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Arkham Asyulm for the criminally insane is officially known as the Elizabeth Arkham Mental Health Reformatory. The main office had originally been the ancestral home of the Arkham family until the early 1900's before it was converted into a home for the mentally ill by Amadeus Arkham. As Trista Martin, psychological journalist, walked into what was the sitting room of the massive and ancient house; a few doctors in lab coats were talking quietly near a hanging Persian rug while a bored-looking man sat behind a long desk protected by bullet proof glass. Pleasant classical music could be heard over the loud speaker, occasionally broken by a page for a doctor or a request for a nurse to station E. The place had a strange anachronistic look to it, combining antiquity with modern technology. She made a note to do some research into the history of this house as she approached the long desk where a large man in pink scrubs was doing his best to ignore her, instead focusing on a particularly interesting cuticle on his left index finger. Trista was about to get his attention when the double doors behind the man swung inward and a female doctor who looked to be in her fifties came into the glassed-in office. The woman looked clean but coarse, age lines defining the shapes of her features like bold strokes of an artist's pen. She looked over her glasses at Trista and curled her lip as though she'd seen a particularly large bug.

"Ms. Martin?" She said with a harsh Chicago accent.

Trista nodded in agreement and the doctor looked at her watch as though to confirm her arriving on time and motioned to the door to the left of the glassed-in desk and said, "You're early. Wait for the beep and come inside." The bored man reached down below the desk without looking and a piercing beep broke out as a small red light came on over the door.

Trista double checked she had everything before making her way inside. She'd been through this routine a few times before. Each time Trista came to a prison or mental asylum with her unique request they'd pull her aside and give her the "what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" routine. Most administrators played it in the initial phone call and left it at that but Arkham has been particularly stubborn. She had begun considering bringing lawyers in to grease the hinges on this place. They either have something to hide or they just don't like the idea of some nosy reporter coming into their space asking questions.

The name on the door said Dr. Ruth Adams PhD, Chief Psychological Administrator. Inside was a generously sized office with tasteful paintings and a small tree in a pot in the corner. Dr. Adams sat behind her desk and motioned to the chair across from her for Trista to take. She sat down and smoothed her brown Nordstrom skirt as the doctor began opening files on her desk. Trista began to examine Dr. Adams, looking for clues to her personality. She noticed her eyes were slate blue and her glasses sat down toward the end of her nose. She has a slightly discolored patch on the left side of her forehead, perhaps a birthmark. No wedding ring; probably divorce. Based on her attitude, the fact that she led Trista to her own office to talk, and her indifference to her presence; Dr. Ruth Adams is a dominating alpha personality who uses her title and aggression to control people. The best way to work with a dominant type is to give them the illusion of control, let them think they're calling the shots. A false air of submission is guaranteed to go undetected. Dr. Adams reached down and opened a drawer, producing a copy of the last issue of Cognition. Trista had written her last article in that issue before embarking on this new venture.

Clearly Dr. Ruth is trying to make me feel self-conscious by parading my work in front of me. She thought, subtly showing growing discomfort which she didn't actually feel. Let her think she's getting to me.

Adams set the magazine down on the desk and said, "I picked this up at the news stand after you called with your request. You interviewed Ed Kempner, the Tulsa Slasher. I understand he was your 8th interview in a series of articles about famous serial killers and their psychological profiles. Do you enjoy exploiting murderers for your own financial gain? Do you get a kind of thrill from it?"

This lady didn't waste any time getting to the point, that's good. Trista thought. "I write the articles the magazines set for me. My series on criminal behavior has been popular lately."

Dr. Adams looked unfazed and said, "And now you want to include my patients in your little sideshow?"

So she's playing it hard and fast. Trying to brow beat me with her tough guy act. Belittling my work and placing herself not only above me but above everything I care about. Trista squirmed slightly in her chair, displaying the signs of timid anxiety Dr. Adams must be used to seeing from people she grills.

"Cognition is a psychological journal, not a tabloid. The articles published are professional and impersonal. I'll admit I find criminal psychology fascinating but I can assure you I approach this with the utmost professionalism. It is not my intent to 'exploit' the subjects of my articles, as you say."

