Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Jervis Tetch, Jonathan Crane, Harley Quinn, Joker and Poison Ivy. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the quoted poem used in this chapter. "Beautiful Soup" belongs to Lewis Carroll.

The Arkham Asylum was like some nightmarish high school. Instead of teachers patrolling the hallways, there were armed guards. Up and down the halls they went, like sentinels. Instead of detention, these people could throw you in isolation if you acted up, or, if they were feeling particularly sadistic, could even beat you because corporal punishment was allowed here. The face, the neck, the stomach... Where they struck you simply did not matter to them. Jervis Tetch rubbed the back of his head. He distinctly remembered the smack he got after refusing to remove his clothes for a strip search. The lump was gone- It had been for weeks- but his face still became a blotchy shade of red upon remembering the indignation of being thoroughly exposed and examined. Privacy, he soon learned, was a thing of the past. The showers were opened showers. The toilets were there in the cell and, since the cells were barred by clear glass, anyone could look in on you. And the odors that wafted out from certain cells were appalling. It was a combination of sweat, body odor and human excrement; the Englishman gagged the first time he breathed in the stench.

It was indeed a long, long way to fall. He once reigned supreme and could have controlled all of Gotham had he wanted to. Only he didn't want to. All he wanted was to live happily with Alice by his side. But then Batman dethroned him, took away his queen and then took away his power. And without his mind control device, the Mad Hatter was indeed defenseless.

There was a newspaper article about the incident. A guard, just for the sake of being callous, read the piece out loud days after it appeared. The whole thing was highly exaggerated; it made the Mad Hatter look as criminal as the Joker. "Not too popular, are you?" the guard sneered after he read the first few paragraphs. "Lookee here…" He began to read again. "'He's a menace to society,' claimed a victim who had been forced to dress up as a lizard. 'It's unfortunate, but hopefully Mr. Tetch will recover and return to Wayne Enterprises,' stated former employer Bruce Wayne. Dr. Marsha Cates declared that the whole thing was the act of-' You listening, Tetch? '-a delusional, childlike man who kidnapped a bunch of innocent people, all for a game of make-believe.'" The guard lowered the newspaper. "Well, I've got to say that I agree with her, Tetch. I mean, there are a bunch of costumed freaks in this city… Clowns, cats, bats… But a character from a kiddy book?" He shook his head in disgust. "Kind of childish, if you ask me." He began to laugh and, in a mocking, babyish tone, added. "Would ickle Maddie Hattie like to see the pretty pictures?" The guard pressed the article against the glass. There it was, underneath the headline that read: Batman Captures Mad Hatter. A photo of him, ensnared by the Jabberwocky's claws, looking utterly defeated and pitiful.

Jervis now sighed. He really was reliving his schooldays. After all, he was the same powerless fellow who was bullied in school as a boy, terrorized for being bookish and smart, shunned by girls, pummeled in gym class and ridiculed in locker rooms. The other kids disdained him for his intellect, all while the teachers commended him for it.

Only now… Only now the roles were reversed in this ghastly Wonderland. After the guard had read the article, an inmate in the opposite cell appeared behind the glass. He was tall and lanky, reminding the Mad Hatter of another literary character: Ichabod Crane.

"That true?" the thin man asked casually. "You found a way to control minds?" Jervis nodded. "And what about the bit about hacking off Batman's head? Is that true also?" He reluctantly admitted that it was. The other inmate looked mildly impressed. "Good for you."

Jervis then realized that those in charge might despise him, but his fellow inmates did not. Of course, it had not been like that the first few days. Jervis was the just lowest rung on the ladder then. He was a mere nobody and attempted to lie low. But soon word had spread and the inmates began to whisper amongst themselves, and, in doing so, Jervis unintentionally advanced higher and higher in the social hierarchy amongst Arkham prisoners. There were the cliques here at Arkham, but instead of jocks and geeks, there were psychotic masterminds and delusional madman. It was the members of Rouge Gallery who ruled the asylum; they were the popular kids and the other inmates regarded them in worshipful admiration. And when it was revealed that the newest inmate had been apprehended by Batman himself, even they began to regard Jervis differently. He knew that it was wrong of him. He knew that what he did was unethical and that it would be unwise to connect with such people. But the idea of being accepted and admired was indeed tempting, even if it were lunatics who did the admiring…

Mind control. Forcing innocent people to do his bidding. Almost chopping off the Cape Crusader's head… It was quite impressive, Jervis thought to himself and a rare sense of pride swelled inside him.

