The minutes ticked by like hours. I stared at him wide-eyed and he stared back, the silence so acute one wouldn't even hear a pin drop. My anxiety began to settle in as a result of the close scrutiny and my complete screw up. My palms grew sweaty and I started to shake like a chihuahua, or some tiny mammal, and it was mortifying. I thought about saying something, but it wouldn't come out as more than a garbled mess of stuttering. Anything I tried to say would be semi-coherent at best. My only alternative was to signal the guards.

Waylon seemed to know what I was thinking, and just before I could open my mouth he demanded an answer. "What. Did you just say," he was livid. Oh my God was he angry. And I thought I knew what he was like when he was angry.

"Collins! The session's over!" My shaking reached a fever pitch and I was thankful that I had been able to articulate a call for assistance.

"Oh no you fucking don't," he bellowed as he jumped up from his seat and barricaded the door with his massive frame. "Fucking answer my damn question. Now."

"No," I said in a small voice.

"I swear on my life I'll kill those guards. If you're not intelligent enough to fear for your life when I threaten you, I swear I'll fucking kill Collins and his shithead shadow." When I didn't answer he growled so loud I feared the windows would break. "Answer me!"

"Open the fucking door Croc!" Collins was banging on the opposite side of the door. He must have assumed it was locked because he began to shoot the locking mechanism, then he resumed pushing on the door. "Croc we aren't messing around. I'm not even going to count I'm just giving you one warning. Move away from the door or we're shooting through it."

"Waylon, move." Things were escalating to the point where I knew someone was definitely going to get hurt. Badly.

"Not a goddamn chance. Answer. The. Fucking. Question."

"I can't!" I yelled as I felt tears sting my eyes. I felt stupid and immature, like a child. I felt like breaking as I watched my resolve and composure abandon me to my stupidity.

"Why?!" He yelled back. His large, clawed hands were digging into the molding around the door frame.

I sat back in my chair and instantly sought out the desk drawer. I checked the first, and then the second. Nothing. I scanned the desk top. Still nothing. In a last resort I pulled open the tray drawer directly under the desk and there it was, nestled against some pens and a small stack of post-it notes.

Waylon growled, "What the f-"

I picked up the remote to Waylon's collar and, regretting the decision as soon as I made it, I jammed my thumb down on the button. Much like every other time the collar's electrical charge shot through Waylon's body, he went rigid, his hands clawing at the collar to get it off. His teeth were gritted, but his eyes were wide open and they were looking at me the entire time. When I let my thumb off of the button to let him rest he fell to his hands and knees.

"Fuck you," he said breathlessly. As I saw him go to get up, I jammed my thumb down and sent another charge through him just in case.

Collins must not have known the door was free, because he began to fire shots into the room. They were low shots, and would have taken out Waylon's legs: if he'd been standing. In his hunched position on the floor, the bullets were coming through the wood at just the right height to hit him in the head. I panicked and released the collar's remote, yelling at Waylon to stand up or move. "Waylon move, they're shooting!"

"I can't, you fucking bitch. My muscles are still spazzing; you fucking electrocuted me." He no sooner finished speaking than a bullet blasted through the door and lodged in his right shoulder with a thud. "Fuck! Goddamn it! You fucking cock-sucking bastard. Motherfucking Jesus Christ!"

"Collins, he's down! You shot him after I got him with his collar!"

"Yeah, anything else you fucking people wanna do to me? My other shoulder is feeling left out." As Waylon shifted to stand, the motion caused fresh blood to run out of his bullet wound. The smell hadn't reached my nose yet, but the sight was enough to induce a gagging fit. I turned and tried coughing into my hand but I couldn't stop my reaction to the blood.

Collins bashed the door open just then and entered the room. He had pushed it open so forcefully that it hit Waylon in the face as he went to stand up. Hard. As he stumbled back against a bookshelf, blood ran out of his nose. He reached a hand up and wiped at it then pulled it away and scrutinized the red liquid. When he looked down at it he scoffed. His tongue made an appearance and he licked the blood that started to run over his lips and down his chin. "This day just keeps getting better and better. Got anything else to try? I think there's still some more blood in me that you haven't fucking leaked yet."

I started coughing again as the metallic smell bombarded my senses so thoroughly I could almost taste it. I was pretty sure I was a lovely shade of green. "Yeah, good. Glad its affecting you. Fucking cunt."

If I had been able to spare the breath I would have gasped. But instead tears continued to run down my face as I attempted to stifle my gagging fit. But it was no use. The smell of Waylon's blood filtered into my nostrils and I searched the room for the nearest waste basket.