Dr. Adams looked into the files before her, fuming silently. Trista made sure look anywhere but the doctor's eyes, another subordinate visual cue. "You have a masters in psychology, yes?"

Trista was a little surprised Dr. Adams had looked into her background but that was fine, she had looked into Adams' as well. She'd been at the asylum for 20 years and had survived the infamous hostage situation here when the inmates took over. She was as tough as they come, but she was getting old and her sense of superiority is easy enough to exploit. "That's right" Trista said with a surprised look.

"Were you attempting a doctorate?" She asked with a sharp tone that almost snapped like a bull whip.

"Yes that's right."

"Why haven't you completed it?" She asked indifferently.

"That doesn't seem relevant."

"Did you run out of money? Was that it? Did mommy and daddy cut you off? Is that why you took a job writing hack pieces for a penny-saver psych mag?"

Trista could feel the heat in her cheeks rising right on cue. "I wanted a change of scenery. College was getting to be monotonous so I decided to see where my masters could take me. I was offered the job at Cognition thanks in part to my own personal blog I kept about my observations and analysis. I was getting through school with a combination of academic scholarships, grants, and student loans. Now, could we please stick to the reason I'm here?"

Adams gave Trista a sour glare and began turning through her files again. It was time to start steering the conversation toward the end goal. The best way to control a conversation is by asking questions.

"Did you receive my list?" Trista asked timidly.

Adams held a paper out so she could look it over and ignored her question, saying, "Do you believe I am unaware of the notoriety certain patients here carry? Do you know how many reporters and journalists I turn away in a given week? This is not a zoo. These men and women are patients with severe mental problems not the least of which stems from a need to garner attention and infamy with elaborate and theatrical personas. I'm sure you can see the negative impact a member of the press offering them a chance to perform would have?"

Trista stiffened as though hardening her resolve; this was Adams' end game move. "Dr. Adams, I can appreciate your concern for your patients and I can assure you these articles will be published with respect to their mental recoveries. This will be for a psychology centered magazine with a relatively small readership which expects well informed and professional articles. As you know, I have a background in the study of psychology and have never exaggerated or exploited the infamy of my subjects for broader appeal. These articles will be written for the express purpose of examining and studying the super criminal phenomenon."

Dr. Adams studied Trista over her glasses, unconvinced but running out of reasons to turn her away. "You understand many of our patients pose considerable danger, even while restrained. We have their threat level classified by a scale of 1 to 5. A level 1 patient is one which has shown no violent tendencies before or after their admittance here. A level 2 patient has been convicted of a violent crime before arriving but has not displayed any violent tendencies since being admitted as a patient. A level 3 patient has been convicted of murder before being admitted here but has made no threats or displayed violent behavior since being admitted. A level 4 patient has committed violent acts against either patients or staff members since being admitted. A level 5 patient has critically injured or killed a staff member or patient since being admitted. Many of the patients you have requested to speak with are level 4 and 5 threats." She searched the file and brought out a paper which she looked over.

"According to your formal request, the patients listed were as follows,

patient 7436, Edward Nigma, alias The Riddler, a level 3 threat;

patient 2322, Harvey Dent, alias Two-Face, a level 3 threat;

patient 5225, Jack Singer, alias Anarky, a level 2 threat;

patient 2556, Roman Sionis, alias Black Mask, a level 4 threat;

patient 2529, John Doe, a level 3 threat;

patient 2762, Waylon Jones, alias Killer Croc, a level 5 threat;

patient 3473, Garfield Lynns, alias Firefly, a level 4 threat;

patient 7489, Ivy Woods, alias Poison Ivy, a level 5 threat;

patient 3327, Johnathan Crane, alias Scarecrow, a level 4 threat,

patient 9229, Victor Zasaz, a level 5 threat;

patient 9387, Maximilian Zenon, alias Maxim Zeus, a level 4 threat;

and finally patient 5653, known only as the Joker, a level 6 threat."

Trista looked genuinely surprised. "A level 6?"

