A Piece Of Glass
By Breech Loader
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Chapter Four: Diagnosis in Red
"Her real name is Bridget Loranski. From her files she's a manic-depressive, obsessive-compulsive, highly impulsive woman with a variation on the inferiority complex," Doctor Jeramiah Arkham told the looming Batman, "She can be rather uncooperative, and extremely violent – we had to keep her hands cuffed at all times. But unlike the Joker, she never committed any act of violence without a rational – if not always justifiable - reason. She is not a violent person by nature. She is in fact, one of the most empathic individuals I have ever studied."
"Anything else I should know?" Batman asked.
"She's a paranoid-schizophrenic, suffers from delusions regarding the nature of morality, and has a genius-level IQ of 147," Doctor Arkham heaved a sigh of exasperation, "And she spent a lot of time with Jonathan Crane, which probably gave her some insight into how to use her therapist. At one point we tried to stop their interactions. She stopped eating, drinking and sleeping. We had to reinstate their ability to spend time together."
"You gave in to her demand?" Batman growled.
"She might have died otherwise," Arkham sighed, "This is a hospital for the criminally insane and there were high risks. We thought that their interactions were a positive experience for both of them. A sign of progress."
"Anything else I should know about their 'interactions'?" Batman asked.
"Only this tape," Jeramiah Arkham sighed again, "It is highly confidential material, especially since it was the primary reason we first tried to stop their interactions..."
The tape showed the feline woman entering a bathroom, and going into one of the stalls. Several minutes later, Jonathan Crane entered. He paused, then entered the same stall. Batman saw the lock turn to red.
"Sexual interactions?" Batman asked, trying to keep the anger out of his voice.
"Yes, this is just one of them," Doctor Arkham replied, "But it was consensual on both sides."
"Why Crane? Why Loranski?"
"Look at Loranski..." Doctor Arkham answered the man in the mask. He rewound the tape and froze it on an image of the anthromorphic cat walking in, "Most of her mental problems seem to stem from her physical appearance. If we knew how she mutated we might have been able to help her better. But she didn't trust anybody enough to tell them the truth. All we know for sure is that she was once human, and that up until the age of 18 she lived a healthy, normal life in the United Kingdom. And she's officially a resident of the United States of America.
"As for Crane – his egomania doubtless found her obsessions and warped take on morality fascinating, and he thought himself more capable of... getting inside her head... than any of the doctors who had replaced him. The rest... is just a variation of the Florence Nightingale effect. I'm sure you've both heard of it-"
"When a doctor falls in love with their patient. Or vice versa," Commissioner Gordon agreed, "Let me guess – Loranski opened up to Crane more than she did her therapist. In return he felt superior to his former colleagues because of that."
"I'd say that would be the most plausible explanation for their interactions, yes," Jeramiah Arkham agreed, "We actually started secretly logging their conversations, finding them useful for assessing both of their progress outside of therapy."
"What happened when the Joker first arrived?" Batman asked.
"The Joker? He and Loranski barely interacted. They certainly never spoke," Dr Arkham replied, "Their cooperative escape couldn't possibly have been predicted. However, we know that the Joker brought up Loranski to Crane on at least one occasion – apparently in jest, but as a result he learned that she was up for review. Just a few weeks later... well, this happened."
Jeramiah Arkham put in the security tape showing the Joker approaching and then practically attacking the nervous feline freak.
Batman looked at the pictures of the freakishly feline woman with the 'tuxedo' fur pattern and white hair. Then he looked at the footage of her and Joker in the cafeteria. It was perversely frightening, watching the way he treated the much smaller woman. Then the Joker got up off her, and rammed the piece of glass into the table just before the guards got close enough to see what he was doing...
"Joker gave her the glass," Batman concluded, "He attacked the weakest link, and when nobody helped her, she snapped again. And see here?" he pointed to the footage taking place in the infirmary, listening intently, "He convinced her to break out to keep Arkham Asylum from being destroyed. When she knocked out Harvey Bullock without weapons, he must have decided she was useful, and took her with him. It's a game for him – he's trying to turn this... symbol of hope... into a monster again."
Gordon paused, "Perhaps she'll turn him into her?" he asked hopefully, "If he somehow becomes attached to her, I mean. A woman can do funny things to a man's head."
"Can you honestly see a psychotic monster like the Joker, who has shown zero empathy for any living person, actually becoming attached to this woman?" Batman asked him. He turned to Jeramiah Arkham, "More importantly, can you see Loranski coming back – perhaps to break Crane out? Or to get away from the Joker?"
"It's impossible to guess with what little information we have," Dr Arkham replied evenly, "It was that need for acceptance which drove her to seek company in the form of Jonathan Crane; a therapist on her side of the glass. Now the Joker's accepting her."
"Might he try to break out to get to her?" Batman pressed.
