THE BEST MEDICINE
Chapter Two: Strangling Sharks
***
Disclaimer: The Batman places, characters and things in this fiction belong to Bob Kane, DC Comics and Warner Brothers. The sources are Batman I, Batman: The Animated Series, The New Batman Adventures series and Batman: Mask of the Phantasm. Everything else is either Historical, Biblical, Mythical or mine. (I'm using the character looks from Batman: The Animated Series, expect Poison Ivy and Scarecrow, because I prefer them in The New Batman Adventures.)
A/N: See why this story ignores the comic "Batman and Robin Adventures - Annual Issue #1" now? I've been meaning to write an Arkham fic for some time now… and it's about time someone stood up for Reeves. He has a good argument and no one voices it. Don't worry - this story has lots of characters, so there should be something for everyone. Bare with this chapter, folks - it's introductory material. Anywho… if you actually like, please review… it encourages me to continue… ^_^
***
"Grandma…"
The house was abnormally quiet, the lighting poor. Typically at this time, birds would be singing… sun would be shining in… Something was off. Seriously off…
Toddling along cautiously, the child approached his grandmother's bedroom door, finding it ajar. Frowning with concentration, he studied the scene, knowing something wasn't right. The foreboding feeling was enough to consume all his scattered thoughts.
"Grandma…" he repeated upon noticing her in bed. She was buried beneath a large, rosy comfiture, her matching night cap peeking out.
Approaching with utmost caution, the entire scene seemed unnatural. He'd run in from play, the forest alive - only, the instant his feet crossed the threshold… silence fell. Absolute silence.
Creeping silent step after step, the small boy approached the bed… His black hair unkempt from fun, he stood staring in uneasy silence. Fun had died at the door. He was almost frightened to speak. Finally, working the nerve, he whispered, "Grandma?"
Nothing.
He risked a step closer and froze, watching, waiting. What was wrong with this picture? The lighting, the proportions, the unviable form under the blankets… nothing seemed real. The silence… it all added to an effect of absolute unreality. A dream.
"Grandma…" he swallowed, raising his tiny voice a little.
He waited and waited, his tiny toddler legs growing tired of standing aimlessly… "Grandma?" he rose to full voice.
Taking the final step, he closed his eyes, expecting the very worst. Nothing. Nothing at all. Opening one eye slowly, the adorable child realized the circumstances remained the same. It was like a campy horror flick! The rosy lump, buried deep from sight, wasn't even rising and falling with breath… It lay unnaturally still… unnaturally…
She was dead.
"Grandma!" he panicked, eyes wet. He extended his arm without thinking…
The sheets snapped away and his grandmother rolled to face him.
The wolf.
***
Screaming, Reeves slammed from slumber, smashing his head against the ambulance…
"Councilman…" a paramedic leaned over him, sounding very tired. "Just try to relax… We're almost there."
There?
Panting and blinking, the councilor glanced out the small windows, only to see a massive concrete structure glaring at him through the night. A gothic castle befitting of the lost souls of Gotham. Moonlight cast across his strained, lined face… a single Smilex tear dropping down his quivering cheek…
"Welcome to Arkham…"
***
The girl had screamed so long and hard her voice was breaking. The other patients had long since been removed and she was kicking and screaming on the floor to avoid sedative. She cried into her dark brown hair, convinced she was too hideous to exist.
Invisible, through the glass, her Doctor could watch no more. Turning his back suddenly, his expression hardened. He'd been wrong. "Sorry, Cal." He muttered after a moment. "You were right. She just wasn't ready."
Caledon Smyth sighed, "John, you can't sit her next to the beautiful Pamela Isley and expect her to be alright… her case is complicated…"
Glancing over his shoulder, John saw the former model's bawling drift to shaky sobs and finally dying whimpers… She was ready to stand. Ready to go back to her cell and wait to try again. Helped to her feet, she sniveled, glancing in his direction. She knew he was hiding there. Her glossed eyes seemed to say 'I failed us again.' He snapped his head, breaking eye contact. She was gorgeous, why couldn't she see it?
Cal, observing from a distance, watched the woman escorted from the room like a fragile package. John had begged him for weeks to let her into his group sessions - 'She can handle it. Just give her a chance!' He'd refused repeatedly until John had skimmed over his head. Kenzy had allowed it. Damn him, he was stupid! Monroe sat down with the likes of Isley and shattered - no surprise.
John, watching Smyth's younger reflection in the window, sensed his thoughts. Sometimes he hated his job. Sometimes he hated Cal. He ALWAYS hated being wrong.
"Come on…" Cal lead him out into the hall.
"Where- oh, right." John remembered. Staff meeting. Stepping into the elevator he caught his own reflection on the panel. Pushing their floor he realized how poorly he was aging. His middle aged face was lined from sleep deprivation and stress, his hair pure gray. Caucasian, he was short and solid, with a look that screamed 'coffee'…
The doors zipped open and they stepped out and crossed, entering the immediate door. The last to sit, before them stretched a very long table with nine doctors, two nurses and their superior present. Five on each side and two on each end, the table made up Arkham's senior medical staff. It was time to divvy up the new cases and hash out the old ones. Unfortunately, as always, there boss was an ass about it.
***
The dream. The same dream since birth. Once lovely, now disturbing. Initially, as a girl, she'd dreamed of glittering golden wheat, endless in all directions - stretching to the sunrise. Beautiful. As she aged in reality, the reoccurring dream changed gradually as well. The happiest years of her life, her prime, felt like a warm noon - bright blue sky and sparkling wheat. Years passed and the dream afternoon slipped away… the sun lowering, the sky slowly sliding overcast. It had started with one. Just one. It was gray. The next visit… a few more golden wheat plumes had turned, scattered spontaneously. Eventually half the crop was transformed, mixed in a near perfect pattern of gold and gray. As the sky grayed, every other wheat matched it. Tonight, the horizon was reddening with the first signs of sunset - the majority of the field lost in shade.
