"Keep up! This isn't exactly the kind of place you should dawdle in, Miss Greene." The woman in front of me, Dr. Hirsch, was walking briskly down the corridor, her patience just as tightly wound as the hair on her head. I regarded her in an alert manner—she was a veteran of this urban jungle and I knew by the way she carried herself that she was confident in her safety. "As an intern, you'll definitely be tried and tested within this facility. I hope you last long. Not many of our trainees do."

And I knew it; several of my classmates had applied for internships at the asylum and many had not lasted longer than two weeks due to the types of patients they met with. I pitied them because, as sure as I do, they knew what they were getting into—why else go through years of college to earn a Ph. D in psychology? To me its a dismal waste of time to work your way up, get into the establishment, and then turn-tail the minute things got tough.

No, I'm not the ignorant type who thinks operations run fine and dandy over here on the island. I'm a naturally cautious person who relies on the SOPs of a place as law-oriented as Arkham. In the long run, however, I'm not deluded enough to actually believe the people over here follow the rules; the criminally insane are morally impure and they have a certain way about them. Of course I understand why the guards get rough, but that doesn't mean I condone it.

"Right, so you've seen Arkham North and East. I'm afraid that's going to be it for now; the Penitentiary isn't really safest right now, since we are a bit over capacity here in IT." I assumed she meant the Intensive Treatment building we were currently walking through. "Before we begin your preliminary training, do you have any questions?" Dr. Hirsch maintained a curt facade, obviously tight-lipped. Her lack of make-up lead me to believe her years on the job had molded her into a harsh and possibly bitter person.

"Um," I thought for a moment, thinking back on the details of my tour, "no, I believe I'm all set."

As we exited Intensive Treatment, Dr. Hirsch led us down a sidewalk towards the Mansion in Arkham East.

"Your work as a psychologist in this facility will not be easy, I can guarantee that," judging by the gloomy tones in her voice, this was going to be an exciting conversation. "Going by what your paperwork says, you've gone through an extensive amount of preparation already. Is that correct?" Dr. Hirsch asked as she leafed through a packet of papers on her clipboard.

"Yes, so far I've been through some training with a few of the nurses," I replied in a small voice.

"Then I have no idea why we should be headed towards the Mansion—you're interviews and preliminary training is complete, I see that you've put in your minimum sixty hours. Perhaps you may even have your first session tonight with one of the patients..." I feel ashamed to admit it, but at the mention of my first session I let the sound of Dr. Hirschs' voice trial off as I thought of slightly more important things. My line of sight roamed the grounds on the way back up to Intensive Treatment—guards armed to the nines walked along the sidewalks and in guard towers. I knew I had nothing to fear, but short of the Batman showing up, my nerves were tough to calm. Without thought, I interrupted Dr. Hirsch with an irrelevant question.

"Are there any serious security breaches?"

"How do you mean?"

"As in... inmates escaping? Have there ever been any riots?" I felt sheepish and embarrassed instantly; that I would even think to ask these questions was absurd. After all, I'd already been through the training session on security and safety precautions.

Dr. Hirsch scoffed loudly, "If you're trying to ask whether you'll see the Batman, I suppose I can tell you the truth: you'll see him, but rarely. He makes an appearance every so often to check on things and keep lines of communication open. In fact, he was here three weeks ago."

We had reached the main entrance to IT and the guards nodded for us to continue inside; Dr. Hirsch scanned her ID, beckoned me through the metal detector, and bid me follow her to the East Wing. Once in her office, I felt safe enough to let out the breath I had been holding.

Sitting comfortably at her desk, Dr. Hirsch went through my folder again. "Miss Greene, if you are comfortable I would endorse your first session tonight." Startled, I looked up at Dr. Hirschs' calm expression.

"Y-you will observe?" I felt the beginnings of an adrenaline rush and began to shiver slightly. Whether it was a result of fear or excitement was hidden from me.

"Of course. The particular patient I have scheduled isn't someone I would feel comfortable for anyone to interview alone, nevermind an intern."

"Who did you have in mind?"

"His name is Waylon Jones, have you heard of him?" When I shook my head 'no' she continued, "That's just as well. He has a bit of a skin condition and he doesn't appear at first glance to be human. I don't want you to be frightened, Miss Greene, but his appearance isn't pleasant and he displays cannibalistic tendencies. We've had him at the facility for over three years but he doesn't seem to be interested in making progress. As for his diagnosis, we've determined him to be a homicidal sociopath."

