Back at her tiny apartment, she called the receptionist at Arkham and made her request. The woman seemed to take it as a joke, but her laughter soon stopped when Maria didn't join in. After nearly a half hour of arguing and needling and convincing, the lady finally gave in after letting her know (for the umpteenth time) that she was crazy. With a sigh of relief mixed with exhaustion, Maria hung the phone back into its cradle.

Why the hell was she doing this? she wondered as she absentmindedly stroked Max's fuzzy head. His wagging tail smacked her thigh with comforting force, and she took a seat at the kitchen table, taking a minute to look at her temporary home. Until she was able to buy a house of her own Maria was stuck in this hellhole. The hallway door opened into a tiny kitchen and an even smaller living space beyond that. To the right, a door led to the only bedroom. Usually the place felt like a prison. Now, it offered a scrap of comfort.

Maybe she should be the one in the crazy chair. Was she masochistic? Any normal person would have backed off after that little episode. Inborn stubbornness was one thing, but this felt more like insanity. Maria sighed and got up. It was time for some well-earned sleep, if she could get any.

"Looks like you got yourself a girlfriend, Doctor Crane," an intelligent-looking African-American woman said as she opened the door of his enclosure, letting herself in, and then closed it behind her. She had once been Crane's second-in-command on the Arkham medical staff, and now had been promoted, with the admittance of her overseer to his own mental institute, to head medical examiner for the patients at Arkham - which meant she was now Crane's doctor, as well. He smirked at her, unamused.

"Well, you know how it is, Jessica," he said with a strange, breathy laugh, "women love a man in a… straightjacket."

Jessica frowned at him, holding her clipboard, tapping her pen distractedly against her full lips. "I have to admit, that doesn't look comfortable," she told him.

"Yes, and it's not really my colour," Crane answered, bitter sarcasm dripping from every word. "Doesn't go well with my eyes."

"All right, Doctor Crane," she said with a patient smile. "That's enough. You know full well why you're being restrained to that jacket."

"Because I'm an insane and dangerous criminal and one of the security guards is afraid I might jump them as soon as I'm let out of it?" Crane answered, still just as bitter. Jessica looked over at him, an eyebrow raised. She had spent enough time around the man that she knew what he looked like out of the straightjacket; he was a slenderly-built man with barely any meat on his bones, and she would have been surprised if he reached five-foot-nine. He was not exactly the type of man one would have anything to fear from; but, then again, fear was Crane's profession and sole passion. She smiled understandingly at him and shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Crane," she said, "but I can't let you out of that straightjacket. And you know I would if I could."

"I know, Jessica," he sighed. "I know you would. - What do you need today? Blood samples, urine samples… see if I'm under the influence of anything?"

"None of that, but you do need a haircut," she commented.

He shook his bangs into his eyes and turned to look at her. She smiled. "You know, they said you didn't have a sense of humour," she commented, looking at her clipboard.

He blew his bangs out of his eyes and looked away. "They're right," he answered.

"Well, I was just coming in to tell you that the writer who was here today - "

"Yes, her… what was her name, again?" Crane asked, turning to look at Jessica. "I don't remember."

"It's M - " Jessica stopped suddenly. "Nobody ever told you her name, Doctor," she said with a disapproving frown. "She specifically asked us not to."

He grinned at her. "She's afraid I'll kill her in her sleep?" he asked. "Cut her brakes? Put toxins in her water?"

Jessica raised her eyebrows and looked down at her clipboard. "It's been known to happen," she muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

"So, what did she want?" Crane asked. "Therapeutical compensation for a scarring session with one of Arkham's psychopaths? Did she leave something here? One of her shoes, perhaps?"

"No," Jessica answered, "she wanted to know if she could come in and talk to you tomorrow."

Crane raised an eyebrow and looked over at Jessica. "She… did?" he asked, surprised.

Jessica nodded. "Seems you really made an impression on her, Doctor Crane," she said. She looked at her clipboard one last time, then nodded. "Well, it looks like I've got no other business here." She crossed to the door, opened it, and looked back at him. "Good night, Doctor Crane," she said, and then closed the door behind her.

The next morning marked the beginning of a fine day. Hardly a cloud in the clear sky (which was remarkable in itself; the usual smog covering the city seemed to have disappeared), no sign of thunderheads, a light spring breeze in the air.

Maria woke up and sneezed twice in a row, eyes watering and burning like the pits of hell.

Later, standing in front of her bathroom sink, she spent about five minutes throwing every swear word she knew at the mirror. Allergies really were the work of the devil, especially when one wore contacts. The tiny blue-tinted disks refused to go in her irritated eyes. Well, that meant one of two things. She could leave any form of eyewear at home and hope for the best (which was a very unappealing option, considering she was legally blind), or wear her glasses for the first time in years.

With a sigh, she reached for their case.

Twenty minutes later found her sitting in her car in the parking lot of Arkham. Trying (and failing) to come up with excuses. She could be sick, or her dog could be dying, or her long-lost stepsister Rosa could be holding her toothpicks ransom...The last one made her laugh. At least she had given up on her stiff attire from yesterday. Today she wore her usual outfit of a collared shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Her hair was yanked up in a ponytail. Even with her grey-green eyes hidden behind her glasses, she felt much more comfortable. Maybe today would be a good day after all.

The same receptionist stood behind the counter inside, and she called the guards without Maria saying a word. "Planning to stay long today?" she asked, inspecting her nails with a tiny, mocking smile. Maria smiled along with her. She knew what she must have looked like, shooting out of here last night. Let the stupid college grad have her laugh. She wasn't going to be a bestselling author.

The hallways were already beginning to feel familiar as Maria and her two escorts went along. She wondered if anyone had ever gotten lost in here. The thought made her uncomfortable. She was with two guards; there was no chance of that.