***
Slowly, a very tried Pamela drifted back to reality. As the world came into focus, she rubbed her green eyes, staring at the ceiling. She'd been locked away so long she'd grown accustom to waking here, knowing without a thought where she was. However, as she rolled over, wanting more sleep, she found herself trying to remember something. A dream. She could remember waking as a child, feeling warm, as though out in the sun. Now she awoke feeling the chill of evening and it troubled her. However, as she slipped back into sleep, she forgot, never to remember.
***
Running through quickly, Jim Kenzy was a cardboard cutout of television's boss. A heavy set Caucasian, his white, softly stripped shirt had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a large cigar stuck in his mouth. His gray hair, darkly tired eyes and obnoxious tone completed the cliché.
"Martinez-" he snapped in the direction of a pretty Spanish woman. "Scarecrow's back. He's all yours."
"Check." She responded, jotting it down.
"Duval-" this time a mid-thirties British fellow glanced up. "We have twins in. Keep stealing cars in lobster suits."
Biting his lip, the young man scribbled down a few words, unable to stand his employer. He loved everyone else in the world… but not Kenzy. He was SUCH an ass. Thought himself king 'a the crap pile.
"Westridge, I'm switching Harvey Dent to your caseload. He and Duval aren't workin' out."
The older woman nodded, taking no notes. Having seniority, she sat confidently cleaning her spectacles.
"Slick-" he turned to an easy going fellow to his right. "You get some chick who tried to assassinate Mayor Hill with a butter knife…" Unexpectedly, he then turned to the visibly annoyed Duval, snapping,
"-and don't get pissed at me, buddy, you're Freudian dream crap isn't for everybody."
"Jungian." The Brit corrected, clearly offended.
"Remington-" It was John's turn to react. "You get Temple Fugate. He and Martinez aren't making much progress."
"Right." John sighed, wanting coffee.
"Smyth, you're taking Page Monroe from Remington. THEY aren't making much progress. We all no what a disaster that's been."
Cal risked a glance at John. Though he kept a cool exterior, the older man was obviously burned bad…
Without skipping a beat their boss had long since moved on, "Chesler, you get what's left 'a Matt Hagen. You've worked with him before, you can handle it. The Bat just dragged him in this afternoon. He's a wreck. Have fun."
Chesler, nearly as old and experienced as Westridge, nodded.
"Domingo-" an Asian woman clicked her pen, ready to write. "You get a guy who repeatedly tries to rob banks with a toothbrush…" She finished, closing her agenda. She hated how he always degraded their patients.
"Dubé, you're blessed with Farafax."
"Right." A French accent tried to hide his distaste. Farafax was a problem case that had been passed around the table twice over.
***
"I don't want to watch this crappy rerun AGAIN… we've watched this ten times and we STILL don't get how he knows which twin it is… it's just stupid, people…" Killer Crock was frustrated… however, he had to keep his temper in check. Eying the guards, he knew even raising his voice was a risk.
"Agreed. Watching reruns is wasteful." Temple clipped his sentence.
"Watching television in general is wasteful, Fugate." A belittling tone entered the conversation.
"I'll have you know I'm not the efficiency fanatic I once was, Nygma. Firstly, there are many beneficial programs out there - beneficial to our minds, our moods, our morals… Secondly, I wasn't being efficient, I was being logical. Due to a recent lack of therapeutic growth, I'm cut back to only an hour in here a week. I don't want to waste it watching something I've seen thrice before, thank you very much!"
For an instant, Edward was at a loss for words. Then a comeback came, "Perhaps through a forth watch you'll actually understand this episode and it will become beneficial… Oh please, what am I saying? You people never get any of these solutions. I alone understand this program…"
Fugate snorted, "Even YOU don't get THIS episode, Edward."
"Alright, alright, I admit… I AM puzzled as to why they focus on his shoes…"
"Oh save it!" Crock turned the channel. "We're gonna watch…" he surfed randomly for a moment before landing on - "…Wheel of Fortune."
Fugate crossed his arms. "A definite improvement. I can't understand why a convicted criminal would enjoy detective-"
"It exercises the mind." Nygma defended a little too hard and fast.
Silence settled over the room and their guards relaxed…
***
"…and then there's the little matter of toilet paper…" the head nurse was going through his report - so meticulous it was annoying. Martinez was using a little battery powered fan, Domingo was doodling and John was asleep.
"Oh, shut up! Leave the list with me and I'll handle it outside the meeting. I can't address all this crap on my doctor's time. I mean, sure, SOME of it is important, but the rest can surely be cleared up on another level. Toilet paper? YEESH! See a custodian!"
For a moment Kenzy's doctors were grateful he was such a tyrant, but the feeling vanished instantly when he started into one of his 'motivational speeches'…
"Frankly, ladies and gentlemen - I've had it. There's been a lotta sliding lately. I hate that. We all hate that! Patients aren't making progress. Patients keep re-offending. Can we not cure anyone in this damn town?! Cases like Farafax shouldn't be happening, people. Cases like Scarecrow shouldn't be happening! I'm sick'a passing 'em around the table! I'm sick of the revolving door! In-out, in-out! What the hell is going on around here!? Gotham City is statistically proven to have the world's most dangerous lunatics! You are suppose to be the best in the business… pulled in from all over the globe to combat these crazy criminals. Cure them, dammit, actually cure them! I expect results! I expect success! No more sliding! … Clear?"