Dr. Adams' face seemed to darken as though remembering something traumatic. "The Joker is a special case. He's been placed on the strictest security measures and isolated from all but the most necessary human contact. Suffice to say, you won't be given access to him."

Trista was intrigued and a bit disappointed, the Joker had been one of the motivating cases behind this project. "Isn't that a bit harsh? How can you claim to be treating him while he is being isolated?"

All the dislike Dr. Adams displayed for Trista came flooding back. "This is considered part of his treatment and it is no business of yours."

Trista almost heard her add "young lady" to the end of that statement, like a blue-hair lecturing a teenager about dangerous boys.

Dr. Adams returned the papers to her file and closed it, saying, "I've decided to allow you to conduct one interview for now. I will be monitoring you at all times during the process and we will be receiving an advance copy of your article. If I detect even a hint of 'hack and slash' I'll have lawyers on you and your people with a 'cease and desist' order. Understood?"

Trista nodded with a smile she hoped wouldn't look too smug. "And who will be the patient?" She asked. This had been the point she was working toward with her timid act. Adams' dominating nature would react to anyone intruding on her space as a usurper, yet Trista's request was too reasonable to deny completely, so she had been counting on getting limited access at first but it couldn't be an easy target, it would have to be one of the more dangerous patients for her to prove herself against and earn her full access. The only way to get Adams to give her that would be to make her think Trista was weak and would be scared off by a more dangerous patient. Dr. Adams wouldn't be able to resist a chance to scare away a pesky reporter by putting her in front of Mr. Zasaz or Killer Croc or even the Joker. Dr. Ruth looked across the list she had gotten earlier and seemed to grin subtly as she came across a name.

"You'll be interviewing Waylon Jones, a level 5 threat. He hasn't made any progress in years and has hardly said a word to any of our staff. Do you want to know how he earned his level 5 status?" Dr. Adams gave her a serpent-like grin. "He attacked and subdued Mr. Cash, an orderly who had been restraining him while Mr. Jones was being moved to a different room. During the attack, Mr. Jones dislocated Mr. Cash's left arm and began biting his hand. When the other orderlies arrived, Mr. Cash was unconscious and Mr. Jones had already consumed most of the flesh from that hand."

Trista allowed a look of shock to flash across her face, while inside she was grinning triumphantly. Dr. Adams seemed satisfied with her plan and went about putting her files away and writing down a date and time. "You will be given access on this day at this time, no sooner or later. You will receive your access badge from the personnel office and you will of course be searched. I suggest you bring a recording device as pencils and pens will be confiscated as will any object which can be stolen and weaponized in any way including paper clips and staples."

Trista took the sheet with the date and time and stood to leave. "Good day Ms. Martin." Dr. Adams said with all the emotion of a yawn and returned to her papers.

Dr. Louis Hilleman had just poured himself another cup of coffee when the bored man in the pink scrubs joined him at the coffee maker.

"Hey, Lou. You get a load of the reporter who came in earlier?"

Louis wore half-moon glasses and had chestnut hair that was just beginning to thin at the top. He took a sip of his coffee and said, "Another one? What about her?"

The man in pink gave Louis a smirk as he poured about 9 packets of sugar in his cup. "She's pretty hot. Heard she writes for a psych mag. She's in the chamber of death with Brass-balls Adams right now."

He looked down the hall toward Dr. Adams' office, or the Chamber of Death as the other employees called it. "Guess I'll keep an eye out." Louis said noncommittally as he headed toward the office.

He'd been working here as a therapist for almost 3 years now and he'd had more than a few trips into the chamber of death himself. He'd seen reporters come and go and it didn't take more than one invitation to the office of Dr. Ruth Adams to chase them off. He was about to enter his office when Dr. Adams' door opened and he was intrigued by the attractive young woman now exiting into the hall. She was tall, blonde, and had piercing blue eyes which locked with his momentarily before she passed by. Shit. Louis thought as he watched her go. Everything was going so well. Why did shehave to happen? He wondered if he should go after her but his responsibilities and his doubts pushed his mind onto other things. He had turned away when something gripped him inside and he found himself turning back and following after her. He spotted her at the main desk signing out. As he walked up he realized he had no excuse to talk with her and fear grabbed him in a choke-hold. It seemed he stood at the doors for an eternity when a voice called out.

