It was a storming, nasty morning when I awoke the next day and the weather forecast predicted it would remain the same for the rest of the day. I found the rain oddly cheerful and set about getting ready to head to Arkham by setting the coffee pot and jumping in the shower. Today's session, I vowed, would go off without a hitch and I wouldn't get jumpy nerves before I even set foot in Dr. Hirsch's office.
But I couldn't figure out what to wear. Most of my suits were professional and modest, but I was afraid Mr. Jones would see that as pretentious or fake. The skirts I owned were too cheery and didn't fit the season, so I settled on a plain pair of black slacks and an elegant cream-colored top.
As I twirled in front of the mirror, I stopped dead. "I'm just like her," I whispered, touching my face. Dr. Hirsch was right: I fancied my patient. I was just like Quinn. "No. You want to help him, not date him. You can keep this professional and safe." But I wasn't convinced because I knew that I liked to tell myself things if only to settle my mind. Maybe not now, but later I was going to tear my mind apart just trying to sort through all of these crazy neural-stimulants and impulses. Hopefully by the end of the day I wouldn't need a lobotomy.
"What a dreadful morning, I trust the commute was at least decent?" Dr. Hirsch asked as we walked down the hallways from Secure Transit.
"It was to be expected with the rain I suppose. It brings out the absolute best in people," I said with an ounce of sarcasm.
Dr. Hirsch laughed, "One thing you can't live without—the pure, unadulterated attitude of a busy Gothamite."
"Of course. So how is the patient?"
"After yesterday's pacification fiasco he's suffering some electrical burns around the collar but because of his nature we couldn't treat him even if Mr. Jones was a Code Blue," she sighed. "Its a real shame."
The patients at Arkham were given a color code as a universal language for the level of danger they posed. Blue was the lowest, since many of the staff didn't believe any of them were capable of posing zero threat. Hence the lack of a code green. Code black was the absolute worst and it just so happened to be the level of Mr. Jones. It was mandated that codes red and above had the pacification system equipped at all times for safety measures.
We took our seats and I leafed through a few files of other patients at the asylum while I sipped at my coffee. Thunder rolled outside the window and rain rapped on the glass in a soothing fashion, nearly making me feel completely at home. But it would be a long time coming before I let my guard down around this place, if at all.
Around the time I was regretting the rest of my life, the sounds of Waylon Jones could be heard down the hall as he provoked a scuffle between himself and another patient.
"Oh for Christ sakes, not again," Dr. Hirsch sighed from her corner of the room. "One day—that's all anyone asks."
"Let him go, Jones! Things aren't going to be pretty if you can't learn to get along with people." I paid no fucking attention to the asshole who spoke. The only thing I cared about was the fucker choking to death in my hands. The buzzing of the collar roared in my ears and I couldn't hear much else, besides the disgusting squeals that came out of the Joker's throat. It stung, the shocks of the collar—pretty damn sure my heart skipped a few beats.
"Altercation in Secure Transit, code black patient involved. Pacification system activated, shoot-to-kill permission granted."
"Jones, we aren't fuckin' around, let go of the clown," Ramirez had one hand on the collar's remote and the other wrapped around a fucking dart gun.
Another guard pointed his double-barrel right between my eyes, "I'm going to count to three."
"Fuck. You," I answered, glaring at him. My hold loosened on Joker's neck and his feet kicked desperately at my stomach.
"Put him down and let him go. Last warning," Ramirez said in a low, warning threat.
A door down the hallway burst open and the two bitches from yesterday jumped out. Hirsch looked at me, then at the Joker, sighed, and crossed her arms over her chest in annoyance; the new girl stared wide-eyed and her face drained of color. Joker took advantage of the distraction, rammed his knee into my groin, and I dropped him to the ground.
"Next time!" I screamed after him as he ran away laughing, "I'll rip you limb from limb! You'll f-" Ramirez beat me over the head with his rifle and kicked me to the ground.
"You sick fuck. Stay down and not another word, we'll shoot!"
I growled but otherwise gave up. As I lay there, my face mashed into the ground by Ramirez's muddy boot, I stared down the hall at the doctors and wondered what the fuck they were going to say to me that I hadn't already heard.
You're not making any progress, Mr. Jones.
What the fuck's wrong with you, animal?
You belong back at the circus you fucking freak.
You're a sick, disgusting piece of shit Waylon.
"Mr. Ramirez!" The new girl shouted and ran down the hallway towards us. "Get your foot off him!"
I rolled my eyes and waited for whatever was going to happen to just play out. I couldn't imagine what this bitch thought she was doing, but what the fuck ever. No one ever gave a shit about the patients. And if you did, you were new—once you were here long enough, you stopped caring. It wouldn't last long.