Before anyone could respond, he added, "I do have some good news, however - Domingo, here, has a patient up for parole. I want all you fine folks on parole board tomorrow. Got me?"
Flipping through his notes, he added one MORE thing - to everyone's impatience - "Oh… and Smyth… I have another Joker victim for ya. Some big shot politician. I've seen him on TV… absolute ass… if you actually DO save his life, I'd appreciate ya taking him down a notch or two."
Again, before anyone could say anything, he barked - "Dismissed!"
***
A long title of blanks flashed across the screen with only one letter provided thus far,
"I know! I know!" Nygma loved winning.
"You always know. Big deal." Crock snorted, having lost interest.
"Solve! Solve!" Edward was frustrated with the girl onscreen.
"Oh, do shut up…" Temple sighed.
"The Englishman Who Went Came Up The Hill (And Came Down With All The Bananas)…" Nygma answered quickly, strained.
Temple started, "That's ridiculous. It doesn't even make-"
"The Englishman Who Went Came Up The Hill (And Came Down With All The Bananas)!" the young woman solved, excited.
"Well, I'll be damned… even the brackets…" Crock watched the panels flip in awe. "…but… how? There was only one letter… and it was nonsense-"
"Was it?" Ed raised an eyebrow. "It pays to know things, gentlemen."
Clock King snorted, unimpressed, "Show off."
***
Upon exiting their meeting, several senior doctor's slipped into the same elevator. The moment the doors closed, John muttered, "Wasn't that a blast…" It wasn't a question or statement. It wasn't anything. Just hanging sarcasm…
Zyelle Domingo suddenly snapped, "Is it just me… or is the way our boss introduces us to our new patients-"
"Insensitive?"
"Obtuse?"
"Politically incorrect?"
"Unprofessional?"
"All the above and more." She muttered. The elevator opened where no one waited, without a word she closed the doors and they were off again…
"Did you see the way he burned Duval?" Chesler started.
"Duval? What about me?" John fumed. "He actually said 'disaster'… I mean-"
"Well, John, you tend to-"
John exited the elevator without a word, not willing to listen. Cut off, Westridge turned to her coworkers, "And he expects praise?"
"Quite the attitude." Martinez agreed quietly.
"I say we all band against Kenzy." Domingo muttered, half joking, as she fiddled with the buttons again. "As senior staff - and with you behind us, Wendy-"
"I don't think so, hun." Westridge interrupted. "In two years I'll be a Kenzy somewhere… I'm not going to jeopardize that. You can hold your own little rebellion, you'll hear no objection for me - but I can't play. I've got to kiss ass a while yet. Good day." The doors opened and she was gone.
Martinez blinked, "It's always odd to hear respectable, older people swear."
"No, what's odd is picturing Kenzy as a doctor somewhere…" Domingo was blunt.
***
The rain was coming down hard now. Through her tiny window, the blue search light circled… repeatedly falling on her face, casting rain shadows across her perfect visage…
Her dark eyes wet from crying, Page stared into the bright blue. She couldn't classify it. It was a blue unlike any other. Beautiful, yet so repetitive it was maddening. How it drove her mad! Every other moment it flashed in her eyes, brightening her little prison. Night after night, every other instant… there is was… certain as the sun… almost like a pulse, an eccentric heart beat… She wanted to scream… to smash things…
Trembling, she buried her face in her knees. She'd been switched again. Could they keep shuffling her around forever? Could no one help? She hadn't really liked John… and he hadn't really liked her. He'd always been so… frustrated… so impatient… he expected results and fast. He didn't understand. Didn't care. It was all a job to him. She was nothing more than a means to an end. At least he made her feel that way. He had so much ego wrapped up in it all…
Evening had long since fallen and she wasn't looking forward to sleep… for with sleep came nightmares… That sweet Duval man treated nightmares… that was the only comfort she could find the dark - a dark repeatedly shattered by untouchable blue…
***
"I think I'm going to let Tech work with Dub after all…" Sammy fiddled with his food, his auburn eyes optimistic. John wanted to smash him across the face with a tray, but somehow the image of ending up in a straight jacket beside Two Face was unappealing. Instead he bit his lip and took another bite of breakfast. He hated discussing work when he didn't have to. He hated talking to Sammy "Slick" Spinelli when he didn't have to. My, how his thoughts formed in parallel structure. Much like Kenzy's rants. Parallel structure was a powerful thing.
"Speak a' the Devil…" Duval smiled, joining them. "What's up?"
"Dub, hey, how would you feel about working with Tech?"
"Remind me…"
"Mad Hatter."
Reginald Dubbert Duval's eyes widened, nearly spitting out his soda. Recovering, he choked - "You can't be serious. That guy specializes in dreams. He messes with them. Nothing productive would come of it. It might be downright dangerous."
"Yes, but-"
John stood and left abruptly. Exchanging glances, the pair resumed their conversation, use to his moods.
"The answer's no, Slick. I'm sorry."
"Alright, alright. Any suggestions?"
"Capital punishment."
"NOT funny."
"Fine. No, none. I have my own caseload, thanks… Which reminds me, Martinez let me work with Pamela Isley again today."
"She's interesting. Scary, but interesting." Sam smirked.
"Well, she has interesting dreams too. I'm trying to crack one right now… not really getting anywhere with it, though… Like, I know what it MEANS… I just don't know WHY… or something… I don't know… I just sense there's something much deeper going on…"
"Oh, do tell…" Sam pretended Duval was making sense.
Smyth sat down unexpectedly, "Comparing notes, gentlemen? If so, I could use some second opinions myself…" A close knit bunch, the facilities senior staff worked as a team to treat their patients. There was no concern over doctor-patient privacy. Everyone treated everyone on and off paper.
