(Author's Note: I have always been a defender of rights for people who don't need defending. I've also noticed that many of you long-term fans have been staring at your computers in abject horror for the past five years or so since the fandom was rebooted and the fanfic started crawling out the woodwork. I'm sorry if it bothers you, you have every right to be bothered. Remember, some of us are learning to write, and this might be one of the few, if not only outlets we have. So, if I haven't turned you away yet with this boring dissertation, I'm sure the following will. Basically, I'll try to stay in character for a bit, then I'll be poking fun at some fanfic tropes. I hope it's okay, if not, just chalk it up as another crime against fandom.)
Jonathan scowled.
He didn't really know why he was drinking the sludge sloshing around in the tiny Styrofoam cup. He didn't need the caffine; actually, it would make him more agitated, not that anyone would notice.
He heard a faint high-pitch whistling sound from below as the draft came through. It was probably time to fix the floorboards. Being the director had more disadvantages than any of the small list of benefits. Dealing with the mundane was one of them.
Dumping the rest of the acidic mess into the nearest wilting potted plant, (all plastic, ever since that last incident involving Miss Isley) he checked his watch. He was behind schedule thanks to Falcone. Not that it wasn't worth it, it was, but he was running out of time. Soon the League would need him to strike terror into the hearts of Gotham, and he and Scarecrow would be happy to oblige.
He stepped out the elevator into the basement and walked past his researchers without a cursory glance. His footsteps tapped harshly against the cement floor as he made his way through the labyrinthine passageways. He stopped at door 416, and casually walked in.
He took a moment to bask in the pulsating energy coming from her screams. It was perfect, sheer and utter bliss watching her eyes roll back into her head as her arms flailed and her body shook. Of course, the trial run was for research purposes, but Jonathan could not deny that spine-tingling delight that surged through his body at the palpable fear radiating in the room.
His waited until the effects wore off. The subject had lost her voice a good ten minutes before, so the rest of the procedure was routine. He recorded the results and prepared to send the girl back where she came from.
Slowly, he knelt before the cowering, delicate creature. She was as pale as alabaster, her twig-like limbs twitching at her sides. She could be considered beautiful, a perfect emaciated doll. Her large, emerald eyes gazed with trepidation at the man before her. She whimpers.
"Hush, little one," he whispers as he soothes her hair. "You did well today."
She's transfixed by his sparkling, cerulean orbs. "Did I, Jonny?" Her voice cracks. He doesn't respond.
"You, you know now. I'll do anything for you Jonny, anything. You knew I would. Is it because you love me? I think so, Jonny. I…I love…"
He jabs the syringe into her neck. She coughs, and procedes to fall into spasms again. He holds her still as she thrashes and kicks weakly. Finally, she stops.
Jonathan takes out the syringe and examines the remaining toxin. It's the exact same shade of cerulean as his eyes. Gently, he grazes his fingers over the side.
"I love you, too."