"Dr. Hilleman! I just paged you. Some prescriptions were just delivered for you."

It was one of the interns at the main desk, a young man of about 20 with pockmarks and a thin beard. The woman looked up at him from the sign in sheet and he felt everything in him loosen. He strode over confidently and picked up his package from the boy at the desk.

"Thank you, sir." He said politely, meaning it as thanks for much more than the delivery. He looked over at the young woman and smiled.

"I don't believe we've met, are you new here?" The woman gave him a small smile and shook her head. Those penetrating blue eyes locked with his confidently and Louis suddenly felt nervous again.

"I'm actually here as a journalist. I came to interview some of your more notorious patients for a psychological journal." She slipped a hand into her purse and came out with a business card. Louis took the card and glanced at it respectfully. Trista Martin. Louis looked at the blue of her eyes as he repeated it to himself in his mind, an old trick for remembering people's names.

"I guess you're here to see Dr. Adams then? Did she give you a hard time?"

Trista looked away with what looked like a smirk.

"She gave me what I wanted, and that's what counts."

Louis was shocked. "You got through?" He said with disbelief. "No one gets through Dr. 'Brass-balls' Adams. How did you manage that?"

Trista brushed her hair back prettily and smiled. "Maybe I'll tell you some time. And you are?"

To his horror, Louis' mind couldn't seem to recall his own name and he stammered a bit. "Louis…. Hilleman! Louis Hilleman…. Dr. Louis Hilleman!" He tried to laugh it off but inside he was kicking himself furiously. Trista only smiled and shouldered her purse.

"Alright Louis, I'll see you around."

"Alright, Ms. Martin. It is miss, isn't it?"

She nodded with a smile as she turned away. Louis took a deep breath and watched her go. He looked at the intern behind the desk who was smirking at him. The kid made a whistle noise followed by a mock explosion, referring to Louis' fumbled attempts at fraternizing. Louis glared at him and asked the kid if he shouldn't be filing something right now before heading back into the hall.

Trista's room at the extended stay hotel was cramped and already cluttered. She had all her research supplies and reference photos spread out over her work area. The TV was on but Trista was letting it play to an empty room as she worked. The hotel room was dark aside from the flickering television and the light of her computer. Her blonde hair pulled back behind her head, she was scrolling through news reports and police files on Waylon Jones. The chinese she had ordered was approaching room temperature on the desk beside her as a news report went on talking to an indifferent room. The only other sound was the noise of Gotham coming in through the open window. Police sirens, car horns, dogs barking, the constant hum of engines and machinery punctuated by the occasional gun shot, all mingled with the chatter of news anchors discussing the news of the day. The suit she'd worn to her meeting with Dr. Adams was hung over the back of the cheap hotel couch behind her and she sat in an under shirt and panties as she worked.

