A/N: The stay in Blackgate continues and certain themes (thematic and literary) will be explored throughout. So far we're still in Gar's perspective but notice how time seems to be slipping as it were, unable to tell how long it's been or what the date is. And keep an eye on Gar's continued "evolution" as it were in character. He's going to be changing fairly quickly but for obvious reasons. By the way, one of my longest reviewers will be happy as hell with this chapter. See if you can spot the inside reference with the dialogue ;)

99 Years in the Arkham Pen...

"I'd like to say a made a few friends in Blackgate, really endeared myself to the other inmates, and made "lasting connections" with some of the worst scum that Gotham had to offer. I don't want to make it sound that my entire life, especially those days in Blackgate, was nothing but a bitter taste in my mouth. No, I had a hell of a time in that wretched building. As for everyone else though, well, that was a different story…

The first person to try and make a name for himself was one of Someone's old runnin' buddies. Some Irish wise-guy who was in the middle of his ten-year stint in Blackgate for aggravated assault decided to start some shit with me in the lunch line. No, I'm not going to sit here and tell you I pulled a "Rorschach", I'm nothing like him. For one thing, I'm not a character on a piece of paper: I'm alive and I intend to stay that way.

"Hey, you!" he shouted at me from across the lunchroom. The guards at the doors didn't seem to mind as he got up, pointing at me. "I know you, green bean!"

I minded my own business, meeting eyes with an overweight, graying-haired cook with more grease on his apron than three Italian mobsters. This wasn't going to end good, for all of us.

"You're the sombitch who killed me boys for the fun of it, didn't ya? You got somethin' to say for it, huh?"

He closed the gap, grabbing me by the shoulder and turning me to make eye contact. By this point, the guards STILL haven't moved. They weren't moving because of fear, that much was certain, but I think that this would serve as a good "warning" to me, being an ex-hero and all. Still, I remained calm as I looked into his green eyes. "I'm hungry."

His eye twitched like criminals in the movies, funny actually when I think about it. He punched away my tray, demanding I look him in the eye and tell me straight why I killed his friends. I didn't need to turn away from him, I'd been staring him eye to eye the entire time.

So, I leaned in close and asked him "You want to know why?"

He looked up at me, bracing for me to throw a punch or something like that. "Yeah, tell me why!"

"Because I'm an animal!" I roared at him, lunging forward and biting his eyebrow above his left eye. I didn't have my animal senses anymore, their daily dose of suppressant removed that ability, but my teeth were still sharp enough to bite an inch or two into his flesh, tearing out a good chunk of the skin and part of the muscle below.

And damn did he howl like a little bitch. Screaming, clutching at his forehead, recoiling as the other prisoners around us took a step back. All around the room were the sounds of men with stunned words at that "insane" shit I just pulled. Fuck them, fuck each and every one of them. And fuck those two guards who finally came over and clubbed ME for "starting" that fight.

"Get him into solitary! Three days will teach this "hero" a lesson!" I heard one of them shout as they started to drag me out. I left them an image to remember though as they dragged me through the doors. With that man's skin still in my teeth, grinning with the blood dripping off my mouth, I made sure each of them could see my wild, green eyes. Better to have them fear you inside than respect you.

"Solitary confinement… it's like living in my old garage in Jump City but without the option to leave. Lonely, depressing looking, just you, the walls, and your mind to keep you company. Plenty of time to spend working on the dilemma of controlling your inner powers. While you can train your physical body, your mind will need some more training if you ever want to be a master of your own fate.

So, those three days, I took to boxing as long as I could. Punching, moving around the cell despite the darkness, trying to maintain sanity while my mind went into overdrive. How do you control something that's a part of you and yet so alien that it might not even be YOU in the first place? From the few times I've been in that form, I can tell it's anger driven a perhaps a little bit based on a need to survive. But as to where the ability to control animals and why I feel a need to viciously murder my victims is still beyond me… But I have all the time in the world, don't I?

Inside solitary though, I tried to do some exercises Question taught me during one of our discussions of Zen philosophy and meditation. I took a few hours each day forming a lotus position and trying to zone out as it were, focusing inward in an attempt to pass through the endless hours of boredom without even noticing it. To be honest though, I'm nowhere near as good at meditation as Q is however. It's hard to focus inward when even the stillness of the air seems as loud as a jumbo jet."

"The next incident took place the day after I left solitary. Seems some of the men inside hadn't heard the whole story about me biting off that mick's eyebrow because I found myself in the shower with four very, pardon the pun, cocky inmates with something VERY dirty on their minds.

"They say you're that guy who killed all them gangsters in the hangar. That true, boy?"

