Chapter Four: The Kick


Sylvia walked down the stairs, dressed to do a little more than impress. She'd forgone the matter of makeup altogether, choosing to go with the Au Naturel look. Her hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, and as she revealed herself to the living room, she was met with surprise as Benson, Jack, Joel, Marcus, and Victor saw her.

"You're up!" Jack said happily, amazed.

"Yes, I am." Sylvia looked at all of them with a small notable glance before she continued, business-like: "I'm going to go out for a little while. You all can stay here in the meantime."

"Wait, wait…" Marcus stood, getting to his feet quick enough that he stopped in front of her. "You're not going to do anything…rash, are you?"

"Not at all."

"Because the last time you said you were going to go out…"

"I understand that I reacted irrationally," Sylvia said patiently. "All of you were right to do what you did, and I respect that. However, right now, I have some business to tend to with Strange and I'd like to do this alone."

They all exchanged uncertain looks; however, Victor recognized that interesting spark alight in her eyes.

"We'll be here if and when you need us, Liv." He said with a dark smile. "I hope you know what you're getting into."

"About 80% certain, but it's what needs to be done. Lock the door on my way out, please."

"Will do…" Victor saluted her lazily, watching her leave the mansion.

Marcus looked at Victor curiously: "That's the first time I've seen her look so alive. What do you think happened?"

"I couldn't say." Victor returned interestedly. "But I kind of like it."


Hugo Strange operated mostly within his home these days. Arkham Asylum proved to be a brewing place for the insane, and Indian Hill had been excavated for the obvious reasons, especially since Jerome's body had turned up alive and now was currently serving his own time in Arkham Asylum.

In his mansion, Strange had designated his basement for the most peculiar of his experiments. Ten different capsules, sized to fit the average human being, lined the wall of this concrete basement, all of which were currently empty, but he hoped to change that in due time.

Alongside these capsules were assorted mechanical engines as well as a long table clattered with a variety of chemicals and college-ruled notebooks filled with his annotations of experiments gone horribly wrong or had been exceedingly successful.

Atop of this table were a couple of microscopes, one of which he peered through as he examined a blue pigmented flesh-like square with the interest of a scientist as he breathed, "Fascinating."

Then the most interesting sound caught his ear.

Click, clack…Click, Clack.

He sighed with the resolve of a magician having the wind stolen from his sails after someone discovered the magic behind a trick.

He turned, clasping his hands slowly in front of him as his gaze landed on the woman dressed from head to toe in black, the source of the noise—her heeled, laced boots—landing lightly on the concrete floor nearly ten feet in front of him.

"Mrs. Cobblepot," He greeted with a simpering smirk. "How delightful. To what do I owe this honor?"

Sylvia walked towards him, placing the distance between them to a comfortable six feet. From behind her back, she held out her hand and threw the pill bottle in his direction; he caught it, glancing down, and reading his handwriting with an even wider smile.

"So," He said smoothly, "those twins that hunted me down…They work for you?"

"Jack and Joel Kabuki. Those are their names," Sylvia said coolly. "And yes. They work for me."

"They seemed a little unsure of themselves when they came, asking for a 'cure' for your depression. That said, I was sorry to hear about your husband: I read that the GCPD hasn't made much headway into investigating the reason behind his almost sudden disappearance. That must be extremely hard for you, considering you and he share a rather co-dependent bond that—"

"I know you like to psychoanalyze people—it's a hobby, I get it—but I'd appreciate it if you could keep that sort of profiling to yourself," Sylvia said firmly; there was a subtle shift from her strict tone of voice to one of forced politeness. "I came here, in part, to bring those back to you. I've decided I can't keep taking them—they're messing with my head."

"Ah, yes…" Strange breathed, glancing down at the item in question. "You've already used half the bottle. I suppose an apology can suffice in place of the profit I could have made if these had been purchased rather than forcibly taken from my own home."

"You'd like compensation?"

"Well, of course. I may be a doctor, but I'm also a businessman."

