Disclaimer: U menya nyet DC Comics.
I've been gone a while. I'm sorry. Things are not shiny, except for the things that are.
So. If you're a fan of the CATverse, then this is CATverse, taking place in 2004 when Squishy is 27. And if you're not a fan of the CATverse, then this is absolutely not CATfic and why would you even suggest such a thing?
Now that the first chapter is up, updates should be fairly regular. I've been working on this story off and on for...about five years now, I think. I keep dropping it because I don't like it, only to pick it up again six months later. I'll try not to do that again. (Note from a year later: Damn it all!)
Oh, and about the title? I was totally into Starsky & Hutch last year for, literally, about three hours. Until I can think of something better, this is what you get.
Trigger warning: This is an exploration of the events that led up to the episode "Lock-Up." There will be abuse. A small amount of it will be sexual in nature, which will not be explicit past its first occurrence. The majority will be physical punishment and psychological torment.
As always, thanks for reading.
When Harley Quinzel was eleven years old and just beginning to show signs that there might be something interesting under her leotard, her best friend's brother, Walter, slipped her a note after gymnastics practice asking, "Will you be my girlfriend?" She put her check mark in the "yes" box. That was the beginning of her interaction with the opposite sex.
A decade later, not much had changed. The boys had learned different ways of asking, but they still hadn't learned a thing about subtlety—except for the one who mattered. Now she had checked her box for Mistah J in permanent ink, and everybody else just had to learn to live with it. She put them off firmly, sometimes with a rubber mallet or a surprise boxing glove to the face, because even if she had somehow lost her marbles and felt even the slightest bit of interest in grubby little Regular People, she knew her Puddin' wouldn't like the idea of having to share.
In Arkham, she wasn't allowed to play with rubber mallets. Still, she kept them off her, and even the stubborn ones decided she wasn't worth it when she dropped her sweetheart's name. So when the new security guy cornered her in the hall on the way to the rec room, naturally, she wasn't impressed. Even when everybody else filed past, leaving her alone with him, she didn't think much of it.
"What's a cute little thing like you doing in a place like this?" Gee, even his lines were lame. Not that she could expect much better from a meathead like this. Mistah J had just spoiled her for the masses. Why eat fish sticks when she could have caviar?
Actually, caviar made her yak just as much as anything else fishy. Maybe she should come up with a better metaphor.
"What I'm doing," she said calmly to the leering creep who held her cornered, "is I'm going to the rec room for my Monday night poker game. Harv gets real touchy if I make him wait, so do you mind if I get going, um…Larry, was it?" she finished, borrowing Mistah J's inflection. The beefcake slammed his hands against the wall on either side of her head. Harley rolled her eyes, knowing that what he wanted was for her to flinch.
"You're not going anywhere, doll."
Frowning, she pushed his hands aside.
"Haven't you heard? I'm taken, pal."
He slammed her back against the wall, pawing her chest with all the finesse of a high school jock. And he smiled at her like he knew something she didn't. Suddenly, she wanted a shower very much.
"That clown doesn't scare me, girlie. Now, listen up. You're a bright enough girl; you used to be a doctor. You know how things work. This is me giving you your chance to play nice."
Because she couldn't think of anything funnier, she tried to knee him in the crotch. He trapped her leg with his own, forcing her knees apart. She tried to punch him. He caught her wrist and held her hand away from his face.
"What's going on here?"
Harley breathed a sigh of relief. She had never been so happy to see her own psychiatrist.
"Dr. Blackwell, get this guy offa me!" she screeched.
The security guy sounded unbelievably smug as he countered, "I was trying to explain to Miss Quinn the importance of good behavior. I certainly wasn't trying to provoke an attack."
"You liar!" She struggled to punch his smarmy face in. He calmly bent her wrist back. "Doc, can't you see he's groping me?" Dr. Blackwell, raised an eyebrow. Harley looked down. His hand was on her shoulder. "He—he said he wasn't scared of Mr. J," she added. "And…he smiled at me," she finished lamely.
"Harley, I know you have your problems with authority figures," Dr. Blackwell started in, "but—" She interrupted him by slamming her own head into the wall with a loud bang. It was bad enough listening to his inane prattle in therapy. She didn't think she could handle it in her free time, too.