And finally she stood in front of the door again. She took her glasses off and cleaned them, watching through the two-way mirror. Same situation as yesterday, then. Too bad she hadn't been able to convince...Jessica, was it?...of her second request. Maybe she'd been a bit too abrupt about it. With a sigh, Maria nodded, and the guard opened the door. This was beginning to feel like a routine.

"Good morning, Doctor Crane."

The door opening jolted him from his light, fitful sleep, and he looked up, a little surprised, at his visitor. It was Jessica, always his first visitor, always his last. He settled down into a more nonchalant, sarcastic relaxation, and smiled at her.

"Ah, mes fidèles visiteur retours." He sometimes wondered if Jessica understood him; he did not doubt it, but even if she didn't, it wouldn't make much difference. Either way, she already knew him to be a little bit crazy, so tossing in a little bilingualism would not hurt much. "Bien qu'avec regrets pour ne pas me libérer de ma prison. Hélas." He shrugged his shoulders to indicate, alas.

Sometimes he used this method to get people to leave him alone, since most people were weak-minded and did not react positively to someone switching languages on them. Some people were downright scared by others who spoke foreign languages. It was a strange, but true, phenomenon that Crane had come across in his studies. Many people, when speaking to someone (particularly when it was over the telephone) would freeze up and become, in essence, frightened when someone speaking a different dialect answered on the other line. German was the most frightening language, followed by the other languages from that part of the world, but then French came in, a late contender. People reacted differently to languages like Arabic, Spanish and Italian. Italian made people swoon. Arabic and Spanish annoyed them. And then when people spoke English, their accents made all the difference in the world. Women loved an Australian, British or Irish accent, while men thought a Swedish accent was, well, sexy.

Crane had never been able to understand the concept of "sexy". Which made sense, considering it was the farthest thing from "fear" one could possibly look for.

"You're rather chatty this morning, Doctor Crane," Jessica commented on his seemingly uplifted nature.

Crane sighed, returning to his slightly peeved, normal mode. "A lack of sleep induces a sense of artificial giddiness in the human brain," he said. "Perhaps you should read my paper on it sometime, Jessica."

"Very impressive, Monsier Crane," Jessica replied with a smirk, butchering the language. "But you might want to think about switching back to English now. You've got a visitor."

"Un visiteur?"

"Good morning, Doctor Crane."

Crane looked up in interest as his so-called visitor entered the cell. It was the same woman who had visited him yesterday, Chloe, she had called herself, M-, as he knew her to be, really… She wore a rather more sensible outfit today, and seemed a bit more confident in her stride. Perhaps she had had time to think over everything they had talked about the previous day and had come back with more of her theories on the ways the human psyche could conquer fear merely by thinking itself out of it. Well, he thought, wouldn't life be nice if it were only that simple. Maybe then he would be able to think himself out of his straightjacket. Jessica shut the door, leaving the two of them alone once again.

"Fearadh na fáilte," he said, watching her cross the room and sit down in her usual chair. "It means, 'a hearty welcome', in Irish Gaelic." He grinned at her. "I believe you're my first returning visitor. Besides my doctor, of course. But that can't be avoided… checkups and the like. Got to make sure I… still have a pulse." He smirked.

He was not sure why he had chosen Irish Gaelic to introduce today's session; perhaps it was because it was such a rare language to find in a place like Gotham, where clipped English was the norm; or maybe he was trying to humanize himself a bit more to his interviewer. I'm just like you… I learn like any other human being. He had never been given a chance to speak it with anyone else; usually, when a patient did not speak a word of English, he was forced to lapse into Spanish or French to communicate and indicate their symptoms. He had taken it upon himself to learn the three most common languages - English, Spanish, and French - and then, for his own entertainment (and for sentimental heritage reasons? Perhaps that had lurked at the back of his mind at one time, but he had completely forgotten it) to learn Irish Gaelic. But in the rare occasion that a patient came in that spoke a language Crane did not, Crane would not prolong the frustration of finding a translator: his toxin worked just as well. It did not matter what language you spoke when all you did was scream, cry, and rock.

He grinned devilishly to himself. He was an awful person, he had to admit, but he amused himself.

"So, have you come for another cuir agallamh ar?" He was entertaining himself, but he was sure he was driving her crazy, so he decided to return to plain English. "Interview," he specified. "Another interview for your… book." He had been tempted, but decided against it. "Shall we start from where we left off, or was there something specific you were wanting to ask me today?"

"What's this?" Maria replied, dropping her things on the floor without a second look. "The dour doctor is cheerful this morning?" She paused to rub her eyes (still more red and irritated than she liked), and finally looked Crane in the eye.

"Good night? Or just happy to see me?" She caught herself about to smile and straightened her features.

The temptation to grin went completely away when he reminded her of their last "session". Start where they left off? She wasn't sure she could take another glimpse into his past life. Even with the metaphors Crane had used, it was too much to handle. Fortunately, she had plenty of questions planned. Unfortunately, that little stab of sympathy that had bothered her the other day was coming back, especially since the nurses had refused her request. Maybe it was time to try her second idea.

"I've got an idea to make today more...interesting for you," she explained. "Are you up for a little trading, Dr. Crane?"

Crane inclined his head, watching her carefully, pinning her to her seat with his pellucid blue eyes. "As good a mood as I can be," he answered, "under… the circumstances." He did not appreciate her characterizing him like a child, and if anything were going to murder his artificially-induced semi-buoyant mood, it would be childish inanities like these. "My night was restful. At least I never get lonely at night… I've always got arms wrapped around me, snug and warm." He grinned resentfully at this. "Maybe you should try it sometime. It's a great cure for the common… melancholy."

