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Fandom Locked Up with Fear
- Thread starter Viper
- Start date
Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
•●•
There were five unsaid rules for those that worked at Arkham Asylum, all of which had been repeated to Dr. Mayflower on countless occasions; in his office, in the halls, during lunch, and while signing out for the day.
The morning was pitch black and dewy with only a faint glint of the city on the horizon, the stars hidden behind the thick clouds and the waterside air chilled; all of which slipped past the unknowing man currently hunched over his desk with a dormant pencil on a notepad in one hand and his pale fingers dancing across a laptop keyboard with the other hand.
Thirty minutes ago, the man had awoken, dragged himself out of bed and through the usual preparations of the morning, and then promptly began working. Late nights combined with early mornings had made him somewhat groggy, though he knew it would wear off within the hour -- it always did.
He finished his sentence in the document, turned his focus to the notepad, and drew a smooth line through one of the items. Hesitating a moment, he glanced back to his computer screen, watching the cursor flicker for a few moments. Letting his gaze flicker back up, he skimmed over the title of the document again. 'Maladaptive Daydreaming Disorder,' his most recent project shortly following an interview about a month ago with a man who spent upwards of ten hours a day lost in the fantasies of his own mind. It had been one of the most interesting interviews of Matthias' life, filled with vivid descriptions of the fantastical worlds, cultures, and people -- all living within the single mind. It was a less explored disorder, only having a handful of resources on it and a bountiful community of researchers who simply excused it as not being a disorder.
Of course, that also made it difficult to research, but all the more interesting and rewarding to do so. However, he no longer had that client, and therefore; had reached a sharp dead end in his research. That one interesting interview had been all he had gotten with the man before transferring. Of course, it was not like he would be lacking any abundance of interesting interviews in the coming weeks, months, or years.
Rule one, know the questions you want to ask before they even set foot in your office. They will try to derail the conversation, you'll lose track, and they'll take advantage of your blunder to make it all about whatever they specifically want to talk about.
He never understood that rule, his job as a therapist was supposed to be a listener. Who in their right mind would ever believe that someone could improve by simply talking at them? It was senseless. Improvement comes with dialogue. Hell, he'd probably go mad himself if he had to spend his entire day either being locked up or being talked at. No, therapy sessions were meant to be flexible. There was no reason the interview couldn't be just as fluid as any other conversation.
He let his gaze drift to the side of the screen as he recognized just how lost he had been in his own thoughts, his chin resting on the back of his palm. 5:16 AM. He sighed softly and set both hands on the edge of the desk, pushing the chair back. He reached back to the chair, pulling his brown leather messenger bag from the back of the chair and slinging it over his shoulder.
Rule two, always keep inventory of everything. Count the number of pencils or pens on your desk before they enter and when they leave. Keep your wallet, ID, keys, and anything close to you at all times. Never bring personal medications to work -- even if they'd just sit in your desk drawer.
He flipped the top of his bag open, checking over what he had on him. Some files he had been given, a subway pass, a mostly barren notebook save for some chicken scratch calculations on a couple of the pages, some pencils -- he paused in place, counting them with his thumb -- three. He flipped the top back over the bag and then felt his pockets; one hand on each side of his trousers. His wallet was in his left pocket, his driver's license was in the other. Reaching to the center of his chest, he ensured that his Asylum ID was tucked under his sweater.
Some of the doctors had given him tips already for that area. One had told him to put all his valuables in a safe and leave the key in a different office; apparently a small group of doctors and staff in the Asylum had banded together to shuffle their keys about so that nobody except for them could ever figure out who had access to which safe. While it sounded amusing, he was not quite sure about the idea and had a feeling he'd lose his key pretty quick in that mess.
Another doctor had told him to invest in a taser or pepper spray -- something else that Matthias was unsure about. He remembered the stories from his parents about their mace training and he was not very certain he could do that to another human being, much less tase someone.
A different doctor, the woman in the office beside him, had told him to just cram everything important or dangerous into a bag or backpack and put it in the corner of the room where he could always see it. If someone starts to go for it, call security immediately. So far, it was the most peaceful and simplistic approach, in turn, making that the solution he was taking.
With all his items collected and together, he left the cozy apartment and began setting out to reach the Asylum just as the sun began to rise.
Rule three, be aware of your surroundings. Know where the nearest security guards are, where the exits are, and anything you can use to defend yourself. Anytime you enter a room, take a quick check to see who is there, the ratio of inmates to guards, and the general mood of the room. Cell blocks are prone to irritate them and make them quick to attack or sneak up on you. Lunchtime is surprisingly more docile with the occasional fight. Anytime after sundown is when you should never walk around alone. Don't stand with your back to an open room for too long.
He glanced down the hall as he left the apartment room, first left, then right. Barren, like always. He turned around and locked his door before returning his single key to his wallet. He turned back around and began walking. It was a small and somewhat cramped hallway, the entire building feeling too small for the size of the city, as if it had been squeezed down to take up the least space possible. Even still, the landlord had found enough room to put dim lighting, cheap flowery wallpaper, and the occasional chair, couch, or potted plant.
He had found it unsettling when he had first moved here all those years ago. It was too tiny for the vast countryside he had been used to. Everything about the city was like that, weirdly spaced, that is. The buildings were too tall, the rooms were too small, the parks were enormous, but the wooded areas were minuscule. It used to disorient him, more so whenever he had first been instructed to be careful in the city.
'Be careful,' he has been told since the first time him and his sister passed through customs at the airport. 'There's people in this city that will want to do you harm just because they can.'
He had been frightened by it at first when people told him this, almost like a child being warned about the boogeyman. Ellie was never frightened. 'Who says they can?', her reply would always be sharply bit out, as if daring them to make another remark.
He wasn't frightened by it anymore, anxious -- of course -- but hardly frightened. These things happened and all those people had been right. 'Watch your surroundings,' he simply told himself, a rule he had been living by for years in this city.
Rule four, don't show any signs of weakness. They'll use it to manipulate you before you can even recognize what they're doing. Some will do it to get things from you; freedom, sympathy, favors. Others will do it just for their own amusement. Don't give them the chance to do so.
It was a long commute to work ever since the Joker attacks began. He used to have a car, a little old one that had been given to him by his aunt before he could even reach the gas pedal. It had been a dainty little thing, always needing repairs, breaking down, or plainly refusing to work. Eventually, about six years ago, he had tried to start it up one day, found it to not be functional, and resolved to simply scrap it. Since then, he'd been living a life of subway systems and buses, certainly not his favorite method of transportation, but it was cheaper, more reliable, and was often faster. Now, with the common attacks in the inner city, the latter part was no longer true.
He reached the subway, glancing at the chart briefly to confirm his stop like always. About forty-five minutes from boarding, on the dot, he would need to get off at his exit. Resting one hand on the strap of his bag and fishing out his pass with the other, he eventually reached the scanning kiosk and ran his pass over the large yellow circle and began to step forward.
The thing dinged just before he reached the barrier and he frowned slightly for a moment, running it back over quickly in an attempt to not hold up the line. Another ding and a little flash of red. He furrowed his brow and swiped it over again, another red light and indignant ding.
He heard some slight laughter from behind, glancing back briefly to notice a small group of teenagers laughing among themselves. He doubted it was directed at him, but it did not help settle his unease.
He swiped it over again, adjusting his grip. Ding, red light. He turned it the other way. Ding, red light. Another small laughter from behind. He swiped it again. Same way. Ding, red light. Big surprise.
"Sir, do you need some help?" One of the voices chimed from behind him. Glancing back, it was one of the teenagers, dressed in a rather peculiar punk fashion with bright green hair and piercings everywhere.
"I- Uhm, yes please If you could." Matthias hummed, frustration still lingering in his tone, his accent somewhat more prominent in his moment of irritation at the little machine.
The boy took the pass, adjusted the positioning, and scanned it over. It gave a soft ding and a green light, Matthias passing through and waiting on the other side to retrieve his pass from the young punk boy.
"They replaced a scanner, some drunk beat the last one down, it's pretty shit to be honest." The boy said casually, his friends giving another small laugh behind him as he scanned Matthias' pass over the scanner again, letting himself through on Matthias' dime. "For the troubles." The boy said with a wide grin, handing Matthias his pass back and waiting at the side for his own friends. "See ya, sir."
Despite the fact that it had charged him, Matthias couldn't bring himself to be mad at the boy. He had gotten through and that was all he cared about. "Thanks," he hummed, taking his pass back and giving a nod of good bye to the stranger as he tucked his pass away and began heading to his subway stop.
Rule five, do not, under any circumstance, give them any reason to relate or identify with you. You should just be another face they see during their day, another white coat among the others, never an individual.
The commute was long, the subway taking the route along the edge of the city and going nearly to the other side of where Matthias had been staying entirely. It was, thankfully, a mostly empty subway car as well. There was only enough people that Matthias could have counted them on both hands, a mother with her daughter and a young baby clutched by her shoulder. An elderly man sleeping by the window with his wife. A teenager in uniform with a backpack. A man dressed in a suit. During the ride, Matthias had spent most of the time reviewing the information on the files in his bag, brushing up on the patients for at least the fifth time this morning. Near the end, he had tucked it away with his stop only five minutes away. Glancing across the subway room for a little bit he eventually noticed the youngest passenger of the train, the baby, staring directly at him.
He blinked a couple times, faintly unsettled by it as he considered how long the child must have been watching him, but eventually resolved to giving the child a small polite smile. The baby waited a moment before reaching over it's mother's shoulders, its hand briefly catching in the woman's hair, and waved at him with a stony expression. Resolved, he returned a small wave and smile to the child as the subway reached a stop and he got off, hearing the baby give a small laugh as he turned his back. Maybe the morning hadn't been so awful?
---------------
He settled down in his office room, blinking for a few moments as his eyes adjusted to the brightness of it. Contrary to the rest of he dull and dreary building, the offices were actually rather decent for an asylum. It was nothing like his past office in the nice cozy historic building, but it was good for the place. The walls were white, the floor a light grey, and the lights bright and fluorescent with a faintly annoying but tolerable buzz. There was a couch tucked at the side of the room, a desk in the corner with a historic computer, and two chairs on opposite sides of the desk, the one behind it clearly nicer than the other due to the cheaper leather and firm legs compared to the slightly dodgy fabric rolling chair.
He considered both for a few moments. While he had not minded the leather one that much, he had been spending the previous two weeks using the other side of the desk while sitting in the rolling chair -- as he had rarely spent any quality time in his office. Now that things were settling down, and he would be conducting discussions and interviews in here, it seemed time enough to claim his preferred chair. Previously, it was for the ease of it being the closest. Now? Well, it was simply the fact that he preferred to be able to move faster -- therefore, the rolling chair gave him a slight advantage. Not to mention he occasionally fidgeted while talking. Perhaps he was reading too much into it?
