Like most, I was blown away by Heath Ledger's performance as the Joker in The Dark Knight. And as usual when I see something astonishing, my mind started working. Here's my first story pertaining to the Batman universe.
This is a story where the Joker's past grabs him by his purple lapel. As per usual, I've taken hints from the DC universe as well as from my own imagination. I've taken characters in Gotham and put my own spin on things, and Kudos to anyone who spots something inspired by DC! And of course, there will be the obvious players— the Joker, Batman, Scarecrow. Dr. Arkham of insane-family-fame. The works.
Anything DC-related belongs to its creator(s).
Obviously, The Dark Knight spoilers abound here.
Here's to my first attempt at DC. Cheers! Please read and review.
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Dr. Jeremiah Arkham usually didn't drink.
He was, after all, usually dealing with minds much more creative than his. Any sort of buzz was a huge disadvantage.
Besides, he liked to think of himself as respectable. An upright citizen in a downtrodden town.
But every so often, he needed something to calm himself down. Like a few months ago, after his co-worker had become his patient. Or a week ago, when he met the Joker face-to-face in uncomfortably small quarters.
And then there was now.
Dr. Arkham didn't know why he was so nervous. But when Jim Gordon had introduced him to the new social worker pegged on the Joker's case, his stomach had plummeted.
The social worker's name was Kitty Johnson. She was a pretty girl with dark blond hair and impeccable fashion. And she was vain, or at the very least smug. Her smiles became warmer once he expressed his uncertainty in her.
He had a feeling she was only smiling at herself, and how she thought she could beat the Joker.
She'd told him, cordially, that she had excellent credentials, and also very few expectations for men in general. The Joker was on her do-not-touch list, which also included her boyfriend's brother.
The commissioner had laughed, but Dr. Arkham didn't appreciate her humor then and he didn't appreciate it now, while he was halfway drunk.
He didn't know if the Joker would get angry at Kitty Johnson's brashness, or laugh.
And then of course, in Arkham Asylum, no one was ever sure which was worse.
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The receptionist at Arkham was called Dear.
Most people didn't know if her name tag was a joke and ignored it. Others hid smiles. But the regulars knew it was her last name.
One regular, Ingrid Johnston, came in once every other week to visit her sister Heidi. Heidi Johnston was fourteen, and lived in the lowest security ward. She had the coziest room in the mansion, for a patient. It was painted pale yellow and had a real bed. When visiting hours were over, Dear would pop in and say goodbye, if she looked approachable.
If she didn't look approachable...
That was another story.
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Dr. Arkham sat at his kitchen table. The bottle of brandy was safely put away, and he was slowly coming up from his slight haze.
He had realized why he was so worried about Kitty Johnson. It wasn't because of her superior attitude, or because she didn't have a full doctorate. The cause was so simple he hadn't seen it, though it was right in front of him when he met her. She was so confident. And yet so young... well, at least compared to him.
He didn't know how she could possibly handle the Joker.
More than half a dozen men and women twice her age had all come out of the private room looking ten, if not twenty, years older, and a hell of a lot more paranoid. Dr. Arkham felt an ironic amusement at his tried-and-true methods failing.
He would have laughed, but then the Joker really would have had the last laugh. And Dr. Arkham really didn't want to give him that satisfaction.
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At eight o'clock, Dear barred the visitor's entrance. She paged the guards to let them know she was leaving. They never replied, not that she cared. They had a job, she had a job. That they worked at the same place was inconsequential.
She walked down the hallway to the exit the staff used. One side of the corridor was lined with doors with small windows. The third door was labeled H. Johnston, and Dear peeked through the glass.
She quickly drew back, but she wasn't fast enough.
Heidi Johnston saw her.
She had been turning around in the center of the room, breathing heavily and occasionally punching the air. She cried out just as Dear looked in, and they locked eyes.
Heidi flung herself at the door, raking her fingers down the glass and snarling. Her fingertips were bright red, and her chestnut hair was half pulled out of the two braids she wore.
Dear swallowed and backed away. She continued to the exit, ignoring Heidi's yelps and screams.
Hopefully, she'd be approachable tomorrow morning.
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The couch was comfortable, almost as comfortable as the bed. Jeremiah Arkham watched the news, eyes unfocused. He lay on his side, just in case.
He wasn't looking forward to work tomorrow.