… this is a fanfiction about the daunting Arkham Asylum and the disturbing characters within. Of course you need some type of romance-able character (heh, sounds like something out of Dragon Age…), so it will lean towards Jonathan Crane/ Scarecrow… Ah, I'm rambling! Hope you enjoy! :3 Feedback is always loved!

Hymn for the Killers and Liars

/Prologue/

The guard that roamed the dank corridor took a deep sigh. Underneath his uniform sweat began rush out of his pores. He pulled off his hat momentarily and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead; he pulled back in disgust when his hand was thickly damp with his own perspiration. He placed his hat back atop his head and glanced around. The luminescent lights that used to light the halls were dim, a few flickering spastically. The rooms, not too different from jail cells, were all closed, and dangerously vacant. The guard knew for an absolute fact that this was one of the worst combinations of 'schizos' placed in one part of the asylum. His eyebrows knitted together at the thought of all of the being locked behind the doors, and moved his foot nervously.

Down the hallway to the end was a door; it was far different, much more secure from the other doors. Inside, the walls were stitched with padded fabric that covered the metallic walls. The floor was supported with a thick plastic –an excuse for a carpet – and a bed was squished against a wall in the far left corner. The one window was barred both horizontally and vertically, and the metal was so closely packed, few rays of the moonlight faded into the room.

A shadow swept across the room from one wall to the other. As the shadow crept past the encaged window, the light glimpsed over a girl. She was in her early to mid twenties, appearing to weigh a healthy weight. Her hair was a mess, her black ringlets twisting and bending unevenly. Her complexion was a light peach, a calming blend with her hazel eyes. Her lips were a light pink, pulled back into a grimace.

Her gaze traveled from the locked door to the window. Oh, how she wished to be free once more. It was painful to be locked from the world like she was. Sure she was never accepted into the society like she had always wanted, but she had freedom. Her independence was what kept her alive and going, making her days enjoyable enough to survive through. But being clocked into an enclosed room, and not allowed to leave the building. . . It was taking its toll on her.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture the sea; at first she remembered the soft breeze that brushed against her. The smell of sand and salt water filled the air like an intoxicating herb, cleansing her body. Then the feeling of the sand slipping through the cracks of her toes, the water that splashing and flooding around her legs. She tried to imagine the ocean itself; she wanted to see the sun's ray reflect off of the water, creating the most prefectural image. But as the sun began to rise behind her eyelids, so too did the cold metals bars. Not only had the hospital she was in cage her from the outside, but it caged her imagination of the outside as well.

How long has it been since I've seen the city?, she asked herself thoughtfully. How long has it been since I could see something without reading about it in the newspaper first?...

A knock on the door shook her from her unconscious state. She walked over to her bed and sat down; she had wished she could have told them to go away, but they always came in anyway. Her opinion didn't matter in this place.

The door, after a series locks unbolting, creaked as it opened. The dim light from the hallway cast a long and plump shadow across the floor, stretching over the girl. At first the person was only seen as a silhouette before it moved aside. With a click, the luminescent light flickered to life in the small room. The girl was momentarily blinded, but blinked back the black dots that shrouded her vision.

The person was none other then Igorus Valthenspoon. He, like his grotesque shadow, was plump, a beer belly hanging over his belt buckle. His expensive jacket clung to his skin tightly as if it was a size too small. Igorus was short, maybe about 5'1". His stump legs were lost in his baggy dress pants, his fancy leather shoes squeaking as he stepped forward.

He placed his meaty hands into his pants pockets as he examined the girl. The girl merely scowled at him silently, balling her hands into tight fists.

"Hello," he finally said after a small gulp. He smiled awkwardly, as if he was worried he would smile too much. His right foot glided across the floor uneasily. "I've come here to see if you have improved."

The girl rolled her eyes dismissively. "That so?" she asked. It was now realized she had a light Irish accent.

"Indeed," he murmured. "I need you to be nice today and let the guards…"

Before he could finish, the girl stood up. "Yeah, yeah I know the way how it goes. Just bring the damn guards in already," she grumbled. The man, frightened at first from her quick movement, nodded his head and waddled aside. Two guards, too muscular for the girl's taste, stepped in. They walked over to the girl and grabbed her shoulders. She obediently gave in to them, and allowed them to handcuff her hands behind her back. . .

In minutes, she was back where she felt she had started. She was in another small room, only one wall was a gigantic mirror. Of course the girl knew that's where the impudent roaches of cops watched her from the other side, but she wasn't crazy enough to try to break it to get to them. Or at least not yet, anyway.