Matthias pulled the leather chair away from his desk, it giving a dull screech as he dragged it across the ground. He then moved to the other side of the room to grab the rolling chair and begin moving that more quietly.
"What in the world are you doing?" Someone chimed from the other side of the room.
He glanced at the door sharply, recognizing the feminine but gruff voice. There at the doorway stood Dr. Mayson, arms folded and wearing a light scowl. Her eyes flickered across the seats an she narrowed her gaze slightly. "Alright then," she hummed, piecing it together herself. "Be more quiet, huh? Could hear it from my office -- and close the door next time." She snapped, beginning to head out of the room.
"Wait," He said sharply, moving the rolling chair to behind the desk and waiting on the other chair as he approached her. She raised an eyebrow and stopped in place. "So as you know, I am beginning interviews today -- and you've been doing them for such a long time -- I've been told all the general tips, but what information do you have on the patients themselves?" He asked, folding his arms in front of himself as he waited for a response.
The woman blinked a moment or two as she tried to decipher what he was asking for. "Didn't you already get the briefing papers?" She asked after a moment of silence. He could see it in her eyes. Doubt.
"Yes, but- I mean, what individual tips do you have? I've been told what they're like, but I haven't been told anything about how to work with them."
More doubt filled her gaze. "Isn't that your job, kid?" She asked, a faint sneer in her tone. Kid, he'd heard her call him that a few times already, usually following minor blunders. It was anything but a term of endearment.
He remained silent, furrowing his brows slightly as if silently pleading for her to just answer the question. Eventually, she cracked and gave a small sigh.
"You've got the geek squad, right? All those former doctors?"
He nodded.
"Right then, I haven't had all of them, but I've talked to most of them at least once. Nygma acts all smart and tough but can crack pretty quickly if you snap loudly enough at him. Tetch at least shuts up if you get loud, but it's more out of confusion. Doesn't really understand it." She explained. Of course, while that tactic was unlikely to work due to his own softness, it could at least help be a little more knowledgeable about them. "Doesn't work real well on the others, hence why I don't have them." She stated while folding her arms and glancing up and to the side, considering the other patients.
"Then what do I do about the others?"
"Hold on, hold on, I'm getting there. Damn, kid." She snarled, thinking more and pinching the bridge of her nose before pulling her hand away and continuing. "Crane's a bastard, Ivy can be a bastard, Harley can be sweet, but she's got a short fuse. Bit off a chick's ear cause she told her to stop playing a video game."
"Gosh, that's awful," Matthias murmured, a little surprised. He had heard plenty of horror stories of the patients already, but they never ceased to give he doctor a little shock.
Dr. Mayson gave a slight laugh and shook her head, placing her hands on his hips. "You've got no idea. You'll get used to it though," She said before she began to turn around. "- Or you won't and you'll quit. Or worse." She mused. "Remember to keep your bag on you at all times, and stop being so loud while reorganizing your office." She said as she left, walking down the hall a little bit before reaching her office and closing the door behind her.
Dr. Matthias blinked, glancing back to his bag currently sitting on his desk. Isn't that close enough to being on him? He sighed and walked back into his office, closing the door behind him and considering the new information. He stood just past the doorway for a few moments, looking across the small office space for a few moments. Bit off someone's ear over a video game. Not to mention the countless other stories. He shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts and returned to his desk, blinking at the chair for a moment and then resolving to finish moving it and do a bit more research before it came time to start any of the sessions.
He glanced at the clock, 6:17, he had about forty-five minutes before the first session, Pamela Ivy, if he remembered correctly. Following her, he had about thirty minutes before the next session with Edward Nygma, thirty more minutes before Harleen Quinzel, a short break of fifteen minutes before Jervis Tetch, lunch for an hour, and then Johnathon Crane.
He remembered the statement from one of the former doctors that had moved to an easier section of the facility after stress from the job, the doctor claiming that many of the sessions can run too long, pushing each other back till the so-called 'lunch break' was more of a 'dinner break'. The doctor had even admitted, somewhat shadily, that he had even skipped some of the meeting entirely, with Crane's often being so late, sometimes he'd just skip out on it entirely. 'It's not like anyone actually cares anyway, what are the patients going to do, complain?' The man had chimed in a sneer to Matthias while explaining the somewhat unethical practice.
He had no intention of doing that.
So, tearing his gaze away from the clock and back to the folders, he waited a moment before jumping up from his seat and grabbing the folders and tucking them into his bag as he slung it over his shoulders. He wanted to ask around some more about the patients, learn as much as he could about what exactly he was getting himself into beforehand. He had heard the stories before. He had heard the rumors too. He wanted to hear the facts. '6:17,' he considered. '6:30 is the end of breakfast.' He had firmly memorized the schedule already. He had no intention of talking to any of them just yet, but like the researcher at heart that he was, he needed to observe them before he jumped right into anything.
•●•
Viper
One Thousand Club
For a medium-sized island located a little over a mile offshore of Gotham City, Arkham has seen more change in appearances and role than any other part of the city. The land was originally a mansion built by a man who shared the same name. It was a large place, grand with its design, intricate gate, full building library, lavish outdoor and indoor fountains, and a garden covering every open piece of land… but it was not meant to last.
Poor unfortunate Amadeus Arkham lost his wife and child to a murderer, and from that moment on the great Arkham island estate became Arkham Hospital.
The isolated location made it a prime place to care for patients while also keeping the public safe from the more dangerous of prisoners. It wasn't long until the place was filled wall to wall with criminals that were too touched in the mind for normal prisons but too dangerous to be sent to common mental hospitals. Amadeus dedicated over two decades to helping these souls, but there was one who was not only resistant to treatment, but hostile; it was the same man who killed Lady Arkham and her child. He ended up in the hospital like all the others but he refused treatment no matter how dedicated the doctor. He even went so far as to mock Amadeus about his wife's screams before proceeding to stab Amadeus in the neck in an attempt to finish off the family.
Amadeus survived the attack, however, he was forever changed by the cold uncaring look of the killer he saw before him. Arkham Hospital quickly transformed from a place of healing to a prison where treatment came second and punishment of the guilty came first. The murder passed away during this transition period, hung from his own cell with a belt that was not his own; it took days for anyone to even realize that the man was dead. Naturally, before long the hospital was shut down for the wrongful treatment of its patients, but the man who created the hospital with good intentions and then corrupted it was missing. Nobody was ever found nor was the man ever heard from again; Amadeus Arkham was simply there one day, punishing those similar to the man who murdered his wife, and then the next he was gone without a trace.
This happened over 60 years ago, yet even now people wonder if the founder of Arkham Hospital is still walking the Earth. It was an appealing idea to many who found the bloody history of this place to be fascinating. And perhaps the rich history of the place in addition to the convenient island location was why, in 1984, Arkham Hospital was renamed Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane and reopened. The place was gutted during this change, the once historical estate full of paintings and hardwood flooring replaced with warning signs and cold, white tiles. The outdoor fountains were replaced with fully equipped watchtowers, the garden was shrunk down into an interior greenhouse, a bridge was built to the island for the first time ever, and it was modernized with full plumbing and electricity.
There were only two things that did not change during the reopening; the patients at the asylum were all dangerously insane to some degree and the bloody mistreatment of the patients continued behind locked doors and secret rooms. Time and time again people were arrested for physically, mentally, or sexually abusing the patients, but even when punished, some new sicko would come in and do it all over again. Arkham Asylum was, and always will be, a madhouse.
To tell the truth, a lot of the Gotham population thought that the island was cursed. Every person who stepped on that island came out crazy, a killer, or they did not come out at all. And then there was the fact that the Asylum, despite all of its security, failed to keep supercriminals locked up as they need to be. Joker escaped; Riddler escaped; Scarecrow escaped; even the Mad Hatter escaped repeatedly and he could not even tell reality from fiction. Arkham, despite all the money put into it, failed time and time again to achieve its single true mission.
Arkham Asylum was a cursed island that made Gotham even more dangerous a place to be because it concentrated the crazy… and Jonathan Crane was more than happy to call this place home for those very reasons.
The paranoia from the outside world about this place was nothing in comparison to the tension actually inside of the asylum walls. Some patients had breakdowns just because they were in this place, others claimed to hear the wailings of past victims, while many more had normal, realistic fears that what happened to so many other doctors and patients in the past would happen to them. Were they next to go crazy? Would they be killed the next time some criminal tried to escape this place? Even from solitary confinement, Jonathan could feel how condensed the fear was in this place and hear the distant echoes of someone screaming. This ‘madhouse’ was not hell as so many claimed, it was heaven, and no matter how many times this place was rebuilt or rebranded, the ghosts of the past would continue to haunt this place.
Jonathan had been awake, staring at the stone wall across from his bed since 5:00 am, waiting for something. Being awake at times like this did not offer any more excitement than the daytime did because, after all, these walls were nearly soundproof and the patients nearest to him were not the types of scream and shout all the time. For the most part, Jonathan’s cell was silent beside his own voice and the drip of the faucet. Still, being awake so early, before the sun came up and before lights up were called, was a blessing because here, in the pitch black of the room, Jonathan could stare at one spot and watch as the shadows twisted and contorted to show the faces of the demons that haunt these halls.
This was just a game to play to occupy a horror starved mind though, Jonathan held no true belief that he was seeing actual demons and ghosts. No, his mind was merely experiencing pareidolia, which was when your eyes and mind saw a vague shape and tried to make sense of it by translating the shapes into things like faces. Jonathan had treated many people who experienced heightened versions of this, such as the person who saw a figure standing in their peripheral every single moment of their day and as such had taken to just keeping their eyes closed all the time to avoid the ominous figure. It was a fascinating phenomenon and only one more reason to love the mortal mind.
Sadly, the sun came up and thanks to the light now streaming into the room from the bared, tinted windows, the faces and figures all but vanished. That left Jonathan within nothing to do. He lay on his bed, he paced, he tried to put his ear against the window and door to hear something but there was nothing to hear.
Thankfully, the silence was broken when 6:15 hit. Three loud pounds against the solitary door and a loud voice shouted for Jonathan to sit on his bed offered the first true source of stimulation since 9pm the previous night. Even these orders were welcome because it gave Jonathan something concrete to focus on, so he followed instructions and took a seat on the bed.
The door’s eye slot slid open with a rough grating noise, and behind that Jonathan saw a familiar pair of blue eyes on a chubby face. Grant, the security guard that worked the morning shift in the high-security wing from Tuesday to Saturday, 5am to 5pm with only an hour break in the middle of that. He was a large man, both in height and width, and as such his movements lacked a lot of grace and instead had a more brutish style to them. He did not like Crane, but it was always easy to prompt the guardsman into talking even though guards talking to patients was strictly forbidden. That rule had been in place 13 years ago when Jonathan started working here himself, but even after all this time the guards still continued to push their luck. Grant, the poor man, clearly was hiding his fear of the patients behind an aggressive mask; he thought intimidating people like Crane would make him safe from them… shame how wrong he was.
