"Har-"

"Call me Q." The blonde interrupted, twisting her neck around to peer at the man who was holding her arms behind her back. It was an incredibly uncomfortable position, and Q was constantly squirming as they walked.

"Q," Detective Jim Gordon repeated awkwardly, clearing his throat, "you're under arrest f-"

"No - wait. Let me guess." Q interrupted again, grinning broadly with eagerness and mischief in her eyes. She tilted her head as if she was thinking.

She heard Gordon let out a frustrated sigh from behind her. The cuffs were digging into her wrists, and creating sickly squelching noises as they slid in the blood that coated her hands.

"It's about those bodies, ain't it?" Q finally said, nodding her head slowly in defeat. She sighed dramatically, looking up at the sky. "That's just a shot in the dark, though. This could be happening because of anything ."

"You're being convicted of multiple homicide."

Silence fell between the two, and Q forcibly spun around to watch the detective with expectancy. "Aren't you going to congratulate me?" She asked, then burst into a short fit of giggles. When he simply remained expressionless, she pouted.

"I'm bein' shipped off to Arkham, aren't I?" Q questioned, never taking her eyes off Gordon's face.

"Stop talking," He ordered, roughly turning her around again and tightening his grip on her arm. Q exhaled exasperatedly, pursing her lips.

"Well, that is where all the loonies go, right?"

Gordon didn't say anything this time.

"You're no fun. . . Anyways, what're we waiting for?" Q asked, rising up on her tiptoes to glance around her street. Gordon didn't reply, only barking out orders to the members of the GCPD that passed him.

What was once her quiet, dull neighborhood was now blaring with police sirens and splattered with red and blue lights. Several police cars and vans were parked just outside her house, some even being abandoned on her front lawn. Q watched the front door of the house as two men wheeled a body bag off on a stretcher. She saw her neighbors glancing warily out of the window, watching the scene unfold.

Q wondered what the press would say about this. How would the media react to one of Gotham's richest being murdered by his own blood?

Gordon pushed Q forward, towards a police car. He opened the door and was about to push the blonde in, until she leapt up and peered over the edge of the door.

"Hey, Mrs Dawson!" Q called, greeting her neighbor as if she wasn't in handcuffs or being arrested. Mrs Dawson was an old woman who was now standing by her perfectly white picket fence, watching the whole ordeal with alarm. Q grinned at Mrs. Dawson, sending a polite nod her way. The woman paled, swallowing hard as she looked at Q, looked at the blood that was splattered across her shirt and neck. It had dampened her hair, as her blonde locks would occasionally have droplets of blood trickle onto the floor. The scarlet against her skin made its pale hue much more prominent and the splatter of blood a more vibrant and intense shade of deep red. "It's a lovely day, isn't it? Shame there's so much police around, though."

Mrs Dawson looked like she was going to faint.


The drive in the police car was painfully silent. Neither of the police officers answered any of Q's questions, or even paid her a second glance. They arrived at the precinct, and Q was hauled out of the car.

She was brought to a small room with a table in the centre, where she punctually sat. She casually slouched in her seat, her elbow resting on the table as she waited for someone to come in. They had removed Q's handcuffs, and now Q was examining her blood-coated hands with lack of interest.

Eventually, Detective Gordon made his way in, and took a seat across from her.

"Why'd you do it?" He asked.

"Oh, no, Detective." Q purred, straightening in her seat. "The question is, why didn't I do it sooner?" Q laughed, throwing back her head and flattening her palms on the table. Once she was done, she pretended to wipe fake tears from her eyes.

"You murdered your neighbours, Alicia and Robert Johnson. Along with your father, Jeremy. As far as I know, you did it for no reason."

"I did it for a reason, all right. You see, Jimothy , there's nothin' I hate more than liars. They were all liars. All the Johnson's would do was fight. They would argue all goddamn day and night. They were supposed to be in love."

Gordon didn't say anything.

"They were both unfaithful. My old pops just had to get involved too, havin' an affair with that bitch. He's the reason why mom left, because of that stupid affair. He never even told me why - just let me believe that my own mother walked out on me because she hated me. You know - for a guy who used to be obsessed with having a spotless reputation, he sure wasn't afraid of ruining it with some stupid fling with the next door."

Gordon nodded grimly. "That doesn't explain why you killed Robert."