"But-"
"I said get your foot off of him. What kind of treatment is this? Violence? Two wrongs don't make a right, Mr. Ramirez. Now get your foot off of him and escort him to Dr. Hirsch's office for his session, please," she said, her tone even and authoritative. The 'please' at the end was almost too fucking cute.
"Scott, you heard her. She's acting doctor of this wing," came Dr. Hirsch and her irritating, scratchy voice.
Ramirez removed his foot and I hefted myself off the floor, easily towering over the guards by a foot. I turned to head towards the office when I almost ran over the new girl. She stood about an inch or two from me and I looked straight down my nose at her, measuring her reactions. "I could fucking crush you," I said.
"I-I..." She stammered, looking down at her hands. "Mr. Jones," she said confidently when she looked up, "if you would follow me to the office, please." She smiled, turned, and walked away. As she did I caught a whiff of her perfume and breathed in deeply, savoring the sweet aroma. It had been years since I'd smelled anything other than the old, damp stink of the asylum—the scent of something feminine was a fucking reprieve.
For the most part, the trip down to her office was about as entertaining as watching someone bleed to death. Nobody said a word and I watched the new girl's tiny frame as she sashayed across the carpeted floor. Yeah, literally swayed her hips. And in a fucking provocative manner. I had no idea if maybe she was just one of those bitches who walked like that all the time or she-. Yeah fucking right. I doubted it was for my benefit anyway—I had nasty green scales for skin and Smith, the guard opposite of Ramirez, looked like the kind of guy a girl like her would be interested in. Someone like that asshole Bruce Wayne.
I huffed when we got to the door to her office and took a deep breath. And a good fucking thing at that. Because if she didn't shock the shit out of me.
I wasn't crazy. But I knew that Mr. Jones wouldn't be willing to divulge information if that meant it could be used against him. Despite his outward appearance, no matter how gruesome, Waylon Jones had a sensitive soul. I didn't know how I knew it, and I didn't know if I really cared how I knew it, but the fact remained that I did. I was convinced there had been some degree of childhood trauma—some kind of abuse. That was the key. If there was any humanity left in him that could break his hatred and homicidal tendencies it existed in his past.
But the only way I could get anything out of him was to procure a safe and trustworthy environment. With no guards who could spread the word on his weaknesses.
"Smith, Ramirez. If you would wait out here for the duration of the session... ?" I tentatively asked the guards behind Mr. Jones. They traded perplexed expressions and turned to Dr. Hirsch.
"Miss Harker, a word please? In private?" The expression she wore didn't promise much. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Her voice was low and reproachful.
"I think Mr. Jones has a greater chance of opening up to us if he isn't shadowed by those two morons, especially Ramirez. Even you have to agree with that; we're out of options Dr. Hirsch. If nothing else works, what have we to lose?"
"Nothing, I suppose, except maybe an arm or two," she said with a quirk of her eyebrow.
"Do you want to give it a shot?" I was desperate—beyond desperate. This had to work.
She smiled, "I'm constantly surprised by your innovative intentions, and you've only been here a week. Let's try it." She turned back towards the guards and the patient. "Mr. Ramirez. You and Mr. Smith may stand watch outside the office with the rest of the men, if that suits you. We will be conducting this session today with total patient confidentiality and you may not be present."
They obviously had things they wanted to say, opinions they were yearning to voice but, without a word, they stood on either side of the office doors in compliance. Mr. Jones followed us inside and seated himself in his chair, dwarfing the room with his enormous size. Timidly, I shut the door and sat down behind the desk.
"Now," I began, tucking stray strands of hair behind my ears, "I hope that with the absence of those men you will be more willing to communicate." I fiddled with the remote to the collar which Smith had slipped into my hands just before I closed the door—I sincerely hoped I wouldn't have to use it. As I set it on the desk I sighed in frustration. Waylon's eyes instantly found the remote and he scowled at it, his lip curling.
"Might wanna keep it handy, I know you white-coat types like to put these shock collars to good use," the patient growled.
"I have no intention of using it," I stated flatly.
He scoffed, "Of course."
"I don't, Mr. Jones. I don't believe that torturing someone is the way to get them to comply."
"You're an idiot. That's the only way to get them to comply."
"And why do you think that?" At my question Mr. Jones leaned over the desk and narrowed his eyes at me, his breathing perfectly even.
"Because threatening to cut off fingers is the only way to get people to tell the truth. And before you ask how I know or why I think that way, its because I know first hand, I've done it," he spat scathingly.
"For what purpose would you do those things?" It frightened me that I wasn't sure whether I was more disgusted or mildly interested.
Waylon leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes. "I can't figure out whether you're naive or just playing some kind of fucked up game."