"Can I please just go to the rec room?"
"Oh, no," the security guy said smoothly. "I really don't think she should be allowed to fly off the handle like that without any consequences."
"You're absolutely right," Dr. Blackwell agreed. "Would you mind escorting her back to her cell?"
"What? But I didn't do anything! You can't take away my privileges when I'm being good! You wait'll I tell my Puddin' about this! He'll turn your kidneys into bongo drums!"
She was still ranting when the cell door slammed shut on her.
-0-
"Harley ain't coming. Go on and deal."
Two-Face shook his head, shuffling the cards again, fanning them back and forth between the whole hand and the scarred one.
"The coin says we wait."
On his right, Killer Croc bared his teeth in something like a smile.
"The coin say anything about tearin' off her head and suckin' out the insides?"
Two-Face frowned.
"I haven't asked."
Across the table, the Riddler was looking a little nervous. This was his first time joining their game, since Hands McGee was out early for good behavior, and Croc was going to town, scaring the fresh meat. Harley wasn't part of their usual group either, but she made a fair enough substitute for the Joker…when she showed up.
"She really isn't coming, you know," the Scarecrow said without looking up from his chess board. Croc and Two-Face ignored him. The Riddler was more easily distracted.
"Why do you say that?"
The Scarecrow took a moment to put the Mad Hatter's king in check, bringing a frown to the other man's face.
"She would be here by now, wouldn't she. Or didn't you see the way our new security chief was looking at her?"
"You don't think he'd hurt her, do you?" came an anxious voice from behind Harvey. Arnold Wesker was the man's name, though he rarely worked up the nerve to speak to anyone in his own voice. The puppet on his hand, now, he made his opinions known, loudly and often.
"Dame like that, anyone can look. You seen the chassis on her?" His wooden jaw clacked. The Ventriloquist looked mortified. "The Dummy here's dizzy with her."
"Mr. Scarface!"
"Relax, Dummy. It ain't like I'm spillin' to the Joker."
The Scarecrow and the Mad Hatter went back to their chess game. Scarecrow kept watching, concerned with anxiety as always, and looking for an opportunity to spread it. But he gave the main part of his attention to beating the Hatter.
"C'mon," said Croc. "Strawman's right, it's been long enough. Give it another flip or let somebody else deal."
"I'll take the skirt's place," the puppet offered. "Siddown, Dummy. Fellas, deal me in."
The Riddler snickered. Scarface's painted eyes jerked sideways in an eerie glare.
"Somethin' funny, pally?"
"How are you going to hold the cards?"
"Oh, dear," Wesker muttered anxiously, shoving Scarface in the Riddler's face.
"You got a problem with me?"
The Riddler knocked the doll away.
"Grow up, Arnold."
"Hey!" Scarface bellowed as the ventriloquist's eyes widened in horror. "You got somethin' to say, you say it to my face!" With a flick of Wesker's wrist, Scarface's wooden hand shot out and cracked across the Riddler's cheek.
He came over the table, yelling something nobody understood, while Wesker babbled, "I'm sorry! It wasn't me!" and held up his free hand to defend himself.
He would have done better to protect Scarface. The Riddler snatched the puppet off his hand and held it above his head. Wesker jumped to grab it back. The Riddler climbed up on top of the card table, scattering his pile of chips.
Two-Face and Croc moved back from the table. This was the best show Arkham had given in months.
"Dummy! Tell this guy to put me down!"
"P-please, Mr. Riddler," the ventriloquist stammered.
The Riddler laughed. No surprise; it was the first real respect he'd gotten from another inmate, even one as tremulous and ineffective as Arnold. It had to be a boost to his ego.
He rattled the puppet tauntingly.
"Tell me this, Arn—"
"Riddle me this," someone yelled from across the room.
"Okay, riddle me this. What—"
"What are these lunatics up to now?"
Exasperated, the Riddler lowered Mr. Scarface.