Q tilted her head, pushing back a strand of her blonde hair. "Robert came over and found my father dear and Alicia under the covers. Naturally, he and my dad started fightin'. I stopped them from fightin'. Things got a 'lil outta hand. Let's leave it at that." Q smiled sweetly, innocently watching the detective's face. "That all you need?"

Gordon nodded.

Q began giggling uncontrollably.


Back in the police cruiser Q went. Cuffed again and already feeling rather bored with the predicament she was in, Q rested her head against the window and watched the city as the car sped by. They drove for a while, and deep down, Q already knew where they were going.

Once they reached that old, iron gate branded with 'Arkham Asylum', Q's heart rate was beginning to increase. Maybe it was from anticipation or fear - she didn't know. The car rolled through the gates, and that large, grey building loomed above Q. She peered out the window, craning her neck to fully see the building that towered in the sky.

Q was questioning why she had stayed at the crime scene, why she let herself be caught. Perhaps she didn't want to live a life on the run. Would it be better than a life behind bars?

Detective Gordon eventually travelled around the police car to open Q's door, interrupting her thoughts. He promptly took her by the elbow and helped her oh-so-gracefully prance out of the backseat. She straightened her posture (or, straightened it as much as she could with her hands bound behind her back,) and examined the grounds. Leaves scampered across the floor, carried by the wind.

"It's a bit chilly, don't you think?" Q remarked, feigning a shiver.

The officer that was with Gordon made a grunt, and began trudging towards the building.

They brought Q to a long corridor, after undergoing several security checks where they confiscated any items found on her. (She was carrying a screwed up grocery list and a pack of chewing gum.)

There was a wall of metal bars on one side of her as she walked, revealing a common room of sorts, where men and woman sporting stripey outfits eyed Q with interest. Q grinned at each of them as she was dragged past, even winking at one who held eye contact with her the entire time.

They placed her in a temporary holding cell, where Q made herself comfortable, slumped against the wall. Detective Gordon was speaking to a petite woman with thick glasses. She was holding a clipboard with files stacked upon it. Probably Q's files, from the shrink that her father had forced her to go to.

"You know, my dad used to work here." Q said to no one in particular, twiddling her thumbs in her lap. "I kinda wanted to do that do; be a psychiatrist. Even studied for it in high school."

Q looked up, loose strands of hair falling down the sides of her face, "Guess that dreams over now, eh?" She proceeded to laugh, the noise almost a high pitched squeal that echoed through out the room and caused silence to fall.

A woman cleared her throat and then walked in, carrying the same stripey dress Q had seen the other women in the asylum wearing. Q grimaced at the rough material, rubbing the fabric with her fingers. She slipped it on, using the wipes they provided her with to wash any blood away.

"Yeah," Q heard detective Gordon say, glancing to the blonde who was darting her eyes around the small holding cell, "She's been down to the station a few times - only for stealing cars, though. Nothing like this."

Once the two were done talking, the woman looked to Q and nodded. Several men came and unlocked the door and escorted her out of the room.

"Oh, this is so exciting!" Q exclaimed, laughing giddily. "Where are we going?"

The men refused to reply, so Q reluctantly clamped her mouth shut as they travelled down the narrow corridors.

They brought Q to a small, windowless room with a lousy single bed pushed to the side. It was more of a prison cell than a room, but Q didn't really expect much more. Q cleared her throat whilst examining the room with slight disgust. "How. . . Homely. . ." She commented, smiling weakly.

"Better get used to it," One of the men said, before shutting the door. Q heard a metal click, and then she was left alone in the cell.

After sitting in the same spot for several hours, Q came to the conclusion that her cell was terribly boring. Without a window to gaze out of, Q found herself staring at walls without realising she was doing so. Just as she was about to get up to wander her small room, she heard metal groaning, then a heavy thud. A door. Then, her own door clicked open, revealing one of the men who had escorted Q to her permanent room.

"I hope you settled in well," He said, in a gruff voice. "It's time for you to meet the other inmates."

"Great." Q chirped.


The inmates were as welcoming as Q had expected. As she was forced into the room, it fell completely silent with all eyes on Q. She cleared her throat, noticing that all of the tables were filled with strangers that were all ogling her.

Raising her chin, Q marched over to the table in the centre of the room and tapped a large, burly bald man on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," She cooed, smiling at the man. "Can I sit here?"

The bald man made a noise crossed between a "Yes," and a grunt. He promptly stood up, towering above the small blonde, who simply batted her eyelashes.