“How are you today, Mr. Grant? You knocked on the door a lot softer today than normal; did you perhaps get in a fight yesterday and hurt your hand?” The master of fear spoke these words calmly and clearly, staring directly at the man who was currently fiddling with the food slot while also trying not to look away from Crane.
Grant didn't respond right away, instead, he let out a sharp tsk and fixed his face into, what Jonathan could assume based on his eyes, was a furious expression. “Shut up, freak.”
Jonathan had not expected a true answer, but what he got was enough to confirm his suspicions. And to further his point, Jonathan saw through the food slot that Grant’s left hand was bandaged. He only got a glance because Grant quickly slammed the slot shut, but that was enough. Smirking, Jonathan cocked his head to the side as if that would help him see through the metal door. That wound would not have been bandaged because of a bruise, which meant that Grant had actually been attacked and hurt; he likely bled as well.
“Honestly, Mr. Grant, you must stop letting your guard down. This is the second time this month that you have been injured. At this rate, you are going to end up dead or permanently injured by the end of the year.” This false concern would be clear to anyone listening in on the conversation; even Grant knew that the words were only said to rile him up, but just because you knew the other person's game did not mean that you were not affected by it.
“What the fuck did I say, Crane? Shut. Up.” Those were the final words Grant spit before the eye slot was slammed shut with more force than necessary. But Crane had heard it there, the slight quiver behind the words. The way the curses were softened by the mind of a man whose brain was now racing. That was fear creeping slowly into a mind where it would take root and grow until it was all he could think about.
Crane let out a pleased sigh as he stood up and took hold of his tray where this mornings breakfast was sitting, now lukewarm thanks to Grant’s slow lumbering steps. The tray held a whole apple, a coffee, a single piece of dry toast, and two unsalted scrambled eggs. That was it. Not only was the quality of the food subpar, but the serving sizes were a bit lacking as well. A grown man needed at least 550 calories per meal, assuming he was eating three times a day, but this trash sitting in front of him was barely 300. Frankly though, things used to be worse. Before Bruce Wayne started donating a bunch of money to this place most patients only got two meals a day and so were even more malnourished. It was a miracle they were getting three meals now… not that it mattered much to Jonathan Crane.
Jonathan grabbed the apple and lightly set the rest of the tray on the cell’s table, having no intention of eating that disgusting filth. The ex-doctor was not a food snob, but there was only so long you can tolerate poor quality food before not eating was far more appealing. Besides, Jonathan never ate much to begin with so the apple and coffee alone would do just fine. Jonathan didn't even like coffee, but it was better than the over sweet juice they sometimes offered or the metallic tasting sink water.
Breakfast came and went without any further incidents worth noting besides some fool being dragged down the hall screaming about his mother. But that was not too interesting, so Jonathan kept himself firmly planted on his bed with his back pressed up against the wall and his legs crossed. He stayed like that for hours until, with some minor glee, Jonathan heard a familiar voice coming down the hall.
The voice wept as it so often did, calling for someone named Alice who did not exist anymore, or perhaps never did in the first place. To Jonathan, this loon was three things: One, he was a brilliant mind with an uncanny ability to hypnotize people with or without the use of technology; Two, he was a coward whose skittish nature and weakness prompted his obsession with control; And thee, Jervis Tetch was one of the few people that Jonathan enjoyed talking to thanks to how unpredictable some of the conversations could become and because Jervis was a fascinating case of paranoid schizophrenia.
“Hello, Hatter!” Jonathan called out from his solitary cell even though he could not see outside of his room at the moment. He had expected Jervis to be pulled along by the guards as always, but unexpectedly, the footsteps passing the door stopped… perhaps it was due to shock at being suddenly spoken to that left the guards hesitant to pull Jervis away from the conversation. It was such a nice surprise that Jonathan slowly climbed out of his bed so that he could stand before the locked door, closing his eyes in an attempt to imagine what was occurring on the other side.
Jonathan imagined two guards, one on each side of Jervis whose hair was a mess like always. Unfortunately for Jervis, he wore no hat and as such the scar on his head was clearly visible. The Hatter's hands were chained in the front, just like Jonathan’s often were, but his binds had far more scratch marks and chinks taken out of them from the constant tantrums. Based on the time of day and how things worked in the past, Jervis was just returning from a session with some two-bit doctor who would grow tired of the lack of progress within the month. Normally the path back from the offices did not come through this hall, but something must have changed that made this the best path to take.
“I’ve seen a cat without a grin and a grin without a cat, but now there is a cat without either!” The crazy mad hatter quickly exclaimed before continuing, his voice automatically losing any signs of sorrow. CHanging his focus like that was easy which made his emotions easily manipulated. “Where have you misplaced your body today, Mr. Cheshire Crane? You must be in quite a bit of pain!”
Jonathan allowed himself a light chuckle at hearing Jervis’ nickname for him. The Cheshire Cat, a character which had a very important role in the fantasy Jervis seemed to live in. The cat whose abilities included turning invisible and whose personality was considered calm, scheming, and mad. It was flattering to receive such an important title, not to mention concern from someone with no clarity of mind left in him.
“All is well, Dr. Tetch, all is well,” Jonathan said, attempting to comfort the other man with calming words and tone. “How is your wonderland today? Do anything interesting?”
A loud giggle echoed through the halls and into Jonathan’s cell, followed by a few inaudible words from the guards who, Jonathan imagined, were starting to get uncomfortable. This conversation would end soon. “Oh, lovely, lovely. I had tea with the flowers today! Tea! You may get some too if you are a good interviewee!”
Now that was confusing; it wasn't uncommon to have to translate what Jervis was saying, and normally it was not too hard, but this momentarily stumped Jonathan. Flowers? Supercriminals like Jonathan and Jervis were not allowed out in the greenhouse, no matter how well they behaved. The interviewee part, however, made sense. The new doctor that Jervis had must have given him tea, surprisingly. That was ill-advised considering that Jervis has in the past used tea to burn people, but it made sense why the doctor would do this despite the risks. He was building trust with Jervis, or perhaps Jervis was in a bad mood and the doctor was trying to perk him up? Either way, it was a risky but smart move. Perhaps this new doctor had a flower pot or something in his office?
Jonathan supposed he would know soon enough because he also was getting a new doctor today, and as far as Jonathan knew, there was only one new guy in this place so it had to be the same person. Jonathan kept a close eye on the Arkham staff, learning nearly all their names and faces so that he could greet them properly and/or notice when they were not around. Naturally, the staff did not like Jonathan knowing their names and faces, but that was also part of the reason Jonathan did it.
“I hope so,” Jonathan responded after his moment of pondering. The fear doctor opened his mouth to continue the chat, but one of the guards muttered another thing that was inaudible before the sounds of footsteps started back up. Just as expected, the conversation was over. Shame. “Farewell, Dr. Tetch! Let your need guide your behavior!”
Howling laughing was the only response Jonathan got to his goodbye, but that was quite alright. After all, Jonathan had ended with a direct quote from Alice in Wonderland, so how could he blame the Mad Hatter for finding such a comment amusing? This new doctor was not the only one who liked to indulge other people’s quirks.
Not long after Jervis passed through, the lunch cart came around; Jonathan actually ate the core of the meal this time, a plain ham and cheese sandwich, but ignored all of the sides. Lunch mainly served as nothing more than a time marker anyways. Without any clocks in the cell and his window not at a great angle to see the sun, Jonathan could only make guesses about the time based on when meals came and went. Truly, if the food was ever late, Jonathan would have no way of knowing and it would change his entire perception of the day.
It was a shame too because Jonathan knew that his private ‘therapy’ session was an hour and fifteen minutes after the beginning of lunch, which meant that if lunch was given to him late then the session seemed like it was starting early. Today though, Jonathan felt that everything was on schedule although he would never know for sure.
As usual, a guard named Jerry Smith came to pick him up. Jonathan followed orders and let the guard handcuff him before the pair left the cell and started on their way. Jonathan gave a nod to Grant who, as usual, looked annoyed but this time seemed a bit more distracted and was hiding his injured hand from Crane as if that did not make it stand out more. He couldn't help it, a small exhale of air escaped his nose; the action was reminiscent of a laugh but lacked the audible punch laughter normally had. If Jerry noticed, he didn't show any signs of it, and he just kept pushing Jonathan around as if the lanky doctor was not already heading in the right direction. He was though. Jonathan knew this place like the back of his hand, both because he was a doctor here back in the day and because he had been a patient many times now.
The path to the offices where Jonathan used to have an office himself was a bit of a long walk from the cold, isolated cells block but there were benefits of that fact. Jonathan always saw at least one other patient, sometimes even a group of them being pushed around in herds, but the most exciting interactions was when he ran into other so-called supercriminals. People like the Joker or Two-Face were never taken through these paths due to how dangerous they were in physical confrontations, but for people like Jonathan, Jervis, and Edward Nygma who were considered only true threats when given access to their tools, there was no reason not to walk them through the public halls despite technically being supercriminals.
Today, Jonathan saw Edward Nygma being brought down the hall that Jonathan was heading up. Unlike Jervis, Jonathan was not friends with Nygma but they were on friendly terms… more or less. Riddler was in a foul mood based on the fact that his arms were behind his back rather than in the front like most low physical threat patients, but even without the cuffs, it was clear that there was a problem because Ridder was ranting about something. Considering the speed of the rant and that Jonathan jumped in mid-sentence, it made no sense, but apparently it had something to do with the chefs of this place not understanding how important quality food was to a mind like Edwards; the rest of the fools in this place could eat whatever trash they wanted, but he deserved his meals specially made with non-frozen and non-canned ingredients.
The vain genius saw Jonathan and for a moment, a look of relief crossed over his face before he snapped at the guards pushing him around. “I’m moving, you brutes! It’s not like you idiots have anything more important to do besides drowning your last remaining brain cells in Irish coffee and football!”
In comparison to Jervis who was completely crazy but arguably sweet, Edward was mostly sane but hard to get along with. He had the largest ego Jonathan had ever seen, and unfortunately for most people, that ego demanded blood when bruised. The only way to get along with him was to bow your head and submit your own pride as a sacrifice. Be the idiot so that he feels smarter; it didn't matter if you were actually more intelligent than the Riddler, you couldn't risk showing it completely. However, despite all that, appearing too dumb made him hate you even still, so there was a middle point that was hard to achieve but even harder to sustain. Jonathan, thankfully, had so far kept himself in this middle range.
“Coming back from an interview, Mr. Nygma?” Jonathan asked, figuring that if he was coming from that direction he had to have just been talking to some doctor.