"The great Caledon Smyth needs help? I'll cast it in stone… my descendants must know of this glorious day…" Spinelli muttered into his coffee. Cal had pride issues. Many in their profession did.
The newcomer smiled, taking it all in good natured stride. He glanced over at Duval and suddenly grimaced - "Pepsi at this hour? Good God!"
"Good? God's great!" Duval rose his can, toasting.
"Where's John?" Cal added, turning back to Spinelli.
"Mood." Both doctor's answered in frank unison.
"I see. Returning to my case…" he understood and fittingly changed the subject. "I'm absolutely perplexed, gentlemen… I was tampering with various sedatives all afternoon-"
"All afternoon? Like, staff meeting and onward?" Sammy was surprised. When his comrade nodded, he whistled. "I assume it's your new Smilex."
Duval frowned, "I never got into Joker chem… it's too much…"
"Just keep testing. Something will work…" Slick sighed.
"Are you going to eat that?" Dub asked unexpectedly.
Shoving his eggs aside, Sam added, "Ya know, Cal, sometimes they just don't make it… You can't save them all… That clown's in a league of his own. They've founded an enormous medical institute to combat his poisonings alone…"
"Those are just the specialists they've dragged to Gotham General. His case is different. They think it's an allergic reaction or something. The toxin won't let go."
"Creepy concept. Good title - 'The Toxin Won't Let Go'…" Sam spoke quickly then mystically.
Duval sighed, "The folks at Gotham Gen are great… but, they think they're tops at everything… specialize at this… specialize at that… PLEASE - the live in the same city and they grasp nothing of Joker chem. Batman's pulling this city through."
"Just imagine this town without the Bat…" Sam frowned, feeling a melodramatic spiel coming on. "I'd have died several times over. We see him in action all the time. He keeps the engine running. Our hopes alive. He's our Robin Hood. Our only prayer."
Smyth snorted softly, "And this ass was against him."
Duval smirked, his hair hanging out over forehead, before his icy eyes in one brownish-copper curl, loosely jelled. It was a unique and attractive hairstyle, certainly. The Caucasian Brit was charming, dapper and pleasant to work with. "Well, it is rather sad our city depends on a potential madmen to save us from certain doom."
"You sound just like him." Cal held his revulsion in check.
"Who is-"
"Arthur Reeves."
Dead silence.
"Now, he IS an ass." Sam finally spoke.
***
Clicking the vending machine, Perrault Dubé realized he was out of luck. The blasted thing had eaten his change AGAIN. "Zut!" he snapped under his breath, starting to bang it. Glancing around, he sighed and let it go.
"Thirsty?" Chesler startled him, offering water.
"Merci, Jerome." He took it and sipped gratefully.
"How are things with Farafax… sliding?" the friendly, middle aged man smirked. Though he was older, he still had a full head of black hair, complimenting his dark skin and eyes.
Perry made a sound of distaste - one of his trademarks. "Don't even start. MAN, was he in a bitch…"
"He has a point though… I don't know about you… but every single time one of the comes back, having relapsed… it hurts… it's a personal hurt. Remember when Riddler-"
Dubé froze. After a moment he admitted, "Now that was bad…"
"One after another. Riddler, Poison Ivy, Harley-"
"Don't." Perrault handed him his water and was gone. He was still very sensitive about Harley Quinn…
***
"Sir…" Smyth entered Kenzy's messy office cautiously. He half expected a stapler to fly across the room. Fortunately, his superior was in high spirits…
"Smyth! Sit your ass down, kid - what's up?"
He was thirty two, yet still a kid to likes of Jim Kenzy. It was degrading AND flattering somehow. With brown hair and eyes, Caledon Smyth looked ironically like Titanic's Caledon Hockley. In fact, many movie fanatics had confused him with the actual character and had bashed him with purses, umbrellas, briefcases, etc… One love struck patient was absolutely convinced, constantly gushing over him and referring to him as 'Master Hockley'… Yes, he looked like actor Billy Zane, with that turn of the century Hockley look, sound and charm…
"Well?" Jim crushed his coffee cup and tossed it across the room, missing the litter bin. Why did he insist on placing it across the room? Right before him would make much more-
"WELL?"
"It's Reeves. It's been over 24 hours and I remain unsuccessful."
"Symptoms?"
"The chronic laughter… they figure an allergic reaction is preventing it from running it's course…"
"They?" Jim raised a graying eyebrow.
"Gotham General."
He snorted, "Like they know anything."
"What do I do? I'm losing him-"
"Cry me a river and row away on it, Smyth. I've got paperwork up to the ozone here… see you're peers, keep testing… you're the expert on Joker hocus pocus…"
"He's dying." Cal was hard.
"A lotta people around here are dying, kid. Life's not fair. We do our best. Cross your fingers the specialists across town - or more likely, the Batman - come up with something before he croaks… I mean, just coz he's a suit doesn't mean he's special. In fact, we could use one less shark in his town…"
"You really have a touch, sir. A riveting way with words." Smyth fought the glare forming across his eyes. He rose and briskly left, the door closing hard and loud behind him.
Chomping down on a fresh cigar, Jim muttered, "Idealists."