Guards now ushered them out of their cells. Eight o'clock. Time for breakfast. They routinely lined up in the hallway and were escorted down the stairs and into the lunchroom. Another similarity to high school: the lunchroom was exactly like a cafeteria, only the inmates were segregated; men on the right and women on the left. They waited in line for their meal, each one holding a tray along with a plastic spoon. Metal utensils were prohibited.

There was a new server, Jervis observed. Rough looking fellow. Heavily muscled, but not too intelligent looking. The man was likely a former inmate of Stonegate. He ladled out a foul, pea-colored substance, pouring it into each and every bowl.

Jonathon Crane, standing ahead of him, looked down at the slop with repulsion. "What," he asked, "is this?"

"That," the server grunted, "is your breakfast. So shut up and eat up, whoever you are."

A small smile tugged at Crane's thin lips. "You really don't know who I am, do you?"

"Sure I do. You're a freak."

"And you are a fool." Crane's voice was low and waspish. "An erroneous, dim-witted buffoon. You should be genuflecting before me. You should be paying homage to me. You should be singing glorious praises to me. Me! Scarecrow, the god of fear!"

The attendant smirked. "Yeah, you've got me trembling in fear all right."

Knowing Crane's extreme pride, Jervis almost expected him to go ballistic. Only he didn't. He merely stood there placidly, his small smile expanding into a conniving, toothy grin.

"Pease porridge hot," Crane began to softly chant. Each word said was said with chilling emphasis. The server again smirked at the man reciting nursery rhymes, but there was really nothing childish about it. It was as though Crane was muttering some threatening incantation. "Pease porridge cold." Crane's mad, dark eyes penetrated into the server's. "Pease porridge in a pot." The server was now at last showing signs of being unnerved; he was fidgeting and looking anxiously from left to right, trying to make eye contact with one of the guards. Crane slowly and obscenely licked his lips. "Nine days old." He observed the server with satisfaction before taking his tray, whistling cheerfully as he did so.

Now it was Jervis's turn. The server ladled the disgusting substance into his bowl, half of it spilling onto the tray because of his trembling. Next time, Jervis told himself, he would make sure to stand in front of Crane.

He took an apple, a slice of cold, unbuttered toast and a carton of orange juice before taking a seat beside Crane. Jervis, like Crane, was disgusted by the asylum's menus. But what did he expect for breakfast? An omelet and sausages, served with a cup of tea?

"Beautiful Soup, so rich and green, waiting in a hot tureen," he began wistfully. Jervis took a spoonful, turned it over and allowed it to plop back into the bowl with a revolting splatter. He wasn't even sure if this was soup. Whatever it was, it was far from beautiful.

"Must you?" Crane asked snappishly.

Jervis smiled pleasantly at his friend's annoyance, but did not reply. His attentive eyes fell upon the women who were lined up and he noticed the young, Carroll-spouting inmate that he had seen the night before. She was waiting for her meal, the tray tucked underneath her arm as she repetitively rubbed at her eyes. Jervis could see that they were inflamed. There was also a large, plum-colored bruise on her forehead. Damn that psychotic clown, he thought. Damn him for provoking her.

"Gelotophobia…" Crane muttered calculatingly to himself. "Scopophobia, that's another possibility… Maybe even Coulrophobia…" Jervis glanced over at him. Crane's thin arms were folded across his chest. He too was ignoring his meal, instead choosing to scrutinize the young woman.

"I'm just curious to know why she acted the way she did," he said to Jervis in explanation, trying to act like a psychologist doing a diagnosis. The attempt failed. Crane could not hide his insatiable expression whenever he watched somebody else's terror.

Jervis shook his head. He was still unable to understand the Scarecrow's obsession with phobias, or the "art of fear" as Crane liked to put it. But, then again, he couldn't understand Poison Ivy's obsession with plants or Harley Quinn's obsession with the Joker. Perhaps they felt the same way about him and his obsession with Alice in Wonderland.

Jervis smiled to himself.

We're all mad here, he thought.

Author's Note: I've grown to absolutely love Scarecrow… There is something extremely disturbing about a grown man reciting nursery rhymes… Also one of the greatest lines from the entire series was his "Worship me, fools! Worship me! Scream hosannas of anguish…"

Gelotophobia is the fear of being laughed at. Scopophobia is the fear of being stared at. Coulrophobia is the fear of clowns.