Edward tsked before answering but he did answer, “Unfortunately it’s my second one of the day. That imbecile Mayson doesn't know how to keep her mouth shut. She needs to take some lessons from that kid this morning before I give her a riddle she won't forget…”
“Which kid?” Now, this was interesting. Jonathan knew for a fact that there were not many young doctors here with enough qualification or courage to be assigned to criminals like Nygma.
At this point, the pair of intellectuals had been forced past each other. Unlike Jervis’ guards, these guys were not interested in letting their charges pause to chat for even a minute. The poor guards babysitting Riddler likely couldn't wait to get rid of the headache.
But even still, Ridder, more than happy to offer information and seem intelligent, answered the doctor's questions loudly and over his shoulder. “M dot Mayflower. Unlike the rest of these idiots, he was able to admit when mentally outmatched! Don’t break this one, Crane, it’s nice to finally have a doctor realize my brilliance.”
Jonathan did not have a chance to answer before being turned around a corner, but that was for the best because Jonathan had nothing more to say. His mind was racing. Jervis said that he had tea with a flower earlier aka Mayflower. It all made sense now. This new doctor was not only working with Jervis and Jonathan, but Riddler too. Whoever this man was, he must have thought himself incredibly smart if he was trying to treat some of the most intelligent men in the asylum. And so far he seemed to be taking the suck up approach based on what Edward had just said about Mayflower admitting to being more stupid than Edward. It was hard not to wonder who this stranger was and who else he was treating?
Jonathan supposed that he would know soon enough just how smart this new guy was and, more importantly, just how far he was willing to go to placate his patient's interests. Perhaps Jonathan would be able to acquire some interesting data from this man? Jonathan certainly hoped so. Ever since getting captured by Batman last month, he had no one to truly devote his studies too, but now maybe a good chance to do so. Most refused to even discuss fear, let alone their own, with Jonathan but hopefully this one would indulge the Scarecrow's interests as well.
Upon arriving at the office that was helpfully labeled Dr. M. Mayflower, Jerry Smith knocked on the door. “Doctor! I have Jonathan Crane here for your scheduled meeting!”
While waiting for a response and for permission to enter, Smith glanced down at Crane before quickly whispering out a few reminders that Jonathan knew already. Most of them were common sense, after all. “Remember the rules, Crane. Keep your ass in the chair and your hands in your lap. Don’t touch anything, and don’t even think about touching the doctor. I’m only a thin wall away and if I even hear a gasp-”
“You’ll come bursting inside and beat me with your baton, yes, yes, I know.” Jonathan interrupted, trying to keep his tone level but a bit of irritation slipping out. Jonathan had no way of harming this Mayflower stranger. He didn't have a needle or drop of chemicals on him, and Jonathan knew that he was powerless in a physical fight, so he had no intention of starting anything he wasn't likely to win… or at least get him some interesting results for his studies. Winning was only a secondary goal in comparison to a successful experiment.
Although the interruption warranted a glare, Smith pushed on. “Alright, arms up.” Jonathan raised his cuffed hands in the air so that Smith could pat down the doctor in an attempt to find the needles and chemicals Jonathan was only wishing he had. There was nothing to find though so Smith finished his last-minute security check and was more than ready to get Jonathan off his hands for an hour.
Poor unfortunate Amadeus Arkham lost his wife and child to a murderer, and from that moment on the great Arkham island estate became Arkham Hospital.
The isolated location made it a prime place to care for patients while also keeping the public safe from the more dangerous of prisoners. It wasn't long until the place was filled wall to wall with criminals that were too touched in the mind for normal prisons but too dangerous to be sent to common mental hospitals. Amadeus dedicated over two decades to helping these souls, but there was one who was not only resistant to treatment, but hostile; it was the same man who killed Lady Arkham and her child. He ended up in the hospital like all the others but he refused treatment no matter how dedicated the doctor. He even went so far as to mock Amadeus about his wife's screams before proceeding to stab Amadeus in the neck in an attempt to finish off the family.
Amadeus survived the attack, however, he was forever changed by the cold uncaring look of the killer he saw before him. Arkham Hospital quickly transformed from a place of healing to a prison where treatment came second and punishment of the guilty came first. The murder passed away during this transition period, hung from his own cell with a belt that was not his own; it took days for anyone to even realize that the man was dead. Naturally, before long the hospital was shut down for the wrongful treatment of its patients, but the man who created the hospital with good intentions and then corrupted it was missing. Nobody was ever found nor was the man ever heard from again; Amadeus Arkham was simply there one day, punishing those similar to the man who murdered his wife, and then the next he was gone without a trace.
This happened over 60 years ago, yet even now people wonder if the founder of Arkham Hospital is still walking the Earth. It was an appealing idea to many who found the bloody history of this place to be fascinating. And perhaps the rich history of the place in addition to the convenient island location was why, in 1984, Arkham Hospital was renamed Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane and reopened. The place was gutted during this change, the once historical estate full of paintings and hardwood flooring replaced with warning signs and cold, white tiles. The outdoor fountains were replaced with fully equipped watchtowers, the garden was shrunk down into an interior greenhouse, a bridge was built to the island for the first time ever, and it was modernized with full plumbing and electricity.
There were only two things that did not change during the reopening; the patients at the asylum were all dangerously insane to some degree and the bloody mistreatment of the patients continued behind locked doors and secret rooms. Time and time again people were arrested for physically, mentally, or sexually abusing the patients, but even when punished, some new sicko would come in and do it all over again. Arkham Asylum was, and always will be, a madhouse.
To tell the truth, a lot of the Gotham population thought that the island was cursed. Every person who stepped on that island came out crazy, a killer, or they did not come out at all. And then there was the fact that the Asylum, despite all of its security, failed to keep supercriminals locked up as they need to be. Joker escaped; Riddler escaped; Scarecrow escaped; even the Mad Hatter escaped repeatedly and he could not even tell reality from fiction. Arkham, despite all the money put into it, failed time and time again to achieve its single true mission.
Arkham Asylum was a cursed island that made Gotham even more dangerous a place to be because it concentrated the crazy… and Jonathan Crane was more than happy to call this place home for those very reasons.
The paranoia from the outside world about this place was nothing in comparison to the tension actually inside of the asylum walls. Some patients had breakdowns just because they were in this place, others claimed to hear the wailings of past victims, while many more had normal, realistic fears that what happened to so many other doctors and patients in the past would happen to them. Were they next to go crazy? Would they be killed the next time some criminal tried to escape this place? Even from solitary confinement, Jonathan could feel how condensed the fear was in this place and hear the distant echoes of someone screaming. This ‘madhouse’ was not hell as so many claimed, it was heaven, and no matter how many times this place was rebuilt or rebranded, the ghosts of the past would continue to haunt this place.
Jonathan had been awake, staring at the stone wall across from his bed since 5:00 am, waiting for something. Being awake at times like this did not offer any more excitement than the daytime did because, after all, these walls were nearly soundproof and the patients nearest to him were not the types of scream and shout all the time. For the most part, Jonathan’s cell was silent beside his own voice and the drip of the faucet. Still, being awake so early, before the sun came up and before lights up were called, was a blessing because here, in the pitch black of the room, Jonathan could stare at one spot and watch as the shadows twisted and contorted to show the faces of the demons that haunt these halls.
This was just a game to play to occupy a horror starved mind though, Jonathan held no true belief that he was seeing actual demons and ghosts. No, his mind was merely experiencing pareidolia, which was when your eyes and mind saw a vague shape and tried to make sense of it by translating the shapes into things like faces. Jonathan had treated many people who experienced heightened versions of this, such as the person who saw a figure standing in their peripheral every single moment of their day and as such had taken to just keeping their eyes closed all the time to avoid the ominous figure. It was a fascinating phenomenon and only one more reason to love the mortal mind.
Sadly, the sun came up and thanks to the light now streaming into the room from the bared, tinted windows, the faces and figures all but vanished. That left Jonathan within nothing to do. He lay on his bed, he paced, he tried to put his ear against the window and door to hear something but there was nothing to hear.
Thankfully, the silence was broken when 6:15 hit. Three loud pounds against the solitary door and a loud voice shouted for Jonathan to sit on his bed offered the first true source of stimulation since 9pm the previous night. Even these orders were welcome because it gave Jonathan something concrete to focus on, so he followed instructions and took a seat on the bed.
The door’s eye slot slid open with a rough grating noise, and behind that Jonathan saw a familiar pair of blue eyes on a chubby face. Grant, the security guard that worked the morning shift in the high-security wing from Tuesday to Saturday, 5am to 5pm with only an hour break in the middle of that. He was a large man, both in height and width, and as such his movements lacked a lot of grace and instead had a more brutish style to them. He did not like Crane, but it was always easy to prompt the guardsman into talking even though guards talking to patients was strictly forbidden. That rule had been in place 13 years ago when Jonathan started working here himself, but even after all this time the guards still continued to push their luck. Grant, the poor man, clearly was hiding his fear of the patients behind an aggressive mask; he thought intimidating people like Crane would make him safe from them… shame how wrong he was.
“How are you today, Mr. Grant? You knocked on the door a lot softer today than normal; did you perhaps get in a fight yesterday and hurt your hand?” The master of fear spoke these words calmly and clearly, staring directly at the man who was currently fiddling with the food slot while also trying not to look away from Crane.
Grant didn't respond right away, instead, he let out a sharp tsk and fixed his face into, what Jonathan could assume based on his eyes, was a furious expression. “Shut up, freak.”
Jonathan had not expected a true answer, but what he got was enough to confirm his suspicions. And to further his point, Jonathan saw through the food slot that Grant’s left hand was bandaged. He only got a glance because Grant quickly slammed the slot shut, but that was enough. Smirking, Jonathan cocked his head to the side as if that would help him see through the metal door. That wound would not have been bandaged because of a bruise, which meant that Grant had actually been attacked and hurt; he likely bled as well.
“Honestly, Mr. Grant, you must stop letting your guard down. This is the second time this month that you have been injured. At this rate, you are going to end up dead or permanently injured by the end of the year.” This false concern would be clear to anyone listening in on the conversation; even Grant knew that the words were only said to rile him up, but just because you knew the other person's game did not mean that you were not affected by it.
“What the fuck did I say, Crane? Shut. Up.” Those were the final words Grant spit before the eye slot was slammed shut with more force than necessary. But Crane had heard it there, the slight quiver behind the words. The way the curses were softened by the mind of a man whose brain was now racing. That was fear creeping slowly into a mind where it would take root and grow until it was all he could think about.
Crane let out a pleased sigh as he stood up and took hold of his tray where this mornings breakfast was sitting, now lukewarm thanks to Grant’s slow lumbering steps. The tray held a whole apple, a coffee, a single piece of dry toast, and two unsalted scrambled eggs. That was it. Not only was the quality of the food subpar, but the serving sizes were a bit lacking as well. A grown man needed at least 550 calories per meal, assuming he was eating three times a day, but this trash sitting in front of him was barely 300. Frankly though, things used to be worse. Before Bruce Wayne started donating a bunch of money to this place most patients only got two meals a day and so were even more malnourished. It was a miracle they were getting three meals now… not that it mattered much to Jonathan Crane.
