So, here's my long winded authors note – I've finally started writing again, after a ridiculous, unplanned hiatus based on being incredibly lazy. I also have no Beta (except for a spellchecker) for this, so I'm sorry if it's crap / badly spelled / grammatically poor / generally riddled with mistakes. I really miss my Beta, anyone wanna be my new super awesome one? Also – I have no clue where I'm going with this, so don't expect me to update it like… Ever. 'Cause I'm bad at that anyway – but as I don't know where I'm going it'll be hard to write.

In the same vein as my last – an overused, over-sued and terribly cliché plot gets me to attempt to make it not shit and sue like. And quite possibly fail.

It's been a while guys, so lemmie know what you think. But gently.

I must warn you. This story contains a plot line that involves a school shooting. I did something similar in my last story, however I am aware this is a sensitive subject and do not wish to upset anyone. It's not an amazingly central concept, but it's there & might get mentioned a bit much – So, if it's likely to touch a nerve – you now have a choice not to continue.

Update: When checking rereading chapter one to start chapter two, I noticed a few mistakes, so I've done some editing, moved some stuff about, added some stuff in…

Peter Kirby sat in the staff room of Arkham Asylum, quite happily watching the news. A job as an orderly at a mental hospital was hardly glamorous, but it paid well and his father had worked there nearly thirty years without much incident, especially considering some of the criminals that were incarcerated there. Although that was mostly due to the fact that the orderlies didn't work with the so-called super criminals – just with the regular nut jobs. There were guards, with stab proof vests that took care of the really dangerous ones. He and his father just worked up top.

His father.

Wallace Kirby. What a great man… Peter idolized his father. He'd held down a job even through the depression that had plagued the city, he'd been a good father and husband and he'd gotten Peter this job too. After such a long time in the Asylum, and such a good record – he was the head orderly and was very well in with many of the Doctors and Administrators.

Peter hadn't done too well at school, but he was big and strong, and perfectly adept at the job and so a few strings had been pulled and Peter had a job. He didn't really understand the politics behind it, but his father had just told him to keep his nose clean, and keep others secrets – you never knew when they'd come in handy.

Wallace had quite a few people in his pocket and he liked it that way. He followed his own advice, and kept his nose clean, no one had dirt on him – he didn't drink, beat his wife or sleep around and most importantly he didn't help the patients – at least, not in any way that anyone had ever detected. He always worked by and to the letter of the law, although those letters could be easily rearranged to his advantage he had found – And so, he was safe. A pet of those higher above him and a silent secret keeper of many people's secrets – unless he needed something.

Peter Kirby shifted, and sighed, his feet up on a chair opposite him. The news was never pleasant and today was no different. Two light but dead eyes stared out at him from behind sallow, pale skin that was littered with prominent freckles, and a shock of red hair that seemed to grow in a way that defied gravity – predominantly upwards and then every other direction too. The girl couldn't have been much younger than him he noted, as her picture shrunk to show a grave newsreader.

"The small town has no facilities to hold Warren and she is to be transferred to Arkham Asylum, of Gotham City after her case was reviewed by Doctor Marsh from Williams Medical Centre. It is still unclear what motives led to the murder of thirteen people in the small town on the fringe of Gotham City but slowly a picture of how is emerging…"

The news moved to a feed with an attractive young man with too much gel in his hair, a sharp suit and a smile that showed how proud he was to be there, but was not fitting of the situation. "It's been just over two weeks since Anne Warren went on her rampage, and the damaged town in slowly starting to pull together – and facts are slowly seeping out revealing how a day that started as any other in a small town just outside Gotham City soon ended in a blood bath.

"This man, Arthur Williams sold her the bullets – Arthur, how was she as she came into your store that lead to the deaths of her class mates?"