"Thank you," Q said, reaching up to tap the man on the shoulder as she slid past him and sat in his now-vacant seat.

Once Q sat down, the people within the room began speaking once again, although Q was sure that the topic of most of their conversations was her. Q rested both elbows on the table, placing her chin in her palm whilst staring at the window that was across from her.

The blonde sensed movement beside her, so she inclined her head to the side, eyeing the man who had taken the seat next to her suspiciously.

"Name's Terrance Smith." He said, tilting his head and watching Q's face. He had an oily face, riddled with tattoos, and greasy black hair.

"That's nice." Q deadpanned, turning to face the window again.

"Yes, it is. What's your name?" He persisted, scooting further along the bench.

"Why'd you wanna know so bad?" Q questioned, not looking at the man.

He shrugged, leaning back. "Just curious."

"Yeah, well, go be curious somewhere else." Q bit, glaring at Terrance.

Terrance gripped Q's upper arm, yanking her towards his face. "What's a guy gotta do to learn a girl's name?"

"Surely this isn't the correct method." Q remarked. She scowled at the man's foul breath.

"You little bi-"

Q punched him in the face.

And it hurt.

One of Terrance's hand went to cradle his eye, whilst the other swung out to whack Q. The blonde swiftly leaped back from the chair, holding her hand limply over her stomach. She winced, glancing down at it.

"Isn't it supposed to hurt you and not me ?" She hissed, as guards started flooding the room.

Chaos erupted, and Q was pretty sure that she heard someone wildly hooting. Q backed away in the mass of people, who had for some reason all leapt up to escape the guards, who clearly weren't even targeting them. Peeking through a gap between the scurrying inmates, Q noticed that Terrance and a large amount of other trouble-makers were being escorted out of the room by several guards. Before they exited the common room, one of them paused to bang his baton against the metal railings several times. The inmates stopped rushing around, all frozen on the spot.

"If this happens ever again," He bellowed, "you'll all be locked in your cells for two weeks! Now sit the fuck down!"

Immediately, Q squabbled to get to an empty table, where she nursed her pulsing hand. It was slowly throbbing, but she bit down on her lip to stop it from wobbling.

"Hi there, stranger." Q heard a gravelly voice say, causing her to look up. A ginger boy around her age had taken a seat at the table across from her, and was eyeing her fist with a broad grin. "I knew as soon as you threw that punch it was gonna hurt."

Q raised a judgmental eyebrow.

"You punched with the flats of your fingers, instead of your knuckles." He pointed out, still smiling.

"I'll make sure to remember that next time." said Q slowly. She began clenching and unclenching her fist experimentally, not paying attention to him.

He laughed, a cackle that made the rest of the inmates momentarily pause their conversations to send fearful looks their way. " Hopefully there won't be a next time. An asylum isn't exactly the. . . ideal place to make enemies."

Q wondered where the ideal place to make enemies was. "You do have a point," Q informed him, turning her head to view the other inmates that were viciously glowering at her. She'd always been told to make a good first impression; perhaps punching the first person who interacted with her wasn't a great start. Even if said person was a dick.

"If you'd actually thrown the punch correctly, I would've said it was pretty impressive." He commented. He held a hand to his chest, watching the blonde with sincerity, "Me complimenting people is a rare thing, so you should feel fairly grateful."

"Why, thank you." Q said, finally looking back at him and smiling sweetly. After all, it wasn't everyday someone addressed her not-so-excellent punching skills. He didn't seem to notice her faux attempt at being flattered.

"What put you in here, then?" The redhead asked, propping his feet up on the bench and facing the other direction.

"I killed three people."

The boy tilted his head towards Q, remaining expressionless. He spun around, facing Q once again. He flattened both hands on the table, now with a deranged grin. "How?" He asked eagerly, quirking his eyebrows as he said the monosyllable, clearly intrigued. He leaned forward, staring into Q's eyes expectantly, like a child awaiting to be told a bedtime story.

"With a sledgehammer." Q told him, examining her nails, uninterested.

He let out a chuckle. He straightened his back, nodding as if he was approving.

"I'm Jerome, by the way." He said, winking whilst continuing to smile devilishly.

"Q." The blonde said, preparing herself for the question.

"Q?" Jerome repeated, frowning slightly.

"It's a nickname."

"Well then, Q." Jerome said, broadly grinning and dipping his head menacingly. "Welcome to Arkham."