Sylvia tilted her head to the side: "What would you like?"

"That's up for debate." He held up a hand, palm up as he acknowledged her presence. "You're obviously here for something more. You've trespassed my property; you've broken into my home—"

"—The door was unlocked—"

"And not an invitation does that make," Strange finished politely. However, a knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he attempted to suppress his amusement at her antics. "You're here, not to compensate me for the product that had been forcibly removed from my hand, but for something more. Are you not? Tell me. What could you possibly want from me this time?"

Sylvia considered the formality of his tone, how he hadn't threatened to call the police or anyone else for that matter. He had no other guards around him, nor guarding his property or his assets. Instead, he seemed to live alone with no one else. He gave her the impression that he had something more up his sleeve.

"You and I have had multiple interactions in the past," Sylvia said formally, crossing her arms and walking towards the table on which sat the multitude of chemicals, journals, research books alike. "You're aware of my exploits; I'm aware of yours. For example, your mission of bringing people back from the dead: Galavan, Fish…"

"And you'd like me to bring back your husband?" Strange assumed almost jovially. "I'd love to see what sort of trivial pursuits the Penguin might be after once he was revived, but unfortunately, I can't revive a conduit I do not have."

"If I had his body with me, I wouldn't have you do that to him anyhow."

"So, you're not here to—"

"—The pills you gave me brought him back as I remembered him. What you would do to him in addition to bringing him back: I wouldn't want to see. Besides, Oswald deserves better than that."

"So, if you're not here to revive him, what are you here for, exactly?"

"You made these pills." Sylvia gestured to the bottle that now rested on the table. "You're a psychiatrist: your whole field revolves around the chemicals that complement and counteract the body's natural makeup and the supplements that provide what the body lacks. Dopamine, serotonin—"

"—Yes, of course, but—"

"—If you can give the body the chemicals it needs to operate on a daily basis, could you do the same with its emotions?" Sylvia implored, stepping towards him. "Could you make it so that a person could ignore their depression completely so they could work and operate as they always have?"

Strange's facial expressions evolved from confusion to one of realization and curiosity.

"You wish for a beta blocker, one that reduces your depressive symptoms? An anti-depressant?"

"I've been taking anti-depressants," Sylvia insisted. "They're not helping."

"It takes time—"

"—I don't have time. I need to be able to work. I can't with this constant dark cloud hovering over my fucking head."

"Ah. I see. You wish to feel something other than your despair."

"Yes, anything other than that. I need to take back my club from Barbara. I need to be able to sing and dance so I can continue to do my performances. I need to be able to lead, to think clearly—I can't do that with these anti-depressants you gave me, or especially with those hallucinogens. Do you have anything like that?"

"Mmm." Strange unclasped his hands as he brought one of them to his chin. "Let's say, per chance: I did. What would you give me in return?"

"What would you want?"

"Well…" Strange chortled. "That's a little more complicated."

"Do you want money?"

"Well, money, yes. That would be most helpful now that you mention it."

Sylvia rolled her eyes: Strange led her to that conclusion without really trying.

"Name your price."

"Fifty-thousand dollars."

"For a pill?" Sylvia inquired, taken aback.

"You asked for a cure for depression—one of which I have, but, unfortunately, I've run out of my most important materials and ingredients so I'm afraid it will be the last of its chemical makeup." Strange said silkily. "What's more is this is not a pill. It's an injection."

"An injection?"

"Yes, my dear. Why, you aren't afraid of needles, surely?"

"Of course, I'm not." She nodded. "Fine. Fifty-thousand dollars. You'll get it, presuming that once you inject it, I don't die from any on-set side effects."

"Yes, about those side effects."

"What, there's a disclaimer?" Sylvia said cynically.

Strange put a hand to where his heart was anatomically located and said coolly, "My dear, I may be a businessman, but I am a medical practitioner first and foremost. It would be ill-advised that I do not tell you the entirety of complications or risks that may come from this. Lest you sue me for misinformation or malpractice."