Jonathan grabbed the apple and lightly set the rest of the tray on the cell’s table, having no intention of eating that disgusting filth. The ex-doctor was not a food snob, but there was only so long you can tolerate poor quality food before not eating was far more appealing. Besides, Jonathan never ate much to begin with so the apple and coffee alone would do just fine. Jonathan didn't even like coffee, but it was better than the over sweet juice they sometimes offered or the metallic tasting sink water.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Breakfast came and went without any further incidents worth noting besides some fool being dragged down the hall screaming about his mother. But that was not too interesting, so Jonathan kept himself firmly planted on his bed with his back pressed up against the wall and his legs crossed. He stayed like that for hours until, with some minor glee, Jonathan heard a familiar voice coming down the hall.
The voice wept as it so often did, calling for someone named Alice who did not exist anymore, or perhaps never did in the first place. To Jonathan, this loon was three things: One, he was a brilliant mind with an uncanny ability to hypnotize people with or without the use of technology; Two, he was a coward whose skittish nature and weakness prompted his obsession with control; And thee, Jervis Tetch was one of the few people that Jonathan enjoyed talking to thanks to how unpredictable some of the conversations could become and because Jervis was a fascinating case of paranoid schizophrenia.
“Hello, Hatter!” Jonathan called out from his solitary cell even though he could not see outside of his room at the moment. He had expected Jervis to be pulled along by the guards as always, but unexpectedly, the footsteps passing the door stopped… perhaps it was due to shock at being suddenly spoken to that left the guards hesitant to pull Jervis away from the conversation. It was such a nice surprise that Jonathan slowly climbed out of his bed so that he could stand before the locked door, closing his eyes in an attempt to imagine what was occurring on the other side.
Jonathan imagined two guards, one on each side of Jervis whose hair was a mess like always. Unfortunately for Jervis, he wore no hat and as such the scar on his head was clearly visible. The Hatter's hands were chained in the front, just like Jonathan’s often were, but his binds had far more scratch marks and chinks taken out of them from the constant tantrums. Based on the time of day and how things worked in the past, Jervis was just returning from a session with some two-bit doctor who would grow tired of the lack of progress within the month. Normally the path back from the offices did not come through this hall, but something must have changed that made this the best path to take.
“I’ve seen a cat without a grin and a grin without a cat, but now there is a cat without either!” The crazy mad hatter quickly exclaimed before continuing, his voice automatically losing any signs of sorrow. CHanging his focus like that was easy which made his emotions easily manipulated. “Where have you misplaced your body today, Mr. Cheshire Crane? You must be in quite a bit of pain!”
Jonathan allowed himself a light chuckle at hearing Jervis’ nickname for him. The Cheshire Cat, a character which had a very important role in the fantasy Jervis seemed to live in. The cat whose abilities included turning invisible and whose personality was considered calm, scheming, and mad. It was flattering to receive such an important title, not to mention concern from someone with no clarity of mind left in him.
“All is well, Dr. Tetch, all is well,” Jonathan said, attempting to comfort the other man with calming words and tone. “How is your wonderland today? Do anything interesting?”
A loud giggle echoed through the halls and into Jonathan’s cell, followed by a few inaudible words from the guards who, Jonathan imagined, were starting to get uncomfortable. This conversation would end soon. “Oh, lovely, lovely. I had tea with the flowers today! Tea! You may get some too if you are a good interviewee!”
Now that was confusing; it wasn't uncommon to have to translate what Jervis was saying, and normally it was not too hard, but this momentarily stumped Jonathan. Flowers? Supercriminals like Jonathan and Jervis were not allowed out in the greenhouse, no matter how well they behaved. The interviewee part, however, made sense. The new doctor that Jervis had must have given him tea, surprisingly. That was ill-advised considering that Jervis has in the past used tea to burn people, but it made sense why the doctor would do this despite the risks. He was building trust with Jervis, or perhaps Jervis was in a bad mood and the doctor was trying to perk him up? Either way, it was a risky but smart move. Perhaps this new doctor had a flower pot or something in his office?
Jonathan supposed he would know soon enough because he also was getting a new doctor today, and as far as Jonathan knew, there was only one new guy in this place so it had to be the same person. Jonathan kept a close eye on the Arkham staff, learning nearly all their names and faces so that he could greet them properly and/or notice when they were not around. Naturally, the staff did not like Jonathan knowing their names and faces, but that was also part of the reason Jonathan did it.
“I hope so,” Jonathan responded after his moment of pondering. The fear doctor opened his mouth to continue the chat, but one of the guards muttered another thing that was inaudible before the sounds of footsteps started back up. Just as expected, the conversation was over. Shame. “Farewell, Dr. Tetch! Let your need guide your behavior!”
Howling laughing was the only response Jonathan got to his goodbye, but that was quite alright. After all, Jonathan had ended with a direct quote from Alice in Wonderland, so how could he blame the Mad Hatter for finding such a comment amusing? This new doctor was not the only one who liked to indulge other people’s quirks.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Not long after Jervis passed through, the lunch cart came around; Jonathan actually ate the core of the meal this time, a plain ham and cheese sandwich, but ignored all of the sides. Lunch mainly served as nothing more than a time marker anyways. Without any clocks in the cell and his window not at a great angle to see the sun, Jonathan could only make guesses about the time based on when meals came and went. Truly, if the food was ever late, Jonathan would have no way of knowing and it would change his entire perception of the day.
It was a shame too because Jonathan knew that his private ‘therapy’ session was an hour and fifteen minutes after the beginning of lunch, which meant that if lunch was given to him late then the session seemed like it was starting early. Today though, Jonathan felt that everything was on schedule although he would never know for sure.
As usual, a guard named Jerry Smith came to pick him up. Jonathan followed orders and let the guard handcuff him before the pair left the cell and started on their way. Jonathan gave a nod to Grant who, as usual, looked annoyed but this time seemed a bit more distracted and was hiding his injured hand from Crane as if that did not make it stand out more. He couldn't help it, a small exhale of air escaped his nose; the action was reminiscent of a laugh but lacked the audible punch laughter normally had. If Jerry noticed, he didn't show any signs of it, and he just kept pushing Jonathan around as if the lanky doctor was not already heading in the right direction. He was though. Jonathan knew this place like the back of his hand, both because he was a doctor here back in the day and because he had been a patient many times now.
The path to the offices where Jonathan used to have an office himself was a bit of a long walk from the cold, isolated cells block but there were benefits of that fact. Jonathan always saw at least one other patient, sometimes even a group of them being pushed around in herds, but the most exciting interactions was when he ran into other so-called supercriminals. People like the Joker or Two-Face were never taken through these paths due to how dangerous they were in physical confrontations, but for people like Jonathan, Jervis, and Edward Nygma who were considered only true threats when given access to their tools, there was no reason not to walk them through the public halls despite technically being supercriminals.
Today, Jonathan saw Edward Nygma being brought down the hall that Jonathan was heading up. Unlike Jervis, Jonathan was not friends with Nygma but they were on friendly terms… more or less. Riddler was in a foul mood based on the fact that his arms were behind his back rather than in the front like most low physical threat patients, but even without the cuffs, it was clear that there was a problem because Ridder was ranting about something. Considering the speed of the rant and that Jonathan jumped in mid-sentence, it made no sense, but apparently it had something to do with the chefs of this place not understanding how important quality food was to a mind like Edwards; the rest of the fools in this place could eat whatever trash they wanted, but he deserved his meals specially made with non-frozen and non-canned ingredients.
The vain genius saw Jonathan and for a moment, a look of relief crossed over his face before he snapped at the guards pushing him around. “I’m moving, you brutes! It’s not like you idiots have anything more important to do besides drowning your last remaining brain cells in Irish coffee and football!”
In comparison to Jervis who was completely crazy but arguably sweet, Edward was mostly sane but hard to get along with. He had the largest ego Jonathan had ever seen, and unfortunately for most people, that ego demanded blood when bruised. The only way to get along with him was to bow your head and submit your own pride as a sacrifice. Be the idiot so that he feels smarter; it didn't matter if you were actually more intelligent than the Riddler, you couldn't risk showing it completely. However, despite all that, appearing too dumb made him hate you even still, so there was a middle point that was hard to achieve but even harder to sustain. Jonathan, thankfully, had so far kept himself in this middle range.
“Coming back from an interview, Mr. Nygma?” Jonathan asked, figuring that if he was coming from that direction he had to have just been talking to some doctor.
Edward tsked before answering but he did answer, “Unfortunately it’s my second one of the day. That imbecile Mayson doesn't know how to keep her mouth shut. She needs to take some lessons from that kid this morning before I give her a riddle she won't forget…”
“Which kid?” Now, this was interesting. Jonathan knew for a fact that there were not many young doctors here with enough qualification or courage to be assigned to criminals like Nygma.
At this point, the pair of intellectuals had been forced past each other. Unlike Jervis’ guards, these guys were not interested in letting their charges pause to chat for even a minute. The poor guards babysitting Riddler likely couldn't wait to get rid of the headache.
But even still, Ridder, more than happy to offer information and seem intelligent, answered the doctor's questions loudly and over his shoulder. “M dot Mayflower. Unlike the rest of these idiots, he was able to admit when mentally outmatched! Don’t break this one, Crane, it’s nice to finally have a doctor realize my brilliance.”
Jonathan did not have a chance to answer before being turned around a corner, but that was for the best because Jonathan had nothing more to say. His mind was racing. Jervis said that he had tea with a flower earlier aka Mayflower. It all made sense now. This new doctor was not only working with Jervis and Jonathan, but Riddler too. Whoever this man was, he must have thought himself incredibly smart if he was trying to treat some of the most intelligent men in the asylum. And so far he seemed to be taking the suck up approach based on what Edward had just said about Mayflower admitting to being more stupid than Edward. It was hard not to wonder who this stranger was and who else he was treating?
Jonathan supposed that he would know soon enough just how smart this new guy was and, more importantly, just how far he was willing to go to placate his patient's interests. Perhaps Jonathan would be able to acquire some interesting data from this man? Jonathan certainly hoped so. Ever since getting captured by Batman last month, he had no one to truly devote his studies too, but now maybe a good chance to do so. Most refused to even discuss fear, let alone their own, with Jonathan but hopefully this one would indulge the Scarecrow's interests as well.
Upon arriving at the office that was helpfully labeled Dr. M. Mayflower, Jerry Smith knocked on the door. “Doctor! I have Jonathan Crane here for your scheduled meeting!”
