Tip, tap. Tip, tap.

The sound of dripping grew louder in his ear.

Tip, TAP, TIP, TAP.

His eyes shot open, though in the dim light there was only a faint red glow from various recessed lightings in the hallway. The tapping had come from the leaky faucets on a hideously dirty sink in the corner of the room.

Red light?

Sink?

Hideously dirty?

His breathing grew fast and shallow.

This was not his bedroom. Nor his home. Nor the couch or some other portion of his home that he had accidentally fallen asleep in.

Panic threatened to shoot through him but he kept himself steady. There was no need for panic to mess with one's mind. A clear head was needed.

First things first—it was dark and hard to see where he was. He was on some sort of meager cot, from the feel of it, rough clothing—very rough clothing, in fact. As his eyes adjusted to the strange surroundings, a sickening feeling began rising from the bottom of his stomach, and a sour taste grew in his mouth.

He recognized the feel of these clothes. His hands brushed the rough cloth on his chest where there was some label…he knew what that label was. He realized where he was.

Bruce Wayne was in a cell at Arkham Asylum.

And he did not remember how he got there.

Now it was the time to panic. Just a little.

He got up, immediately thankful that there were no restraints on him. The cell was medium sized, with a little table, a cot, a toilet and a sink. There were no other objects, which meant that whoever had put him here knew his identity as Batman and his ability to use even the tiniest object as means of escape.

He got up, pressing his hands on the large, clear window that made up one wall of the entire cell, realizing he was probably on the back end max-security wing, along with…

…everybody else. He realized with even more mounting sick dread, that he had been so satisfied at putting away Joker, Two-Face, Ivy—mostly everybody—recently and now they were all here. With him.

He wasn't sure yet how it all happened, there were no orderlies walking down the empty hallway and he couldn't see who was across from him even thorough the glass door. Instead he sat back down on the meager cot with a sigh, trying to douse the sick feeling in his stomach.

Bruce couldn't remember how he had gotten here. The last thing he remembered—

--what was the last thing he remembered? It was all so disjointed…something about going on patrol, Alfred telling him—something—it was just jumbled. He didn't know what day it was…what week…he knew it was probably October but with the state of mind he had right now he wasn't sure if he should trust himself.

If his identity was revealed, why would they stick him in Arkham and not just jail? How did he get caught, anyway?

He buried his head in his hands, trying to think and sort the mess.

Why would they put you in Arkham unless you were crazy?

I'm not crazy.

Well, guess they thought Joker needed the company then?

I'm NOT crazy!

You don't have the best record in the world for stability, either.

How did I get here? Why can't I remember? I'm not crazy.

You ARE talking to yourself, you know.

He slammed his fist into his pillow, making the cot reverberate loudly. But Bruce had to wonder, in a corner of his mind, that maybe the reason he couldn't remember, maybe the reason why he was here and so confused, was…maybe he was crazy.

But that was just crazy talk.

And thus ends Chapter the First. How did Bruce get here? What happens when daylight comes and the inmates wake up to find a new special friend for them to play with? What day is it, anyway? Find out here next time, same Bat-time...same...anyway. I'll stop. XD