He lifted his head then, seemingly looking down on her, and considered her for a moment. "You're wearing glasses today," he noted. "I don't seem to remember you wearing them before." He smirked. "An outward illusion of intelligence," he noted. He, himself, had worn glasses at one time, but since being locked up, they had been confiscated. Perhaps they thought he would use them to assault someone… or to read something. God help them if he started reading. He almost chuckled at this.

Crane turned his head slightly, considering her offer. "Unless you mean trading places," he answered slowly, "I'm going to have to ask for more… specific details." He inhaled, paused, and then added, "However, if you would like to be the one in the straightjacket answering questions while I sit in the chair and quiz you… I might be inclined to accept your request... Chloe." He smiled at her, bitterly.

Her temper flared up a bit at the mention of her glasses. Illusion of intelligence? Good God, it was easy to piss him off. He didn't seem to like being thought of as anything else but a very capable adult. That was something that could come in handy, though, so she calmed herself and made a note to remember.

She nodded then, and self-consciously cleaned her glasses again. "Airborne pollutants are running on the high side today," she explained as she wiped the edge of her shirt over the lenses with one hand and rubbed her eyes with the other. "I usually go with contacts, much easier than these clunky things."

Finally, replacing them, she sighed. "As much as the offer might tempt me, I'll have to decline. Something tells me your friends out there wouldn't appreciate it much." She heard the faintest chuckle from someone outside the door and her mouth crinkled into a frown. She hated being watched, especially when she couldn't see the person who was doing the watching. Ah, well. "I actually meant trading information. This whole interviewing business must be getting tiresome for you."

She had to stop there. It felt perfectly obvious, to her, at least, that she was doing this out of pity. Her main goal in calling the supervisor last night was to request that Crane be let out of his restraints for two measly hours so that they could talk face-to-face. At this point Maria wasn't frightened of him anymore (anymore? who said she'd been frightened at all?), and seeing a person locked up like that made her sick (even if he was insane). Since Jessica had turned down the idea, she was forced to turn to the next best alternative. This whole interview was feeling too much like an interrogation, and by turning the tables a bit she could get rid of that feeling.

But if he saw all of that, he might lose his temper. An image of the bodies found two weeks ago flashed into her head. Jonathan Crane losing his temper would most certainly not be a good experience.

With a sigh, Maria finished what she'd been saying. "For every question I ask you, you get one for me. Of course, it can't be anything ridiculous, like name, address, phone number, the names of people I love and care about..." She folded her hands in her lap and prayed that he wouldn't get angry. "Well?"

"Yes," he said slowly, considering a spot on the floor, "Gotham does seem to be having trouble with… airborne… pollutants… lately." Then he looked up at her with a wry, sarcastic grin. "Pity," he said. "I was so hoping you would accept. I really had my heart set on it." His grin faded into a look of slight concentration as he went over her offer, his eyes travelling along the wall of the enclosure. "Trading information?" he mused. "Swapping story for story, in a fashion similar to… trading marbles as children." His eyes flicked back to her. "However, seeing as I seem to have lost my marbles, that wouldn't really be a fair trade for you, now would it?"

At the next part of her statement, Crane smiled and laughed oddly. "See, you just took half the fun out of it, right there," he said, shaking his head. "Not allowed to ask about specific locations or the names of loved ones… what is your friendly neighbourhood psychopath to do?" He grinned, sucking in air through his teeth, and then let it out as a sigh. "Well, since you put it out there so plainly, I feel I am obliged to play by your rules." He looked up at her. "So, since I gave the first bit of information, I get to ask you something."

He turned his face upwards, squinting his eyes and pursing his lips in a show of thought. If anything, it might amuse her to see him being so openly theatrical. "Uhm…" he considered what to request, taking into consideration that she was not going to give anything that really interested him. "How about this…" He looked at her. "How about we play a little game first. It's one of mine. I… try to guess something about you, and… if I'm right," he inclined his head one way, "you move your chair a little closer to mine. But if I'm wrong," he inclined his head the other way, "you back up your chair towards the wall.

Seeing as you're against the wall now, the game is a little slanted… If my first guess is incorrect, then you stay where you are and you get to go back to your method. But if my first guess is correct…" He shrugged, raising his eyebrows, "you move forwards. And then it works from there. But the catch is…" He cocked his head sharply, looking at her, then his eyes strayed as he opened his mouth, considering his words. "If you get all the way over here… you have to let me out of my straightjacket." He grinned at her. "But don't worry. I'm not going to attack you when you do."

It was a game that was not going to sit well with anyone - not Jessica, not the security guards, and certainly not the interviewer, but he thought a slim, crazy chance was better than no chance at all.

Maria couldn't help but smile crookedly. She didn't care what he said to the contrary; with all the fake theatrics, joke-cracking, and smile, Crane was abnormally happy today.

His next sentence told her why.

There were so many things wrong with his little idea of a game she didn't know where to start. For one, she didn't want to move out of the corner (which, obviously, he knew). For two, she most certainly didn't want him out of that straightjacket on his own terms, no matter what he said. For three, the guards most certainly didn't want him out of that straightjacket, on anybody's terms.

She supposed that, if worst came to worst, she could always lie. After all, it would only take a few more days to get all the information and conversation she needed out of this man, and then she'd never see him again. She heaved a mental sigh and made her decision.

"Take care, Dr. Crane, that savors strongly of desperation," she quipped, nearly drawing a quote from one of her favorite movies. She caught herself and moved on. "As I'm a woman who tends towards generosity, I'll go along with your game. I'll assume the...observations aren't going to be trite ones, say, 'I do believe your hair is auburn'."