"Why did you attack the Joker?" I asked flatly.
The patient's eyes flashed at me, "Harassment."
"He harassed you?"
"Yeah. What? You got a hearing problem?"
"No, just clarifying. How did he harass you, did he touch you? Say something offensive?"
"He walked past me in the hall and said 'later alligator'."
"Are you being sarcastic?"
"Why in the fuck would I be sarcastic."
"I wasn't sure if you were playing mind games with me," I said truthfully.
"I don't do that shit, that's Scarecrow. Fucker got outta here a month ago and didn't take me with him. You'd think he would, right? But he chose Bane."
"Are you and Mr. Crane close?"
"No."
"And you were... Hurt? By his rejection?"
"No. But I thought he trusted me more than that drug addict."
"Does trust mean a lot to you?"
I understood immediately that my inquiry was completely overstepping unspoken, but entirely-present boundaries. The patient glared at me for what seemed like hours and I shrank back in my chair. Was this the part where I prayed to God for mercy for my stupidity? Was this the time to start crying because I'd actually requested that the guards—the guys with the guns—stand outside?
"Yeah, it does," his voice was unusually calm, but still retained its menace.
I decided to drop the topic altogether rather than add fuel to Mr. Jones' fire. "I'll stay away from the subject of your childhood, but what about the period of time before you immersed yourself in the criminal lifestyle?"
He broke into a raucous laughter and seeing him smile was almost worth the humiliation of being laughed at.
"What's so funny?"
"You."
I blushed crimson and looked down at my hands. Me? Of course I'd be laughed at—I was a prim and proper, white collar girl rooting around in the minds of the dregs of society. Even I would laugh at myself if I had the chance to look at my situation properly. "I-uh... Why?"
Mr. Jones sobered from his hearty chuckling and his eyes rested on me with intensity. "You like to talk as if you're superior, to show me how educated you are."
"That's not-"
"Yeah fucking right. I know what you think."
"You do? Enlighten me, Mr. Jones," I said as bluntly as possible. He could sit around and mope all he wanted but I wasn't about to let him talk down to me. And I wasn't going to let him come up with preconception about what I thought and what I did.
He seemed taken aback by my aggression. "You're just like all the others. You think I'm a stupid animal, I know you do. No, shut the fuck up, don't ask me another question—I'm not finished talking. Since this is my session and you want me to talk about fucking feelings, here goes. I know what I look like and I know it ain't normal. I also know that people have no fucking clue whether I'm human or animal, so save all your pretentious bullshit about the 'comprehensions of society'. And I know why you use you're big words and your fancy talk; you're trying to see if I know what the fuck you're talking about. I do. So lets see if you understand what I have to say: go fuck yourself," he said furiously, his eyes burning with the intent to kill.
"I don't agree with you," I said as I narrowed my eyes.
He sat back in his chair and sighed, "Of course not."
"I don't particularly care whether or not you want to hear it, but I'm going to voice my side," I began, my tone harsh. "I use my bullshit degree jargon not because I'm testing you, but because I'm showing all of these people in this facility that you can comprehend, and that you're not some brutish subhuman reptilian." His eyes widened measurably and if looks could kill I would've been dead three minutes ago. "You act like I should be a rude, selfish, and uncaring person and I have no idea where you get off thinking that. Everything I've done has been in your defense and I don't know why you can't understand that I'm not the type of person you've been dealing with in this place for the last few months. I know you're intelligent, I can see it in your eyes. And as for the misgivings of your biological identity? You're human, through-and-through. In fact, you're more human than the cold-blooded, soulless individuals I ride the ferry with every day. So, Mr. Jones, stop trying to peg people based on stereotypes you've developed from your sordid past and start talking to me about the things that bother you." I looked at his file. "You're thirty-two years old, move on with your life. You deserve to be happy."
From the corner of my eye I saw Dr. Hirsch's white face staring at me, her mouth gaping. Silence hung in the air as if it were a thick miasma floating from person to person. The only noises that penetrated the uncomfortable lack of noise was the soft pattering of rain as it continued to pelt the window panes.
Mr. Jones started at me angrily as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Unwaveringly, I held his gaze glare-for-glare and refused to offer another word before he relented. It was ridiculous, I felt like slapping him. He was four years older than me yet completely immature when it came to even the most simple, common-sense situations. Whatever cruelty he faced as a child seemed to have him permanently reverted to the underdeveloped mindset of a preteen. I desperately wanted to broach the subject but I was all too aware of the possibility that he would lunge at me again and this time he would be successful in ripping my throat open.
"I don't have a single fucking thing to say to you," he said, tensing, and sat back in his chair. It seemed as though he were puffing himself up to appear larger and more menacing than he already did. His powerful gaze held mine brutally and although it made me feel small, I was lost in the intensity of his gaze and his beauty.