Collins and his partner took a minute to glance around the room. What they were seeing must have been puzzling and awkward. I was in the back right corner retching my lunch into a gray trash bin and Waylon was over across the room, leaning against a bookshelf. His shoulder was bleeding so profusely that it was dripping off of his fingers and staining the carpet beneath him. His bloody nose had dripped down his chest and over his pecs; some of it had landed on his pants.

When I had recovered as much as possible—for the moment—from my upset stomach, I tried looking over at Waylon, hoping those eyes of his would be a calming sight. They weren't; he was looking right at me and he was glaring hatred into my soul. I felt wretched. I had tortured Waylon with his collar, all because I had failed to keep my mouth shut and he wanted to know what I had said. But he had heard me, I know he had. His hearing was impeccable as was his sense of smell—the blood that bothered me must have been much worse for him. But whatever pity I could have felt was diminished with the fact that he enjoyed killing and he had probably grown accustomed to the stench.

I watched as Collins and the other guard began to put cuffs on Waylon. He flinched away and held his wrists out of their reach. "Fuck off, hasn't enough happened."

"Lower your hands, Croc. We're taking you to the hospital ward to get your shoulder looked at. Protocol requires you to be cuffed," Collins said disinterestedly. I hoped that Waylon would just comply. Because he was right, enough had been done. But I knew he was dangerous. I had always known that, but I was stupid enough to ignore it whenever it suited me. Just because Waylon had recognized my fear in the sewer. Just because he had shown the briefest moment of kindness. Just because he had actually begun to open up about his past. I was a prized fool.

"If you have the remote to my collar why d'ya gotta cuff me?"

"I'm not going to ask again."

"Neither am I."

I felt the unwarranted need to interject, "Waylon just-"

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped, cutting me off.

Collins sighed, "Croc."

"Collins," his lip curling, Waylon looked down his nose at Collins, disgust in his eyes. As they stared at each other, Collins' partner came over to my desk and retrieved the remote. And in perfect timing, too.

Without warning Collins jarred Waylon in the jaw with his rifle, knocking him back against the bookshelf so hard he broke two of the shelves. When Waylon pushed off of the wall and braced himself to tackle Collins, his collar began buzzing and he was forced to the ground from the sheer power of the charge. As Waylon twitched on the ground I covered my mouth and cried. His eyes never left mine.

"This is all... because. You wouldn't. Answer.. my damn-" a long pause as he continued writhing, "question," he finished on a grunt. His nose was still bleeding and as he gritted his teeth, I saw that they were tinged red with blood. His eyes scrunched just then as the charge reached the end of its cycle. It had all happened entirely too fast. I hadn't even blinked.

It fucking hurt. The damn collar buzzed for years and I could feel all of my muscles twitching. It was going to be a long fucking time before I had 100 percent of my movement back. I didn't want to go to the damn hospital—those fuckers were just going to put a bandage over my bullet wound and send me on my way. They didn't give a shit about any of the criminals in this joint. Least of all my sorry ass. They'd probably leave that irritating bullet in my shoulder and let it heal there. I should have ripped the bastard out as soon as I felt it hit home.

Collins and his idiot friend cuffed me when the buzzing stopped, jerking my tensed arms behind my back as they did it. "Yeah, why don't you fucking rip my arms out too. Might as well you piece of shit."

A kick in the stomach was my response.

"Or you could rupture my intestines, I ain't complainin'," I spat, on the ass-end of a wheeze.

"I'm getting tired of listening to you, Croc. Just shut up."

"Fuck no. You all want to beat me the fuck up, I'm not keeping quiet. You can listen to my bitching until you're a bunch of fucking corpses, I don't care so fuck you." As the two shits with guns attempted to lift me off the ground, I started laughing. I was a heavy motherfucker due to muscle mass and like hell if I cared whether they were struggling to lift all 500 plus pounds of me off the ground. In the process, Collins stole another cheap shot and beat my nose in with the butt of his rifle. When fresh blood started oozing from both nostrils, I spit in his face.

"Waylon, please just-"

I didn't even want to speak to her. I just glared at her fucking face, hoping she'd look away. I knew she was nothing but bad fucking news the minute I saw her. And why the ever loving fuck she had to be my doctor was a goddamn enigma. Enigma. Motherfucking Christ, I hoped that asshole still couldn't breath on his own after the last time I'd seen him. Tried to use his mind control bullshit on me. Goddamn it. I was so fucking angry.