"Desperation," he repeated. "Well, when you're stuck in a place like this for so long…" his eyes scaled the walls and ceiling, "…it kind-of grows on you…" His last few words came out in a kind of wistful tone. Then he looked back at her. "Though you get used to it after a while… You've met my friends, the guards… they keep me… good enough company." He smirked. "For what it's worth to someone who has a home to go to after working hours are over…"

He chuckled at her last statement. "Oh, no," he said, smiling at her, "no questions like that. No. And besides, I would put it at more of a darkly burnt umber, maybe even a deep pumpkin rouge." He considered her for a moment. "All right, Chloe," he said, thinking of what to ask her. He could say 'your name isn't really Chloe', but that would be too simple. She might drop out of the game if he used that one… he was almost certain she had always known that he did not believe the false name she had given him when he asked.

"Let's see," he said, staring at her. "You are fascinated by fear and what it can do to the human psyche because… you wish to conquer it, and you hope that… by becoming as knowledgeable as you can about every facet of it…" He paused here, watching her expression. "…You can overcome it completely."

Waiting for his first observation, Maria surreptitiously glanced at a lock of her hair that had fallen free from the ponytail. Deep pumpkin rouge...? It made her smile. Antique brass, more like it. Maybe she was just being too traditional; in her book, any color could be described by the Crayola crayon sixty-four pack, thank you very much.

When the guess finally did come, it wasn't one that really surprised her. After all, what was the topic of their discussion the day before? She cocked her head to the side, though, and looked at the ceiling for a moment as if deep in consideration. "It's hardly a wish, and some of the wording is disputable..." The woman shrugged. She couldn't very well lie about that one. She'd made her feelings about fear quite clear yesterday.

She scooted her chair a fraction of an inch away from the wall, feeling like the first man on the moon must have. Safe haven behind her, unknown territory ahead...That's one small step for a woman, one large step towards insanity. Literally. A small part of her was angry that she was playing along, but another part felt a tiny thrill. Great. Thrill-seeking. Maybe next I could take up cliff-diving, or gearless spelunking...

"Next, please. Or do I have the chance to ask something of my own?" She realized she hadn't taken the recorder out of her bag. Ah, well; like she would forget any of this. Or could.

Crane watched as she moved her seat up towards him, grinning to himself. One down, only a few to go… Soon, with a little luck, he would be free of his bindings. Then he would be one step closer to his ultimate escape from this hellish place, the place that he had once been so happy in… back when he held the keys, when he called the shots, when he was the ruler of his proverbial castle. He sat back in his chair, letting his head lounge back, resting between his squared shoulders, staring down at her from his perch.

"I guess I got that right," he said, watching her intently, then, "Oh, no. Just me this time. If you get back against the wall, then you can start asking the questions. But until then…" He exhaled thoughtfully, considering the way she carried herself, almost as if she were nervous to play his game. That was good… at least she knew what she was up against. …Or did she? He was not about to let himself believe she knew everything he was capable of, because he was certain she did not. Now he just had to think of another question to get her one step closer. There was no margin for error here; one wrong guess and she would be back against the wall, and he would be stuck in his straightjacket for the rest of his miserable, psychotic life.

He was not about to let that happen.

"Jane Austen," he said, hoping to surprise her. "I recognize the quote. Pride and Prejudice, one of her more famous works… besides Emma, Mansfield Park, Sense and Sensibility, and Persuasion. – Didn't think I'd know something like that, did you?" He smirked, then looked away, concentrating instead on the small bar in the thick door of his cell that served as a window of sorts, as if nervous someone would come peering in and spoil his little game. "I used to read… back before I was locked up here." He spoke slowly and meticulously, making each word count. "I used to read… everything. And do you know what I found?" He hoped this would hit her hard; he waited, adding to the effect of the statement. "Jane Austen's books are filled with fear. Fear of rejection, fear of loss, fear of love, or the lack thereof…" He paused again, letting his words sink in. He hoped he was getting through to her; but he would go a little further… just for fun.

"Fear radiates in everything she wrote… Elizabeth's fear of not finding a suitable husband, her fear when she was falling in love with Mister Darcy… she didn't really want to do it, not until she found that he was falling in love with her as well. …Elizabeth's parents' fear that something would happen to their daughter who fell so madly in love with that ne'er-do-well… what was his name again?" His smirk widened. "And I don't even need to go into the fear in Mansfield Park… or Persuasion. I think you can figure those out, pretty much… for yourself."

He stared at her, gripping her, holding her tightly to her seat, his crystalline eyes boring into hers. "So now, for my second observation," he continued. "You like Jane Austen, and you used to have what is called, in the world of psychological medicine, a 'Jane Austen complex'… but you now think that you have seen too much of the world to believe that every story ends in a happily ever after, and you've become far too sceptical of relationships – whether through scarring experiences or just through your own pessimism – to believe that the men you find yourself hating the most at first could really be your one true love."

He grinned at her, an awful, knowing smile. "If that were the case," he continued, walking the line, "you and I might have been meant to be."

Surprisingly, Maria found herself holding back a bubble of laughter. "I'll be honest, romances don't seem like your type of book." She paused, a surprising thought inching its way into her brain. "It's starting to seem like you're the type of person who looks for fear in things." She paused to think about it. "And if you have your heart set on looking for something, it's always going to be there."

"As for the fear in Austen's books, I always thought of her characters as a bit weak. And it's easy to ignore something that doesn't affect you," she stated in a flat tone, putting so much emphasis on the last three words that only a deaf man wouldn't hear it. It was high time that Dr. Crane realized his little tactics weren't going to bother her. The little hints at her own insecurities were beginning to annoy her.

She reluctantly turned back to the game at hand and moved her chair another fraction of an inch. "To be clear, I'm not a sad little girl who's looking for her first real boyfriend," she told the doctor. Her voice then adopted a dramatic forlorn tone. "And I seriously doubt anything could happen between us. Our...moral standings are much too different." She pursed her lips like a disapproving aunt and crossed her legs. "Next."

