Chapter One: Dr. James Tapper

A young, red-haired man sits across from me. He doesn't slouch or put his feet up on the table like so many of my other patients. No, he is far too polite for that. He sits tall with his hands folded neatly in his lap. The bright orange jumpsuit contrasts sharply with the black inhibitor collar around his neck. And yet, he still looks rather put-together for an inmate.

All this, I write down on my clipboard, barely glancing up at him as I do. In my profession, sometimes it's best not to give them too much attention right off the bat. That doesn't stop him though. He looks over me, calculating and calm. He's used to getting his way, used to be the one in control of a room.

Not in here.

This is my house.

His telltale music note mask has since been replaced with a pair of plain, black glasses that frame his face. His hair is clean, but bereft of any product. His face was clean shaven, but has now grown a bit of fuzz after his first few days in here. Sharp, green eyes watch my every movement like a bird of prey.

Only after a good five minutes do I even deign to look up at him and offer a calm, practiced smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Masters. My name is Dr. James Tapper. I'm a psychologist here at Belle Reve, and provide inmates with assessments of their mental health. You're rather new, so you'll be seeing me every day for the next month until I've determined you don't need further treatment. That's something we can discuss at a later date. How are you today?"

His expression didn't change throughout the speech. Now, he leans forward, adjusting his position in the chair.

"I'm just fine, thank you. Doctor. And yourself?"

"Have you ever seen a therapist before?" I ask, skipping over his question. He smirks.

"This isn't my first rodeo, if that's what you mean. Yes, I've seen a number of specialists since I was a child. I know how this works."

I write that down on my paper. There's an air of smugness that hasn't quite been wiped away yet. He's only been here for four days though. For some, it takes time. Waller usually breaks them down one way or another. And if she doesn't, the other inmates will. So for now, he can have his pride. I make a note to bring that up later.

"Do you know why you're here?" I ask, "In Belle Reve, that is?"

"I doubt it's for a parking violation," he replies with a laugh. His expression goes quickly from playful to serious. "I suppose it's for trying to take over the world."

"And why did you do that?"

He doesn't answer that. The man just leans back in his chair with a crooked smile.

"You'll have to dig a bit deeper before learning all my secrets," he says. "I don't know you nearly well enough to tell you just yet. Aren't you going to have me lie down on the couch and tell you my dreams first?"

Now it's my turn to laugh. I click my pen and drum it against my clipboard. Of course I know it's not going to be that easy (although a man could hope).

"That's not necessary. Yet, at least. I just thought it was the best place to start. It certainly seems like the biggest thing you've ever done. After all, before moving to Gotham, you were nobody."

I flip through his case file, ignoring the way he tenses when I say nobody. I make mental note of that as well.

"In fact," I continue, "Before you became the Music Meister, you lived in several different places. Chicago, Dallas, Vegas… they traced you right back to where you were born. It wasn't easy, apparently, since no one knew who you were. There was just one clipping from a small-town paper that even gave us your home town. Here it is." I pull it out and hold it up for the man to see. "'Bertrand Masters, musical prodigy, astounds town of Pine Falls with a heartfelt rendition of Ave Maria.' You made the first page when you were just ten years old."

He's glaring at me now, hands tightly clenched into fists. I'm not scared. The inhibitor collar represses his powers, keeps his voice at a pitch where he can't do a thing to harm me or anyone else. And if he were to even try to attack with his fists, he'd be struck to the ground with a good few thousand volts of electricity.

He can't touch me. And he knows it.

"Where did you get that?" he asks stiffly.

"I didn't. It was in your file. Took quite a few private detectives to find it. Even your real name was nearly impossible to get a hold of." I close the file and put it down on the table, sliding it towards him just a bit. I see his eyes looking at it hungrily, possibly with the urge to destroy it. This is a man who has spent his life covering up his past. Recreating himself. That plain, little folder is enough to make him sweat.

Good.

I lean back and cross my legs. The power balance in the room has shifted in my favor. I know more about him than he does about me, and that is exactly the way I like it.

"Allow me to make something clear," I say quietly, calmly meeting his furious gaze. "In this room, there are no secrets from me. If you want to survive in this place, if you have a prayer of getting out alive, you have to open up to me. By the end of our time together, I will know everything about you, whether you like it or not."

A vein throbs in his neck. He's really holding back his anger now. Maybe because he's never been challenged before. Or, he's never been rendered powerless before.

"I don't have to tell you anything."

"But you will. Everyone does, eventually." I smile widely at him and stand up. "I'm afraid our time is over for today. But you'll be back tomorrow. Thank you very much, Bertrand."

He winces as I say his name. The door opens and a pair of guards come in to take him back to the common area. I don't watch him as he leaves, though I feel his eyes on me. If looks could kill… I go back to my desk with his file and open it up for the hundredth time. The door closes and I begin to plan tomorrow's session.

"I think this was an excellent start…"