Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any aspect of the Batman universe. I own nothing save for any original characters that I have created.
A/N: The poem at the end of this chapter is Theme in Yellow by Carl Sandburg.
The Asylum Ball
Every year Arkham Asylum played host to Gotham's wealthy and elite during the asylum's annual Halloween charity ball, where socialites with far too much money and far too little sense of decency gathered on the expansive lobby floor to raise funds for Arkham's yearly expenses. Preparation for the ball was always a costly affair—were one cynical (or perceptive) enough, they would perhaps question if the funds raised during the event justified the exorbitant amount of pageantry spent organizing it. Heavy chandeliers with iron curves and lit candles hung elegantly from the ceiling alongside a canopy of dark gray curtains, blood-red roses adorned with strands of black pearls served as dining centerpieces, and delicately-carved Jack-o-lanterns grinned from the catering table where interns wearing masquerade masks served gourmet appetizers and wine more expensive than their monthly rent.
It made for an impressive scene, as spectacular as it was morally appalling.
The lore surrounding the asylum and its ill-fated founder made Arkham all the more macabre and grimly-alluring to its guests, who saw it as a haunting relic of Old Gotham and were blind—either by wealth-sheltered ignorance or a particular breed of apathy rampant among the privileged—to the true suffering of its inhabitants. To them a ball invitation may as well have been a ticket to a sideshow attraction in The Narrows, and their reasons for attending were more indulgent than altruistic; they enjoyed the thrill of being able to walk through the gates Amadeus Arkham had designed prior to becoming imprisoned inside his own asylum, of sipping champagne while knowing that infamous criminals ripped straight from The Gotham Times headlines resided in the same vicinity, of the embellished legends that they exchanged over a dinner that cost more than a week's worth of inmate meals. Most of all, they enjoyed the freedom of being able to bid Arkham goodbye after gorging on its morbidity and returning to a life of affluence while the asylum's patients drifted into sedated slumber inside their chilly cells and dreamed of a gulp of fresh air.
Privately Crane was repulsed by the blatant display of opulence and dreaded his mandatory attendance every year, staying no longer than it took to greet the right people and shake the right hands before hastily making his exit and retreating to the safety of his office until the final chauffeur-driven luxury car had departed through Arkham's gates. The ball was yet another pestilent aspect of working at the asylum, and an especially draining one at that: the only thing Crane hated more than pretending to be nice to his coworkers was pretending to be nice to the rich. Sure, they consistently donated a generous amount, but the money was anything but free; in return they expected the staff to cater to their whims, from forcibly laughing at their inappropriate jokes (What kind of bird lives in a nuthouse? A loon!" ) to entertaining them with tales of day-to-day life in Arkham ("So, what's the craziest thing you've ever seen?"),
All in all, Halloween was a miserable night in Arkham Asylum.
But tonight would be different, because tonight Crane wasn't justmerely attending the ball—for the first time, he would be actively partaking in its festivities. A great deal of effort had been put into his preparation for the evening, and he intended to make this year's Halloween a memorable celebration for both attendants and staff alike.
He'd even invited a guest of his own.
"You got an invitation, ma'am?"
The security guard eyed Teagan from the confines of his booth with visible skepticism, the sleeve of his starch-stiffed uniform emblazoned with Arkham Asylum's double-A insignia and the paper stick of a lollipop jutting out from between plump lips. Behind his burly frame a grainy black-and-white horror flick played on a small television; a woman with pin-up styled hair and dark lipstick flailed helplessly as what appeared to be a rather poorly made-up zombie advanced towards her at a glacial speed, her dramatic screams interrupted by intermittent bursts of static.
"Certainly," Teagan replied, gently setting the large Jack-O-Lantern in her arms onto the ground and reaching inside the pouch of her costume to retrieve a folded slip of ivory paper; as she handed it to the guard, Teagan noted with a twinge of embarrassment that there were still tiny remnants of pumpkin innards and candle wax wedged beneath her fingernails.
The guard unfolded the invitation, scanning it with suspicious eyes before conceding its authenticity and handing it back to her.
"You one of the interns?"
"Well, um, I...I'm a former intern, actually. I offered to volunteer and assist with—"
He held up a beefy hand and Teagan fell silent. "I don't need your life story, ma'am." He leaned back in his chair, looking her up and down with an expression that hovered somewhere between lechery and ridicule. "So what exactly are you supposed to even be? The Wicked Witch of the West's sexy sister?"
Admittedly, little imagination had been put into her costume. A pointed witch's hat sat perched atop her head and she wore a generic black dress with sleeves that hung in lace tatters around her wrists and a hem equally mangled above knees clad in fishnet stockings. A pair of black boots were laced up to her calves and a belt hung loosely around her waist to hold a small, inconspicuous pouch. Her dark hair hung loosely over her shoulders, her eyes were accentuated by kohl liner and thick coats of mascara behind her glasses, and her lips were slick with a deep shade of wine-red lipstick.
An uncreative outfit, to be sure, but it was hardly a priority. If all went according to plan, then no one was likely to remember what she—or anyone else—was wearing on this Halloween night, because their memories would be clouded by something far more relevant and horrifying.
"No," Teagan said flatly, "I'm just a witch."
The guard scoffed.
"Yeah, you and every other broad in here." He jerked his thumb towards the door. "Entrance is that way. Take your pumpkin and get inside before one of the creeps sees ya."
With that the guard turned away from Teagan and returned to his film. The click-clack sound of her boot heels on the sidewalk as she walked away from his booth signaled that he was now free to enjoy the movie in peace, and as the guard watched with great amusement while hapless victim after hapless victim fell prey to a shoddy zombie horde he never even noticed the haze of toxin seeping in from beneath the booth door.
On the last of October
When dusk is fallen
Children join hands
And circle round me
Singing ghost songs
And love to the harvest moon;
I am a jack-o'-lantern
With terrible teeth
And the children know
I am fooling.