Author's Note: Here's the first chapter. Please let me know what you think. I welcome all kinds of reviews, including critisizm as long as it is constructive. That said, read on!

Chapter One: Heather

Heather looked heavenward, trying her best to see the top of the stone building and absently tongued at her swollen bottom lip. She had made a smartass comment to one of her guards and he had smacked her across the face. Heavy gray clouds hovered ominously in the sky. The ten foot tall metal doors swung inward, granting access to the overwhelming facility and, as if on cue, lightening crashed and a roll of thunder boomed somewhere in the distance. Heather's attention snapped back to the opening doors and her body tensed in flight preparation. As if sensing her thoughts, the two orderlies that stood to either side of her tightened their grips on her arms. The doors opened to reveal four men. Two of them wore matching white orderly uniforms and stood with their arms crossed like nightclub bouncers. One had close cropped hair and the other was completely bald. They were both burly like wrestlers and both had a very physically threatening air about them. The next man was short and round with thin silvery hair which he wore in a combover. He wore gray slacks, a yellow tie, and a white labcoat over a white button up shirt with a large ketchup stain on the chest. He was about as intimidating as one of Jim Henson's muppets. The final man was very tall and lean. He was clad in a well cut charcoal suit along with a dark blue tie, stood with his hands clasped behind his back and appeared to be very relaxed. He had thick black hair and wore clear rimmed glasses that looked very sophisticated over his startling blue eyes. Heather had noticed those eyes before anything else. He didn't seem very threatening, but there was something menacing about his smile and in those eyes. Heather couldn't place it, but there was something about that one that she just didn't trust.

Heather wasn't one to be scared easily, though. She looked right at those four men and flashed them her very brightest and most defiant smile. The one in glasses met her challenge head-on, allowing his own smile to grow wider. He stepped forward and distinguished himself as the authortarian of the group.

"Ms. Herst, hello. I'm Dr. Jonathan Crane, the director here at Arkham. Dr. Lendell sends his apologies once again that you had to be placed here." he said in a smooth intellectual tone, "I want to offer you my personal assurance that you have nothing to fear during your stay here. We have already mapped out an individual schedule for you so that you will have no interaction with our more dangerous patients and I will personally be handling your therapy."

"Peachy." Heather retorted.

Crane's eyes seemed to spark at her fiery come back, as though her open sarcasm had excited him. That sudden flash made her curious about him, moreso than she should be, but she refused to let it show. She watched his gaze drop down and focus on her neatly bandaged wrists. Perhaps he would ask her what on earth had made her want to take her own life as the other's had. What would she say? Did it really matter? He seemed considerate for a long moment, then snapped himself out of it.

"Okay then, gentlemen," Crane said, addressing Heather's guards, though he seemed fixed on one in particular, the very one that had hit her, "it's safe to leave Ms. Herst in our more than capable hands. Send my regards to Dr. Lendell."

The orderlies released Heather's arms and retreated back to their vehicle. The two Arkham orderlies took their places at her sides, but they did not touch her. Crane closed the distance between them and bent so that he was eye level with her. He seemed to be studying her. Refusing to turn away, Heather's gaze burned right back into his.

"If you'll follow me, Ms. Herst, I'll show you to your accomodations." he said, straightening his stance at once.

"I despise being called Ms. Herst." Heather said as they began walking.

"Well, we don't want you to be in an unpleasant mood while here, so, what would you prefer we call you?" Crane asked.

"By my first name."

"I'm sorry, I don't have my file on me..." he said.

She glared at him...or more specifically, at the back of his head. She had the sneaking suspicion that he knew perfectly well what her name was, but he wanted to make her say it. "Heather."

"Of course." Crane said, his lips curving upward at the corners, "We will gladly refer to you as Heather."

Crane lead Heather down a long, narrow corridor. The two muscle bound baffoons were at her sides and the little round guy was waddling along behind her.

"Oh, forgive me, Heather. You must think my manners ghastly for not introducing my colleague." Crane said rather suddenly, "That is Dr. Mildred. He runs our lab and for all intents and purposes, he is my assistant."

Heather glanced over her shoulder, "Pleasure."

The squat little man was desperately trying to keep up and perspiring heavily from the effort. "Uh, likewise, my dear, likewise."

They reached a heavily rusted metal door at which Crane drew to a halt and pulled a key from his inner jacket pocket. With a clank, the door unlocked and swung open. Crane stepped to the side and gestured with one arm for her to enter.

"Ms. Her...my apologies. Heather." Crane said with a wide smile.

Heather cocked an eyebrow at him and walked through the shadowy doorway. The room was padded all around, including the ceiling and floor. There was a metal bed, more like a cot, flat against the far wall with a naked pillow in the center of it. Folded neatly on top of the pillow was an ugly gray blanket, a set of dingy white sheets and a matching and equally dingy pillowcase. She noticed a gap in the wall at the same wall as the door and peaked her head through it. There, she found her personal toilet and sink.

"Where's my shower?" she asked.

"Showers will be supervized." Crane responded.

"Excuse me?" Heather said, turning toward him.

Crane smiled, "By a female nurse, of course."

Heather nodded, accepting that she didn't have any choice in the matter. She had known that she wouldn't be allowed to bathe alone. The possibility of her drowning herself was far too appealing and the good Dr. Crane know that. "No windows?" she asked.

"Again, my apologies, Heather. We do exist to help the disturbed, but we are also to serve as a punishment for criminals. None of our cells have windows."

"Right." Heather said, crossing her arms over her chest and staring at the wall.

"Simon." Crane said, and the bald orderly stepped forward and handed him some clothes. "Here you are, Heather."

He seemed to delight in saying her name. She went to him and snatched the material from his hands, being careful not to touch him. She wasn't sure yet what to make of him. He wasn't frightening, really. Creepy, most definitely. But, he was better looking than she would have imagined and younger, as well. He had such pretty features, and yet there was something undeniably masculine about them. He had high gorgeous cheekbones and full lips.

"I trust you've had dinner." Crane said, breaking her from her thoughts and she nodded her head. "Well, then, until morning." He tilted his head forward in a gentlemanly gesture, looking at her from over the tops of his glasses, "Good night." With that, he retreated from the room and shut the door. Heather heard the lock snap and waited until Dr. Crane's bright eyes had vanished from the small rectangular window at the top of the door, and then examined the clothes that he had given her.

She slid out of her jeans and sweater and jacket and pulled on the gray scrubs and white tank top. She had just finished making her bed when the single light bulb which hung from the ceiling flickered and then went out. There was no window, therefore no moon or stars for her to gaze out at. The room was cloaked in heavy darkness, the only light leaking in through the rectangle atop the door. It came in as a single stream and formed and small glowing box above the foot of her bed. Heather slipped in between the sheets, which were surprisingly soft, and pulled them up to her chin. How could a room covered in such thick padding, that could serve easily as insulation, be so freaking cold?