No matter how good the hardware may be, any security system is only as good as the goofballs they've got running it. Let's face it, the best and brightest don't go for careers as security guards in mental institutions. I found out a long time ago that the easiest way to get me and my knives past a 'secure' doorway was to send a guy with a gun through first. Then they're so busy dealing with him that I can walk on through unchallenged. The same principle was at work here: they noticed Gracie was gone, leaving her handcuffs neatly behind, still locked, but nobody noticed my nice plaid socks, now on display for the whole asylum to see because my shoes were elsewhere.
As an example of why the security was for shit around this Arkham, there was the guard, Frank Boles. I don't like drinkers; I've fired a few, in my time, when one turned up in my crew. Usually with gasoline or a gun. Not only was Boles a drunk, he openly wore a hip flask on his belt. When somebody like that doesn't get canned, it means the job is so crappy they can't get anybody else. Then the guys who otherwise might be decent see him and figure if he can get away with it, they don't have to do any better, and the whole force goes to hell. There are always a few exceptions, a few who do a good job anyway, but integrity like that is rare.
Meanwhile, Grace had come and gone right past this bunch of yahoos as smooth as lemon buttercream, and nobody gave her a second glance. I wiggled my toes; the pimpled vinyl flooring was chilly but not as chilly as if we were standing on the ground floor--that meant there were levels below this one. I filed that away for future reference, and waited for them to get tired of shouting questions at me and at each other and at people on the guard radio.
The only guard I noted who had both brains and balls was a big guy named Cash (imagine Lawrence Fishburn with a neat goatee in the role) who seemed to be senior. He was missing a hand, and wore one of those pincher-hook prosthetics. "Keep your weapons trained on Joker the whole time. You outta be watching him so close you can count his blinks!" he said, when things looked to be getting lax in all the excitement.
Although it held things up, Gracie's disappearing act got me moved to the head of the line, ahead even of Bozo, who was wheeled aside so they could concentrate on grilling me. Bozo (AKA The Joker of this world) was not really pleased about that, but not so unhappy that he couldn't make remarks like, "All of this new security, and you can't keep tabs on one not-so-little girl? Then don't blame me when I just WALTZ RIGHT THROUGH IT! Is anyone listening to me?"
Back to the security. I had to say I didn't think much of their hardware either. Why not? For one thing, they relied too much on electricity, like for instance, the human bug zappers which they had instead of doors in some areas. When the only thing between a deranged murderer, like me, and you or someone like you, is a forcefield, what happens when the power goes out? Let's not go deluding ourselves here. The power can always go out. One way or another. What about battery backups? They can fail. Generators? They fail too—especially when the fuel runs out.
Yeah, I know the one about 'stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage'—but they're a hell of a lot better than nothing at all, and nothing is what you've got when something shorts out your bug-zapper. That was the worst example, but I also noticed a few ventilation grills in the walls which were big enough for a guy my size to crawl through, and the grills themselves were fastened by bolts and nuts. The nuts were on the outside, and I didn't see any welds, so anybody with a wrench—or even a thumb and forefinger—could get them loose in a hurry. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
In my experience, failsafes are usually more 'fail' than 'safe', and nothing, nothing is foolproof. Especially when I'm the fool.
After a while they got tired of getting no answers out of me. Guard Cash ordered, "Get them out of here!"
"I'll deal with you later, Cash," Bozo threw back in passing, "Don't think I've forgotten--Speaking of forgetting, is that a crocodile I hear? Tick tock, tick tock, Captain Hook!" Cash fell in behind the other guards, keeping an eye on them and us. The drunk guard, Boles, led the parade, followed by the two who were wheeling Bozo, then two more guards who had their weapons aimed at him, then me, then my guard, who held his gun at portarms (I wasn't considered as great a threat, that was why), and finally, as I mentioned before, Cash.
We went through a door that had both electronic locks and a bug zapper, passing another knot of guards behind whom cringed a dark haired woman in a doctor's lab coat. Spotting her, Bozo sang out, "Ah, there's Doc Young! Pencil me in for tomorrow at four. We've got a lot of catching up to do." The last part he said with menace.
"Oh...Joker," she said, weakly. I glanced at her: another squealer. It was written all over her.
We were now in the prisoner transfer area, a long hallway divided down the long way by iron bars. As we entered, a flat screen mounted overhead lit up, and a prerecorded video of the Warden started up. "Greetings, new patient! I'm Warden Sharp. Welcome to Arkham Asylum..."
Whatever else he had to say was drowned out by Bozo. "My favorite show! 'I'm Warden Idiot. You'll never escape'." he blustered in imitation of the pudgy little head jailor.