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, cursing my absolute rotten luck. My first session and she couldn't take it easy on me? Assign me to a mediocre basket case who killed his entire family because his toaster told him to do it—anything, I wasn't asking for much. But a meager, deformed serial killer who was hostile even on his good days? I would have run for the bathroom and cried if I'd know where it was. "May I view his file?"

Dr. Hirsch seemed surprised that I had asked, but relented and began to search through her file cabinet. After a few seconds of rifling through the cabinet labeled 'I – L' she retrieved a relatively thin portfolio and handed it to me across the desk. "I don't know what you hope to find. Like I said, he's definitely not one to help his own cause."

"How was he brought to the island?"

"After a series of brutal slaughters, the Batman tracked him down and dumped him off over here for treatment. Whatever you do, don't mention his capture or the Dark Knight in your session. Once Mr. Jones gets riled up we have to trigger the pacification collar to keep him under control. And I do not want your first session to be a complete wash, its a little depressing."

"He has no picture on file?"

"We can't get him to remain civil long enough to take his picture. For whatever reason—his appearance, his temperament, his grudges against us—he won't let a camera near him."

I knitted my brows in contemplation, "And you allow that?"

Dr. Hirsch chuckled. "Forgive the laughter, Miss Greene, but what choice do we have? Even without a picture in that file, it should give you enough details as to why we give him plenty of space and toleration."

I peered back down at the file on my lap and scoured over his stats, marveling at the listings for height and weight. Nevermind his psychological issues, he was dangerous enough going on physical characteristics alone. At 500-something pounds and over seven feet tall he was a force I wasn't sure I could withstand. "How does he get along with the other patients?"

"He doesn't, he has his own cell down in the sewer system."

"The sewers?" To say I was appalled was an understatement. "How can that be sanitary? And the severe isolation? What kind of organization is this?"

"Miss Greene, I understand your feelings but in these matters you are ignorant. Mr. Jones is arguably our most hostile inmate and severe isolation to a habitat in which he is comfortable is a really small price to pay. Once you meet him and have the ample opportunity to converse with him, you will understand more completely."

"When's the session?"

"In about twenty minutes," she said, glancing at her wristwatch.

"Should we be going then?"

"Going where?"

"To the interview rooms?"

"Due to the fact that we are low on funding, we don't have central interview rooms. Essentially, the sessions are held within the resident doctors' offices. You didn't cover this in training?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I did, it must have slipped my mind." I let my eyes wander anxiously around the small room, worried about who would sit where and whether or not 'observing' meant participating at all in the session. As I glanced over the patient's file for the last time, my eyes caught sight of some fairly interesting information: his previous doctors had all written rude, snobbish comments about how uncooperative he was, how much they all wished he'd just turn up dead one day, and—most importantly—the absolute raw danger of his presence. "Dr. Hirsch?" I asked, looking up from the folder. "Where shall I sit?"

"Well," she began as she steepled her fingers, "I'm going to ask that you call me Nancy; I don't see any reason why we need to use formalities." For all her harsh manners and unforgiving features, her smile was at least genuine and friendly. "Now, about seating arrangements. You may have my chair behind the desk," she got up and relocated to a chair somewhat in the corner behind the desk to the right. "Mr. Jones may sit in the chair in front of the desk."

I moved into the ornate chair behind the desk and silently prayed I would make it out of this session alive. Eventually, I knew this would happen but certainly not on my first night and I wasn't particularly looking forward to a possibly dismal first session. I wanted to knock it out of the ballpark and be spectacular—show the people at Arkham that I was a professional and an asset. I wanted to help rehabilitate people who are held prisoner in their own minds. Of course I knew that one failed session wouldn't off-set those goals but, for me, success is a point of view. And mine is the only one that counts.

Several minutes later I heard noises coming from further down the hallway, and my heartbeat picked up pace in, well, a heartbeat.

"He's on his way," Dr. Hirsch said idly as she leafed through yet another folder. Initially I was shocked by her calmed collectivity. But, of course, she was used to this; she knew there would be two armed guards in the room and at least four more posted outside in the hallway. And she knew—from experience—what to expect. I only wish I knew.

In truth, I could hear him before I even saw him. His footsteps crashed loudly on the thin carpet that ran the length of the wooden floor, his breathing was loud and even, and chains rattled with each step he took. Adrenaline coursed through my veins and an intense wave of serenity washed over me to the point that I could regain most of my composure. Oh, but I knew the minute I opened my mouth either nothing would come out or I would stumble over simple words. I'd look like an illiterate little child; shit just happens.