"We've considered that already," Doctor Arkham answered quickly, "Jonathan Crane is currently under strict surveillance."
Gordon shook his head, "Either way, we have to find the Joker. If his escape gets to the press... there could be mass panic. Chaos. And somebody like Joker would just love that."
"Red. You'll look good in red, doll," Joker tells me again, pushing a red leather outfit into my arms just before he slams a foot on the gas.
I look at it. It's very revealing. So far I've done all I could to disengage thoughts of sex from his sick head but wearing an outfit like this...
"You don't, uh... like it?" Joker asks, feigning surprise. He waves his bloody shiv vaguely. He knifed the shop owner on his way out, "We could, uh... go to another shop."
"I... uh..." I look at the outfit and remember the last costume I wore. That was red too. It was a lot less revealing though. I've been a Lady in Red almost as much as I have been Breech Loader.
"It's even, uh... bulletproof," Joker comments, licking his lips slowly, and smirking, as if that makes this outfit okay, "But not knife-proof, I'm afraid..."
"Not so much with all the... gaps in it," I reply, almost relieved at the opportunity to demean the outfit.
He narrows his eyes, "You know, Loranski, I'm, uh... getting just a little tired of your gratitude problem."
This is the first time he's called me Loranski, rather than Breech, and it always bothers me, being called by the name of a dead woman, "It, um... has a certain appeal," I admit. It doesn't really, but it's probably easier this way. I pause, "Where are you taking me?"
He laughs; an ugly, guttural sound, "Me taking you? Taking you? If I remember rightly, Breech, you got into the car with me. I don't make people do things. I just... happen to know how people work. Getting in with me... that, uh... that was your choice."
I almost freeze up in horror as I realise the truth of his words. Then I grab the door handle, ready to jump out and roll with it. He sees it and grabs my right hand, pulling me so that I can't get out just now, "I won't stay!" I insist, "You don't have the right to keep me here and-"
He pulls me closer, gripping my cheeks and slowing his speed, one eye on the road, one eye on me, "After all the presents I've given you, you're just going to, uh... run off?" he asks, "Now, that's just rude... What do you say when a gorgeous guy like me gives you presents and such a swell time? Huh?"
"I say that you frighten me, Joker," I tell him, trying to keep my voice calm, "You scare me and I'm no angel, but I can tell you right now, that even the monsters of Gotham hate you. Is that what you want to hear? That you're a sick, depraved, perverted monster?"
"Yeah, I've heard that before," Joker's expression becomes grim for a moment, but he lets go of my face. Then, as if looking for another excuse for amusement, he slams one of my hands on the wheel and holds it there. Now we are both driving. But the hard words can't have hurt him much, as he smirks again shortly afterwards, "Got anything else, aha... clever to say to me?" he asks, sucking on his scars.
"Just one thing," I admit, "I don't expect you'll believe me but... despite all the things you've done, people still want you to be... 'normal'. There was bets on at the Asylum. People were rooting for you! They really believed you could be... fixed!"
"I already told you, I'm not the crazy one," the Joker laughs, "I just see the world for what it is! The world is chaos! People are bastards! I just happen to admit it."
I don't answer this time, because he's right. He finally pulls up at a broken-down warehouse deep in the Narrows and looks at the cop car, "They're going to be looking for that," he says thoughtfully, "So... let them find it. It'll just have a few new improvements."
I look at the cop car. The improvements doubtless involve explosives or something. Killing cops and people was never something that worried me. It's civilians I don't like getting hurt. I mean, cops are just paid for this shit, but if you've got a job and some harmless bystander gets hurt, that's just... sloppy.
"Now you go inside and... make yourself look pretty in your new outfit," he tells me, pushing the leather into my arms, "If I finish up out here, and you're not done... well, your problem. Although..." he sucks on his scars again, making that sick noise, "Cats aren't really supposed to dress up."
"I'll get right in them," I assure him.
It's a couple of hours later and, with great difficulty, mostly because of the way the aches of today's beatings are really kicking in now, I have managed to dress myself in the outfit. Without help from the Joker, thank god. Some stretching, and the outfit has been forced into laying against my body in a comfortable and moderately concealing position.
I look around the place, first for a mirror. If the Joker's going to see me like this... well, let's just say I want to know how I look. There's only one mirror in the whole place though; it's in a filthy bathroom, and it's cracked, like somebody tried to smash it a long time ago.
I know the Joker doesn't bother much with hygiene, table manners, or fashion or anything even slightly related to what people might think of him. If anything, he's probably aware that it unnerves people even more. And I'll admit, I've got more important things to think about too. But nonetheless, the bathroom's condition is disgusting.
Still, what I see in the mirror... isn't so bad. Skin-tight sports bra... short leggings... and a duster longcoat. All in red. I remove the longcoat and hang it on the back of the door, and I'm about to go to the toilet, but one look at it is enough to put a thin protective layer of toilet paper around it first.