As far as she could tell Waylon Jones, better known as Killer Croc, was born in Louisiana to Haitian immigrant parents who would later leave him in the care of his Aunt. He was born with a rare skin disorder known as Epidermal Hyperkeratosis which makes his skin extremely thick and dry, giving it the appearance of scales. Not much is known about his childhood but he came to Gotham several years ago, although no one is sure when exactly he arrived. The first reports of homeless men turning up dead and partially eaten began coming in shortly before two sewer workers disappeared. Rumors of alligators in the sewers began making the rounds and people started to get nervous. According to the police report, around the same time Croc broke into the Gotham underworld through illegal fighting tournaments where he quickly earned a reputation for brutality. After that he gained a kind of following and through that formed the gang he would use to make a name for himself. Croc's gang quickly gained a reputation for boldness and ruthlessness as they carved a bloody swathe through the Gotham underworld. Killer Croc himself was even more brutal and savage than his gang, frequently taking on rivals personally and indulging in cannibalism. He was quickly becoming the most wanted and most feared man in the underworld, both by the police and the other crime families. It was after the daughter of a wealthy Gotham business man disappeared and Croc's gang claimed responsibility that a manhunt was issued by the GCPD. After a coordinated effort by the GCPD and the Batman, Killer Croc was brought in and his gang dispersed. The only remains they found of the girl were a few chewed up bones and wads of hair. Since being found criminally insane by the courts, he's been in Arkham, kept under strict security measures. The attack on the orderly Cash was in the papers but no other attacks seemed to come out. This was a perfect first interview to test her skills and prove herself to Adams. Looking at the police photo of him she felt an interesting heaviness in her stomach. He looked like he'd been chewed up and spit out, flashing a predatory grin full of crooked teeth filed to points. In her mind she was imaging those teeth tearing the flesh from the hand of a screaming orderly and she had to turn away. On the television, the news anchor introduced a new story on the Batman. Trista got up and sat in front of the television as the anchor reported that the Batman had been responsible for the seizing of nearly 10 million dollars in black market goods at the Gotham harbor. As an image of the bat-signal came on screen she instinctively looked out the window to see if it was up in the sky. She'd been here two nights and hadn't yet seen the infamous spot light. The news had moved on to the stock market and she turned it off, turning the room from a flickering blue to the dull orange of the city lights in the window. As she lay on her bed considering how to approach her upcoming interview, a spot light flashed into the sky, projecting the silhouette of a bat onto the low hanging smog of Gotham.

The date on the paper Dr. Adams had given her wasn't for another few days so Trista decided to talk with the GCPD about Jones. She knew Adams would put a road block between her and any patient files or staff members she could talk to so she felt the police would be the next logical place to get an idea of what he was like. After tangoing with the front desk a bit she managed to get a meeting with Commissioner Jim Gordon to talk about getting police files and interview tapes of Croc. When she entered his office, he was sitting behind stacks of paperwork in an office as cluttered as Trista's own. Gordon himself looked about as old as her father but he was solidly built and, while a bit frayed at the edges, looked as tough as any street cop she'd known. After brief introductions she told him about her project and her appointment with Killer croc. At that he gave her a look he might give his teenaged daughter if she'd brought home a pierced biker for a date.

"You have to know," he began, leaning back in that grandfatherly way, "that Croc is a cold-blooded killer who would snap your neck if you gave him the chance. He's an animal. How much do you think you can get out of him?"

Trista smirked and disregarded his concern. "Even if he is snapping and foaming at the mouth during our interview, all I can do is record it and include it in the article. I'm trying to gather as much information as I can about his crimes before I meet with him personally."

Gordon seemed to realize she wasn't backing down and threw up his hands in surrender. "Well you're welcome to our case files and footage."

Trista pulled out a small notebook and added, "I'll also need to speak with his arresting officer, his lawyer, and anyone who had any prolonged contact with him." Gordon shook his head at a loss but agreed to her terms.

"You're really serious about this? You've got guts, I'll give you that. Just promise me you won't give him a chance to make me regret helping you."

Trista agreed and Gordon walked her out into the bull pen where half-a-dozen cops were working or talking.

"Simmens!" A thin cop with a moustache looked up from his work and stood. "Can you take Ms. Martin to the records room?"

"Yes sir." He stood and held out his hand to Trista as he came over. Trista shook it gingerly as Gordon explained, "This woman is a journalist researching the Killer Croc case. Simmens here was the arresting officer on the case."

Simmens looked at her with surprise and before he could go into the old "whats a nice girl like you" bit, she cut him off with questions about his history on the force; leading him toward the records room.

The records room was as dim and quiet as a library but had the canned space feeling of a bank vault. Simmens told her about the day Croc was arrested as she went through files, setting aside the relevant papers.

"He was huge, that was the first thing I noticed. I remember thinking we might not have cuffs that would fit him until I saw him rip through the first set they tried. Thank god the Bat was there. He did most of the leg work that day. Croc was hiding out in an old sewage pumping facility that he was using as a base and let me tell you; the idea of sloshing through those pitch black pipes and corridors with nothing but a pistol and a flash light, knowing that thing was in there somewhere, I try not to think about it. We just covered the exits while the Batman went in after Croc. When he came out, the Bat had Croc tied up with this weird chain that looked too thin to hold him, but when Croc came to and started thrashing around, that sucker held. I don't know where he gets that stuff, honestly."