He raised his eyebrows. He was not getting to her… or was he? She was making it hard to tell. Well, he would focus more on things he could pull from her person, rather than trying to pick her brain… slim pickings, from the miniscule bit about herself that he had been able to ascertain through their sparse conversations. "I see that you are not impressed by literary references," he said, nodding, "though you made one, yourself… and yes, Austen's characters do have that kind of irksome… weakness about them."

He paused. "As for looking for fear in everything around you, it's really not that hard. Sometimes, yes, you have to look for it. But sometimes it's right there… so easy to find, if only you knew what to look for." He shrugged, then continued, "For example, I can't find any sense of fear in children's books, like Goodnight Moon… or, say… pudding." He cracked a small smile here. "Nothing frightening about pudding. Do you know why?" Here he slitted his eyes at her, holding her, making her hang on for his answer. "Because these are things created as safety blankets against fear. People can do that, you know. If the child is afraid of a monster under his bed… read him Goodnight Moon. And if the woman is afraid of never finding true love…" He let his voice trail off, grinning. He did not have to finish that statement.

"No," he chuckled. "I'm not a big romantic, as you can probably tell… not one of those people who sings about roses in summertime while I slice the throats of my victims…" He shrugged here, smiling at her. "But I liked to read everything. Have you ever read a book called A Clockwork Orange? Or One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest? Two of my favourites." He breathed here, pausing a moment, and then added, "Also, Silence of the Lambs was a personal favourite… of mine."

Here Crane almost rolled his eyes. "I didn't say you were, Chloe," he said, "did I? Did those exact words come out of my mouth? Did I say to you…" He looked straight at her, paused, and then continued in a flat, unamused monotone, "You are a sad, lonely little girl, aren't you?" He held her gaze for a long moment, then turned his attention elsewhere as he went on. "And you're not really my type, anyways… far too…" He tilted his head from side to side, trying to think of the right adjective to describe his interviewer. Then he looked back at her. "Autonomous."

He watched her for a moment, then blinked, meditatively. "I'm going to go out on a limb here," he said. If he got this one wrong, then he would only have one more wrong answer before she was out of his range, and he was out of luck. "You have a dog. A large, friendly dog." He grinned. "Don't you?"

Maria's cool mask finally cracked a bit. She was so sick of this. "So you're saying that everything in our society has something to do with fear, whether we like it or not?" she asked, voice harsh. "In that case, there's no hope any more, is there. Too bad. Guess we should all just throw ourselves in front of cars to avoid the sheer terror of living."

"The patronization could stop, too. I'm not seven," she said, scrunching her nose up in a scowl. "I know you didn't say that I'm a lonely kid. You could have been thinking it."

Her rant was done, but the scowl only deepened at his next guess. She moved her chair a hair closer. Damn it. Thinking of Maxy was a comforting thought. If she focused hard enough, she could almost feel his sort fur between her fingers and see his tan tail whipping back and forth in the air. A puff of air escaped her lips and she turned her eyes to the ceiling. "Next, please."

Crane chuckled. "Now, I didn't say that," he said. "And there are certainly better ways to die than throwing one's self into traffic. Like…" He thought about it. "Tying yourself to a firecracker." He grinned. "At least you would go out… with a bang."

He turned his head, considering her. "Now, did I say you were seven?" he asked. "And what are you now, a mind-reader?" He smirked. "If so, then why do you need to interview me? Aren't you wasting both of our precious times with this rather trivial, old-fashioned technique?" He shook his head, amusing himself. At least that was good.

"Would you like to know how I guessed you had a large dog?" he asked. Even if she did not, he was going to tell her. "You have a few coarse pet hairs near the knees of your outfit. A cat's fur is different from a dog's hair; it looks different, especially under a microscope. Also, if the dog was small, you would have the fur on either your blouse, from picking up the animal, or around your ankles. But since the fur is near your knees…" He shrugged. "It stood to reason that the dog was rather… larger." He smiled at her, devilishly. "But, you say, perhaps it was a small creature, you had the animal in your lap, and that's how the hair got there." He shook his head. "If you had a creature that sheds in your lap, the fur would have a tendency to gravitate towards your… crotch area." He turned his head, watching her meditatively, that same crooked smile on his face. "Not that I'm… looking," he added, grinning at her.

He looked back at her. "Well, maybe if you move your chair a little slower, I'll have this straightjacket off before I'm eighty," he quipped sarcastically. "Not that I mind waiting. Patience is a virtue." He hoped that would not send her off the edge; she had quite a feisty side, he had discovered, which was easily set off by the most inane of his statements. Perhaps it was time for a different approach.

"Let's stop talking about fear for a moment," he said. "Let's talk about something else. Like…" He considered what to talk about. The only think they seemed to have in common was their fascination with the emotion, so finding an alternate subject for discussion would be a challenge. "I don't think you're lonely," he said. "I don't think you're afraid. But I do think…" He stared at her, pursing and unpursing his lips, thinking. "You wish you could get out of Gotham. You wish your life had a little more… I don't know… pizzazz, in it."

Again with the patronizing. Maria took the upper road and ignored it, tilting her head off towards the door and refusing to meet his eye. Her mouth tightened into a dissatisfied line. Either her moods were completely out of whack, or he was toying with her. Must be the first.

At the dog comment, she unconsciously brushed off the hairs that were invisible to her. Instead of the explanation freaking her out, it was sort of comforting. At least he hadn't read that from the comments she'd made; if that had been the case, she would have had reason to be truly concerned. She hadn't even mentioned liking animals, much less hinted that she might have one.