"Am I not allowed to finish a—"
"Get him off the table." A pair of orderlies pushed past the inmates. Two-Face moved out of their way. He liked those two, mismatched as the sun and the moon and both named Jones. They seized the Riddler by the elbows and dragged him over to the security chief waiting by the door.
"Get off me, you cretins! I've done nothing to deserve this!" He twisted around to glare at the security chief. Ignoring him, Bolton plucked the puppet from his hand, turned it upside down and gave it a shake, and dismissed it.
"What do we do with troublemakers around here, Jones?"
"I'm not making trouble! He started it!" It wasn't quite clear whether he was trying to point out Wesker or the doll.
"Take him away, boys."
"But…" He struggled to break free, demanding Bolton's attention. The other man didn't even look up as the orderlies dragged him away.
The look on the Riddler's face was downright pitiful.
Just about everyone found some quiet occupation in which to be completely absorbed, hoping Bolton would be satisfied. Two-Face was one of the few who wasn't afraid to look at him.
The man's eyes were cold as hell. And he smiled. There was no pleasure or amusement in him, but he smiled nonetheless. There was no internal conflict when Two-Face decided to avoid a confrontation.
The Riddler's fruitless protests dwindled into the distance. No one moved to help him. The Scarecrow was frowning, but he wasn't going to stand up to a bully more than twice his size.
Bolton watched them from the doorway, the puppet dangling forgotten by one leg, meeting every eye that dared to look at him, and forcing each and every gaze away.
After hesitating until the tension built to a silent scream, Wesker finally made up his mind to approach Bolton, haltingly, sweat beading on his forehead as he twisted his hands in nervousness.
"Um, sir?" he said breathlessly. "Could I—that is, may I—c-could I have M-m-mister Scarface back, please?"
Bolton let the doll dangle lifelessly.
"What this? This old thing? You want it back?" he taunted.
"Y-y-yessir."
"Hmm. I think…not. You people shouldn't be allowed all these personal items. They're only good for causing trouble."
"B-b-but—"
"Don't let this goof talk to ya like that, Dummy!" Scarface's voice grated out. "He aint in charge here. Stand up to someone for once in your life."
"I—I—" Wesker stared up (and up and up) at Bolton, trying to force something assertive past the lump in his throat.
"How about this, Dummy?" Bolton smirked. "You go sit down and keep your mouth shut, and maybe I won't feed your friend here to the termites."
"T-t-termites?" The voice wavered between Scarface's harsh growl and Wesker's natural voice, hoarse with anxiety.
"Termites."
Wesker's knees buckled, dumping him on the floor like a sack of grain. Even in that position, he swayed unsteadily, as if he were about to faint.
He was still like that an hour later when the guards returned to drive them all back to their cells.
-0-
There was murmuring in the halls. Murmuring about Harley, who was on good terms with just about everyone, and about the Riddler, of whom no one was particularly fond, but who was still one of them. Murmuring about Wesker, who was shuffling about, lost, hardly seeming to notice the occasional shoves Two-Face gave him to keep him moving. Murmuring about other, lesser men whose complaints had been easily ignored until then.
The Scarecrow's interest was piqued. His fellow inmates were unsettled—with any luck (and maybe a few helpful nudges from an interested party) this could boil over into something really entertaining. (And informative, he reminded himself. But after six dreary weeks in Arkham Asylum, anyone would be hungry for any kind of entertainment.)
The Riddler had been deftly handled. After all, what did Nygma fear more than being ignored? He certainly wouldn't be getting much attention in solitary.
At least, Crane assumed he'd been taken to solitary. Wherever he was, he wasn't in his empty cell, the sight of which started the muttering afresh.
"He's gone," a nameless goon said, almost confidentially, to the Mad Hatter, who stumbled into Crane's path, startled by the man's sudden appearance at his elbow.
"We can see that," Crane snapped. He pushed the off-balance Tetch away. If he couldn't keep his footing, let someone else catch him.
"But, where is he? That guy didn't kill him or anything, did he? When will he be back?"
Idiot, Crane thought to himself. No one was going to be killed. Bolton might have authority over them, but there had to be some oversight.
"I think you might do something better with the time," said Tetch, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers."
"But…are you on his side—" He went silent suddenly, staring. Crane followed the direction of his gaze.