He in turn was interrupted by a group of prisoners going the other way on the other side of the bars. "Jo-ker! Jo-ker! Jo-ker!" they chanted. I nearly waved before I remembered they couldn't be cheering for me. "Did ya hear about what happened at Blackgate, boss?" Blackgate was the other big prison in Gotham. Never been there myself; they tell me it isn't nice.
"Shut up and keep moving," said one of their guards.
"Oh, yes! How shocking." Bozo crooned. "The state of the old wiring in some of these federal facilities is so hazardous. Why, some of my poor boys could have been hurt in that terrible fire." I had the feeling I knew who had arranged that fire. It's what I would have done.
Just before we got to another set of doors, a medic halted us. "Hold it right there. Just got to check your prisoner--prisoners," he corrected himself.
"Do you need to take my temperature, Doc?" Bozo smarmed. "I'd be happy to drop my pants."
The doctor ignored him (His scrubs were just like the ones Gracie thought up. My sassy girl is good.) while giving him the once over. "Looks like he's got a few contusions, a couple of hours old, and--."
"BOO!" Bozo shouted. Everyone but me jumped, the safety catches clicking off their weapons. He laughed. "Feeling a little bit nervous, are we?"
"Speak for yourself," I retorted. He tried to stare me down, but failed.
The medic checked me over next. His brow knitted when he inspected my face, but he confined his questioning to, "Is any of this blood yours?"
"No," I replied.
"Not yet, anyhow." insinuated Bozo.
"They're all yours," the doctor said.
"All right, move it along," ordered the drunk, and we passed on by into the elevator lobby, which put new meaning into the word 'utilitarian', being concrete and steel, dimly lit, and crowded with more heavily armed guards. There was no 'up' from where we were standing; we were on the top floor. The echoes and air currents told me the shafts, and therefore the building, went down deep.
'Ten levels down,' Gracie said, mentally. I could see her hanging around the outside of the group, looking the way she did when I was the only one who could see her. Don't ask me to explain how I knew. I just did.
That's a long way. I thought back.
'Just wait till you see it. If the original architect had a gargoyle fetish, the guy who did the underground addition, which screams late seventies to me, must have been even weirder. It looks like the inside of the Death Star--after it had been used as a crackhouse for a few years.'
I can't wait. Why are we standing around?
The shrieking and groaning of one of the two elevators told me even before an emotionless female voice said, "Security alert red alpha. Category nine patient is in transit. Safety catches disengaged. Shoot to kill permissions granted."
Sounds serious. They didn't even go that far for Bozo.
'Just wait till you see.' Gracie told me.
"You heard the lady," ordered an older guard, gravelly voiced. "We got another psycho on the way."
The huge freight elevator labored to a halt. Something shiny in it shifted as the sliding grill opened. Then, like a football player getting out of a little clown car, a hand emerged, a forearm, another hand, a head. The...occupant got out. And out. And out. And out some more, until a massive scaly...thing in purplish pants, and a heavy collar filled with green liquid like anti-freeze, laden with chains you'd use to moor a battleship, was standing there. It was at least eleven feet tall. Did I mention it had glowing yellow eyes? And lots of long pointy teeth? And scales?
"Can't you just smell the excitement?" Bozo asked. "No? Then maybe it was one of the guards. Croc, old boy! Is that you?"
"What is that?" I asked the nearest guard.
"Where've you been living?" he scoffed. "That's Killer Croc."
No, it wasn't. Not where I came from. I knew a guy who called himself 'Killah Croc'. Big mean son-of-a-bitch with bad teeth thanks to wearing a jeweled grill too long, nasty skin condition, always hungry, always chowing down on meat. His real name was Waylon Jones. I'd even hired him now and then. But he was identifiably a human being. Not the star of Jurassic Park Four: From the Jungle to the 'Hood.
'Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas any more. This Arkham is a very interesting place.'
I gotta agree with you there, Gracie gal.
This Killer Crock shifted, and the floor trembled. How much did he/it weigh? It/he lifted his head, and it sniffed the air. "You're there, Cash," he gritted. "I can smell you. " Poor eyesight? That would make sense. "It makes me hungry. Once I get a bite, I can't wait to finish the meal. AAAaaahhh!" That last was a cry of pain, as a guard with a remote control pressed something, and the liquid filled collar sparked violently.
"Get that animal out of here," Cash barked. He hid it well, but there was an edge of fear buried in his voice. I can always tell.
Speaking of which...Gracie, you can tell these things. Did Croc eat that guy's hand?
'I...I'm not sure. He might not have actually eaten it, but he definitely bit it off.'
Aided by more shocks from the collar, Croc shuffled off somewhere into the rest of the building. Once he was gone, Bozo said, brightly, "That reminds me. I really need to get me some new shoes."