"Didn't know you were so eager to get me over there," she said, the edge not completely gone from her tone. "Though I shouldn't flatter myself. You just want to get out of that chair. Poor dear." She tutted like she remembered her mo...wait. Her eyes fell to the floor and focused on one filthy white tile. She didn't remember. There wasn't anything to remember, really. A hysterical laugh got caught in her throat; she cleared it firmly.

Well, now.

She rolled her eyes and took the plunge, moving forward by almost a foot to make up for the last few centimeters. "Fair enough. Even you have to admit that Gotham is a completely boring hellhole." Her back was flat against the chair and she no longer felt even the unconscious urge to lean forward, but Crane's luminous eyes still felt too close. She decided that holding his gaze was a bit uncomfortable, and took a break by watching the floor tiles.

"Oh, I don't know," he said with an odd laugh, "my little corner of Gotham can get quite interesting, at times… especially when I get... visitors." He smirked at her. "But you're making my guesses seem trivial, even… pitiful." He watched her. She had made the choice to not make eye contact with him; a smart move. He would not want to hypnotize her. He grinned. All those old rumours were coming back to him… if only even one of them were true…!

"Let me try something else," he said. "So far, I've covered your cynical nature, your pets, your desire for freedom… but those are all small and insignificant topics." He thought about it, breathing slowly, concentrating hard. If she had only given him a little subtext to work with…! But she had given him nothing. He had given her everything at their last interview, and tricks of observation would not bring her chair all the way over to his.

"Let's delve a little deeper," he went on. "Into your past." He let out a short, cynical chuckle, jerking his head slightly to one side. "Always such a tragic topic when someone is asked… either they were misunderstood, abused, ignored, or raped… those are the four most common…" He looked at her again. "Though it's been known to happen that… people have had a perfectly normal childhood." He scrutinized her in interest. Well, there certainly did not seem to be anything wrong with her, besides the fact that she was overly sceptical of the world around her and did not seem to make friends easily - or even want to.

A detachment from the societal world. That indicated a deep-seated trouble with -

"Your mother," Crane said. "You and your mother did not have a very good relationship… and that's part of the reason you've turned out… the way you are today." He tilted his head forwards, watching her intently, hoping against hope that he remembered all his studies correctly.

A tiny beep issued from the digital watch on Maria's wrist. She glanced down at it; the face said eleven o'clock sharp. As if it knew it what the watch said, her stomach growled the tiniest bit, and she placed a hand over it. She realized she'd have to head out for an hour or so to grab something to eat. Maybe she'd try that new Thai bistro a few miles away...

"Oh, not pitiful. Just a bit...boring." She shrugged as if it didn't matter anyways. "They just feel like the questions I get from my friends, not an analysis from a psychologist."

Her chair moved back a foot with almost undue enthusiasm. "Strike one," she said in a happy tone. "My m...my mom and I were on great terms." She realized that she was grinning like a little kid, and toned down the expression. Then she realized what he'd said. Those were almost fighting words. "What do you mean, 'the way I am today'?" Her eyebrows were in danger of disappearing under her sideswept bangs.

FUCK.

It was then that Crane realized that he never really swore when he spoke.

Oh, well. It was never too late to start.

FUCK.

He twitched slightly at the beep her watch made. He hated electronic things… always had. Everything was done better when you did it, yourself… not when you relied on a machine to do it for you. He stared at her watch, now hidden underneath her hand. If they just had real people stationed in casinos, they would not lose as much money to card-counters… if soldiers manned their vehicles they would not have so many blunders which resulted in the loss of technology and the money that was put into it… money that could have gone to better sciences, ones that needed it more.

What kind of wars were the world fighting nowadays? Whatever happened to good old thermonuclear atomic warfare?

"Well, Chloe, this isn't really meant to be an analysis," he told her. Then, "Nor am I trying to be your friend. I am simply trying to fulfil both of our needs by asking questions of you… we're just getting to know each other, you and I." He smirked. "Acquaintances, if you will. Not friends."

"You and your mother…" he began to repeat, but stopped himself, surprised. He cleared his throat. "You just seem like the kind of person who never really had much of a relationship… with her mother," he specified. "Which isn't that uncommon… all things considered." She was taking much larger steps backwards than forwards. That could prove disastrous. One more strike and he would be out.

"All right," he said, thinking hard and furiously. Think, Crane. Fast, before she pulls out. His cool façade did not crack as he stared at her, considering what to ask her next. Then he opened his mouth, paused, and then spoke slowly, considering his words carefully, "Is it that you and your mother were on great terms… or that you can't remember enough about her… to know much… either way?"

Watching Crane closely as she was, Maria noticed when he twitched. She raised her eyebrows. It seemed that something about the watch was setting him off. That was weird, to say the least. Then again, he was a bit off his rocker. Still. Interesting.

Even more interesting was the fact that she'd been watching closely enough to catch it. She diverted her eyes and a dull heat rose in her cheeks. A blush? Since when did Maria Goodhart blush?

After nearly a minute, she looked back up and slid her chair forward to its previous position without a word. Her jaw tightened almost against her will. The bad memories were piling up, pounding at the back of her brain like jackhammers now, and she had to stare hard at Crane's face to try to forget about them. "Next."

Crane raised his eyebrows and his lips parted slightly in surprise. She was moving forwards again. Maybe this would not be as hard as he thought, at first… He caught himself and instantly changed his expression to one of impassive interest. If she knew he was getting so interested in her, she might try to use that against him… like bait. He did not like to be mockingly enticed, but he could never resist following the bait and getting caught up in something hook, line, and sinker.

And now he was floundering for another question to ask her.

Funny how he always ended up comparing himself to a fish.

