Chapter 1 – Arkham Mornings

The silence weighs heavily upon the building; one would expect for it to be bursting with maniacal laughter, outbursts, and all sorts of other commotion one typically associates with an asylum. But for one reason or another, Arkham is different today. Perhaps it is merely the particular day, or it just as easily could be the usual atmosphere of the place, disproving all the rumors that surround this place's infamous reputation. Of course, if any made the attempt to peel away the layers that wrapped Arkham—more specifically its inmates—and uncover the truth, they might make discoveries that would awe them and warp their methods of thinking.

But no respectable person will do such a thing.

The pen stopped writing, the steady flow of black ink that marked up nearly the entire page with small, nearly flawless print. The pages were an off-white color, crinkled with both time and the multitude of words smothering the thin, pinched lines; at one point, the pre-printed lines had been a pale but evident gold color, but now after being touched and written upon, they had all but faded entirely into the white pages from which they had been born. The journal was bound with black leather, with a neat gold strap to wrap around the front and back to close it firmly when it was no longer needed. There were three others identical to it resting upon a small dresser located against the adjacent wall, one of them nearly filled, the other two empty for the time, and they would remain so until their owner was finished with their fellow. The dresser upon which they rested was, as stated, small, bearing only three drawers, narrow but deep enough to contain books. Beside the stacked journals, there rested a small ivory-handled brush with a simple design etched into the back, and beside it, nearest to the edge of the dresser, a small bottle of ink-black nail polish and three other pens.

The owner of such simple luxuries was reclining upon the small bed afforded to all inmates of Arkham Asylum. The thin bedclothes had been tucked in neat and uniform; the pillow was propped up against the grey brick to provide minor comfort from the cold stiffness of the wall. The inmate who resided within this cell was a young woman—quite young in fact, barely seventeen years of age. She was by no means a stunning, model-material creature, with a long figure that was not so much slender as it was quite nearly skeletal in nature. Her skin was pale and in certain places, particularly the jutting hip bones, seemed to be drawn firmly over the bones. If one were permitted to survey her naked, they would see not only the grotesquely defined hip bones, but also a chest which, by comparison to the rest of her figure, held the most defined aspect of her body—her breasts. They were by no means voluptuous or striking, but they were of good curves and form for a body so depraved of other details or curves. Her waist was long, turning sharply into narrow hips and long legs that might have been granted to a dancer had they a bit more development to them. A mane of thick black hair spilled down her back, a vivid contrast to the deathly pale of her flesh; over the right side of her long, angular face, her hair was a curtain, hiding whatever secrets she kept hidden beneath. A smooth nose ran down the center of her face, ending gracefully over lips, naturally stained with the bloody hue of dark red; her one exposed eye was a feature that many recalled about her, even if they had met her only once. It was crafted in an angular oval shape, lined with long, thick and dark lashes that cast feathery shadows upon her high-cheekbones with the briefest blink; the iris was a vivid, nearly poisonous hue of blue. Just above this hypnotic feature rested a thin, naturally arched brow, then a brief scope of white forehead before white skin molded with the inky black stain of hair.

The journal rested upon tented knees, pen twirled idly, carelessly between long, spindly, black-tipped fingers. After a long moment, her exposed eye flitting across the page to examine what had been written over the last few hours. She appeared to be satisfied with it, as she closed the journal with a final clap, snapping the wrap around the covers to secure it. She set it down upon the dresser, just as the firm clack of a key sliding into the metal door. It opened with a loud, creaky groan.

"Rec time, DeLaine," the guard said. It was a man of large build—not large with muscle, but with less impressive items—with thick, pasty skin and a balding head, "Put your hands—"

"I know the drill," she answered in a cold and undaunted tone, turning around and baring her wrists to the cold metal of his cuffs, which were snapped quickly over her offered limbs. This task did not involve an upward tug of the sleeves of the asylum's uniform, which typically covered over the wrists entirely. Iris DeLaine, however, wore her opinions on her sleeves, quite literally. Less than a week after arriving, she had taken the liberty of altering all of her designated uniforms, taking full-length pants and chopping them up into a pair of shorts that rode high up on her thighs; the once all-covering shirts now sported a hem ending just beneath the bosom; the sleeves were snipped to elbow-length, and the collar had been altered to a distinct V-neck. At least it made her uniforms all too easy to identify from the laundry piles.