***
The straps rawed his flesh, burning… a vague memory of childhood rope burn from some long forgotten playground or tree house slipped through his exhausted thoughts… Yes, he'd been a child once… a very long time ago…
A fever breaking again, he began to murmur in his sleep, gradually starting to toss… and turn… his breathing starting to heavy…
The better…
Sweating, reddening… burning… he was burning… His face tightened, biting his lip till it bled… the fever seized hard, strangling him…
…to eat you with…
Chapter Two: Strangling Sharks
***
Disclaimer: The Batman places, characters and things in this fiction belong to Bob Kane, DC Comics and Warner Brothers. The sources are Batman I, Batman: The Animated Series, The New Batman Adventures series and Batman: Mask of the Phantasm. Everything else is either Historical, Biblical, Mythical or mine. (I'm using the character looks from Batman: The Animated Series, expect Poison Ivy and Scarecrow, because I prefer them in The New Batman Adventures.)
A/N: See why this story ignores the comic "Batman and Robin Adventures - Annual Issue #1" now? I've been meaning to write an Arkham fic for some time now… and it's about time someone stood up for Reeves. He has a good argument and no one voices it. Don't worry - this story has lots of characters, so there should be something for everyone. Bare with this chapter, folks - it's introductory material. Anywho… if you actually like, please review… it encourages me to continue… ^_^
***
"Grandma…"
The house was abnormally quiet, the lighting poor. Typically at this time, birds would be singing… sun would be shining in… Something was off. Seriously off…
Toddling along cautiously, the child approached his grandmother's bedroom door, finding it ajar. Frowning with concentration, he studied the scene, knowing something wasn't right. The foreboding feeling was enough to consume all his scattered thoughts.
"Grandma…" he repeated upon noticing her in bed. She was buried beneath a large, rosy comfiture, her matching night cap peeking out.
Approaching with utmost caution, the entire scene seemed unnatural. He'd run in from play, the forest alive - only, the instant his feet crossed the threshold… silence fell. Absolute silence.
Creeping silent step after step, the small boy approached the bed… His black hair unkempt from fun, he stood staring in uneasy silence. Fun had died at the door. He was almost frightened to speak. Finally, working the nerve, he whispered, "Grandma?"
Nothing.
He risked a step closer and froze, watching, waiting. What was wrong with this picture? The lighting, the proportions, the unviable form under the blankets… nothing seemed real. The silence… it all added to an effect of absolute unreality. A dream.
"Grandma…" he swallowed, raising his tiny voice a little.
He waited and waited, his tiny toddler legs growing tired of standing aimlessly… "Grandma?" he rose to full voice.
Taking the final step, he closed his eyes, expecting the very worst. Nothing. Nothing at all. Opening one eye slowly, the adorable child realized the circumstances remained the same. It was like a campy horror flick! The rosy lump, buried deep from sight, wasn't even rising and falling with breath… It lay unnaturally still… unnaturally…
She was dead.
"Grandma!" he panicked, eyes wet. He extended his arm without thinking…
The sheets snapped away and his grandmother rolled to face him.
The wolf.
***
Screaming, Reeves slammed from slumber, smashing his head against the ambulance…
"Councilman…" a paramedic leaned over him, sounding very tired. "Just try to relax… We're almost there."
There?
Panting and blinking, the councilor glanced out the small windows, only to see a massive concrete structure glaring at him through the night. A gothic castle befitting of the lost souls of Gotham. Moonlight cast across his strained, lined face… a single Smilex tear dropping down his quivering cheek…
"Welcome to Arkham…"
***
The girl had screamed so long and hard her voice was breaking. The other patients had long since been removed and she was kicking and screaming on the floor to avoid sedative. She cried into her dark brown hair, convinced she was too hideous to exist.
Invisible, through the glass, her Doctor could watch no more. Turning his back suddenly, his expression hardened. He'd been wrong. "Sorry, Cal." He muttered after a moment. "You were right. She just wasn't ready."
Caledon Smyth sighed, "John, you can't sit her next to the beautiful Pamela Isley and expect her to be alright… her case is complicated…"
Glancing over his shoulder, John saw the former model's bawling drift to shaky sobs and finally dying whimpers… She was ready to stand. Ready to go back to her cell and wait to try again. Helped to her feet, she sniveled, glancing in his direction. She knew he was hiding there. Her glossed eyes seemed to say 'I failed us again.' He snapped his head, breaking eye contact. She was gorgeous, why couldn't she see it?
Cal, observing from a distance, watched the woman escorted from the room like a fragile package. John had begged him for weeks to let her into his group sessions - 'She can handle it. Just give her a chance!' He'd refused repeatedly until John had skimmed over his head. Kenzy had allowed it. Damn him, he was stupid! Monroe sat down with the likes of Isley and shattered - no surprise.
John, watching Smyth's younger reflection in the window, sensed his thoughts. Sometimes he hated his job. Sometimes he hated Cal. He ALWAYS hated being wrong.
"Come on…" Cal lead him out into the hall.
"Where- oh, right." John remembered. Staff meeting. Stepping into the elevator he caught his own reflection on the panel. Pushing their floor he realized how poorly he was aging. His middle aged face was lined from sleep deprivation and stress, his hair pure gray. Caucasian, he was short and solid, with a look that screamed 'coffee'…
The doors zipped open and they stepped out and crossed, entering the immediate door. The last to sit, before them stretched a very long table with nine doctors, two nurses and their superior present. Five on each side and two on each end, the table made up Arkham's senior medical staff. It was time to divvy up the new cases and hash out the old ones. Unfortunately, as always, there boss was an ass about it.
***
The dream. The same dream since birth. Once lovely, now disturbing. Initially, as a girl, she'd dreamed of glittering golden wheat, endless in all directions - stretching to the sunrise. Beautiful. As she aged in reality, the reoccurring dream changed gradually as well. The happiest years of her life, her prime, felt like a warm noon - bright blue sky and sparkling wheat. Years passed and the dream afternoon slipped away… the sun lowering, the sky slowly sliding overcast. It had started with one. Just one. It was gray. The next visit… a few more golden wheat plumes had turned, scattered spontaneously. Eventually half the crop was transformed, mixed in a near perfect pattern of gold and gray. As the sky grayed, every other wheat matched it. Tonight, the horizon was reddening with the first signs of sunset - the majority of the field lost in shade.