While waiting for a response and for permission to enter, Smith glanced down at Crane before quickly whispering out a few reminders that Jonathan knew already. Most of them were common sense, after all. “Remember the rules, Crane. Keep your ass in the chair and your hands in your lap. Don’t touch anything, and don’t even think about touching the doctor. I’m only a thin wall away and if I even hear a gasp-”
“You’ll come bursting inside and beat me with your baton, yes, yes, I know.” Jonathan interrupted, trying to keep his tone level but a bit of irritation slipping out. Jonathan had no way of harming this Mayflower stranger. He didn't have a needle or drop of chemicals on him, and Jonathan knew that he was powerless in a physical fight, so he had no intention of starting anything he wasn't likely to win… or at least get him some interesting results for his studies. Winning was only a secondary goal in comparison to a successful experiment.
Although the interruption warranted a glare, Smith pushed on. “Alright, arms up.” Jonathan raised his cuffed hands in the air so that Smith could pat down the doctor in an attempt to find the needles and chemicals Jonathan was only wishing he had. There was nothing to find though so Smith finished his last-minute security check and was more than ready to get Jonathan off his hands for an hour.
Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
•●•
All that accompanied him during his exploration of the facility was the soft pads of his shoes against the metallic floor, the occasional murmur of doctors and guards chatting at the sidelines, and the few sounds of shrieking or laughter from somewhere in the darkness within the Asylum. While he was not venturing far, it was no less unsettling.
He knew very little about the general layout of the building, only being aware of the break room -- down the hallway his office was on and the first door on the left -- the closest bathrooms -- opposite of the break room -- and the nearest exit -- up the stairs in the door on the other side of Dr. Mayson's office. Other than those few rooms, he was mostly at a loss for the general direction of where most the other things were. There was no way of knowing just how far the building sprawled out as if endlessly worming it's way deep under the water's below. 'It's larger than it looks,' Matt had been warned on one of his first day in the building. 'You're lucky, you're not one of the ones who has to travel pretty far between rooms. Sometimes at night, or when you get deep enough down, you lose track of where you are. Ain't like anyone will help you either,' the guard explained, cracking a slight grin and briefly giving Matt an unintentional glance into the sadistic side of the staff, 'Most of us'll just crack some jokes and laugh at the new guy, the inmates can't do shit either.' It had spooked him that first day, of course, but had little affect on him up until now.
It had probably just been a bad stroke of luck that he had talked to that guard at that specific time. 'They're just teasing the new guy,' he had told himself. Part of him believed it, the other part couldn't ignore the fact that Matthias knew how to read people and he knew that man was not lying. 'Could always leave bread trails?' He mused silently, almost cracking a small smile at the thought as he turned one of the corners. 'That'd be a lovely explanation to anyone who found it.'
While he was faintly lost already, he was not aimless. He wanted to find the security room and ask if he could review any footage of his patients. He had already been briefed on them, as well as listened to a couple interviews that had previously been conducted with each. While those had been helpful, he had noticed two particular details in all of them that put a faint question of doubt in his mind; each interview was from wildly varying dates and each seemed so tame for the person in question -- meaning they had likely been hand picked. He recognized what he was watching in only the fourth video tape, he was watching them at their best, with nothing to indicate what their worst was like.
If he was turned down from viewing anymore footage, then he figured he'd walk somewhat begrudgingly into the interviews; otherwise, he preferred to have somewhat of a better idea of what could happen.
Finally, resigning to suck up some of his pride after he turned the same corner for what he could swear was a third time in the last fifteen minutes, he found a security guard and asked where room was. "Up those stairs, take a right, turn into the third door." The guard had answered swiftly before returning to his discussion with another officer.
Matt offered a quick thanks and began to turn to go on his way, glancing at his watch as he turned and giving a faint wince at his own lack of keeping time. 6:48 AM. It seemed that would need to wait until lunch. Of course, he still lacked any sort of direction back to his office. "Do you know how I get back to room 114?" He quickly asked the guard, pushing his luck a little.
The guard waited a moment, having been mid-sentence before hurriedly waving his hand in a direction and mumbling 'go left', quickly picking up his conversation with the other guard and waiting for Matthias to take his leave.
"Thank you!" Matthias hummed quickly before setting off back in the direction he had come, feeling a faint pit in his chest from wasting so much time trying to find it on his own. He made a small mental note as he walked, his hand tucked on the strap of his messenger bag, 'Don't ask guards for anything twice.'
--------------
He returned to his office with only about five minutes to spare, just enough time to set his messenger bag beside him in the chair, take out a pencil along with his notepad, and scribble a short note to himself as a reminder for later, 'Zie beeldmateriaal hierboven.' Finishing his note, he flipped he previous page with the chicken scratch calculations over it before setting the pad aside and retrieving the necessary documents for the upcoming interviews.
--------------
The first interview was with Pamela Isley, a rather stoic woman with surprisingly bright red hair and greenly-tinged skin. It had been a somewhat quiet interview, filled with plenty of gaps of silence with only the buzz fluorescent lights above to break the pure silence. Eventually, he had tried to break the silence with a bit of small talk. He mentioned how he had been told how much she excelled at gardening, as well as followed it with a mention of his own much more minuscule gardening efforts. While it had succeeded in breaking some of the silence for a few minutes, she clearly had no intention to continue any line of discussion with him, making their interview end with little more success than to introduce themselves to each other. 'Baby steps,' he considered silently as he held the door open for her to leave with the guards. 'Progress is never instant.'
The little details that he had gathered during the session was enough that he knew he could make some steps towards improvement for the next interview. Firstly, she had seemed unhappy with the standards of this place. From what he already knew about her love of plants, he could see why. He was not sure he could get anything major to improve that, but at the least, he could look into maybe finding some low-level light and sized plants to try and make the place a little more comfortable for her. Until he improved the condition, he had a feeling that she would remain just as distant and silent as she had during this session.
'Onderzoek naar planten die bij weinig licht en grootte groeien.' He scribbled swiftly in his notepad before flipping the page back over and tucking it away. Besides, he knew he'd need to ask for permission to bring any such thing in first.
---------------
The second session, Edward Nygma, was a patient that he had received quite a few mentions of already. A brilliant man, like many of the patients here, but an inventor ad engineer at heart with a passion for creation. Just before going to open the door a couple minutes ahead of time, Matthias admittedly hesitated as he glanced at his desk, noticing the slight mess. Swiftly, he swept everything into a quick stack with only the documents and notepad left out. Even then, he paused at his notebook before simply flipping it over. The final touch, he lined the stack of papers against the wall before aligning his pencil with the stack on the opposite side of the desk.
It was a simple trick he had used plenty of times on plenty of other patients who had been either formerly diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, or were suspected of having it. He had no expectations of it being clear this time, but maybe after a few sessions it would provide a better idea. It was his way of seeing how severe their cases were.
Those that entered the room to find a crooked pencil following a few sessions of it being parallel and were quick to adjust it to their liking, oftentimes with barely more than a glance, oftentimes had much more severe OCD. Those that either didn't notice it or did not change it often had much more mild versions, or simply did not have OCD. It was a small but useful trick to him.
The session with Nygma had gone much better than that of Ms. Isley, even despite the constant taunts and ridicule. From the moment the man had walked through the door, Dr. Mayflower knew the exact role he was meant to play; the pushover. It was not exactly a hard role for him, as he had played it a few times back at his old job, admittedly under better circumstances, but he made due with what he had. A few offhand riddles had been thrown in his direction for the duration of the session, none of which Matthias was quick enough to answer instantly, though he tried his best to reasonably answer a couple of them, swiftly redirecting the rest. In the end, none of which he was able to answer correctly despite his earnest attempts.
Despite his losses, he was quick to compliment the answers provided by the other man, claiming things like, "I never would have guessed that," or "That's a realy tough one." By the end, it was difficult to notice if any improvement had been made, but he figured that he had succeeded in at least opening a line of dialogue between the two.
-------------------
Harleen Quinzel was his next session, a bubbly and genuinely sweet girl who seemed pleasantly unaffected by the dreary place. Still, she had been the one he had received the most remarks on. Everyone warned her she was quick to snap, so he resolved to be as careful as possible. He kept the interview rather lighthearted, the girl being quick to start rambling about various topics varying from a guard she thought was too handsy to a rant about today's sludgy breakfast.
Eventually, the luck began to run a bit thin as the conversation turned towards her counterpart, and not by his own prompting. It was like listening to a teenager ramble about her high school crush as she talked excitedly about him and how he'd be coming to get her any day now and she wouldn't have to deal with the handsy guard or the sludgy breakfasts. Matthias had politely elected to not provide much input on any of her words, it was something he had been warned plenty of times before -- she snaps quickly with this topic. So, he remained silent, only occasionally nodding in acknowledgement or giving a small laugh when necessary. Naturally, with a bit of time, the conversation was pulled away from that of the man currently terrorizing the inner city of Gotham and was brought instead to another area he was not quite sure he wanted to discuss; himself.
She was friendly, merely asking what he was going to do with the interviews before chiming that he'd be better off trying to convince a dog to not bark. He merely explained the simple truth; he was here to try and support her. 'Her and the others,' he told himself as she began launching into another giggly ramble about how she wished him luck with that.
In the end, the goal was accomplished again. The first interviews were just meant to be introductions between him and the patients. As far as her words, he was not quite sure he could improve the food, but he knew he needed to have a word with some of his superiors about the concerning guard she had mentioned. 'Bewaker,' he scribbled in the notebook the moment the door shut behind her.
-----------------
One meeting before lunch and then one following it. So far, most of them had not been as awful as he had been prepared for, though he had a feeling that it was likely just because they were unfamiliar with him. Few people ever snap at someone they know nothing about.
Jervis Tetch was the next patient, a similarly sweet and friendly man with delusions that he was in a Lewis Carroll tale. He seemed somewhat upset at the start of the interview, murmuring about the former doctor and how much he missed her. Matthias felt somewhat bad for him and eventually broke the quiet murmur with a question about how often doctors come and go here. When there had been silence for a few moments, Matthias resolved to skip over the question and shift the topic towards tea.
It was a simple hobby, growing and making tea leaves and tea flowers. It helped him with stress. Some people liked to smoke. Others liked to gamble. Him? He liked to make and drink tea.
He offered Tetch some, making sure to turn the temperature down a bit so he couldn't burn himself on it. It was a pleasant chamomile tea, one of his favorites, the little see-through fabric pouch clear enough to show the tiny white and yellow flowers inside.
With the small gesture, the interview became a little less somber and Tetch was thankfully up for talking a bit more, having an oddly poetic way of speaking considering his conditions. By the end of the interview, Matthias counted it as another lucky session and was quick to scribble down 'thee selectie' following the interview.
-----------------
Matthias spent most of lunch to himself, sitting at his desk with his salad he had been storing in the break room, some crackers, and another cup of tea to himself. He briefly reviewed the notepad and the comments he had marked down between sessions, 'look for a low-light and small plant, no comments for Nygma, report what Ms. Quinzel had said about the guard, and bring in some more of your teas from home.' All were pretty simple, the only requiring more effort than simply remembering it in the morning being Ms. Quinzel's situation where he would likely need to file a report, but it was still completely doable.