A different man that she wasn't familiar of sat down in the chair before her. The two of them sat opposite of a white table, old and creaked whenever any of them made the slightest movement. Beside the man was a black suitcase. Black? Well that ruins the whole white on white combination in this hell-hole, the girl thought bitterly. Meanwhile, she combed through her hair with her fingers, enjoying the fact that she was no longer handcuffed.

The man cleared his throat and readjusted his glasses. The lights reflected off of the lenses momentarily, hiding his chestnut eyes for a mere second. In the light the girl could see that his brown hair was relatively dry, though it smelled of a feminine scent. His wife must have chosen his shampoo, she thought comically, then grimaced at the fact that she had paid attention to it. The fact that she was figuring out how his hair status was was preposterous.

The man cleared his throat once more, and cupped a packet of paper in his hands. "Ayyss-" he began before the girl cut him off.

"It's ASH-ling," she corrected.

He let out a short sigh. "Right. It's ASH-ling Mae O'Haney then," he pronounced. His eyes quivered from the paper to the girl before him momentarily.

She nodded. "It's spelt correctly on the page if you're wondering. It's just spelt different. It's Irish, you see. It's spelt A-I-S-L-I-N-G, but the 'i' and the 's' are pronounced as a 'sh'," she explained, crossing her arms and tilted into a slouching position in her chair.

He nodded. "Hello Aisling. My name is Dr. O'Connor. I, too, am Irish," he stated as if trying to light the mood. But like most cases in a situation where you're in a room with a 'skitzo' who isn't in the brightest moods, it didn't get him far. Taking note that his joke wasn't appealing to the dark-haired girl, he gulped down the saliva that built in his throat and continued. "I'm sure you know why I'm here, don't you?" he asked. She only nodded; after a brief break of silence, he continued. "If it's okay with you, I would like for us to take a couple of tests. . ."

A smile broke across Aisling's hollow expression. "Sure," she agreed. "Though I don't think my opinion implies anything in this situation, now does it?" she questioned, shifting her hands to emphasize her words.

"Of course it does," the Doctor half-lied, half truthfully answered. Sure her answer mattered, that is, if she was going to try and kill him.

She rolled her eyes. "Come on. Let's get this over with, shall we?" Her eyes drifted to the mirror for only a brief second, an expression of disgust reflecting back at herself. Aisling was fully aware of the people that sat in those chairs, and it twisted her gut at the thought of them.

Two men and a woman sat down on creaky chairs on the other side of the wall. The man who appeared to be the oldest was Mr. Brandon Krutchangas. He was tall and too thin for his age. Underneath his dusty suit, his skeleton was more apparent then fat or muscle. His face was aged and wrinkled, no trace of hair on top of his head. He leaned forward on the seat, his pointy elbows resting on the long counter before him. His graying eyes were enlarged through his small spectacles, his lips cracked and pale. He was the man who had owned this asylum for nearly twenty-five years.

At age 10, all Brandon ever wanted was to become a weatherman. Funny as it sounded, (even to himself sometimes) that was the biggest goal he ever wanted to accomplish. Every morning he would wake up before the sun and watch the news with his family just to see the weatherman. He seemed so serene, so nice. In his own way, the weatherman was like a God, proclaiming what the weather would be like.

By the time he was 19, he realized his news-casting ideals were over with. He took up the job as a local carpenter, and worked on houses until his hands felt like they could fall off. His hands, once fine and perfect for light practices like writing and drawing were now battered and scarred by the cuts and bruises he had received as a carpenter. When he was fired, he did the only thing he could think of; he took over one of his families businesses: the St. Andrew's Hospital.

Now at the age of 57, the old man didn't dream anymore. He just took day by day, pill by pill. He got through a day by just being there, no memories of yesterday, or thoughts of tomorrow. He was a lonely man who just wanted to finish up what was left of his being.

The next man was Joseph Jean, or 'J-Jay' as most called him. He was the man that dressed in the finest of clothing, stylizing himself more then his own 22 year-old wife. He was plump like Igorus, only he had an average height. Under his fedora, his brown hair was thinning; his mustache faded to gray (if it weren't the fact that he had it dyed every two weeks).

Most of his life he was spoiled with his father's wealthy background, enriching him with his selfish personality. When his father lay dying in a hospital, it was then that Joseph was kicked out of his father's deed and was refused his share of the money. Now he clung to this mental hospital in hopes he could make a fortune out of it. But all he was getting right now was a suitcase of over expensive suits to wear and an enormous pool of debt to jump into.

The last was the woman. Her name was Sara Angolia. Rich accent, rich culture. She even came directly from the Bahamas a few years ago. She was known as the assistant of J-Jay, but everyone knew her story.