***
Slowly, a very tried Pamela drifted back to reality. As the world came into focus, she rubbed her green eyes, staring at the ceiling. She'd been locked away so long she'd grown accustom to waking here, knowing without a thought where she was. However, as she rolled over, wanting more sleep, she found herself trying to remember something. A dream. She could remember waking as a child, feeling warm, as though out in the sun. Now she awoke feeling the chill of evening and it troubled her. However, as she slipped back into sleep, she forgot, never to remember.
***
Running through quickly, Jim Kenzy was a cardboard cutout of television's boss. A heavy set Caucasian, his white, softly stripped shirt had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a large cigar stuck in his mouth. His gray hair, darkly tired eyes and obnoxious tone completed the cliché.
"Martinez-" he snapped in the direction of a pretty Spanish woman. "Scarecrow's back. He's all yours."
"Check." She responded, jotting it down.
"Duval-" this time a mid-thirties British fellow glanced up. "We have twins in. Keep stealing cars in lobster suits."
Biting his lip, the young man scribbled down a few words, unable to stand his employer. He loved everyone else in the world… but not Kenzy. He was SUCH an ass. Thought himself king 'a the crap pile.
"Westridge, I'm switching Harvey Dent to your caseload. He and Duval aren't workin' out."
The older woman nodded, taking no notes. Having seniority, she sat confidently cleaning her spectacles.
"Slick-" he turned to an easy going fellow to his right. "You get some chick who tried to assassinate Mayor Hill with a butter knife…" Unexpectedly, he then turned to the visibly annoyed Duval, snapping,
"-and don't get pissed at me, buddy, you're Freudian dream crap isn't for everybody."
"Jungian." The Brit corrected, clearly offended.
"Remington-" It was John's turn to react. "You get Temple Fugate. He and Martinez aren't making much progress."
"Right." John sighed, wanting coffee.
"Smyth, you're taking Page Monroe from Remington. THEY aren't making much progress. We all no what a disaster that's been."
Cal risked a glance at John. Though he kept a cool exterior, the older man was obviously burned bad…
Without skipping a beat their boss had long since moved on, "Chesler, you get what's left 'a Matt Hagen. You've worked with him before, you can handle it. The Bat just dragged him in this afternoon. He's a wreck. Have fun."
Chesler, nearly as old and experienced as Westridge, nodded.
"Domingo-" an Asian woman clicked her pen, ready to write. "You get a guy who repeatedly tries to rob banks with a toothbrush…" She finished, closing her agenda. She hated how he always degraded their patients.
"Dubé, you're blessed with Farafax."
"Right." A French accent tried to hide his distaste. Farafax was a problem case that had been passed around the table twice over.
***
"I don't want to watch this crappy rerun AGAIN… we've watched this ten times and we STILL don't get how he knows which twin it is… it's just stupid, people…" Killer Crock was frustrated… however, he had to keep his temper in check. Eying the guards, he knew even raising his voice was a risk.
"Agreed. Watching reruns is wasteful." Temple clipped his sentence.
"Watching television in general is wasteful, Fugate." A belittling tone entered the conversation.
"I'll have you know I'm not the efficiency fanatic I once was, Nygma. Firstly, there are many beneficial programs out there - beneficial to our minds, our moods, our morals… Secondly, I wasn't being efficient, I was being logical. Due to a recent lack of therapeutic growth, I'm cut back to only an hour in here a week. I don't want to waste it watching something I've seen thrice before, thank you very much!"
For an instant, Edward was at a loss for words. Then a comeback came, "Perhaps through a forth watch you'll actually understand this episode and it will become beneficial… Oh please, what am I saying? You people never get any of these solutions. I alone understand this program…"
Fugate snorted, "Even YOU don't get THIS episode, Edward."
"Alright, alright, I admit… I AM puzzled as to why they focus on his shoes…"
"Oh save it!" Crock turned the channel. "We're gonna watch…" he surfed randomly for a moment before landing on - "…Wheel of Fortune."
Fugate crossed his arms. "A definite improvement. I can't understand why a convicted criminal would enjoy detective-"
"It exercises the mind." Nygma defended a little too hard and fast.
Silence settled over the room and their guards relaxed…
***
"…and then there's the little matter of toilet paper…" the head nurse was going through his report - so meticulous it was annoying. Martinez was using a little battery powered fan, Domingo was doodling and John was asleep.
"Oh, shut up! Leave the list with me and I'll handle it outside the meeting. I can't address all this crap on my doctor's time. I mean, sure, SOME of it is important, but the rest can surely be cleared up on another level. Toilet paper? YEESH! See a custodian!"
For a moment Kenzy's doctors were grateful he was such a tyrant, but the feeling vanished instantly when he started into one of his 'motivational speeches'…
"Frankly, ladies and gentlemen - I've had it. There's been a lotta sliding lately. I hate that. We all hate that! Patients aren't making progress. Patients keep re-offending. Can we not cure anyone in this damn town?! Cases like Farafax shouldn't be happening, people. Cases like Scarecrow shouldn't be happening! I'm sick'a passing 'em around the table! I'm sick of the revolving door! In-out, in-out! What the hell is going on around here!? Gotham City is statistically proven to have the world's most dangerous lunatics! You are suppose to be the best in the business… pulled in from all over the globe to combat these crazy criminals. Cure them, dammit, actually cure them! I expect results! I expect success! No more sliding! … Clear?"
