He should really put in for a transfer. These psychos were enough to send anyone crazy, but for him, it was both bullet and drug. While he was subject to the thoughts of whatever soul who's cage he walked by, he also found it intoxicating. To hear someone's thoughts, the things they hid inside their brain, was an adrenaline kick more effective than any other, even more so than being shot at or stabbed at by one of the loonies.
He should still put in for that transfer. Yet night after night, he kept coming back. Tonight, he worked up the courage to walk past and briefly stop at the cells of some of Arkham's most dangerous criminals, those that even the Dark Knight found terrifying, whether he hid it or not.
Yes, he could even read the mind of the Knight himself. He still didn't know who the Bat truly was, but he'd get there someday, he promised himself. Nobody could keep him out for long.
His first stop was the cell containing one pretty lady, Poison Ivy. He could hear her mumbling to herself in her mind, though all was silent physically.
"When I get out of here, I'm going to find that pretty boy and let my plants have their way with him. Then, I'll find Harley. She doesn't deserve that…"
He moved on, smiling to himself in the pleased way he had when it was only him and the crazies. Yes, they were crazy, each in their own, twisted, enjoyable way. He'd never end up here himself. He was perfectly sane. "Sane on the outside, at least." A tiny voice whispered. He shook his head, clearing it. He wasn't sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, or another patient with a similar… ability.
For this was an ability, one he'd had since birth. He'd always hidden it well, but it was there. With practice, he could touch the minds of normal people, but anyone who was even remotely insane, completely unlike him, could not help but have their minds open to him. He could read their every thought, their every desire Sometimes, he felt himself wanting to give them what they wanted. But he never succumbed.
He wasn't crazy like them. Though perhaps this job would drive him crazy, one day, he couldn't ever see that happening. No, it was too fascinating, digging into the psyches of these unfortunate souls, night after night, week after week, month after month.
Months? He thought. Then he realized. Tonight marked the one-year anniversary of when he had taken this job, the night shift at Arkham. Snorting, he figured he must have been crazy back then to think this was a good idea. He wasn't crazy anymore, no sir. He was perfectly sane, and this was an amazing job.
He moved on, cell after cell. Harley was humming her nonsense songs, about lollipops and killing the Batman, because then maybe Mista J would love her again. The Scarecrow was thinking of new formulas, and new fears to try and bring to the surface, because then even the Batman would crumble into his mind. Killer Croc wanted his next meal, because the Batman never let him eat anything while he was out. Two-Face was flipping his coin, grumbling about how single-minded Batman was, because this was the fifteenth time this fall that he'd been the target of Batman's ridiculous refusal to flip a coin.
On and on it went. Firefly. Bane. Mr. Freeze. Clayface. His grin grew larger and larger until, finally, he reached the last cell. Even he — since he was, after all, still sane — slowed as he approached the last one.
The Joker. The ultimate epitome of insanity. The complete opposite of him.
But as he neared the cell, as he began to hear the madness a man like the Joker could think up, kill the Batman, kill the Batman, a bat is nothing but a rodent, and we kill rodents like the pests they are, pests they are, a mad cackle and a desire to destroy the Knight began to grow in his head. He tried to push it away, growing anxious when he could not. It grew and grew, until finally it burst forth from him as he collapsed to the ground, grinning and cackling away. He had a new mission.
Kill the Batman.
He was never so glad he hadn't put in for that transfer.