Another man of a thousand muscles and not a brain to be found. Still, unlike the Irishman, this guy was large enough to pose a threat even to me… "Yeah, that's me."

"Gotta be one tough motherfucker for that kind a trouble." His words were every bit as suspicious as the way he was eyeing up my ass. I don't have anything to hide with my body, I've done quite a job with it considering how ropey I used to be. But I didn't enjoy having some rapist stare me down with intention to demonstrate how he committed his crime.
"The toughest."

The other three came into the picture now, moving in from other sides of the shower room. This was a setup, judging from the ways they kept looking at each other with those sly grins. A four-on-one attack, no guards, and inside one of the scariest rooms on Earth: A prison shower.
"Oh? Really? Well, pardon me, but we'd like to see just how tough that ass of your's really is!"

…

Their would-be attack failed before they even got their filthy, human hands on me. The two shower heads at my sides poured out some VERY hot water, temporarily stopping them for a moment… but not long enough to save them… I don't remember just what entirely I did to them but I know at one point I punched that raptist in the balls so hard, it might've actually jammed into his lower stomach. The guards came in, as usual, and clubbed me a few times and dragged me out of the shower… but not after three of the attackers needed burn treatment, extensive dental work, and the rapist needing a pint of blood removed from one of his ruptured balls.

So, I was sent off to the solitary cell again. This time, I wouldn't be staying in that hellhole for three days but a full TWO WEEKS for my self-defense. The warden was beginning to wonder just how I survived on the outside since I decided to make "an enemy" out of everyone on the inside, especially the guards and the warden himself. Just when you think you've been humiliated enough by being arrested, these pigs have to remind you all that crimefighting you've done was for nothing if they still look at you as a criminal. I know it's not their job to show compassion to criminals inside but they seem to hate metahumans just as much as I hate drugs, criminals, and Ripper himself. But what are you going to do in prison, complain?

"It wasn't all trouble for me though. Sometime after my first month in Blackgate, I met a fellow metahuman that seemed to be in trouble just like mine. He didn't kill a hundred men but it seems I wasn't the only example set by Gotham's Justice Department."

In the gym, under close guard, more than usual given Gar's recent behavior with the inmates, the inmates are busy working out on taxpayer-paid exercise machines, treadmills, and watching state-paid television. A brief escape from the monotony of cell-life, one that everyone seems to be taking advantage of to it's fullest. In the corner, with the other inmates giving him a wide berth, Gar stands with gloves on his hands, banging away on a weight bag. On the radio, Alice in Chains song "Junkhead" blares with it's heavy riff, mirroring Gar's inner rage as he slams the boxing bag with all of his might. Unlike his time in the alleys of Jump and Gotham, his body seems to have developed even further. Already toned to begin with, the daily exercise and self-defense practice has truly started to make him look ripped.

"Need a spotter?"

Looking away from the bag, Gar notices this new arrival greets him more with a passive smile than an outright, alterior-motive one most of the other inmates seem to sport. Those blue eyes only seem to reflect a sort of kindness Gar once used to have but will he be on the level? "What's the deal?"

"Deal? How about you hit it, then I'll hit it?" Running a hand over his short, brown locks of hair, he admits "Then again, considering how intense you look, I'd say it's better if I just hold the bag and let you go crazy."

Pausing a moment, sizing up this wiry, but by no means skinny, newcomer, Gar relents "… Sure. Try and hit me and I'll use your face as the bag."

Taking his place behind the heavy leather bag, he braces as Gar's heavy shots dig deep into his shoulder. "Damn, you hit like a ton of bricks."

No reply, only a few more heavy right crosses with an occasional left jab. But after a moment or two, Gar finally asks without breaking stride (or his muted glare) "So, who are you anyway?"

Brightening up a bit, the man answers with a raised eyebrow and a smile "You don't know."
An eyebrow of his own raised though not missing a punch, Gar shakes his head slightly "No, I don't. So tell me, who the fuck are you?"

"That's just it. On the outside, I used to be known around Gotham as "YDK", a.k.a. "You don't know" because I used to be able to move in, make my kill, and move out without anyone ever knowing."

"Cute." Gar remarks, hitting the bag once so hard it jolts YDK off his toes a bit.

"The state give me a different name but you can call me Peers. It's my ex's last name as well, we'll keep the first names to ourselves."

"YDK sounds better. So, you come to spot me because you're bored or you getting' paid by the homeboys over there?"

A grin despite the heavy impacts, YDK suggests "You're a metahuman yourself, right? I figured our kind should stay together, you know?"

