Arkham Knight
By Kris Rasmussen
Chapter 1
A celestial silver sickle hung over the infamous gothic structure, not so much lighting the night as it was drawing all the light in. The heavenly body was so bright it distracted the eye, making the features beneath it somewhat indistinguishable. The Victorian building is the oldest structure still standing in Gotham City. Five stories tall, with multiple out-buildings and a few towers, it was also the largest for most of the city's history. Its final resident was a wealthy doctor who, after his wife was brutally murdered by a madman, turned his ancient family home into a facility dedicated to the research, understanding, and treatment of extreme forms of insanity. After thirty years of failure, Amadeus Arkham took his own life in a fit of depression. The haunted structure still carries his name.
Arkham Asylum was a structure with a long and storied history. It has contained some of the greatest minds in the field of aberrant psychology, both in terms of researchers and patients. Countless years and dollars had been fed into the machinery of Arkham in the hopes of understanding and curing the most severe and unique forms of madness the world had ever seen. Yet despite all the money and skill and manpower and brilliance Arkham was known primarily for its failures. Its inability to rehabilitate its most infamous inmates is the first thing on any mind that spends but a moment contemplating the very word. Therefore Arkham Asylum was, primarily, a place to put those beyond redemption. Those deemed too insane or dangerous to be allowed to mingle with the common murderers, rapists, and white collar criminals residing in Blackgate. It was a place to put lunatics. Tonight, a new lunatic was admitted into Arkham.
"Wake up Bub. You been out a while." The gruff voice sounded like a logger who gargled rocks and smoked cigars. It wasn't far off from the truth.
"Man, that Bat-guy cleaned your clock." This voice was younger, friendly. A college kid messing with a buddy. "Can't believe I've never heard of him. But you did kinda' deserve it."
"Stow it, this isn't the time." This voice was firm and commanding. It was an easy voice to listen to. "Get ready soldier, someone's coming."
The thunk of a large bolt and scrape of old steel announced the opening of a heavily secured door. Bright flashes and pops hurt the madman's eyes as he opened them, a combination of concussion and morphine fuzzing his vision. Nearby was the steady beep and hiss of hospital machinery. Parts of his body were in a cast, and a few weak tugs informed him that he was restrained. This would be easily remedied if it weren't for the infernal fluff dulling his senses and slowing his brain.
Two figures, one thin and the other large entered the room, stepping before the three figures already with him. "Well mister Doe, it was quite some trouble getting you situated here. Even under sedation you broke mister Doughtrie's jaw. You may wish to avoid him in the future." His eyelids were pulled open in a clinical fashion, and a light was shined upon his pupils. His pulse and several other factors were checked as the thin man, presumably a doctor, continued speaking. "My name is Doctor Cavendish and this is a preliminary interview, just to get a few registration details settled. How many fingers and I holding up?"
"Two."
"And now?"
"Three."
There was a scritch of pen on paper. "Excellent, Mister Doe, you're recovering very quickly. Can you tell me where the Statue of Liberty is?"
'Ellis Island. New York."
More scritching. "Goood, good. Now who is president right now?"
"Barak Obama."
The scritching stopped. "Excuse me sir, but could you please repeat that?"
Was that wrong? The man on the bed had voted for him, even shaken his hand at a fundraiser. The President had talked about his show. The girls wanted to watch it but he didn't think they were old enough. "Barak Obama."
"Ouch," said the young man "not the answer four-eyes wanted." His red garbed head tilted to one side, as web streaked hands rose to scratch his ear.
"Well," said Doctor Cavendish, "let's just move on. You were found with a variety of interesting items which, unfortunately did not include any form of identification. Would you mind telling me your name?"
The man on the bed glanced at the three who'd arrived with him, a questioning look in his eyes. The tall one with the blue chainmail and stars on his chest said "Go ahead, son. They've seen you without the mask, so it's only a matter of time."
"Marc Spector." It was an admission he'd been hoping to avoid. After years he'd finally gotten his life together. He had the funding to pursue his purpose and made peace with his demons. He was back on track. But now the show will be canceled and he will be broke again. Worse, he'll be out. Still, he'd come back from worse, and the old soldier always gave good advice.
"Excellent, Mister Spector. I noted your hesitation there, and I would just like to alleviate some of your concerns. We here at Arkham Asylum pride ourselves on confidentiality."
"He's lying," said the short, stubby one. The brief hiss of rapid steel on steel punctuated the statement. "I can smell it."
Oblivious of the commentary, the doctor droned on. "Any personal details revealed during your stay here shall remain in the strictest confidence. We're here to help you, Mister Spector. Once you're fully healed, I'll have some paperwork…"
"Wait," interrupted Spector "Where am I, again?" It was a heavy question. Heavier than anyone in the room realized.
Doctor Cavendish started at Marc Spector for a brief moment. He'd dealt with all kinds of mental infirmity but had trouble believing anyone who had spent the last few nights running around in a moon-themed costume had never heard on this place. "This is the Elizibeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally insane, just on the outskirts of Gotham city."
Spector's eyes went wide. He'd traveled the world and never heard of a Gotham City. A quick glance at his companions revealed they were as lost as he.
The doctor studied Marc's reaction. The drugs kept his face honest, if a bit sluggish. This man had no idea where he was, and what was he looking at? Clearly he was deeply disturbed. Cavendish repressed a sigh, hoping this poor man did not become one of Arkham's many revolving door costumes. "Well, I think that's everything I need for now. Welcome to Arkham, Mister Spector. I hope your stay here is…helpful."
With that, the skinny doctor turned. The man who'd followed him, a man with carefully sculpted muscles and a face made of bricks waited for the doctor to leave and leaned over Marc. A voice like a stuttering mac truck said "Jim was a friend of mine 'Moon Knight'. Gonna' be a reckoning." The thug reached up and stabbed Marc in the solar plexus with a sausage finger, then walked out of the room laughing. As the steel door slammed on its occupants, the short old guy said "Lookin' forward to it."