Nothing I could have done would have prepared me for the sight of Waylon Jones despite all of the warnings from the staff members. He was massive—the breadth of his shoulders was so wide he had to duck and sidestep through the door frame just to make it into the room—and his eyes were such a bright golden-yellow they seemed to glow. Dr. Hirsch and the rest of the on-sight nurses were right, even though I wish they'd been lying to me; Mr. Jones' skin was a pallid green color and appeared to be textured with shiny scales nearly resembling a crocodiles'. He had the complete physical appearance—minus the skin tone—of a normal human male. His face wasn't even as bad as some of the staff had described. From their descriptions I imagined he had a long snout and monstrous teeth, a slithering forked tongue. His teeth were sharp and pointy, however, and frighteningly so. As childish as it sounds, I hoped that he had them filed and wasn't actually born with that kind of dental work.

After marveling over his sheer height and the size of his arms, I gazed up at his face: it was perfectly human and almost... kind. But that wasn't true, Waylon Jones had more than likely never done a single thing of kindness in his entire life. He had slaughtered entire families and dragged innocent people down into his dwellings for nothing more than food. Without meaning to I cringed and moved further away from the edge of the desk.

"Yeah, I fucking know how ugly I am. So you ain't gotta try and morph yourself through the wall," he said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. It was shockingly soothing coming from him.

"I- No, Mr. Jones, I am sorry. Um, I- uh... Shall we begin the session?" Sweat broke out on my forehead and my hands trembled as I reached to open his file on the desk. When he didn't respond I looked over at Dr. Hirsch for reassurance—she had her nose buried in a file, her face concealed.

"What, you think you can figure out why I'm fucked in the head? Is that it? Don't waste your time. And don't take me lightly," he demanded. I looked up at him timidly and his eyes narrowed. His pupils were vertical slits.

"And why would I do that?" I was pleased to hear my voice come out evenly and with a shred of confidence. "Why do you think I would take you lightly?"

"These fuckwads with the guns, these chains, and this shock collar," he explained, rattling his shackles. "Might as well not even be here at all—I could kill you all in seconds. And I'd start with you," he said as he glared pointedly at me.

The guard standing on the patient's right side brought his rifle up and jarred Waylon in the temple with the butt of his gun. "Watch your mouth, animal."

"Stop that!" I yelled angrily at the guard. "This is my session, and if you cause unnecessary bodily harm to my patient again I'll have you replaced. Is that clear?" As I spoke I added just the right amount of menace and command to get my point across. Waylon's deep rumbling voice filled the office and I sat down, immediately embarrassed by my lack of control.

"Ma'am, with all due respect he threatened to kill us," said the other guard in defense of his partner.

"And so what if he followed through with it, you're going to provoke him by throwing the first punch? Please do not interfere again unless I request your assistance." I glared unwaveringly at the two men until they nodded and returned their own gazes back to Mr. Jones. "So, Mr. Jones, how are you feeling today?"

"Hungry."

I cleared my throat, "We can get you something to eat, if you'd like. But I was referring to how you feel mentally."

"You're reading my file."

"Yes, and I'm sorry to hear that you don't wish to make any progress. Don't you want to be happy?"

He completely disregarded my question. "You're aware of my eating habits."

It was a statement of fact, not a question and I instantly tensed. The temperature in the room rose and I started to tremble again; I was aware of Dr. Hirschs' gaze. "I am."

"Then whaddaya say, doc? Can I eat Ramirez?" As the same guard prepared himself to pistol whip my patient again, I assumed that he was the person Mr. Jones was referring to.

"Mr. Ramirez, lower your weapon or I'll have you removed from the room," I threatened as I stared him down. When Ramirez grudgingly let his semi-automatic drop to a resting position I turned to address the patient.

"This is too fucking easy," Waylon said, shaking his head.

"What is?"

"This," he said as he gestured to the whole room with his shackled hands. "I eat people, so many people. And I don't stop at men—I've killed women, and children. Yet you're sticking your neck on the line to keep these gun-toting pansies from beating me half to shit. I mean, what the fuck?"

In all honesty I had no idea what to say to him after that. I sought to rehabilitate him and to get him back on his feet in the real world. But, like so many people had told me, he really didn't want it. Waylon was a full-blooded gangster and there was absolutely no way I could attempt to deny that. I floundered for the right thing to say.

"Speechless? Yeah, I would think so," Waylon said, his narrowed eyes almost kind. "You can't help me. No one can."