Trista held up the mug shot of Waylon from that day and said, "Did he say anything to you?"

Simmens looked at the picture and his throat worked as he swallowed. "Just your typical stuff. Threats, complaints, a little bargaining."

He looked around to see if anyone else was there before saying, "Off the record, me and some of the other guys, we thought we'd see what he was really made of, you know? Sometimes when we bring in tough guys like that, a few minutes of the old "club med" treatment breaks them back down to our level, but not with this guy. He took his licks but he only chuckled at us when we asked if he'd had enough. Maybe it was a chuckle, I don't know. It sounded like a stubborn drain unclogging. He'd look at us through the blood and swelling and smile with those damn pointed teeth of his and say, 'Maybe just a few minutes more boys, I don't think I've got it yet.' We went on for most of an hour and every time we stopped he'd say he didn't quite get it or that he'd had it but forgot. We were all sweating like geezers in a sauna and he was bleeding all over but he just kept grinning and chuckling that weird guttural noise. He really was a monster. I've never seen anything like it."

Trista looked up at him and Simmens stared off into the distance as though remembering a nightmare. She slammed the file drawer to bring him out of it and told him she had what she needed. That night she watched the interrogation tapes and began working out how she would approach her meeting with Killer Croc.

Trista had already worked out a system for interviewing psychopaths and criminals. The most important thing to do when preparing was to get as much information on their crimes and backgrounds as you could. That way if they start trying to bullshit you, you can call them on it. Every killer she'd talked to, they were all like lions in a zoo. Captivity had a way of declawing them and the only way they could get their kicks was to try and shock you. As long as you familiarized yourself with everything they did, anything they say would either be a rehashing of what you already knew or a lie. One of the reasons she pitched this new project was because she was getting bored with serial killers. Once you get over the media hype, they're all the same. Just boys in men's bodies; pathetic, selfish, and worst of all predictable. She could remember the tension she felt as she spoke with her first killer. But each one had the same attitude, the same behaviors, the same hang-ups. We're expected to believe these men were wolves in sheep's clothing, predators with cunning and power, but they all end up being just the opposite when you actually meet them. It was disillusioning to say the least. Trista only hoped these super criminals wouldn't be as disappointing.

Trista arrived at the appointed time wearing a conservative brown and green skirt and jacket. She had two cases with her; one contained her recording device and files, the other was a humidifier and a small fountain. After she had received her badge from the personnel desk, Dr. Adams met her outside one of the two additions to the main Arkham house where the patients were kept along with Dr Hilleman and another older man Trista hadn't met. Adams looked at her gear disapprovingly but said nothing as she led her toward the interview room. Louis gave Trista a thumbs-up before he and the other doctor went into an observation room next door. As Trista began setting up her equipment in the small room she asked when the patient would be arriving.

"He'll be here soon enough. I and two others will be observing your interaction in the next room. Any breach of security procedures will result in the termination of the interview. Has that thing been checked out?" She was looking at Trista's humidifier.

Trista ignored the contempt in Adams' voice and went on setting up. "I'm going to need any and all indoor plants in here."

Dr. Adams seemed to get flustered and began to protest but Trista cut in. "I'm trying to create a comfortable environment for your patient, one which will help the interview process, so if you don't mind, I'd like to have this room ready when he gets here."

Dr. Adams looked ready to pop a vessel but had nothing to say. Trista went back to work, trying not to let Adams see her smile as she did.

