5. Dead Because Maybe July 20

Jonathan stared at the book in front of him, not really seeing it. He had read it before, so he had trouble paying attention. That and the fact that the conversation in the next room was very distracting. It was, after all, about him. It would determine what she planned to do with him, which was rather important. Although he could only hear about one word in five, he could tell to whom she was speaking. She was shopping around for the best offer on his head. It was oddly flattering.

But what to do? He could run away. But he had no where to go. His apartment was in Arkham, so he obviously couldn't go home. She may have someone to keep him there as well. He hardly believed that she'd carried him herself here from… well, he didn't know the distance. He could have fallen off his horse right in front of her door, for all he knew. But somehow he doubted it.

Well, if he wasn't going to run away, what should he do? There wasn't really any hope in living much longer. If she called the police, he'd probably get the death sentence. Or he might be committed. Again. He doubted his fellow inmates would let him live long, after what he'd done to them. Provided any of them had been captured yet. He wished he had a newspaper. It would be helpful to hear what was going on. But the only ones he'd seen were now in her room. He frowned in that direction.

What was taking so long? How many people could possibly be interested in him? Well, that was vaguely satisfying, but he didn't like to wait. He was usually patient, but lately had grown more edgy about things. Maybe I should see a doctor, he thought bitterly. He hoped more fervently that he wasn't committed. He didn't think he could take the humiliation of being "treated" by his own colleagues, possibly even his own students.

Maybe he should just hope to die. It wasn't as though he'd had anything to live for in a long time. Come to think of it, he couldn't think of anything he'd ever had that would fall into that category. His childhood had been sad and lonely; just his mother and himself. The other kids at school had mocked him mercilessly. He hadn't realized it until recently, but he was pretty sure they had been frightened of him. Why? They had made him into the cold creature that so scared them. But no, that gave them too much credit. He'd cultivated that demon intentionally; it gave him power. And he'd reveled in that power for a while. But now… he wasn't sure he wanted it anymore.

What did he want, then? He didn't know. But there was no point in thinking of something. Soon he'd be dead, or worse. He didn't expect her to keep him long, since she had to go to the trouble of feeding him. So why hadn't she turned him in already? Surely she would be compensated by Ra's al Ghul.

Speaking of whom, what did he plan for Jonathan? Would he kill him? Or did he plan to have him work some more? But he was now much more replaceable than he had been. Now, he was merely a scientist. A mad scientist, no less. He no longer had a place of power in the city. The need to protect him from the police would probably not be outweighed by his contributions. So, they'd probably kill him. Drat.

Besides, did he even want to work for Ra's again? People thought Jonathan was mad, but he was nothing to the Demon's Head. The man saw himself as a savior of mankind, and had no problems with slaughtering people he deemed unworthy. That was insanity. Perhaps experimenting on patients was also a form of insanity, but he thought it was less of a crime.

Why did I work for him in the first place? Jonathan wondered. Was it the money? Partially. He was very poor before. Was it the power? A little. He had been merely a psychiatrist who worked at the D.A.'s office. After, he had been the most influential person in his field. Lots of power in running Arkham. But was that really why? No. He knew why. But he didn't want to admit to it. It wasn't influence over the politics in the city that had attracted him to Ra's offer. It was the prospect of being in charge of the inmates. The prospect of ruling, like a king, his little asylum. And being able to terrify the thugs that had terrorized him as a child. That was why: revenge.

Maybe Ra's and I have more in common than I suspected, Jonathan mused. That was how he knew he could convince me to do whatever he wanted. He shook his head, smiling a little. The man is smarter than I thought. I should have taken the time to analyze him. Maybe then I would never have gotten into this mess. But where would I be?

After college, he had taught for a while. Until his license had been revoked, due to his unconventional teaching methods. Another license revoked, he thought bitterly. After that, he had worked in Gotham for the District Attorney. He supposed he would still be there, if not for Ra's. He would have been useless there. Perhaps he would have been drawn in to work with Falcone, as so many others had. Well, looks like that happened anyway, he thought. But he might not have been over his head as much if he had worked for the mob boss. "You can't change the past," he said to himself angrily.