His attention was sharply brought up as he heard a couple sharp raps on the door. He was sure he didn't have any sessions yet, did he?
"It's me, Mayson," He heard a woman chime from the other side of the door.
"The door's unlocked," He replied, flipping the page back over and setting the notebook aside so he could turn his focus to finishing his lunch.
The heavy door creaked open, Mayson lingering in the doorway for a moment before she began speaking. "Haven't seen any medics pay a visit to our hall yet, how're the charges coming?"
Matthias smiled brightly, setting his fork down as he spoke, "I haven't had any problems with them yet, they've all been great!"
Dr. Mayson gave a slight snort of amusement at his excited response. "Yeah? Really?" She asked, earning a nod in return. "Glad to hear. Well let me know if you need anything, just checking in on you." She replied, taking the door handle and beginning to close it again after the short exchange.
"Wait," he said quickly, taking his folders and abandoning his salad to approach the woman as she raised an eyebrow again.
"Sheesh, you always wait till the last minute to ask questions, huh?" She said, the light growl of irritation returning to her tone.
He handed her the files before she could continue, "You didn't really give me a chance to talk. Who am I supposed to give my reports to and is it possible for me to review any of the past footage of interviews conducted with the patients?"
She seemed faintly surprised by his sharp remark but did not linger on it long, glancing at the folders before handing them back to him. "Not sure," She said bluntly. "Nine times out of ten, each doctor has a different superior to give the reports to. I suggest you see Dr. Caster for that question."
He nodded, "Okay, thanks." She began to leave the room again but was quickly interrupted again. "Wait, where is their room?"
"Room 212. Anymore questions, kid?" She asked, the last part carrying a tad bit more of a growl that made him cringe slightly.
"No, that's all, thank you!" He chimed earnestly, offering her a bright smile in thanks.
She shook her head and closed the door behind her with a dull creak, leaving the doctor back in the silence of the room.
---------------
The rest of lunch was mostly uneventful, his meal quickly finished halfway through and the rest of his time spent watching the cursor blink on his screen as he found himself lost in thought. He had one patient left for the night, Mr. Crane, one of the few that Matthias was somewhat knowledgeable about prior to joining the facility. He had heard of the attacks before and had seen the aftereffects plenty more times. People driven insane by fear from the toxins that the man used, driven to murder those near them out of fear of things they could only see, driven to suicide because they couldn't bear what was in their own head.
There were stories about him already, how he had gassed an entire lunchroom, how he had turned so quickly on his own colleagues after spending years testing on patients. There were stories that he had driven his own father to murder and suicide, and how he had killed his own grandmother.
When he had been asking around for more information on the patients, he remembered how some of the older doctors -- the ones that had been here longer -- would tense up at the mention of him. Some would fall silent, some had simply told Matthias that he was just a man and that he couldn't hurt anyone without his toxin. It was almost as if they were trying to console him for having Mr. Crane as a patient.
Matthias barely knew the man other than the facts he had read on documents. There was proof that he had attacked the asylum with the toxins. There was not proof that he had attacked his family. The biggest fact of all; however, was that Mr. Crane was -- like everyone else here -- just a person.
His gaze drifted to the clock as he began considering how to approach the next session. With all the rumors and conflicting stories, the truth of what Mr. Crane was really like had been somewhat muddied and made difficult for Matthias to deduce on his own. Without the footage, or any comments other than 'he's a bastard', there was little more that Matthias could do than just figure it out throughout the interview.
It wasn't like this would be a first, he had spent plenty of interviews in the past with fresh clients. Some had never even seen anyone prior to him, making the job of deducing 'first impressions' strictly up to him. Of course, those had been civilians, making it a little easier to read them and such, but no matter.
"Doctor! I have Jonathan Crane here for your scheduled meeting!" He heard someone call out from outside the office, causing his gaze to quickly spring to the door. He let his focus drift to the clock for a second as he began to stand, tucking the strap of his bag over his shoulder, 1:28 PM. He moved some papers aside and into the stack at the side of the desk, hesitating as he noticed the folder labeled Dr. Jonathon Crane stting plainly on the desk. Considering it for a moment, he glanced at the door again before making up his mind, 'Leave it on the desk.' Finished with the short organization, he turned his focus to the door.
He began to open his mouth to say the door's unlocked but noticed the lock to be in a firmly up position, indicating Dr. Mayson had likely switched it on her way out. "One moment," he chimed as he walked to the door, flipping the latch and holding it open for the patient.
Despite how many times he had read the documents and seen the pictures that accompanied them, he was still admittedly surprised to notice how slender and -- well -- unintimidating the other man looked. The title of 'scarecrow' seemed to fit him perfectly, he was practically just skin and bones with little to no muscle mass. It faintly reminded Matthias of a patient back at his last job, a slim girl with an eating disorder that had resolved her to little more than a skeleton.
Of course, looks can be deceiving, Matthias practically lived by that philosophy these days. He wasn't a fool, he knew the records -- both those that were true and those that were doubtful. Mr. Crane wasn't someone to be taken lightly, a detail that Matthias knew to be true for all the patients here. Doubt nobody.
He waited for the mandatory check to be completed by the guard before thanking them and keeping the door held open. "Hello Mr. Crane, feel free to take a seat." He said politely, giving another thanks to the guards outside once the other man was inside and then shutting the door behind them as he went back to his filing cabinet and retrieved a few blank documents, aware that he was already starting to run low on the papers. "How are you doing?" He asked with his back to the man before he located some of the extra papers and began to head back for the desk, glancing back up at him as he waited for a response.
Sitting flat on the desk was Jonathon Crane's folder, as if Dr. Mayflower had just been reading it a few moments earlier.
•●•
Viper
One Thousand Club
First impressions were important, everyone knew that. It didn't matter if it was the first day of class, a job interview, or a date, when meeting someone for the first time you are going to leave an impression that can never be fully forgotten. Considering how important these therapy sessions were, initial impressions were even more vital. He may officially be the patient here, but it was no secret that Jonathan still thought of himself as the doctor and anyone he was speaking to as one of his test subjects.
That’s why, in preparation for coming here, Jonathan had attempted to correct his appearance.
Sadly, there was nothing Jonathan could do about his clothing or shoes. The shoes were black, but clearly pre-used and worn down. It wouldn't be long until the off white socks Jonathan was wearing became visible in the toe area. The arch was completely gone too, not to mention the fact that it was one size too big for Jonathan whose feet were a bit narrower than most men his height. It made his already unsteady walk even less so.
But those were just shoes, so they were far less visible or important than the vibrant, neon jumpsuit Jonathan and all other patients were forced to wear here. This wasn't just some normal mental hospital where white clothing was the go-to, this was a prison turned asylum, and as such, they wore clothing more befitting of a prisoner. In addition to the Arkham Asylum logo placed over the heart, on the right chest was the patient's number which in this case read 61505. Underneath the zip-up jumpsuit was a white t-shirt which was, surprisingly considering the condition of most people's shirts, still fairly white and untorn; Jonathan didn't throw around feces, spill his food, or get into fights so thankfully he was able to keep his clothing fairly clean most of the time… although he was not allowed to wash his own clothing and never got more than a handful of shampoo since he was forbidden to have access to chemicals in any sizable amounts, even the hygenic kind.
Speaking of shampoo, although he had no scissors to cut his hair with nor products to keep his hair neat, Jonathan did comb his hair with his fingers and make sure he had a clean part. Sadly, both of these had to be done without a mirror so Jonathan could only hope that he had cleaned himself up properly. The mirror in his cell had long ago been removed. Jonathan could almost guarantee that parts of his unruly hair were sticking up and giving him a semi-jagged look that was unavoidable without hair care products and biannual barber visits. Still, at least his hair was out of his face.
Considering how important his own appearance was, Jonathan immediately latched his eyes on this new doctor the moment the door swung open. The very first thought that Jonathan had was 'Young'. He could see why Edward called him a kid. Obviously, this man was not a child, but he did have fairly softer features that made him seem a bit younger than he likely was. Not to mention the fact that Jonathan was almost a foot taller than the boy in front of him. Normally, in this case, people developed a complex about their appearance, or perhaps an obsession with appearing more manly. Just look at that Penguin for a prime example of a Napoleon complex. But here, all initial impressions suggested the opposite. This boy was comfortable with his soft features and small stature, and he even enhanced them by keeping his physical frame average in muscle tone and allowing his hair to grow fairly long. Tying his hair back did nothing to hide the fact that he had the confidence that many men seemed to lack to have long hair. Jonathan could only imagine how much this boy had been bullied for his height and his last name… he would have to ask about that one day.
It was also important to note that rather than letting the guard escort Jonathan to his chair, Dr. Mayflower had come to greet him at the door personally. Very polite… or perhaps nervous? He didn't seem nervous though considering that there was no waiver to his voice when he greeted him.
Speaking of greeting… Mr. This new doctor, like so many others, chose to use the prefix Mr instead of Dr as Jonathan preferred. Jonathan hypothesized that the reason they did this was out of some sort of fear. They did not want to associate themselves and their ‘type’ as being capable of becoming criminals so they attempted to revoke the title of Doctor, as if he had lost his past education just because he got arrested. As if killing people made all of his past accomplishments no longer exist just because a few people were no longer of this earth. It was always terrifying for people to see the greatest of them fall, and Jonathan was indeed considered great back then... although he did not see what he was doing now as a fall, quite the opposite in fact. He could only imagine how much panic would spread through the city if the great Batman fell. The very thought was momentarily enough to make Jonathan forget about the Mr. comment and about Arkham entirely.
Still, such a small thing such as his prefix being changed was not worth turning hostile or even a comment. “Thank you, Doctor,” Jonathan responded, looking down at the much shorter doctor with light brown eyes that obviously had just been checking him out. Not in the flirtatious way either, Jonathan’s stares were purely scientific and sought answers to questions he had yet to ask. Besides, it wasn't like Jonathan had a paper to take notes on so he had to do his best to commit everything to memory because you never knew what may be important later. Who knows, perhaps this doctor would end up ripping out his hair when overcome with fear, so knowing how long his hair was now was important.
Pulling his eyes away from the doctor, Jonathan stepped into the room as requested and took in the sights. It was rather plain at this point, perhaps because Dr. Mayflower was still moving in and getting comfy or, and this was more likely, Dr. Mayflower like so many other doctors feared their patients and so wanted to keep all signs of their personal life away from work. Plus, the fewer items in your office the fewer items that a patient could use to kill you. Yes, this too was born of fear, but keeping your office plain was a sign of bravery in some ways. The truly cowardly ones did not even take patients in their office and instead used the interview rooms where the patient could be chained to the table, locked in a cage, or kept on the other side of a glass wall.