Arthur looked completely uncomfortable with his link to the murder and shrugged. "She seemed normal, you know. As normal as she ever was anyway. She came in, sayin' her dad had sent her – She often picked bullets up for her dad, y'see? Everyone knows everyone 'round here. So when someone's kid comes in and says they're here to pick up somethin' for their dad, you just trust 'em… We're not a town big on crime. Sure you get boys pickin' at knotholes in fences or whatever – but nothin' like this… And he dad did send her quite often…"

The news reporter was soon swooping down on two girls; about the same age as the girl who's face was still in the up right corner. "So… Did she really fit in, in this town?"

On of the girls snorted. "No."

"And why was that?"

"She's went around shooting people isn't it obvious?"

The sheriff was talking about how they had responded to the call from the school about the shootings and how they didn't have the facilities in town for someone insane – so they'd called the nearest city for a consult. Peter checked his watch and drowned out the news as he swilled his coffee around in its mug.

A few shots of mourners and then a woman, sat in a living room, with wooden walls and too many ornaments. A sign at the bottom identified her as a teacher at the town's school, her voice wracked with emotion brought Peter's attention back. "Well, of course we preferred to keep the children in school here – I mean, the nearest city is so far away that it would be impractical. We thought. We thought they'd be safer here. You never hear of gun crime in the country, just in the cities. And our population isn't that small – but I won't say this isn't hopelessly devastating. But I don't know if the kids of this town can go back in that building – I know I can't… The children of my friends were killed or injured in there.

The kids – their friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, and siblings were killed there… I can't imagine how they could return…"

Peter stood up; as he finished his coffee and turned the television off as the reporter gave their best wishes for them as their families and friends mourned their loss, and sent the story back to the studio.

He nipped to the bathroom – he was about to see this girl into the Asylum and it was never best to bring a patient in on a full bladder. He'd been told that since she'd been taken in she'd been as placid and as quiet as a mouse. But that didn't mean anything he'd learned… The quiet ones were often the fighters and you only got kicked in the stomach once when you had a full bladder without learning to make sure you were empty and dry.

He wended his way to the entrance, meeting his father on the steps. Wallace had once been build like his son, never as tall, but broad and muscular but now – his age and his wife's cooking were getting to him and he had long begun to spread - still as strong as an ox but with more than ample padding. His dark hair was peppered, very liberally, with grey and the moustache that was short and neat but extended down past his lips nearly to his chin down to his chin was white.

Making their way across the threshold was a very odd looking combination of people. Two men in uniforms were practically carrying a limp Anne Warren, strapped into a straight jacket, across. She looked odd in it, thought Peter; it seemed far too big for her. He had a good foot or so on her, he could tell and she looked so slight, so tiny. How someone like this could kill thirteen people was a mystery to him. He had a feeling if he blew on her she might just blow away.

"Doped to the gills…" One of the men carrying her said as he presented the girl to them.

Wallace bent forward slightly to get a closer took at the awkward, angled, crumpled young woman in front of him and slapped her cheek gently, as one might do to encourage or praise a child. She muttered something incoherent but otherwise didn't react, as if she were merely speaking in her sleep.

"Well…" Wallace straightened up. "I think we might be able to take care of this one on our own. Why don't you fine boys sort out that vehicle and we'll take it from here?"

Peter took one side of the girl happily. The girl was doped up to the gills, and in a straight jacket and his father thought they could handle it. If the administrators didn't mess them around he could hopefully track down Marie, a pretty nurse before her shift finished today.

But that was where the mistakes began.

Wallace's ten second check of the girl had missed something; the strap that should have held the jacket down by looping between her legs was indeed done up, but was not between her legs but useless and by the side of one of her legs. The jacket, the only one available in her town was meant for a fully-grown man and hadn't been done up nearly tight enough.

Her arms weren't pinned down.

And she wasn't drugged.

It wasn't long until they were inside and alone and then she took her chance– she broke free. All it took was a few rapid movements to slough off the jacket and make a break for it. Wallace realized a split second before his son, but the pair both missed her. She didn't miss them. A well-aimed kick between the legs downed Wallace and a quick scrabble secured her jacket around Peter's neck.