He watched her, and saw the strangest thing: he was almost certain he saw her blushing. What? That was impossible; at least, she did not seem like the blushing type. He would have put money on that. Apparently, he would have lost that bet… or maybe it was just an illusion. Maybe he truly was losing his mind. Maybe now he was starting to see things.

But now she was staring at him, her expression set, no longer cynical and relaxed. All this time, she had been trying to avoid his gaze, making acerbic comments about his questions and comments, but this time, she had moved forward with barely a word. How odd. Perhaps he had struck a chord there. "Your mother died… when you were very young," he said, hoping to get lucky. There were so many possibilities for a case like this… the mother had died, or run away, or the child had been sent away… it was almost impossible to isolate the case. Even for Crane, it was only guesswork.

Her teeth were going to break from being pushed together so hard.

By now, Maria was beyond noticing Crane's very noteworthy facial expressions. She was attempting to distract herself by trying to pin down exactly the color of his eyes (Crayola wasn't getting her very far; Inch Worm was the closest she'd decided on), but a dull throb in the back of her skull told her that a bad headache was coming on. She said nothing again (it seemed this was becoming a habit) and moved forward.

She didn't like where this train of thought was going. She didn't like it at all. The novelist had been to a shrink once before, a man in his mid-fifties who liked to play God. He'd asked her questions quite similar to the ones she faced now, and the result hadn't been pretty. Suffice it to say, that was the last trip she'd ever taken to the man.

And now, in this stupid room, she was having to face the same questions. She'd never tell him to stop, though. That would be admitting a weakness, and he seemed the type prone to prod at a weak spot. So she kept her mouth shut and her jaw clenched.

Just a few more correct guesses, and he would be free. But, despite that, Crane was not thinking about freedom. He was completely enraptured by this mysterious author, with her enigmatic ways, her hidden past, her self-regulating nature… She said nothing, but there was something in her silence that Crane detected… resentment? Hatred, towards him, towards the system, towards herself, for putting herself in this situation? His brow creased slightly as he considered her; she seemed to be studying him right back. He had never had anyone study him like that before, almost like an artist… what was she thinking?

He bit his lip, thinking. All the sarcastic grins, the bitter laughter, the nonchalant cynicism had vanished, replaced with what he had once been: intelligent, determined, cautious and reckless, all at the same time. He inhaled heavily, then let it out quickly, turning his head, considering her. What in the world could he possibly ask her next?

Finally, he leaned a slender shoulder against the back of the chair and bent slightly forwards, towards her. "All right," he said, his voice low, breathy… nervous. He swallowed, trying to find the right way to word his next guess. "You don't like to talk about your mother's death," he said slowly. "You prefer to leave her memory in tranquillity… and silence."

The uncomfortable (for her, at least) silence had to stop. "Now that's hardly a guess," she protested, eyes narrowing. Her arms crossed over her chest and a finger tapped against her forearm. "More of an observation, and not too hard to figure out, if you're half the doctor I thought you were." Manners were, apparently, a thing of the past now. Which was odd, since Maria only let her polite face drop around friends.

And, of course, she and Dr. Crane were no friends.

Maybe half of her worry was because she kept getting closer and closer, and she found she couldn't lie about these things. She had always relied quite a lot on honesty (didn't get her very far in Gotham, to say the least), but this was ridiculous. The guards outside the door were not going to let Crane out of his straightjacket, no matter how much he might argue about it. And she didn't want to have to explain that.

Crane was taken aback. He had been doing so well, up until this point. Then she had decided to fight back. That hypnotic power he was rumoured to have would have been a very useful tool, right about now. Too bad it was only a rumour… and hypnotism was a thing that only fools and magicians believed in. That was, of course, not counting the possibility that all magicians were fools. Which was something Crane did not doubt.

"Chloe," he said, returning to his slippery, slightly mad smile, "I am twice the doctor you think I am." Maybe that would psyche her out. Maybe it would not. Either way, he had to buy himself some time… now that the two of them were not locked, as if with some kind of static electricity, or under some kind of hypnotism (there it was again!), he could not afford to lose her. He was so close… he clenched his fists inside the straightjacket, his breathing becoming slightly sharper as he watched her, inclining his head towards her a bit, staring at her out of sinister, translucent blue eyes.

"Chloe isn't your real name," he said. "I'm no fool. No attractive, vulnerable young woman would give her name so easily to someone like me… a psychopath." He shook his head, looking slightly fanatical. "But that's not my guess… that would be too easy, that would almost be… cheating, like my last guess." He stopped shaking his head and sat perfectly still, then began to rock back and forth slightly, very slowly, watching her, his shoulders hunching and relaxing a bit with each motion, almost meditative, in a way.

"No, my next guess is…" He paused, considering his question. She was getting peeved with his game, it was obvious. One wrong move and she might skip out entirely. He took a breath, hesitated, his mouth hanging open wordlessly, then said, "Your father never wanted to talk about your mother after her death… which hurt you, because… you wanted to know more about her." He swallowed hard. Hopefully he was getting close… hopefully she could not see him starting to sweat. He was under the gun. To her, this was a journey of self-discovery. But to him, this was a journey that led to his vindication… and revenge.

"That's enough."

Maria stood with an unnatural, jerky movement. Her eyes were still narrowed and her complexion had turned a sick white shade. "This may be a game to you, but it's my life we're talking about," she said, almost spitting with anger. "I'm going out to grab some lunch. And if I come back" (she stressed the word) "we go back to the interviewing."

She turned and snagged her purse with a finger, turning for one final look at the person who'd almost touched her past. Then she stomped out the door with all the dignity of a child having a tantrum.

Outside in her car, she leaned against the dashboard (careful not to touch the horn) in defeat. She was so tired. If her apartment was closer, she'd go back to pay Max a visit. She couldn't believe herself. She had let some insane convict get that close to her past, so close she could feel it breathing down the back of her neck. Not to mention, she'd let him come close to her dad. A shudder ran through her and she sat back in her seat, wiping her eyes (stupid allergies).