The guard shuffled down the hallway, one hand loosely on the young woman's cuffed wrists. All the guards and orderlies knew Iris DeLaine all too well. Fiery, arrogant, cynical…those were typically the words that came to mind when discussing the teenager, but also the comments about how she had nearly immediately flocked to the Rogue Gallery inmates of Arkham, which the other prisoners typically avoided at all and any costs. In her defense, however, DeLaine was also one of the only prisoners who, despite her sharp tongue and stubbornness, was polite and collected when being escorted to and from places in the asylum. As a result, she was the only inmate who had never been sedated, though some guards, who had been the unfortunate victims of her rather quick and impressive right hook, certainly looked for an excuse to stab her with a needle. Their fortune was not even mildly good, however, seeing as she was, for one thing, a favorite of the head psychiatrists in the asylum…but also her attachment to the Rogue Gallery had awarded her certain protection that not even the guards dared to stand up against.

The guard, who's name was Jameson, paused outside the recreation room, whistling quietly as he unlocked the cuffs around her wrists. Apparently, their arrival had been either anticipated or calculated—probably both, come to think of it—for the door opened of its own accord, revealing a woman of about average height with long, thick red hair and luscious green eyes, and a notoriously magnificent figure. Her hand reached out, tugging Iris from the fat hands.

"Thanks, honey," she said rather sarcastically to Jameson, "We've got it from here." With a light, deliberate kick, the metal door fell back in place with a loud clang.

The first words spoken once the door closed came from a figure sitting in the nearest corner, one leg folded over the other, a pencil twirling between idle fingers and a newspaper folded deliberately to show the daily crossword puzzle, "You're late," Edward Nygma said without looking up.

"Dunkin' Donuts moves slowly through the halls," Iris replied shortly, stretching her arms over her head, "Sue me for not sprinting here to be subjected to the thrill of your company."

"Iris, play nice with the other kids," a raspy, deep toned voice spoke casually from the couch, where broad shoulders and a duo-colored head could be seen watching the television. The soft whistle of a coin being tossed repeatedly, methodically echoing through the air as he sat on the couch, eyes trained to the television.

"He started it," Iris said, setting a hand briefly to the back edge of the sofa before hoisting herself over the edge and landing with smooth grace on the pale green cushions.

Barely two seconds after she had settled into the corner of the couch, a grey and yellow blur launched into her lap, arms winding around her and squeezing hard enough to make a body-builder pass out from lack of oxygen. Fortunately, her body was all too accustomed to being depraved of air for long periods of time. Her head lowered slightly to look down at the blonde head nestled securely against her chest, arms and legs wound around her to further the embrace.

"Morning, Harley," she said calmly, hand reaching up to pet the needy clown, "Were you watching the clock, waiting for me? Sorry I was so late…" she spoke in a soft coo to the blonde girl, earning a deep purr from the other.

"Oh, so you speak civilly to her?" Edward's voice raised in protest from behind them. Iris turned her head with a look in disinterest.

"She's cuter than you," she answered with a cocky smile. Harley beamed, sticking her tongue out at the Riddle Master. Stormy green eyes rolled, a mutter regarding women escaping his grumbling lips before the end of a pencil was secured between them instead. Iris adjusted her position ever so slightly, eyes traveling over to her companion.

"You done with Jeopardy?" she asked, hand reaching out for the remote even before she was granted an answer. The right side of the former district attorney's face curved into a smirk as he handed it to her. She aimed it up slightly, elbow propped up on the arm of the furniture for better direction. The channels skittered across the screen, one right after the other….then suddenly the screen was filled with images of cheering fans, bedecked in purple and gold, howling and waving as players, dressed in the same colors, charged down the green and white field.

"Oh, look, Iris," Ivy smirked, walking over to her, elbows propped up against the back edge of the couch, "Doesn't it bring back such memories?"

"Indeed, and they're making me ill," she said, switching the channel again.

Harley grinned broadly, twirling around in her lap with a squeal, "Looney Tunes! Oh, Blue, can we watch it? Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we?"

Iris sighed, lowering the remote to the small side table with a resigned action.

This was going to be a long day in Arkham.