"Get me the hell out of here before I fucking eat her, please," I said to Collins as I continued to stare at Harker.

"Take it easy, Mr. Jones." Collins' partner. Some new guy. Not familiar with Arkham SOP, probably. I ate kids like him for breakfast back in the day. As if rotten slabs of beef were any fucking comparison.

I shifted my gaze to the left and looked down at him. That was enough—he looked away almost as quickly. Good. At least one fucker in this joint understood. While he looked away sheepishly I tested the restraints that had my hands jammed behind my back.

A little tug here, a few there... Yeah, these were shit. I could be out in minutes.

Collins stopped what he was doing and looked me right in the eye. "Don't even try it," he said in a menacing voice. I laughed.

And then, dipping my shoulder down low, I pushed off of the bookshelf and rammed Collins in the gut until we hit the opposite wall. I held him there and brought my knee up to knock his automatic out of his hand, affording myself just enough time to get the skinny on what Collins' lap dog was doing. He stood there, face white as a sheet, the remote not even in his hand. I scanned the area for it and saw it on the ground—it must have fallen out of his hand in shock—and it now resided under Harker's desk. Fuckin' A I hope it stayed there. I vowed to decapitate the next person who touched it.

While I was distracted, Collins' right hand reached for the radio at his belt and called for back up. "We need.. back up to H-... HARKER'S OFFICE. NOW!" With as much might as I could muster I applied more pressure to my shoulder that was now cozying up to his neck. In the middle of his disgusting choking noises, I could hear Harker crying behind me.

"Oh, would you please shut the fuck up."

"I thought we were making progress," she whined.

"Yeah, progress," I scoffed while mumbling every cuss word under the sun.

"I thought you trusted me! You were being so cooperative!" She sounded desperate now, her sniffling taking a back seat for a brief moment.

"What the fuck! I'm a goddamn criminal! You think I'd actually tell the fucking truth? I just fucking met you. I don't know who you are or what-" I felt Collins go limp as he passed out. Easing my shoulder back, I let him fall to the floor, "your affiliations are. As if I'd tell you a damn thing. You're a fucking idiot, and this job isn't for you. Go the fuck back to Gotham, bitch."

Not even turning to look at her I took a look at what was going on with the door, trying to figure out whether it would work as a barricade again.

Click.

My head fell back on my shoulders as I stood there, my hands still fastened behind me. "You've gotta be kidding." If that little shit thought he was going to shoot me.

"O-on y-y-your knees, Croc-c."

"You know I'm going to have to kill you know, right?" I didn't even turn around to look at him because I knew the minute I looked at his goddamn, scared-shitless expression I was gonna snap.

"S-shut up! I said.. I said on your knees. And wait-t until b-b-back up gets here."

Now or never. I started to go down on one knee, slowly, while gently applying pressure to the cheap ass cuffs that held my wrists together. They broke free just as my other knee hit the floor and I spun around, grinning up at the kid. He stood there, shaking like a fucking leaf during a hurricane or some shit, the gun not even pointing straight.

"How in the fuck did you get this job," I asked, laughing.

The kid chuckled nervously, "My-"

Perfect.

"NO!" Harker yelled.

But it did no good. I had already jumped up, grabbed the kid's neck, and twisted so hard I felt his skull completely sever itself from the spine. His skin was keeping it on his shoulders.

"NO! OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD." I could hear her screaming, but when I turned to look for the source she wasn't there. Only one or two places she could be: under the damn desk or in the closet.

"Tick tock," I said, grinning from ear to fucking ear. "Here comes the motherfucking Croc."

I sincerely hoped he would check the closet first. He'd think I was an idiot if I chose to hide under the desk when the closet had a locking mechanism. But he wouldn't know that the closet was already locked, and I didn't have the key. Nancy had that key. So hopefully the door being locked would deter him long enough for the guards to get here and pacify him. Or kill him.

I almost didn't know which I would prefer. Everything I'd known had been a lie... Or had it? I knew this was Waylon's true nature. I knew it and I chose to ignore it only because I truly believed he would assist me in his rehabilitation. But why? He had no reason to comply with my wishes. Conditioning would never work on him because he didn't fear the repercussions. He didn't have any fear about what someone could do to him. I once thought that he didn't want to end up dead—that he was only doing what he wanted to because he knew he could get away with it. This facility was steadfast in protecting the security of the island, but they didn't want all of their patients to end up dead. And with patients like Waylon and Joker, that would be inevitable. Therefore they had protocol in place to keep the guards from just shooting the inmates when they didn't cooperate. But I didn't think that would be the case this time.