"Only if you don't want us to," I said immediately with some measure of rekindled hope. Each of the guards around the room scoffed and chuckled, apparently in on some joke about which I remained ignorant.

"I don't," he said flatly.

"And why is that?"

"Do you think I'm fucking stupid?" His voice rose several octaves and I jumped back from the desk.

"I-"

"Yeah, I think you do. And judging by your presence here you have some kind of degree, so you're not stupid either. What do you think my future looks like? How many years do you think they'll put me away? How many years do you think I have left? Subtract the two."

When I remained silent, the patient smirked and sat back in his seat. I looked at him pointedly and studied his face more closely, losing myself in his sharply-angled features. His nose was broad and masculine, the lips below it full and tinted with a soft pink. My eyes still trained on his lips, I was shocked to see a forked black tongue dart out and back in the blink of an eye although it wasn't thin like I expected, but nearly human. The lines of his jaw were strong and as he clenched his teeth, the muscles in his temples and cheeks flexed powerfully. Timidly, I peered into his eyes, hoping they were looking elsewhere in the room. They weren't. Blazing pits the color of liquid gold looked right back at me and didn't seem to waver. My senses zeroed in on his presence in the room and I noticed the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the soft sound of chains as he shifted a foot, the quick movement of his eyelids as they blinked.

"So you'd rather rot down there in that sewer, alone?" I patiently awaited the answer of his deep, grumbling voice.

"Where else."

"Well that's horrible. I'd ask you about your childhood and how you learned to be so cruel to yourself, but that might be the wrong question for the moment," I said, purposefully trying to provoke him into talking about something. Anything to make some progress.

"I wouldn't tell you a fucking thing," he growled.

"Its your choice but I want you to be prepared for me to ask the same thing every time we meet." I glanced up at the clock mounted to the wall to the left. "And since you've managed to waste an hour and half trying to play coy, I guess that will be tomorrow. See you then, Mr. Jones."

Of a sudden, the patient jumped from his seat as he roared. I screamed and jumped up from my chair with the instinct to bolt, but the collar around Waylon's neck zapped to life with a buzzing electric shock. He shot up straight where he stood and his hands jumped up to his neck, tearing at the collar.

"Get the fuck down on the ground you beast!" Ramirez shouted as he rammed the butt of his rifle into the patient's back over and over again. "Get down and I might turn the collar off."

"I'm going to eat you alive!" Jones bellowed as he was forced down on his stomach. The other guard, Collins, released the patient's wrist shackles and refastened them once Jones' hands were roughly placed behind his back. I noticed the remote to the collar gripped in Ramirez's hand, his thumb jammed down onto the stun button.

"Stop it! You're hurting him!" I frantically waved my hands for Ramirez to stop, but Dr. Hirsch rushed to my side.

"Miss Greene! This is the pacification system—your patient resorted to violence, this is protocol," she explained.

"Protocol? This is torture!"
"I will kill all of you!" Waylon screamed as two more guards rushed in and hauled him to his feet. They muscled him through the doorway and as I watched Ramirez continuously hit the button to shock the patient, I truly felt like crying. How could I help? How could anyone help at all? Waylon Jones didn't feel like getting help and he pushed the limits against the people who hurt him. He was putting himself through hell for no discernible reason. Despite the obvious fact that he was a ruthless criminal, I desperately wanted to see him happy and safe somewhere. But he still terrified me and I wasn't looking forward to tomorrow's session at all.

When the patient was far enough away that I could no longer hear his roars as the facility's guards dragged him away I plopped down in the nearest chair and sighed.

"I would recommend that you went home, Miss Greene, and got some rest. Tomorrow's session is an early one. I was impressed with your work today—you stirred the patient up somehow. I am interested to see where this goes," Miss Hirsch said as she rested a hand on my shoulder.

At her encouragement I got up from my seat, grabbed my bag, and reached for the doorknob.

"And Miss Greene?"

I paused, the door halfway open, "Yes?"

"Quell your passion for that monster. We don't need another Harley Quinn," her tone was condescending and languid.

I blanched, "I beg your pardon?"

"Keep it in mind, Miss Greene," she waved her hand at me to leave. "You may go now."

Without another word I left the office and left Intensive Treatment as fast as humanly possible, taking the tram down to the docks. I was confused, and not just because of Dr. Hirsch's warning. And I couldn't get off the island fast enough.

Hope you enjoyed! :) Read and review?

-Soule