There she stood in the doorway

I heard the mission bell

And I was thinking to myself

"This could be Heaven or this could be Hell"

Then she lit up a candle

And she showed me the way

There were voices down the corridor

I thought I heard them say

Welcome to the Hotel California

Hotel California / / Eagles

/ / / /

Present Day

Scarecrow despised his life in Arkham. Materialism be damned, he wanted his books back. He wanted a goddamned cigarette. A drink, even. He wanted anything to make time pass at a rate faster than a snail's pace. Anything but his own mind to entertain him. He knew he had "rec hours" after therapy today, but with no watch, he had no idea when that would be. He had never understood how daunting such a thing was, the loss of meaning in time, he had read about the effects in his textbooks and quoted it in prevalent articles, but Dr. Crane had always found that bit confusing, it never made sense to him, the idea that just not knowing what time it is at a given time could negatively affect a patient, until he was locked in a cell without a clock, without a window, or anything similar. A room where there was no way of telling how many days or months you had been locked in.

And suddenly he understood very clearly, the animal desperation, of begging for escape. So strange to think that something so small could affect him so profoundly, that he often found himself close to begging an orderly just to know what day it is.

The hellish tediousness only added to the fear that his life was slipping through his fingers without him even noticing.

It was worse today because he was feeling particularly lucid today, the monsters dancing at the edge of his vision transparent and fluttering like they were being projected into his eyes using the same machine they used to premiere Hitchcocks Psycho in the 60s. At least when the monsters are all around him, circling him, driving him mad, he finds himself soaking up feeling as though only a moment had passed since he was lucid. When he has his wits about him, time drags like bits of sand falling piece by piece through a microscopic hole in a metaphorical hourglass.

No worries, he thought, working to appease his darker half, If all goes to plan, we'll be out of here.

Scarecrow let his mind wander to happier times when he worked at the University. When he had love and a respectable position at a respected institution. Whenever he remembered the choices that made him leave the university, he doubts those choices more every day, crying eyes begging him to reconsider, tattooed behind his lids, forcing him to reconsider again and again.

"Time for therapy, Crane." An orderly interrupted his thoughts, causing him to curl his upper lip in disgust, standing and preparing to be chained.

Making his way down the hallway he considered how much blood would be spilled in these very halls in a matter of days.

Then. He wasn't considering anything. Down the very hallway, he stood in, he saw them, he saw her.

Dr. Joan Leland, previously his student, stood, looking unsteady in her stance, even from where Crane stood. But that isn't who he was looking at.

She's even more beautiful than I remember. He thought, having not seen her in years, he was surprised to find that not only was his love for the woman still wrapping his heart in too-tight bandages, constricting his chest to the point it felt as though each new beat was a miracle, but also the hope that filled him immediately. She was wearing heels, of course, she is. He smiled, still hates being small in a big world. Though those colours aren't very 'Harley' like, where's the pink? Probably the Arkham dress code. Absolutely destroying any light she could bring to such a dull and drab place. That along with the dark hair, he barely recognized her. Maybe she got sick of paying for the dye? She's perfect either way.

When she's with me again, she can wear whatever she likes. Scarecrow thought with a small smile, watching them walk away.

If she would have him. Which she won't. You blew it, with your stupid moralistic bullshit.

Crane's head fell, remembering the last time he had spoken to her before she left the state for medical school. Remembering how she cried and didn't want to look him in the eye.

Remembering how his heart had shattered days before the conversation, knowing that it had to happen. Knowing that he would only hold her back, knowing that she would come to resent him, and not being able to handle the idea of the adoration in her eyes turning to disgust, or anger.

But now? Now he could give her a life of luxury, any kind of life she wants. He had power, he had success.

He had on blue paper pyjamas.

Well, obviously, I'll wait until I break out of this shitpile that the state insists is a hospital for the criminally insane. Find something suitable to wear, before I woo her.

Crane's timid thought came unbidden. And if she declines?

Crane could see it now, laying his heart bare to the woman, begging her to love him, and her looking on, with cold blue eyes he recognized, from everyone in his family who ever saw him as a failure, as a weakling. To see her write him off as a loon, and leave him to rot.

It's been a long time... who could blame her for not loving him anymore? Especially considering how he had left things.

Everything in the man felt tight and pained suddenly, shooting through his limbs, and head, but originating in his chest, where that vile organ continued to beat without her, against his will. He cursed, loudly, before shaking his head violently, scaring the orderly's guiding him into a room with his old enemy Bartholomew, in the process.

Then we will convince her.

/ / / /

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