"You've brought people back to life, and you're afraid that I'll sue you for malpractice."

"It's purely for precaution. The test subjects have all lived after being injected with this high-end anti-depressant, but they've all suffered one serious side effect. They tend to lose the thing that most human beings value the most."

"Well, seeing as I've already lost what I valued most," Sylvia said sarcastically, "I doubt that'll be a problem for me."

"Would you like to know what sacrifice they've all had in common?"

"No."

"You're not even curious?"

"Why should I be?"

"Well, I should remind you that this is an anti-depressant with an extra—well, let's say it has a kick to it. It's not like the rest of the treatments you've seen on the market; in fact, I'd say it might bring out the darkest part of you." Strange said cleverly as if he was entertained by his own inside joke.

Sylvia clicked her tongue after a momentary pause: "Are you saying it has a stringent of Alice Tetch's blood."

Strange's eyes widened as if he'd been discovered: "What? Oh, no…No, no, no…"

"That's it, isn't it. That's the 'kick'."

"Well," Strange admittedly casually, "it has a small dose in it. It's not even 2% of its full makeup. In fact, the only symptoms of the Tetch Virus you may feel is an unprecedented amount of strength, mental clarity, and you might hear a voice or two, but otherwise—"

"—Give it to me."

"…What?"

"You heard me."

"You've listened to me, correct?" Strange said incredulously.

"Every word, yes."

"This cure you're seeking contains the Virus. That doesn't deter you?"

"Can't say it does."

"Are you certain that this is what you want?" Strange questioned uncertainly.

"What does it matter to you if I take it or not as long as you're getting paid?"

"I just want you to be absolutely sure that you are prepared to accept the consequences of your actions with full disclosure."

"I accept the consequences. Completely. Why? What else is there to know?"

"The Virus' effects may be diluted but as with Captain Barnes and Mario Falcone, you may very well go insane too. And the darkest parts of you—I can't imagine what it may dredge up once your depression has subsided."

"The darkest parts of me…?" Sylvia said dangerously. "The only parts of me that I'd consider dark is the unbridled, homicidal rage that I feel towards anyone who's wronged me—there's been plenty of that happening in the past few weeks. The other part wanted to protect Oswald with every fiber of its being and it clearly failed to do that so just give me the goddamn injection and let's be done with the mindless, boring conversation, please?"

Strange nodded slowly: "Yes, I can see why you might want to be rid of your despair. A little piece of advice? Be sure to have someone around who can calm that storm of yours, lest it rip you apart."

"The only person who was capable of doing that was Oswald and he's dead. So how about you give me the injection so you can be fifty-grand richer, and I can be on my way to help my people and get my shit back, huh?"

Strange grinned: "You really would be an amazing study."

"Just…Do. It."

Sylvia held out her arm.

Strange nodded one last time before he strolled to the end of the table. He opened a small compartment, no bigger than a music box, and took out a small pinky-sized syringe; a red liquid swirled in its tube.

As he came back, he stood in front of Sylvia, who watched him carefully.

"This is going to hurt." He said gently. "You may experience some tingling around the insertion site, as well as hot flashes. All of these will subside in the next few hours."

"What about losing the part that your test subjects said they valued the most?"

"You won't experience that unless you decide to be cured." Strange touched the tip of the needle to a vein, and he slowly and steadily pressed down on the plunger; Sylvia winced as the needle pierced her skin. "As it was with all my test subjects—all ten of them—because of the Virus stringent, you may feel your emotions on a stronger level: Love, happiness, anger—but as this has been laced with long-lasting anti-depressants, sadness will not be one of them. Be wary of your emotions, however. As an empath, you feel things much more strongly than others. With this Virus, it'll bring out those emotions tenfold."

"What do you recommend?" asked Sylvia.

Strange smiled. For once, her tone reflected one of respect and candor as if she truly saw him as a doctor and nothing more. It was refreshing.