Not as young as he once was Wallace couldn't just shake off the pain and aid his son instantly, but he did manage to hit the alarm and recover himself a few short seconds later and begin attempting to drag the young woman off his son, whom she'd manage to topple and was doing a fairly good job of garrotting.

More orderlies appeared supremely quickly as if they'd been sitting around doing nothing. The jacket she was hardly wearing any more was removed and with the full bulk of two men on top of her she was stopped from thrashing long enough to get a needle in the backside from a nurse.

And there on the foyer Wallace fitted her into a new straight jacket, more meant for her size, straining the buckles to make sure she was well and truly tight. Technically he shouldn't have restrained her once she'd been sedated – However, she's attacked his son. His son was one of the staff, and no one would report him for that, because if you didn't protect your co-workers from the crazies... Well. You weren't really a co-worker any one wanted. Also, Wallace rationalized to himself, she hadn't been processed yet – so, these precautions were necessary just in case the drugs weren't enough.

"You process her." He snapped at someone, stepping over her, as she laid on her front, face against the cold floor, eyes open and vacant. Peter and he left those behind to her care and returned to the staff room – Peter's neck was bruising and he had a few superficial cuts from the scuffle but other than that he was merely shaken.

"Don't worry son." Wallace said, clapping his son on the arm. "I've got an idea of what to do to her…" Dabbing his lip, Peter followed. "I'll get her into the Intensive Treatment wing…" Wallace told his son, checking the charts for that exact area. The Intensive Treatment wing was just what it was called – a place for those who needed intensive treatment, although it was not designed to be a permanent home.

The super criminals were occasionally moved there, when they were at their worst, along with others who were extremely mentally ill. And of course, those who had behaved in a way, which meant they needed to be transferred. Those who showed violent tendencies towards themselves or others. And then they got moved back out when they were behaving better – back to the lesser wards if they were just the normal breed of crazies, or deeper into the asylum if they weren't.

But once it got full up, which it never did – room sharing began.

"And I think I have a the perfect roommate for her…"

"There's no room sharing down there, unless every where's full… And, it's not full down there-"

"It will be… Leave it to me. I'll sort it out. It's all perfectly in line with the rules. I'll get Strange to sign off on it. And guess who's been in there the longest?"

Wallace began to toddle off happily to sort it out. Peter followed shortly afterwards. "But… But dad… He'll probably tear her apart. Patient. Doctor. Guard. Orderly. That doesn't matter to him!"

"No one hurts me or mine, son. She'll learn that, if there's anything left of her to learn that is."

Wallace was angry and that made him dangerous. He worked quickly getting some of the more rowdy patients put down there, from a riot that himself he instigated carefully. And so it came to be that the Intensive Treatment Wing got filled up very quickly with inmates – it wasn't hard. You had to get a doctor to sign off on it, and after a riot – well, that was as simple as asking the doctor who appeared to do it.

Doctor Strange was easily manipulated to put the new comer down there. Her processing took so long that the riot was sorted out as the order to move her down there came to her forms. And so once Anne Warren was finally processed, she was to be put in Intensive Treatment. But the rooms were all full, and the way the rotation worked it meant she was to be put in with the inmate who'd had a room to themselves the longest.

Now she half stood, half slumped between two men, once more that day, in front of a door. There men however were ones in guards uniforms not the shocking, jarring white of the orderlies, these were men with guns. Her body parts were starting to go numb from being strapped into the jacket and the loop between her legs that Wallace had done up with a special sort of viciousness was radiating and aching fire as it dug into the flesh of her crotch. One of the men banged on the door, warning the occupant to get back and she was duly stripped of her jacket and thrown unceremoniously inside.

As unable as she was unready to steady herself she landed front first on the cold, hard floor as the door shut behind her. She turned her head, letting her cheek rest on the floor the chill already starting to seep through her Arkham scrubs, unaware for now at least that she was not alone.