All the answers are Strange
The director of Arkham wasn't usually one to take on patients - not since Doctor Jonathan Crane's time did the position of director ever fall to an actual, qualified psychiatrist. The last incumbent of the director's chair had been a former political activist with aspirations for bigger and better things than a rabble of insane criminals. Now he was the mayor of Gotham - built on the back of having helped Batman pull the asylum back from the brink - a new director had taken over. This new director had a vision.
How do you attempt to understand what is going on when all the answers are Strange?
The new director was a psychologist who had worked at the asylum - but no matter who you asked, nobody could really tell you a list of patients he had treated or successes under his belt that had persuaded Quincy Sharp to hand over Arkham Asylum to him. Most people didn't care. A select few were suspicious to say the least, but what could they prove? Nothing. Not a single tangible piece of evidence could be found to corroborate foul play.
Inmate #1024 Alias Dead Switch knew that. She also knew that underneath those stupidly tiny spectacles - probably for show - there was a predator lurking in there. She could see it in his eyes.
'Hello, Ms Scott. I am your new caseworker. My name is Hugo Strange.'
Edward had been keeping his eye on this one. What little he had heard - he didn't like. This one was wily, devious - clever. She resolved to say nothing and get the measure of him before she made a move. It was the smart thing to do.
She was still in her straitjacket from solitary, she'd noticed. And flanked on either side by guards holding tasers. Clearly, Strange had heard of her problem when it came to injuring her psychologists and had chosen a show of force. Cute, but she knew as well as he did that the guards would not be around forever.
'Are you well?' Strange asked from across the desk.
She stared at him.
'Are you comfortable?'
Of course not. She was still in the straitjacket. She knew he had something to do with her being slammed into solitary for a week. God knows she hadn't done anything lately to warrant a stay in the crazy-box. This was probably a tactic to make her talkative. Staring at four blank walls for hours on end in your own company made you crave interaction - made you more pliable.
Did he think this was her first brush with that technique?
'And how is Mr Nigma? Is he well?' Silence. 'He can be quite charismatic, can't he? A rare intellect. One wonders if all he sees in you is an appreciative audience. Someone to be suitably impressed by his intellect but barely comprehends, like a child fawning over a magician. Is it enough?'
That provoked reaction. 'Do you know what I did to my last psychologist?' She rasped.
'There's the deflection so classic to your psyche, Ms Scott. I was beginning to wonder if you had been rendered mute.' Strange gave a smile. 'I am simply here to talk. After all - I am your newly appointed caseworker.'
'The. Psychologist.'
'It was broadcast on the internet.' Strange deadpanned. 'I have studied it. Doctor Rutherford did not deserve such a fate.'
'How about the one before that?'
'Miss Spinnaker retired - officially.' Strange conceded. 'But unofficially you attacked and disfigured her, she felt no longer able to safely return to work. I understand that she is still requiring plastic surgery to this day.'
'I was feeling picasso.' Deborah replied morbidly.
'Ah, not a classicist I see. You threatened Doctor Rutherford in his interview by comparing Picasso to Pollock. You feel you break the mould, Ms Scott? That underneath a rather frantic and busy facade, there is deeper meaning? You are nothing special, Ms Scott. Not like Edward Nigma. You talk so defensively over Mr Nigma and his secrets. I wonder if you know why you bother?'
He'd read her interview tapes. There was no point in indulging him too much, then. Nor was there any point in playing his game. She'd concluded what this was about - Strange was hoping to get to Riddler through her. He wasn't stupid - his answers had been careful and eloquent and probing for a weakness. She'd seen plenty of psychologists in her years at Arkham. Dead Switch hadn't been an inmate when Crane had gone nuts, but she figured that if Scarecrow was still practicing - it would be an awful lot like this.
'Would you like to hear my theory on your psyche, Ms Scott?' Did she have a choice? 'You have a predilection for destruction. Not just outwardly, but inwardly. You can be your own worst enemy when nothing else presents itself. Self-destruction. I had wondered - at first - what drew you to Mr Nigma. What made you seek him out and be so possessive about him but therein is the answer is it not? Mr Nigma provides you with a sense of stability that you lack. You are a mess of impulse and instant gratification when left to your own devices. When in the presence of Mr Nigma you are focused. Productive. He forces you to think before you move and to someone who is only two steps away from turning on herself - you need that distraction. Do you agree, Ms Scott?'
'Basquiat.' She murmured.
'Ah, deciding on what I shall be? I confess, I'm not a fan of that particular painter. I prefer Dali.' Strange replied smoothly. 'Your use of painters as metaphor is amusing but distracting us from why we are here. I have a question, Ms Scott. Tell me, what do you know of Jervis Tetch?' He mused and speared her with a knowing look.
'Wh-'
'He is one of my patients.' Strange replied innocently. 'He tells me the most interesting things about his many Alices Regrettably, few survive an encounter with him. Does it make you angry, Deborah? The powerlessness of it all? Knowing what he intended to do but being completely unable to stop it? Locked in your body, unable to even scream-'
The monologue hit her like a truck and reminded her painfully of that incident. She played a good game of appearing fine, but Tetch had left scars. Strange was picking at them. How he'd even managed to decipher that she'd been - 'Fuck you.' She whispered, eyes wide but as still as could be.
'Persistence of Memory - Salvador Dali.' Strange replied easily to her curse. 'Yes, I think that is what I shall think of when I think of you.'
Still in the straitjacket, she reared over the desk to get at him but was pulled back into the chair, thrashing against her restraints as the tasers were brought out. He was smirking at her - smirking! 'Ms Scott is not in a good frame of mind. Perhaps she should go back into solitary confinement until she is settled.'
Oh the game was on. He'd won this battle - but not the war. The war was just beginning.
A/N: Okay, I'm going to be honest here. This was 99% an excuse to practice writing a character I find difficult (Damn you, Hugo) and bash on Switch again. Though, if I'm honest, I'd say Strange has gotten the closest of all the psychologists to understanding her. The Arkham Curse continues to corrupt precious minds, Debs continues to use painters as a metaphor for violence, It comes back to bite her in the ass. Nothing new, move along!
At this point, I'm sick of fighting with Strange about as much as poor Dead Switch is.