But you can change the future, he added silently. So, how should he do that? He didn't know. He wanted to be free. Free from jail, from the asylum, from himself. Mostly from himself. But that was rather unlikely to happen. Most of his patients had felt rather lost at times. What had he told them? Oh yes, "you can only change how you react to things; you can't change other people." But how did that help him? It didn't. Not really. He wasn't trying to change someone else, he was trying to change himself. Which was a very difficult task; one in which few of his patients had ever succeeded. Usually, he just worked to convince them to come to terms with who they were, not change it.

"Well, that puts me in a dilemma," he said thoughtfully. "Foiled by my own advice. Ironic," he added.

Jonathan looked back down at the book. Where had he been? He couldn't remember. He snapped the book shut and sighed. Why was he wasting time here? Shouldn't he be making a plan while she was occupied? But one has to have a goal to make a plan. And he was lacking in both. Cursing quietly, he got up and went to the bookshelf. He scanned over the titles lazily, not really paying attention. Until something caught that attention. It was an unmarked binder, which looked like a scrapbook. He was reminded of the newspaper clippings.

Frowning, he took the scrapbook down and carried it back to the couch. He opened the cover, and looked at the first page. It was rather creative and messy, to him, with unrelated articles. He read all three of them. One was about a park opening downtown. Another was about a movie that had come out. The last was about his asylum. Odd. He couldn't find any possible relation between them. They weren't even from the same newspaper.

He turned the page, and found more articles. None of them seemed to have anything in common, either. He didn't have time to read them, however, because that was when Miss Ducard chose to leave her room.

"Good evening, Doctor Crane," she said pleasantly. Her eyes narrowed when she spotted him looking at her scrapbook. "Give me that," she said coldly.

He smiled. "Why?"

"Because it's not yours," she pointed out, snatching it from him.

He managed to keep himself from grinning as he noticed that she was frightened. Whether of him or of what was in the book, he didn't know. But she was clearly frightened. He grabbed her wrist, making her drop the book. She stared at him, eyes wide. "You really should be more polite," he admonished quietly. He ignored both voices that screamed in his head, one reveling in her fear, the other yelling "too close, too close!" He bent and picked up the book, giving it to her, fighting against the voices. She pulled herself from his grasp, and took a few steps away. He shelved the incident away in his mind, to dwell on her reaction later.

"I'll try," she said, but her cockiness was empty. She turned her back on him, and walked to the bookshelf. He was impressed that she would turn away. People who reacted with violence generally feared that others would do the same. She brought him back another book. "This should be more interesting to you." She cleared her throat. "Now, I must get back to work."

"At night?" he asked, looking at the dark windows.

She shrugged with forced nonchalance. "I get paid," she said matter-of-factly.

He frowned. "What exactly do you do?"
She smiled a little. "A few odd jobs. At the moment, I'm off to be a waitress. Not the most glamorous job, but it puts food on the table," she explained. He said nothing. She shrugged. "Make yourself at home. But don't go in my room. There are towels and things in the bathroom. As well as some clothes that will probably fit you. Since I got them from your apartment," she added. "Just don't ask me to go back there. I don't know how you could stand it," she added, cocking her head at him.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Weren't you ever worried about any of the inmates trying to attack you while you were sleeping?"

He smiled a little evilly. "They were far more frightened of me than I ever was of them," he explained

"Ah… Well, I'll be back before morning. Don't wait up, darling," she added mockingly, suppressing a shiver.

"I'll try not to," he replied icily. With a smirk that lacked some its former luster, she left, pausing only to lock most of the locks behind her. He looked around, and decided to see what she had brought over from his apartment. The thought was disturbing, but he figured it worked out well enough. And it would be nice to change.