I don't want to be here. The Joker terrifies me, and that's a fact. Inhuman as I am, and regardless of the wild, sick things I've done and become... I don't want to be here.
So why haven't you made a run for it?
FUCK! I can't believe... what in the world was it that made me forget about running for it? I'm about to try it right now when powerful arms wrap around my shoulders. The Joker has finished his upgrades and he's back to admire... me.
"Very nice..." he licks his lips, obviously enjoying any discomfort I feel with him being right up against me, "You look very, uh... professional."
I don't like the feel of his arms around me, "It's very revealing."
"It's very flexible," he corrects me, "Now if you went out and some punk got his ass handed to you while you were wearing the old slacks..." he kicks at the orange prison slacks, "You'd just be some escaped mental patient. But if you did it while you're wearing that little number... oh, they'd remember you all right. For the rest of their, uh... lives."
"Hmmm..." The thought has a definite appeal. On the other hand, his bare forearms are still around my bare shoulders and I don't like it. I shrug them off me and leave the bathroom quickly.
"The moment you jumped out of that three story window Breech..." he follows and starts pacing like an agitated animal behind me, "I just knew you were freak material. Just like me."
I fold my arms across my chest, "So what if I am?" I ask him, "Does that mean I'm going to be your pet, your bodyguard, your delivery girl? Hell no! I'm a Gotham girl. I can make my mark on this town just as much as you can."
He giggles slightly, "So much for progress, huh Breech?" He stands in front of me again, "Now... look at me when I talk to you!" he snarls, and grabs a handful of my white hair and makes me look right up at him, as he licks his lips, "I've been patient, and lenient. But you chose to come with me, remember? And now... well, you're part of the plan."
I look up at him, and I'm scared by what I see, "So what now?" I ask, my voice shaking a little.
"Now? Well..." he lets go, "Let me think... it's been five days, and I'm a little tired..."
Five days? Oh... five days without sleep, I think. I can usually make it three or four days without sleep – sometimes longer - before I can crash hard enough not to have my night-memories... although they're still there when I wake up, no matter how hard I try. When I was first doing it, I could make it up to nine, ten days, but then the crash would be longer, and the memories were harder and sharper. Took a while to get the time right so they'll be as vague as possible...
But having things in common with this psycho is not something I'm keen on, "And?" I ask.
"Don't want to sleep..." he mutters, "You. Make some coffee. Black. You, uh... can do that, right?"
I shrug, and look in the kitchen. There's a lot of knives, and the filth is comparable to the bathroom. If I'm going to have to stay here, this place is going to get such a scrubbing...
"Uh, Joker?" I call nervously after searching all the cupboards, "There's... no coffee."
"What?" he looks in sharply.
"Not much food either," I add, "Just rat poison and... is this Ammonium Nitrate? Looks like you're gonna need to rob a grocery store or something."
"What about my pills?" he asks. He isn't really addressing me, but that reminds me that back in Arkham they gave him pills to try and make him sleep, until they started injecting the medicine. I caught him flushing them once. But you don't snitch on inmates against the orderlies. You can get pills to keep you awake too. He traded for all sorts of amphetamines and shit back in Arkham.
I just shrug, and watch as he searches the cupboards as if to prove me wrong. He leaves the room and there's the sound of somebody searching the whole warehouse frantically; throwing things to the floor in his search. I sit down on a chair and wait. Whether he sleeps or not is no concern of mine.
Finally he returns to the kitchen. He sits down, his head in his hands, breathing hard. He looks... more vulnerable. Like he knows his body is going to make him sleep, and he's a little bit scared. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
"Okay..." he growls softly, "But you... you're coming with me."
"What?" I wince as he grabs my wrist in another numbing grip.
The Joker pulls me along until we reach a room with a shabby desk, and a pile of grubby blankets in one corner... and the Joker's obsession in the other. The wall is covered in news reports and articles on 'who is the Batman' and crap.
He sits down heavily on the pile of blankets, "Now lie down," I pause, "Lie DOWN!" he snarls, and pushes me to lie down on the sheets in my 'new' clothes, "Better," he mutters, and lies down behind me. What next? Oh god... I can feel him wrapping his arms around me.
"Ow... you know, that really... today's been a real bitch on these bones of mine," I grimace.
"Just... shut up. Relax... I could make you hurt a, uh... lot worse..." The fact that we're both fully dressed doesn't seem to bother him. It relieves me beyond measure.
And yet... there's something totally weird about his 'embrace'. It's not like you'd hold a person. It's like a child might hold a security blanket. That feeling that I almost feel sorry for him is coming back and it's got no reason to be there. I squirm slightly, find a position comfortable for me, and take a hold of his large hands. I hold them. At least if I'm holding them, I know where they are.
"Don't want to, uh... to sleep..." he mutters.
"It's okay," I say simply, wearily, "Neither do I..."
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