Sara was born and raised in the Africa for most of her life. Around her, vile and immoral issues coiled around her like a snake. She married and had a child, but fled only years after. Supposedly her husband was a treacherous man, and abused her horribly. And like most immigrants, she came to the Americas in hopes to have a new and better life. However, she had never expected to be working for a low life in a God-forsaken dump. In a matter of speaking, of course.

Dr. O'Connor leaned back in his old chair, flinching as it squeaked too loudly for his taste. Truth be told, he was tense out of his wits. He had heard rumors about this Aisling before him, and it really rattled his nerves. "The first game is quite simple," he began, smiling as pleasantly as he could. "I will say a word, and you have to say a word that comes to your mind first after you hear what I say."

She nodded.

"Okay." He parted his lips to breath out a short sigh. She's cooperative, at least, he thought anxiously. "Let's start off easy. . . Apple."

"Apple," she repeated, muttering the word quickly escaping her mouth. He was shocked to hear that she had reacted so quickly, before he realized what she had said.

"You're supposed to say something different," he explained.

She nodded. "I know," she said calmly. Dr. O'Connor couldn't recognize any emotion in her gray eyes.

Gray. For a second, Dr. O'Connor felt confused. Were her eyes gray? Weren't they hazel? A tingling of fear washed through him as he moved his gaze to her eyes in a sharp movement.

Surrounding her small pupils, a colorful arrangement of blues, green and grays circled around with a dazzling hint of golden brown found in the center. False alarm, he thought to himself, relieved. He returned to the paper in his hands and sighed.

"Black," he continued, pretending like he didn't just have a minor episode of wariness.

"Red."

He nodded in approval. We're getting somewhere, I hope, he thought with some enthusiasm. "How about. . . danger-"

"Trick."

This baffled Dr. O'Connor. "Trick?"

Aisling nodded. "Trick. Y'know. . . magic trick." The way how she said those words sent a chill down the doctor's spine.

Dr. O'Connor gulped. Behind the mirror, Brandon moved uneasily. A tingling sensation of both fear and worry overcame him, as if someone had just poured a bag of ice down the back of his shirt…

"Do you hear voices, Aisling?" the doctor asked somewhat discretely. Were the walls moving. . . twitching? Dread filled his mind, and he found himself shaking. . . cowering. From what, though?

Aisling tipped her head slightly. "Hear voices? No,"

The moment she whispered her answer, sounds rebounded off the walls around the doctor. They were human, or at least he recognized them as human. There were a few, speaking in different octaves. They seemed to be the same, but at the same time so strangely different. The doctor's blood ran cold and he jumped at the noises. He spun around frantically, searching for the source of the noise. But all he could see were the bland, white walls of the enclosed room.

"Doctor?" Aisling questioned. Her voice was playful; mischievous. The other voices chimed in with her own, echoing around in his head. He jumped again, too horrified to speak. His lips parted only enough to let out a shuddering breath. "Doctor? Doctor O'Connor?" Aisling's voice demanding now, her eyebrows knit together over her eyes.

Magic trick, the high-pitched voice chimed delightfully to the doctor's left. Blood, a dark voice murmured to his right. Life's no fun without some magic!, a light voice gurgled behind him. . .

"ENOUGH!" The room fell silent and motionless. Aisling glanced at the doctor and sighed. The doctor sat motionless in his chair. His eyes were wide open, his jaw slack. He was petrified, too scared to move. Satisfied, Aisling stood up, brushing her hair to the side. She turned to the mirror, watching herself as she spoke. "I believe the doctor is done," she murmured, hiding a morphed smile. In minutes, two guards came to the door. They stared at her in denial, before they snatched her arms and brought her back to her cell.

J-Jay walked solemnly into the cell and stepped next to Dr. O'Connor. His fingers were pressed on his neck only briefly before he pulled aware, dread stricken on his face. "He's dead," he murmured, mostly to himself. "Heart attack."

Sara stepped beside J-Jay, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the man. The corpse, or what they used to know as Dr. O'Connor, was completely frozen. His face was still faced forward, staring at the spot where the young girl once was. His skin was pale enough to look a light blue, his perspiration frozen to his skin. "What will we say to his family?" she asked, her shock hidden behind her strong accent.

J-Jay turned to her, and shrugged. "A psycho escaped earlier this evening. Unaware of what was going on, he was stabbed," he muttered. He dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a cloth and wiped his face.

Sara was shocked. "But, sir, he has no knife wounds!" she exclaimed.

J-Jay turned away from her and sighed. He searched his other pocket, and pulled out a tiny object. It was small; the only detail was a gigantic shape that resembled a button. He tugged at one side, shifting a tiny blade into view; a switchblade. He placed it in Sara's clammy and sweaty hands. "That's why you are going to do." With that said, he left the room, leaving Sara alone in the room with the dead Dr. O'Connor.