Before anyone could respond, he added, "I do have some good news, however - Domingo, here, has a patient up for parole. I want all you fine folks on parole board tomorrow. Got me?"
Flipping through his notes, he added one MORE thing - to everyone's impatience - "Oh… and Smyth… I have another Joker victim for ya. Some big shot politician. I've seen him on TV… absolute ass… if you actually DO save his life, I'd appreciate ya taking him down a notch or two."
Again, before anyone could say anything, he barked - "Dismissed!"
***
A long title of blanks flashed across the screen with only one letter provided thus far,
"I know! I know!" Nygma loved winning.
"You always know. Big deal." Crock snorted, having lost interest.
"Solve! Solve!" Edward was frustrated with the girl onscreen.
"Oh, do shut up…" Temple sighed.
"The Englishman Who Went Came Up The Hill (And Came Down With All The Bananas)…" Nygma answered quickly, strained.
Temple started, "That's ridiculous. It doesn't even make-"
"The Englishman Who Went Came Up The Hill (And Came Down With All The Bananas)!" the young woman solved, excited.
"Well, I'll be damned… even the brackets…" Crock watched the panels flip in awe. "…but… how? There was only one letter… and it was nonsense-"
"Was it?" Ed raised an eyebrow. "It pays to know things, gentlemen."
Clock King snorted, unimpressed, "Show off."
***
Upon exiting their meeting, several senior doctor's slipped into the same elevator. The moment the doors closed, John muttered, "Wasn't that a blast…" It wasn't a question or statement. It wasn't anything. Just hanging sarcasm…
Zyelle Domingo suddenly snapped, "Is it just me… or is the way our boss introduces us to our new patients-"
"Insensitive?"
"Obtuse?"
"Politically incorrect?"
"Unprofessional?"
"All the above and more." She muttered. The elevator opened where no one waited, without a word she closed the doors and they were off again…
"Did you see the way he burned Duval?" Chesler started.
"Duval? What about me?" John fumed. "He actually said 'disaster'… I mean-"
"Well, John, you tend to-"
John exited the elevator without a word, not willing to listen. Cut off, Westridge turned to her coworkers, "And he expects praise?"
"Quite the attitude." Martinez agreed quietly.
"I say we all band against Kenzy." Domingo muttered, half joking, as she fiddled with the buttons again. "As senior staff - and with you behind us, Wendy-"
"I don't think so, hun." Westridge interrupted. "In two years I'll be a Kenzy somewhere… I'm not going to jeopardize that. You can hold your own little rebellion, you'll hear no objection for me - but I can't play. I've got to kiss ass a while yet. Good day." The doors opened and she was gone.
Martinez blinked, "It's always odd to hear respectable, older people swear."
"No, what's odd is picturing Kenzy as a doctor somewhere…" Domingo was blunt.
***
The rain was coming down hard now. Through her tiny window, the blue search light circled… repeatedly falling on her face, casting rain shadows across her perfect visage…
Her dark eyes wet from crying, Page stared into the bright blue. She couldn't classify it. It was a blue unlike any other. Beautiful, yet so repetitive it was maddening. How it drove her mad! Every other moment it flashed in her eyes, brightening her little prison. Night after night, every other instant… there is was… certain as the sun… almost like a pulse, an eccentric heart beat… She wanted to scream… to smash things…
Trembling, she buried her face in her knees. She'd been switched again. Could they keep shuffling her around forever? Could no one help? She hadn't really liked John… and he hadn't really liked her. He'd always been so… frustrated… so impatient… he expected results and fast. He didn't understand. Didn't care. It was all a job to him. She was nothing more than a means to an end. At least he made her feel that way. He had so much ego wrapped up in it all…
Evening had long since fallen and she wasn't looking forward to sleep… for with sleep came nightmares… That sweet Duval man treated nightmares… that was the only comfort she could find the dark - a dark repeatedly shattered by untouchable blue…
***
"I think I'm going to let Tech work with Dub after all…" Sammy fiddled with his food, his auburn eyes optimistic. John wanted to smash him across the face with a tray, but somehow the image of ending up in a straight jacket beside Two Face was unappealing. Instead he bit his lip and took another bite of breakfast. He hated discussing work when he didn't have to. He hated talking to Sammy "Slick" Spinelli when he didn't have to. My, how his thoughts formed in parallel structure. Much like Kenzy's rants. Parallel structure was a powerful thing.
"Speak a' the Devil…" Duval smiled, joining them. "What's up?"
"Dub, hey, how would you feel about working with Tech?"
"Remind me…"
"Mad Hatter."
Reginald Dubbert Duval's eyes widened, nearly spitting out his soda. Recovering, he choked - "You can't be serious. That guy specializes in dreams. He messes with them. Nothing productive would come of it. It might be downright dangerous."
"Yes, but-"
John stood and left abruptly. Exchanging glances, the pair resumed their conversation, use to his moods.
"The answer's no, Slick. I'm sorry."
"Alright, alright. Any suggestions?"
"Capital punishment."
"NOT funny."
"Fine. No, none. I have my own caseload, thanks… Which reminds me, Martinez let me work with Pamela Isley again today."
"She's interesting. Scary, but interesting." Sam smirked.
"Well, she has interesting dreams too. I'm trying to crack one right now… not really getting anywhere with it, though… Like, I know what it MEANS… I just don't know WHY… or something… I don't know… I just sense there's something much deeper going on…"
"Oh, do tell…" Sam pretended Duval was making sense.
Smyth sat down unexpectedly, "Comparing notes, gentlemen? If so, I could use some second opinions myself…" A close knit bunch, the facilities senior staff worked as a team to treat their patients. There was no concern over doctor-patient privacy. Everyone treated everyone on and off paper.