I kept wishing that this was just another sordid dream—something completely fake. Maybe I would wake up before he found me? Maybe the guards would arrive, kill him, and I'd wake up from the shock? If my actions didn't get me fired, I was quitting. I understood why so many people left Arkham. I understood it now.

I heard the closet doorknob jiggle as Waylon tried to get into the tiny space. "If I broke that piece of shit chair, what makes you think I wouldn't break this goddamn door?" His nasty, snarling voice didn't even sound human.

Cautiously, I looked around the edge of the desk, in a risky attempt to discern whether Collins was alive or, at the very least, conscious. He was sitting against the wall by the door, slumped over and not noticeably breathing. As I felt fresh tears begin to sting my eyes I tried my best to bite them back and suck it up. Not that that tactic was going to last long. I wiped my eyes and squinted, looking long and hard at Collins. I knew he was breathing, I just needed a sign. His black SWAT gear obstructed most of my view of his movements due to the thick armour; the bulletproof vest was the biggest obstacle.

Then, I saw it. A gloved hand twitched towards one of his thigh holsters. My gaze shifted to his face and I watched as his eyes flipped open. He looked around the room, recovering from his daze, until his eyes landed on me. I mouthed the word 'help' and pointed towards Waylon. He was still trying to get into the supply closet. Collins nodded and gently unsnapped the fastener of the holster, sliding the gun out with little noise. He took a deep breath, cocked the gun, and pointed it at Waylon. It was too quick for Waylon to dodge, however, and a single, miniscule tranquilizer dart lodged itself directly in the center of his chest. He stepped backward slightly and looked down at the yellow capsule before ripping it out with no hesitation. But it was too late. The force of the dart hitting his flesh had released the tranquilizer immediately on impact and it had begun to effect his motor skills nearly as quickly. He listed sideways and fell onto the desk for support then lost his footing and fell to the floor.

When Collins sighed in relief I knew that the drug had worked and Waylon was out cold. But I didn't want to move. I was still terrified. And I didn't want to look at Collins' partner's dead body.

"Fuck," Collins whispered under his breath. "What a fucking mess."

"Its all my fault," I whimpered.

"Not entirely, but yeah."

"I thought I had Waylon on my side."

"He isn't on anyone's side. He played you, Cassandra."

As he said my name I shut my eyes and leaned against the foot-board of the desk, crying. "I'm going to get fired."

"Maybe."
I laughed nervously. "You're really good at consolation."

"I know." I listened to him as he stood up and placed the taser-gun back into its holster. I assumed he picked up one of the rifles, because I heard it click as he checked the ammunition. He walked around the desk as he put the strap of the gun over his shoulder. "Come on," he said, "let's get you to the infirmary." He squatted in front of me, trying his best to smile as he held out his hand.

"No," I muttered, shaking my head. "I don't want to see him."

"Croc?"

"No... The boy."

"I covered him with a doctors' coat. Its okay."

I reached for his hand and allowed him to help me up. I didn't dare look around the room, at the complete mess that used to be Nancy's office. Everything was all my fault. And I'd never forget it, ever. Would it be acceptable to take up drinking?, I contemplated as Collins led me from the office. I was going to be doing a lot of drinking that night, I vowed.

"Put him back in the goddamn sewer and I don't want him to see the light of day ever again."

I didn't know who was talking. I didn't even know where the fuck I was but I couldn't fucking move. My arms were tied so tightly behind my back that my hands were numb. I tried more than once to change the way I was laying on the floor, but damned if I wasn't kicked in the stomach every single time. I thought the room was pitch black until the blindfold shifted and I saw light. What in the fucking hell.

"Yes sir."

"I didn't even know why I'm bothering." A sigh; the smell of cigar smoke. "He would be better off dead. We would all benefit."

"Do it," I said, without an ounce of hesitation, my voice level. Fuck all if I was going to argue.

"Shut up, animal!" One of the guards.

"As if I haven't heard that one before, fucknut."

"Shut up!" Petulance? What a fucking joke.

"Suck my dick." I might have laughed.

"I'll shoot him between the eyes, put him down like a dog, you just give me the permission," the guard, again.

"So you believe the issue is that simple?" Another sigh, more cigar smoke; I figured this clown had to be Sharp. Only one sadistic motherfucker in this joint who smoked cigars and fantasized about decorating his wall with the inmates of his Asylum. If he wasn't so fucking old I would have just eaten him.

Too much? Too soon?
Thoughts?

-Soule