Stopping, Gar leans out of his stance and glares at YDK. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Releasing the bag, YDK informs his new acquaintance "On the outside, I used to be able to turn invisible. It's how I got so good at killing people. Problem is I don't think the Bat liked me killing gang members and they caught me after awhile. I heard you got caught after killing the Irish and Two-Ton gangsters. So, I figured as we're both metahumans, and we both hate the criminal element, it would be wise if we worked together."

….
Is he serious? Can this guy be trusted? Is this just another trick to… "Your turn."

"To what?"

Stepping around the bag, Gar advises YDK "Your turn to punch. If you're gonna be around me, better make sure you can handle your own."

"The only thing about the entire time in Blackgate that drove me nuts was the endless bouts of boredom. Unlike the outside world, I couldn't just take a walk, fly over a city, or just enjoy a view from on high atop a skyscraper. No, all I had to do to occupy my time was stare at the walls, exercise, and contemplate everything in my mind's universe as it were… In a word: Boring.

It took weeks before I got mail of any sort other than mail from my lawyer. He kept promising he'd issue appeals to have me moved to Arkham due to my assaulting the other inmates in such "barbaric" manners as I had. They wouldn't move me, not without some serious pull with the judge and me pulling some dangerous shit that DIDN'T get me killed by the guards.

Still, the first bit of sunshire, even if it wasn't too thrilling, came from Mr. Jacob Alphonse Dewalt. He wrote me a funny little letter about how Detective Sinclair had crashed his "home office" one night in August; a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 bourbon in one hand and a fist in the other. Her release from the police force for "negligence" regarding my exposed activities with the JCPD had ended up in her dismissal. Apparently the police chief out West didn't take too kindly to the fact I helped clean up some of their "fair" city but not kind enough to cut her some slack.

Still, it was nice to know some of my old contacts were still alive. Without a job, she came to him looking for work as a possible partner, despite Jake still having a steady girlfriend. That couldn't have been good for tensions at his house but that opportunist, I know damn sure he saw the potential profit to be made from having two keen detectives on a case rather than one.
And he also was kind enough to let me know that the Desades were on the defensive against a combined Bulletface/Triad attack. That little tidbit brought some sunshine into my clouding heart, knowing that those tools under Ripper were going to tear each other apart over nothing. What good is money if you're dead or, worse, locked inside like me?

When the call for "lights out" came, I took my place on the bed and stared at the dark ceiling of my small cell. Not much sound in E-block those nights, sleep was a joy that not even the "great state of Gotham" could rob us, even though the occasional rattle on the jail cells from passing guard batons reminded us it was only a temporary escape.

Strange as it sounds, I did find solace in one strange aspect of the night life in this prison: I wasn't the only one who woke up in the middle of the night from screaming nightmares. A few others, mainly in the rows below me and one upstairs from me, woke up once in awhile in a panic, screaming at some dreamed-up night terror. Though I can only guess what their's was, I know exactly what mine always were…

Four times a week or so, I'd wake up screaming because I could see myself on that island out west or in that hangar, in my Beast form, tearing apart human beings as easily as a child ripping apart an old doll. Their screams of agony muffled in my ears, their hands outstretched for mercy as I tore them off and gorged on their flesh and blood… And sometimes it wasn't just soldiers or criminals I'd murder. Once in awhile, I'd murder Jinx… I'd murder Krisine… Dear God, I'd even murder Raven… And seeing my hands rip apart the three I've loved most… well, you can just imagine what that does to your reputation of being an animal. Especially when you hear people talking about that "roaring" sound coming from cell 423 of E-block.

A/N: So Gar's made a friend inside Blackgate but certainly nowhere near as many enemies. I bet you were expecting a Rorschach attack at that chow hall, weren't you? As far as evolution, Gar still seems to be normal (for now) but I'm wondering just how deep this experience will seep in. I already believe him to have PTSD from the events of this story (nightmares, alcoholism, zoning off while thinking of bad events, etc) but this is only going to make it worse.

Trivia:
- Gar's first attack is based off the Rorschach scene in Watchman during his prison stay (as well as the flashback of him biting a kid's face).
- Trying to meditate (from Q's advice) is a reference to the Zen-like personality Q exhibited in the comics near the end.
- "You Don't Know?" a reference to long-time reader/reviewer "you don't know". Took some of the advice for his personal OC (from a couple a years ago) and applied it. He'll be back in the next chapter.
- Gar's second attack in the shower is a reference to His Divine Shadow's "In Vain Doth Valour Bleed" Gundam fanfic involving similar circumstance. GREAT Zeon read.

Rhetorical:
Like you wouldn't have nightmares if you killed over a hundred (well, really 150 given the Island chapter) people.