"I'd recommend indulging in mindful relaxation." He paused. "Meditation, even. Ah…Almost finished, aannnd…There it is." He removed the needle, patting the insertion site with a small smile. "Just give it a moment. You may sit on the table if you prefer."

He helped her sit on the edge and she looked at him with a cool gaze. He brushed his hands together, clapping them as he threw the needle into the trash can.

"How do you feel?"

Sylvia grinned widely: "Pretty fucking good."

"Excellent. Any sweating, hot flashes, clamminess?"

"None."

"Fatigue?"

"I feel good," Sylvia said calmly. "A little breathless."

"That's the adrenaline rush." Strange noted. "That'll pass. Any headaches?"

"None…Not right now, anyway."

"You'll experience a few of those. Most of my patients mentioned having severe headaches after experiencing a range of strong emotions. You may also feel some tingling in your hands and toes. After your first bout of—what I imagine will be—rage or other intense emotion, you may feel light-headed, dizzy. That's nothing to worry about."

"All of those side effects are nothing to worry about?" She said amusedly.

Strange quirked an eyebrow at her tone; it was the first time he'd heard her sound remotely entertained by anything he had to say, at least whilst she'd been in his presence. The smile that accompanied her pleasant tone was a beautiful one. Strange could see how her company would be most intoxicating.

"Not at all," Strange answered her question. "It's similar to the body's reaction after experiencing a traumatic event."

"What do you mean?"

"Take, for example, a car accident."

"Alright."

"Another oncoming vehicle crashes into your car. What happens? The air bag comes out, the radiator is crushed, water and gasoline leak. At impact, you feel the initial pain of being struck by another car but the vehicle you are in absorbs most of the blunt force."

"Assuming you aren't killed in the process," Sylvia muttered cynically.

"Correct. After you've filed your insurance claim, called your family, you take a nap. Upon awakening, you start feeling all the ramifications of a traumatic event: body aches, soreness, headaches, the turbulence of emotions from being through such an ordeal. That's the adrenaline decreasing and the body returning to its homeostasis. In the same manner, your body—once it feels intense emotions such as the rage you've learned to repress during your upbringing, surely—will undergo all the ramifications after the Virus has finished taking control similar to that of a car accident."

"Well, that just sounds unpleasant." She said halfheartedly.

"Oh, it will be."

"Good to know." She hopped off the table. "Thanks for the disclaimer."

"Anytime. Will I expect that check in the mail or…?"

"I'll be taking my club back from Barbara and talk to a certain someone about how he dislocated my ward's shoulder. Afterwards, I'll come by with cash in hand. Is that acceptable, Doctor?"

Strange pleasantly smiled and nodded: "That would be more than acceptable, Mrs. Cobblepot."

She nodded respectfully in his direction before she gestured to the basement, adding, "This is an interesting little set-up you got here. I'm guessing you'll be trying to work back at your station in Indian Hill once the cops leave?"

"Presumably, yes, yes. I take it that you'll be notifying your brother of my intention to continue my…ahem…operations?"

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "If you don't tell him what's transpired here, I will not tell him about your aspirations to become the next Dr. Frankenstein."

"A vow of silence, then?"

"Precisely."

"Very well. You have my word."

"Cool beans." She clicked her tongue. "I'll call you when I'll be around to give you what I owe."

"Charmed." Strange smiled widely. "A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Cobblepot."

"Ditto. I'll see you around." She left the basement.

Strange watched after her, listening to the basement door close.

He took one of his journals, opening it as he peered at his research.

"The cost: Something the test subjects all truly value." Strange uttered, as he flipped the page.

Underneath, he'd written the name of his 'patient'. To the side, he'd written what the test subjects all had mentioned as being one of the downfalls for being cured of their rage and darkest urges.

What did his patients report losing when he'd administered the cure per their own volition? It was written down ten times, a common denominator between them.

Strange grazed a finger over the penciled words.

'The memories of the person they love most.'