Rox's day was hectic. Setting up an office and organizing files wasn't her idea of productivity at the moment. She had spent months preparing for this job, and now she was stuck with a few more hours of busy work. She had completed six months of required internship at a low-security prison once her application to Arkham Asylum was accepted. Finally signed off as competent enough to work with dangerous inmates, her four-week preparation at Arkham began. Reading staff manuals and procedures had been dull, but required.
Rox sat down in her large office chair with a huff. She had no idea how long this venture would last for. Once she had forged her credentials and letters of recommendation, she figured she would be able to start immediately at the Asylum. The preparation work required by the maximum-security facility had proven difficult and exhausting. It had been 25 months since she has seen him… As the time stretched on, she found herself becoming more anxious for their reunion. She knew the minute he was put away she would find a way to get him out. Once lawyers and the legal system had proved useless, her only option seemed to be to turn criminal herself to free him.
"Ready for your first real day? You deserve it," Dr. Young commented as she approached my office door with a smile. I grinned back at her, mustering my strength. Dr. Penelope Young had taken a liking to me while I was completing my prerequisite work at Arkham. Her research position made her a good ally for me. She was instrumental in giving me power in my job position.
"Thank you, Penelope. I'm very excited to begin helping patients," I gleamed. She gave a small scoff.
"Not all are open to rehabilitation. The state requires us to give a minimum of one hour of cognitive behavioral therapy a week. Many patients would get no rehabilitation care at all, were it not required." She gave a brief pause. "I don't need to remind you that our yearly evaluations are every three months now, due to several violations of laws such as this…" She trailed off absently. She refocused herself quickly in my direction.
"That's why we're so happy to have you," she commented. "I sent you an email with some reminders and tips for your first group session today. Best of luck." With that Penelope disappeared. I let out a hefty sigh. Arkham Asylum had received severe fines and penalties in the last few months because of violations of civil rights and humane laws. Doctors were skipping sessions and faking notes for reports, guards abusing patients, security cameras going out when a patient would be beaten to a pulp… One would think in this day and age, such instances would not happen. However, being an asylum for the insane and dangerous, patients could be violent and unpredictable.
Rox knew patients would recognize her. Her connections with the man known as the Killer Croc meant some of the big guys knew her name and look. She prayed their cunning criminal minds would be smart enough to not out her presence here.
Roxanne Boucher was the daughter of two parents born to French natives. With her parents still living in California, she had moved away after high school to pursue a college education. She never imagined she'd wind up pretending to be a Ph.D. psychiatrist to illegally break her deformed boyfriend out of an insane asylum.
In one hour she had her first session as a fake doctor. She had bummed some common group therapy questions off other doctors, so she felt prepared to look like she knew what she was doing. Group therapy sessions were commonly held every two weeks. They were optional to patients. Many took the opportunity to get out of their cells and see familiar faces of the other convicts. Security was tight to prevent fights, and ensure no notes were passed. Her name list included two obscure serial killers, the infamous Warren "great white shark" White, and Waylon Jones. The secure room had been prepped, and she felt prepared to go down. White coat billowing and covering her modest outfit, she began her descent to the secure level of Arkham.
Time ticked by until the guards informed her the patients were ready. Metal chairs attached to the ground were arranged in a circle. Guards brought in two tall Latino men who were chatting in a friendly manner. Both were spaced a few feet apart and chained to their chairs. Neither man looked in her direction. If I was a real psychiatrist, maybe I could write some bull shit notes on why they're ignoring me… The two men were followed closely by a bald man who could only be Warren White. He gave her a predatory smile as he was also chained to his chair.
Rox cleared her throat. "Where is Mr. Jones?" A small bout of laugher was her answer from the patients and guards.
"He's supposed to be on the group list, but he never comes. Ain't come to one of these in months," the guard chortled. I let out a tense breath I didn't know I was holding. "Please go to Mr. Jones' cell and retrieve him so we can start group." Another laugh from all involved. I felt myself grinding my jaw together, causing a snap of pain in my head. I felt degraded.
"Bad idea. If he doesn't want to come, he ain't coming!" He responded with more laugher. I sighed internally.
"Since this is our group for today, let me introduce myself. I am Dr. Roxanne Boucher." Rox had chosen to use her real name since she had a clean record. She figured when the charade was over, she'd be moving somewhere obscure with Waylon and forge a new identity.