With a sigh, she turned the key in the ignition. Time for some chow. The new Thai place down the road would work just fine.

Crane looked up, eyes wide, mouth hanging slightly open in shock. "What - you're leaving?" he asked. "You can't leave… I was winning - !" But it was too late. She had already exited his cell. "You can't leave!" he shouted after her. He struggled with his bindings, thrashing violently, trying desperately to get free of the straightjacket that had him belted, helpless, in place. "FUCK!" he exclaimed, fighting the thick terrycloth, trying to tear at it with every available tool he had; hands, feet, teeth. He turned his head sharply, snatching at the material and trying to tear it loose with his teeth. He screamed in frustration, pushing against the sides of the flannel cocoon with his elbows, twisting at the waist, trying to loosen the belts that held him fast.

"JESSICA!" he screamed. He started slamming his shoulder against the back of the chair, trying in vain to get the belts to relent, even the slightest bit. "JESSICA!" Jessica came running into the room, frantic, flanked by two surprised-looking Arkham security guards. Crane stopped flailing and held still, glaring at the three of them, his hair falling in his almost bloodshot eyes, his mouth hanging open, panting. An exaggeration by one of the guards later telling the story had him "foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog", but he was doing nothing of the sort - at the moment.

"Doctor Crane, I heard you screaming! Is something the matter?!" Jessica seemed truly concerned for him. He stared at her, breathing heavily, his eerie, unblinking eyes never leaving her face.

"Jessica," he panted, his voice low, almost threatening. "I can't take this anymore. I just can't."

"What are you talking about?" Jessica asked, narrowing her eyes. Crane's eyes flicked to the two security guards. Jessica hesitated, then turned to the guards. "Shoo!" she started sweeping them away like small, nosy children. "Go on, shoo! This doesn't concern you." The security guards frowned, then filed out of the room. Jessica closed the door behind them and turned once again to Crane.

"Jessica." His eyes bore into her, freezing her to her spot on the floor. He had always had the ability to mesmerize his second-in-command with that stare. That was one of the reasons he had hired her… if she disagreed with him, he would turn, remove his glasses, and stare deep into her eyes… and suddenly, she would have a revelation. But he knew it would take more than a spellbinding stare to get her to do this particular task. "You know I'm not dangerous," he said, coaxing her, talking slowly in a tone of convincing cajoling, making every word count. "You know I'm just a good guy… that got caught in the wrong place… at the wrong time."

Jessica frowned. "If you want me to get you out of that straightjacket, Dr. Crane…"

"Oh, no, no, that's not what I want at all," Crane said, speaking in a tone one might use with a child who misinterpreted something that was said to them, "I couldn't ask you to do that. That would be asking too much… But, there is something I would like you to do for me…" He leaned forward in his chair, looking more crazed than ever before, the mad, crooked smile spreading across his face. "Come here… a little closer…" She moved closer to him, trusting him. "Just a little closer, Jessica. That's it."

Finally she stood right before him. "I'm just a little uncomfortable in the jacket," he said, in barely above a whisper. "Could you maybe… loosen it, just a bit? Just around the shoulders…" Jessica started to reach out a hand, then stopped.

"I don't think this is a good idea, Dr. Crane," she said. "I mean, I could get into a lot of trouble for this."

"Just for loosening it a little? Jessica." He tilted his head, giving her a mock scolding look. "Nobody will know. I won't tell if you won't tell." He smiled at her, trying his hardest to make it look sincere. "Come on, Jessica. Just a little looser… just around the shoulders."

She sighed, looked at him again, and then reached out and began to lightly loosen the straps of the straightjacket at his shoulders. He smiled, watching her. "Yes, Jessica… that feels so much better," he said, smiling. "SO much better."

When she had finished, she stepped back to admire her work, then started for the door again. "Oh, Jessica, wait," Crane called after her. Jessica stopped and turned back to him. "Come back," he enticed her. She hesitated, then started back towards him.

"I have to get back to my job, Doctor," she said. "They're going to wonder where I am."

"I know that, this won't take but a moment," Crane assured her. "Come on. Come here. Just a little closer." Jessica approached him, and stood before him, patiently. He lowered his head, inclining it slightly to one side, and looked up at her. "Down here," he said quietly. "Come on, I need to tell you something. Something secret. Nobody can know it but you, so I have to whisper…" She leaned in close to him, raising her eyebrows, waiting. He leaned near to her face. "Jessica…" he whispered. She nodded, waiting for the secret.

"…I lied."

Before Jessica had time to react, Crane reared back and rammed his own forehead into hers, knocking her out cold on the floor of his cell. He stared down at her for a moment, triumphant, then started to wrestle his shoulders out of the straightjacket, slipping first one arm, and then the other, out of the jacket, and finally pulling his legs out of the uncomfortable sack. He stood, stretched his arms, and inhaled deep, his first breath of freedom.

He tossed the straightjacket down onto the cell floor next to Jessica, lifted her ring of keys, and let himself out of the cell, remembering to lock the door behind him. He wanted to laugh; he wanted to scream, but he knew that portraying any kind of emotion would give him away. He found his way to the entrance of Arkham, where Jessica's computer station sat abandoned. He moved around to the computer chair and sat down, pulling up the file of registered visitors to Arkham. He recognized only a few of the names - relatives of patients he, himself had overseen at one point - but stopped when he saw one.

"Hello," he grinned. "Maria Goodhart."

He got up from the computer chair and exited Arkham asylum, undetected by the security guards or the security cameras, leaving no indication of his ever being there but the computer chair idly spinning in circles.

Jonathan Crane was free.