"That's more disappointing than I thought it would be, Mr. Jones," I said with a sigh, returning my attention to his pitiful file on my desk. There were absolutely no records on his past, other than what could be connected to him by the Gotham PD. Additionally, the Batman had tracked him down to the workings of an underground mob that was in cahoot with the Penguin and his infamous black market dealings. "Why is it so hard for you to reveal details about your past?"
His silence was expected but still both irrefutably annoying and counter-intuitive. My dismay at his refusal to budge was evident and scribbled some notes down into his file about his stubborn nature and what might be done to counter it. As I wrote I noticed out of my peripheral vision that he was calming regarding me and his eyes were studying my face.
"Before you ask, no, its nothing negative," I relented.
"Wouldn't matter even if it was," he said flatly and turned his head to stare out of the window at Gotham Bay.
"Are you going to answer my question? What's so wrong about opening up to people?"
"People are shitheads."
I shrugged, "Cynicism does that to us." My nonchalance at having turned his insult back on him fed my confidence and I let the statement hang in the thick are between us, well aware that Dr. Hirsch was practically on the edge of her seat in horror.
"If I tried to kill you, would you yell for the guards? Or would you grab that remote and electrocute me?" He leaned forward in his seat, a dangerous, deviant expression on his face. "What would you do?" I watched, mostly in anxious anticipation, as Waylon stood up from his chair and walked closer to the desk. He planted his hands on the desktop and leaned in to me, his face inches from mine. I could hear him as he breathed and I could smell a faint musky cologne as it wafted through the air with his movements.
"You love to push limits, don't you Mr. Jones?" I supposed he was trying to ruffle my feathers or make me jump out of my skin, but it wasn't working. Personally, I didn't think he was stupid enough to kill me here, in the asylum, with armed officers standing guard just outside. They'd shoot him to death and no one would think twice about sweeping it under the rug; maybe he didn't care about the way things played out for him but I knew he didn't want to die.
His eyes narrowed in interest and the answer of his warm, rumbling chuckle filled the room. "Where the fuck is your common sense?"
"I work in an asylum for the criminally insane, Mr. Jones. I check my common sense at the door and try to keep an open mind," I said evenly.
"Shit, I got stuck with a saintly shrink," he said as he sat back down in his chair. Dr. Hirsch let out a sigh of the breath she had obviously been holding. And despite whether or not I felt the same way, I couldn't help but think about how unprofessional it was. I stole a quick look at her and watched as she took furious notations in her journal, a sheen of sweat at her brow. I could only imagine the things she was writing and what she would say about me as she gossiped to her colleagues today at lunch.
Later that night, when I was safe inside my apartment back in the city I couldn't help but cuddle up with my laptop and let my thoughts run wild. I couldn't figure out what in God's name I was doing working at that place; it was obvious my talents were both useless and irrelevant. When it came to the thought of having to return to that dismal office at the start of each day I immediately dreaded the rest of my life. When I wanted to be a psychiatrist this isn't at what I had in mind—I thought I would be helping people overcome their debilitating depression and aiding paranoid schizophrenics in deciphering hallucinations from reality. Never would I have ever guessed that I would be providing council to a homicidal gangster with a skin mutation that baffled experts the world over.
But, more importantly, I was terrified that I was developing deep-rooted feelings for my patient. There was no doubt, at least to me, that I was physically attracted to him and I didn't even know how I could be.
Frustrated, I buried my face in my hands and sighed. "You're going to end up like every other infamous doctor of Arkham. You'll either fall in love with your patient or become one yourself." In the midst of my musings, my phone rang and roused me out of my internal conflict. I frowned as I reached for the receiver and read the caller ID of Dr. Hirsch on her office phone.
"Hello?"
"Miss Harker? Cassandra?" Her voice sounded disoriented and panicked.
"Speaking. Dr. Hirsch, is that you? What's the matter?" Realizing that I might be in for a late night I immediately jumped up and ran into my bedroom to change.
"You need to get over to the island as quickly as possible, Cassandra," Dr. Hirsch said gravely. Shoving myself into my jeans, I was about to question her again when she added, "Waylon Jones has escaped from Arkham, Miss Harker. We found the bodies of officers Ramirez and Smith at the entrance to Mr. Jones' cell and he ransacked my office before he left."
"What? H-how... How is that possible? What was he looking for in your office?" Adrenaline coursed through my veins and I was so enthralled I feared a heart attack.
"I had already left for the night, and he was being transferred for-"
"Why would he go through your office?"
"He was looking through my files... one was missing," she said, her voice urgent.
"His?"
"Yours."
I dropped the receiver as a violent pounding came from my front door.
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-Soule