"The great Caledon Smyth needs help? I'll cast it in stone… my descendants must know of this glorious day…" Spinelli muttered into his coffee. Cal had pride issues. Many in their profession did.
The newcomer smiled, taking it all in good natured stride. He glanced over at Duval and suddenly grimaced - "Pepsi at this hour? Good God!"
"Good? God's great!" Duval rose his can, toasting.
"Where's John?" Cal added, turning back to Spinelli.
"Mood." Both doctor's answered in frank unison.
"I see. Returning to my case…" he understood and fittingly changed the subject. "I'm absolutely perplexed, gentlemen… I was tampering with various sedatives all afternoon-"
"All afternoon? Like, staff meeting and onward?" Sammy was surprised. When his comrade nodded, he whistled. "I assume it's your new Smilex."
Duval frowned, "I never got into Joker chem… it's too much…"
"Just keep testing. Something will work…" Slick sighed.
"Are you going to eat that?" Dub asked unexpectedly.
Shoving his eggs aside, Sam added, "Ya know, Cal, sometimes they just don't make it… You can't save them all… That clown's in a league of his own. They've founded an enormous medical institute to combat his poisonings alone…"
"Those are just the specialists they've dragged to Gotham General. His case is different. They think it's an allergic reaction or something. The toxin won't let go."
"Creepy concept. Good title - 'The Toxin Won't Let Go'…" Sam spoke quickly then mystically.
Duval sighed, "The folks at Gotham Gen are great… but, they think they're tops at everything… specialize at this… specialize at that… PLEASE - the live in the same city and they grasp nothing of Joker chem. Batman's pulling this city through."
"Just imagine this town without the Bat…" Sam frowned, feeling a melodramatic spiel coming on. "I'd have died several times over. We see him in action all the time. He keeps the engine running. Our hopes alive. He's our Robin Hood. Our only prayer."
Smyth snorted softly, "And this ass was against him."
Duval smirked, his hair hanging out over forehead, before his icy eyes in one brownish-copper curl, loosely jelled. It was a unique and attractive hairstyle, certainly. The Caucasian Brit was charming, dapper and pleasant to work with. "Well, it is rather sad our city depends on a potential madmen to save us from certain doom."
"You sound just like him." Cal held his revulsion in check.
"Who is-"
"Arthur Reeves."
Dead silence.
"Now, he IS an ass." Sam finally spoke.
***
Clicking the vending machine, Perrault Dubé realized he was out of luck. The blasted thing had eaten his change AGAIN. "Zut!" he snapped under his breath, starting to bang it. Glancing around, he sighed and let it go.
"Thirsty?" Chesler startled him, offering water.
"Merci, Jerome." He took it and sipped gratefully.
"How are things with Farafax… sliding?" the friendly, middle aged man smirked. Though he was older, he still had a full head of black hair, complimenting his dark skin and eyes.
Perry made a sound of distaste - one of his trademarks. "Don't even start. MAN, was he in a bitch…"
"He has a point though… I don't know about you… but every single time one of the comes back, having relapsed… it hurts… it's a personal hurt. Remember when Riddler-"
Dubé froze. After a moment he admitted, "Now that was bad…"
"One after another. Riddler, Poison Ivy, Harley-"
"Don't." Perrault handed him his water and was gone. He was still very sensitive about Harley Quinn…
***
"Sir…" Smyth entered Kenzy's messy office cautiously. He half expected a stapler to fly across the room. Fortunately, his superior was in high spirits…
"Smyth! Sit your ass down, kid - what's up?"
He was thirty two, yet still a kid to likes of Jim Kenzy. It was degrading AND flattering somehow. With brown hair and eyes, Caledon Smyth looked ironically like Titanic's Caledon Hockley. In fact, many movie fanatics had confused him with the actual character and had bashed him with purses, umbrellas, briefcases, etc… One love struck patient was absolutely convinced, constantly gushing over him and referring to him as 'Master Hockley'… Yes, he looked like actor Billy Zane, with that turn of the century Hockley look, sound and charm…
"Well?" Jim crushed his coffee cup and tossed it across the room, missing the litter bin. Why did he insist on placing it across the room? Right before him would make much more-
"WELL?"
"It's Reeves. It's been over 24 hours and I remain unsuccessful."
"Symptoms?"
"The chronic laughter… they figure an allergic reaction is preventing it from running it's course…"
"They?" Jim raised a graying eyebrow.
"Gotham General."
He snorted, "Like they know anything."
"What do I do? I'm losing him-"
"Cry me a river and row away on it, Smyth. I've got paperwork up to the ozone here… see you're peers, keep testing… you're the expert on Joker hocus pocus…"
"He's dying." Cal was hard.
"A lotta people around here are dying, kid. Life's not fair. We do our best. Cross your fingers the specialists across town - or more likely, the Batman - come up with something before he croaks… I mean, just coz he's a suit doesn't mean he's special. In fact, we could use one less shark in his town…"
"You really have a touch, sir. A riveting way with words." Smyth fought the glare forming across his eyes. He rose and briskly left, the door closing hard and loud behind him.
Chomping down on a fresh cigar, Jim muttered, "Idealists."
***
The straps rawed his flesh, burning… a vague memory of childhood rope burn from some long forgotten playground or tree house slipped through his exhausted thoughts… Yes, he'd been a child once… a very long time ago…
A fever breaking again, he began to murmur in his sleep, gradually starting to toss… and turn… his breathing starting to heavy…
The better…
Sweating, reddening… burning… he was burning… His face tightened, biting his lip till it bled… the fever seized hard, strangling him…
…to eat you with…