The interview room looked more like a jungle now, the air thick and the sound of running water echoing off the concrete walls. Trista stepped out into the hall to wait for Croc to be brought in. When she heard the announcement that a level 5 patient was being brought to meeting room 4, she slipped into another empty room and watched through the crack in the door as they brought him in. She wanted to get a chance to see him before he saw her. They had him strapped down tightly to what looked like a gurney that rolled upright. He must have stood nearly 7 feet tall and his body was toned, mahogany brown, and muscled thickly. He looked like the twisted trunk of a tree; thick, hairless, and gnarled. Dr. Adams walked with the orderlies that were wheeling him toward the meeting room and as they got there she went inside, possibly to see if Trista was ready. When she came back out she looked flustered but waved the orderlies in. Trista got her files ready, messed her hair up a bit and re-buttoned her shirt wrong before heading out. She burst into the room as they were locking Jones into his chair, looking like she'd just run a mile. Her foot got tangled in the cord for the humidifier and she fell sprawling to the floor, throwing papers everywhere. She began to apologize when Adams cut her off.

"Where have you been? I told you to be ready!"

Croc watched Trista with interest as the flustered young woman tried to explain herself to an enraged and indifferent Dr. Adams.

"I don't want to hear it! You told me you were going to handle this professionally and seriously and you show up with demands and odd requests only to disappear and show up falling over yourself! I have half a mind to call this whole thing off!"

Trista looked pained and begged Adams to reconsider, all while watching Croc's reaction out of the corner of her eye. When Dr. Adams finally left, Trista almost had to call up a few tears to get her to go along with it. She mumbled an apology to Jones who only watched her pick up the papers and stack them neatly on the table.

After taking a breath and fixing her hair she looked up at Croc gingerly who seemed to look down at her the way someone would look at a child covered in dirt who'd just been scolded by their mother. This was, of course, exactly what she'd been going for. People with his condition have a problem with dry skin, so she brought in the humidifiers to make him more comfortable. He grew up in the bayou and seemed to associate negative feelings with people and man-made structures, so she brought in the plants to put him at ease. His preference for the sewers meant he felt more comfortable around water, so she brought the fountain to create the sounds he was used to. He was a brawler and a self-made monster that saw enemies everywhere, so if she was going to get close to him, she had to be as non-threatening as possible. Everything was set up in Trista's favor and all she had to do was get him to talk. He was watching her but not in a predatory way and that's the way she hoped to keep it.

"I'm not sure if they told you already, but I'm with a magazine. I just wanted to ask you some questions. Is that okay?"

Croc shifted in his chains and smirked the way an adult playing along with a child might. "I don't see why I should. Nobody wants to talk to me, they just want to stand outside my cage and gawk." Croc's voice was like wet gravel on asphalt and Trista made sure he saw how intimidated she was by it.

"I want to talk to you. I came here to find out who you really are." She flashed a meek smile and he scoffed.

"You had them chain me up like a dog because you're scared I'll gobble you up. You're no different from anyone else who says they want to talk." Croc looked away disinterestedly and Trista looked pained.

I'm losing him. He's forcing my hand. I didn't want to do this. "They are the ones who said you had to be chained up like that. Is it uncomfortable? Do you want me to take them off?"

He looked at her with mild surprise as she approached him carefully and examined the chains. Standing this close she could hear his breathing and felt a powerful urge to run. As she reached for the first lock a loud buzz came from the door and she jumped with a small squeak. A voice came over the intercom, Dr. Adams was not happy.

"Trista Martin, if you open those restraints, security will be escorting you from the building immediately and this interview will never happen. Am I understood?"

Trista looked frustrated but internally she was relieved. Saved by the bell. "I only want to make Mr. Jones more comfortable."

She watched as Croc's face softened as he looked at her and hardened when Dr. Adams' voice came into the room.

"Security measures must be followed at all times, Ms. Martin, regardless of our patient's comfort levels. Now get on with it."

The voice clicked off and Trista looked at Croc with an apologetic expression of regret. She sat back down and sighed. "This isn't going well at all, Mr. Jones." She said dejectedly.

"Hey, don't let old Ruthy get to ya. You wanna talk? That's fine. Let's talk." Trista looked up at him with a hopeful smile and got her recording device ready.

"Okay Waylon…" He cut her off gently.

"Just call me Croc. Everyone does."

She smiled and said, "Okay, Croc, let's start with your childhood. What can you tell me about it?"

Croc shifted into a comfortable position, at least as comfortable as the chains would allow and began.

"You ever hear that joke about humanitarians?"