There was Bolton, glaring at them with an oddly malevolent smirk. He had his arms crossed just so as to accentuate the bulge in his biceps, Crane noticed. There was very little he could have done to improve the performance.
"That's enough chitchat, you scum. It's time we had a little more discipline around here."
The three of them filed past very quietly. Then the Mad Hatter let out a small, derisive sniff.
"Eat me," he muttered under his breath.
"What was that?" Bolton demanded immediately. Tetch stopped. Everyone else drew back from him, riveted on the unfolding spectacle but unwilling to become a part of it.
With a broad smile, he repeated, "Eat. Me."
The veins in Bolton's neck stood out when he was angry, Crane noticed just before a vicious roundhouse sent the Hatter slamming into the far wall.
The entire corridor went profoundly silent. The only sound was settling dust and plaster. Tetch lay unmoving on the ground.
The dent where his head had hit the wall was impressive.
"Go get him a doctor," Bolton ordered the other guard. The only other guard.
The inmates fidgeted as one; they might have suddenly developed a hive mind. All surly bravado melted away. They were going to be left alone with the psycho?
The very smug-looking psycho. The entire group shifted around as the other guard left, giving Bolton a few more inches of personal space, as much as was possible in the confines of the hallway.
They gave Jervis just as wide a berth, as if cracked skulls were catching. As, in this case, they might well be.
The Scarecrow was just a bit too distracted to be properly intimidated. It took something more than the usual type of bully to scare the crazies that way, all of them, the entire group shocked into immobility. That was probably why he made the mistake of meeting Bolton's eyes when everyone else was looking at something, anything, safer.
"You got a problem?"
It took a few seconds for the Scarecrow to realize that the burly guard was talking to him. The others were quicker on the uptake, shuffling away from him until he was his own little island. He glanced around at them, mildly annoyed-and it finally occurred to him that his entire potential support system had just been neutralized. Harley, Edward and Jervis wouldn't have stuck their necks out for his sake, but they would have made some show of solidarity, or, at the very least, Harley would have given him a shove to remind him to look away.
"I have no problem with you. I think you're doing rather well, actually, for a common thug." There was a collective gasp, the likes of which he hadn't heard since high school, when one of the less popular cheerleaders had called the pack leader on her sexual proclivity at a pep rally. He had thought these lunatics would have a bit more…well, maturity wasn't the word for it…
"You want to say that again, Scarecrow?" Bolton asked dangerously. He almost laughed. Didn't, quite, but a smirk tugged at his mouth just the same.
"All right. I know repetition is the most effective teaching tool there is for...some people." He was aware that he was asking for a beating. He was also aware that this musclebound ape wasn't going to do anything to him that he couldn't endure. Properly timed, someone with authority would show up before he could receive anything more substantial than a few bruises. Maybe Bolton would be fired when he was seen abusing a(nother) poor, defenseless mental patient. A mild reprimand was far more likely, but still. The more foolish Bolton looked now, the less effective his bullying would be later. And a man like this had to fear looking foolish and ineffectual.
"I said…" Scarecrow exaggerated his enunciation, as he would have done with a small child. "That you're doing…very…well. You're accomplishing what you've set out to do. You might make a bigger impression if you picked someone a little more intimidating than the Mad Hatter, but..."
"You tryin' to tell me to pick on someone my own size?"
"No, I wouldn't suggest that. There isn't anyone your own size. But you should remember that bullying one person doesn't necessarily keep the rest of the playground in line."
It was a threat, a fairly obvious one, and Bolton knew it. He went red in the face, but didn't quite lose his cool.
Mess with one of us, and you mess with all of us. Yes, a united front would have to scare the big ape. It was the only way they could pose any real threat to his power. And the loonies were capable of such camaraderie, with a little finesse and the right leadership, if only for a short time. Crane knew that any such alliance would break apart well before the object of their wrath lost control, but he was counting on Bolton not knowing it.
Unfortunately, he seemed to have misjudged the goon. And when those meaty fists slammed into the wall on either side of him, he did the worst thing imaginable: he flinched.
Things only went downhill from there.