Group went off without a hitch. Great White knew to keep his mouth shut about my identity, and was eager to answer my questions. I had met him several times, since he and Waylon had a comradery in the looks department. With no hint he seemed to understand my presence meant something was happening – and wisely played along. Boing questions meant to facilitate discussion such as "what are your current goals?" and "What kind of job skills do you have?" went better than I had predicted.
I was frustrated to hear Waylon was not attending group therapy. In speaking to Penelope during lunch, I found he rarely attended his one-hour of required therapy a week as well. It seemed so unlike Waylon. When he was put away, he seemed in my opinion more than capable of wooing these doctors into seeing him as a good candidate for release. What had provoked him to give up on attending the only means for being put up for parole? The only way to know was to talk to Waylon. With my status came access to all areas of the facility with no restrictions. I opened his file to learn his cell number. My mouth hung open as I read "sewers" where the floor and cell were located. What the hell was going on in this place? I was afraid to seek out a guard to escort me, as I was unsure of how Croc would act to my unannounced presence in his territory. I threw my white coat on and set off for the elevator to head to the bottom floor.
I passed a janitor on the bottom floor of Arkham. "Hola!" I shouted. "Sewers?" I asked in an unsure way, not speaking a lick of Spanish. The man seemed to understand and pointed me down a hallway. He entered the elevator to ascend to the upper floors. I walked through the labyrinth, and approached a large barred door. A patient file hung next to the door. Finally, I thought, feeling a sudden jump of nerves. I felt sick to my stomach and anxious. A million thoughts ran through my head as I took the door remote from my pocket with trembling hands. I typed in the patient code, and his door green-lighted. Unlocked.
I gently pressed the door open, and stepped into the cell with unsure posture. "Waylon Jones?" I called into the cell, my voice cracking. His cell was a disgusting wasteland, almost uninhabitable. The room was several dozen feet in each direction, with a river of filthy water running through it. Rubble served as a natural barrier, but the water flowed through it. Waylon must have been able to swim out of the confines of his small cell to explore much of the sewer system. Obviously the staff knew this and had a way of preventing his escape from the asylum. The small, dank mattress was empty and lay askew. I stood in the doorway with a dumb look on my face, completely lost as to how to proceed. The sickness in my stomach returned, as I felt ill. How can they house someone like this?
The sound of water splashing caused my to jump and stand strait. A hulking form emerged from the water slowly, in a clear show of dominance and intimidation.
"What the fuck do you want?" An almost inhumane voice snarled. My eyes widened at the sound; his gruff voice sounded like a demon strait out of hell. As his eyes settled on my form, he froze. Our eyes made contact for several seconds as neither of us dared take a breath. I shook with a slight tremor, the product of anxiety and nerves as I stared at the man I loved.
His toothy maw was overgrown, with fangs beginning to grow through his lips. It seemed they had not been filed, a task he did yearly, to control the growth. His skin had progressed far past being bumpy, to literal scales coating his skin. His height had surpassed his once six foot form; he appeared to have grown roughly a foot in the two years since I had seem him. His toned body was now muscled and ripped to a point I had thought impossible on a human.
The stress and lack of medical care must have accelerated and exasperated his condition… I thought to myself, as tears threatened to well up in my eyes.
"Hey, Way…" I trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. My voice seemed to snap him out of his reverie, as he stormed towards me with huge steps. His hand grabbed the door behind me, slamming it shut with a bang. Now just a few feet from me, he stared at me with intense yellow eyes. I felt the need to explain myself.
"I forged some shit to bust you out, you know, since there was nothing I could do on the outside while you were in here…" I trialed off again. When did my confidence with him drop so low? Why was I so nervous?"
Waylon seemed to deflate with a sigh. He dropped to his knees in front of me and wrapped his enormous arms around me. I threw my arms around his neck and pressed my cheek into him. I balked at the feel of a metal object I hadn't noticed before. Pulling away slightly, I gaped at the metal contraption clamped around his neck.
"What is this?" I asked with surprise. He huffed. I was desperate for him to speak to me. I stared at him with pleading eyes. It was normal for him to be quiet with other, but not me.
"Shock collar. In case I try to hurt someone," he said as if it were the most normal thing in the world. I ignored this for the time being and continued to embrace him. I slowly pulled away, allowing him to stand to his full height. He avoided my gaze.
"What have they done to you?"
I will be reimagining Croc's origins in this story. Thanks all for reading, please follow/favorite/review!