Back in the day, Jonathan also used his office to speak with patients no matter their risk level, and his office looked fairly similar to this although with some key differences. He did not keep his personal artifacts away from his office since, by that time, there was nothing left in his personal life besides horror and his passion for fear. As such, Jonathan kept a stuffed bookshelf in his office that had reading material ranging from his own publishings, to other people's work and journals on psychology, to horror novels that he sometimes had to hide in order to not scare his patients. He kept his diploma visible since people liked to know who was and who was not born and raised in Gotham; sure Jonathan had spent the first decade of his life elsewhere, but graduating from Gotham made him appear to be a true Gotham citizen. They didn't need to know the full truth. Additionally, Jonathan kept a large couch in his office that he would let his patients use if they wanted to, but it was actually for his own use. Jonathan used to practically lived at the asylum and as such needed a place to take naps in between legal and illegal sessions.
The most obvious difference between the two doctors was that Dr. Mayflower had the asylum provided computer sitting nearby while Jonathan never used that thing. In fact, he never used paper and pens either since Jonathan took notes on a computer he bought with his own money and brought from home. It was more high tech than the one the asylum provided. Furthermore, these computer notes were only meant to support the audio recordings which were easily the most vital part of his studies. No matter who it was, Jonathan would make comments before and after the session as well as record every piece of dialogue that occurred between the two. Computer notes were only so that he could note physical habits or non-verbal communication attempts. This way Jonathan could review anything and everything the patient said if he wanted to rather than relying on mostly his memory and how fast his hands were at writing.
This preferred method of ‘note-taking’ did have some drawbacks though… such as the fact that Jonathan used the same audio recorder for his normal patients and for his illegal experiments. As such, when the cops came investigating why Jonathan snapped and for information about the gas he created, they were shocked to find hours and hours worth of audio files where Jonathan detailed his motivations, what little he knew about his financial donor, what level of fear he was aiming to produce, and most of all, there were hours of screams, whimpering, and begging from the patients often accompanied by Jonathan laughing with glee or whispering even more frightful words to them. Not a single minute of these recordings was ever shown to the public or other doctors, and only fifteen minutes of audio was enough to convince people that Jonathan was not only guilty but unhinged to do something like this. Sadly for some, if you were not a cop or in that room with the audiotapes, you would never hear the contents found within. After breaking out of Arkham for the first time, Jonathan also broke into the GCPD lockup center and stole the entire box of flash drives that contained Jonathan’s research notes. They have never been found since, although Jonathan has assured people that the recordings still exist and he has not destroyed them. Why would he? They contain vital research data and are proof at how far he and his toxins have come.
Mentally shaking memories from the past out of his head, Jonathan limped over to the desk and was about to take a seat when he noticed two more things of interest. One, the chairs had been switched. Normally the doctors had the leather chair and the patients got the cheap rollers, but they had been moved. For what reasons, Jonathan could not imagine, but not that he minded. He preferred the stable leather ones anyway. Secondly, there on the desk neatly stacked in a pile were files, and his was right on top in plain black and white. Interesting placement choice.
Naturally, most patients did not like being patients here and as such hated to see that their doctor was reading all about their past and habits. Oh, many of them knew that this was happening, but that didn't mean they liked it to be shoved in their face. So why in the world would Dr. Mayflower leave his patients information out as if implying he had been reading it right before Jonathan walked in? If he truly had just been reading the file, the man was a procrastinator, but based on what Hatter and Riddler had said, this man was smarter than that. It had to have been intentional then, although the purpose of doing that was not clear just yet.
Choosing not to comment on it for a minute, Jonathan took a seat in his chair and allowed himself to relax. Despite his formal way of speaking and preferred appearance, Jonathan did not sit like a man who cared about his appearance. He was highly hunched over, his posture positively horrible. It wasn't just his back either, but his shoulders were pushed forward as well. It made the thin but tall man look rather small and frail, but at the same time, if he were to contort himself a bit or twist his head in an odd way, it may have made him appear a bit creepy to the more sensitive of minds. Jonathan had this informal posture from before Batman and before Scarecrow, so it could not be blamed on any recent events. This was just how his back liked to curve.
“I’m rather well. Excited actually; I enjoy meeting new people here since it’s always the same faces day after day,” Jonathan said, cocking his head to the side when the doctor turned his back to him. Brave or stupid, it was hard to say. Sure, Jonathan had nothing on him today, but there was nothing stopping him from using the pens on the desk as weaponry. A few seconds was all it took to grab a pen, lunge across the desk, and plunge the entire thing into the neck of the cocky doctor. Even those short seconds were reduced if Jonathan managed to get a vial of his toxin into a syringe one day; depending on the version of his toxin, just a few drops on, not in, the skin would put an end to the doctor. Still, those were plans for later. Today was a meet and greet, so best to be friendly and stop focusing on all of the ways that the doctor was leaving himself wide open to injury. He would learn soon enough; the real question was whether or not Jonathan would be the one giving that lesson or if it would be a different patient to remind Dr. Mayflower of the dangers at hand.
In contrast to his thoughts, Jonathan did not even flinch towards the pens or some sort of weapon. Even with his back to him, the doctor should have realized how still Jonathan was being in the chair. See, the cuffs holding Jonathan's hands together were loud and jingled at the slightest of movements, so the fact that they were silent meant that Jonathan was being a statue. That was the price he was paying for being polite. Dr. Mayflower showed trust in turning his back, so Jonathan was being kind in turn by making sure that the doctor had no reason to fear. Jonathan's intentions to behave was hopefully becoming perfectly clear.
Pushing the conversation along, Jonathan kept his hands on his lap as he was supposed to, although he made no attempt to hide that he was glancing around the room and taking everything in. “A much more interesting question though is, how are you, Doctor? You are new to Arkham, after all, and today seems to be your first day actually handling patients. It must be quite the change from wherever you used to work.” The only place that could be compared to Arkham was Blackgate Prison a few cities over. The conditions there were even worse than here, and they didn't even have the bulk of Gotham’s supercriminals under their roof! “Are you adjusting well?”
“I hope that today has been interesting so far. It would be a shame if your first day was uneventful, especially considering the characters you have been buttering up all day.” Although many found this hard to believe, but Jonathan detested lying. He had lied before, but he would much rather just not say something rather than blatantly say the opposite of the truth. So in this case, Jonathan was more than willing to lay his cards on the table and inform Dr. Mayflower that he had spoken to some of his previous appointments. “Do I get tea as well, or are you saving it all for our dear Mad Hatter?” Joanthan asked, slightly smiling at his coy display of information gathering. This was not an accusation, because accusations had a negative connotation, instead this was just a way to bring them both to more or less the same standing. Jonathan was laying his hand on the table for everyone to see.
“He guzzles down tea faster than I thought possible, especially considering the temperatures he prefers his drinks at,” Jonathan continued casually. “No matter how many times he burns his mouth, he never learns, you see. I’m glad both of you got out of tea time without injury.” It was more than a few people could say that was for sure. One poor doctor was permanently scarred on the face when he took his eyes off the kettle for one second too long.
Jonathan was not necessarily trying to take over the conversation, but he definitely had no issue steering it a bit. He had questions he wanted answers to, and considering that Dr. Mayflower had played along with everyone else games, Jonathan figured that he would be no different. It didn't matter if Jonathan knew the game, or that this doctor knew that he knew, the situation was still the same. It wasn't like Jonathan was diving into any truly interesting, deep, or philosophical issues either; this was just casual banter that two doctors could be overheard having in a hallway. And it was the normality of this conversation that made this abnormal man seem all the more strange.
This was Arkham Asylum, not some normal therapy session taking place in someone's house to save money. The people here were expected to be bouncing all over the walls, be unable to tell fiction from reality, or at the very least be so devoted and obsessed with their passions and ideals that they could not converse without bringing it up. Just look at Isley, who loved her plants so much she could barely function without them around her and expressed her hatred of humans with every breath; Edward was the same with his inflated ego, riddles, and need to prove that he was above everyone else. Those two could not function like normal sane individuals because, even though they were not insane in the stereotypical sense, they were extremists without the ability to hold themselves back. Yet here Jonathan was, doing none of those things. Sure, he was thinking about fear and his experiments, but there was a huge difference in thought and action. Jonathan knew how to bite his tongue and discuss ‘other’ things even if at the end of the day he would much rather be focusing on what would make Dr. Mayflower go hoarse from screaming.
Letting out a slight chuckle, Jonathan shifted his weight so that he could reach up and fix his plastic glasses that he needed to wear in order to see anything clearly, near or far. He had gotten a few bad batches of toxin in the eyes and now they were more or less ruined. Once his vision was corrected, Jonathan opened his mouth once more, “So tell me, Dr. Mayflower, and do be honest with me,… what are your plans here? I’m not familiar with your name so I imagine that you are trying to build a reputation from scratch by interviewing Gotham’s supercriminals. Do you plan to write a book?” It wouldn't be the first time that someone came here to jumpstart their career or to try and get quick fame; it never worked out either because the patients were uncooperative or because the doctor was killed long before they could finish their study.
That’s why, in preparation for coming here, Jonathan had attempted to correct his appearance.
Sadly, there was nothing Jonathan could do about his clothing or shoes. The shoes were black, but clearly pre-used and worn down. It wouldn't be long until the off white socks Jonathan was wearing became visible in the toe area. The arch was completely gone too, not to mention the fact that it was one size too big for Jonathan whose feet were a bit narrower than most men his height. It made his already unsteady walk even less so.
But those were just shoes, so they were far less visible or important than the vibrant, neon jumpsuit Jonathan and all other patients were forced to wear here. This wasn't just some normal mental hospital where white clothing was the go-to, this was a prison turned asylum, and as such, they wore clothing more befitting of a prisoner. In addition to the Arkham Asylum logo placed over the heart, on the right chest was the patient's number which in this case read 61505. Underneath the zip-up jumpsuit was a white t-shirt which was, surprisingly considering the condition of most people's shirts, still fairly white and untorn; Jonathan didn't throw around feces, spill his food, or get into fights so thankfully he was able to keep his clothing fairly clean most of the time… although he was not allowed to wash his own clothing and never got more than a handful of shampoo since he was forbidden to have access to chemicals in any sizable amounts, even the hygenic kind.
Speaking of shampoo, although he had no scissors to cut his hair with nor products to keep his hair neat, Jonathan did comb his hair with his fingers and make sure he had a clean part. Sadly, both of these had to be done without a mirror so Jonathan could only hope that he had cleaned himself up properly. The mirror in his cell had long ago been removed. Jonathan could almost guarantee that parts of his unruly hair were sticking up and giving him a semi-jagged look that was unavoidable without hair care products and biannual barber visits. Still, at least his hair was out of his face.
Considering how important his own appearance was, Jonathan immediately latched his eyes on this new doctor the moment the door swung open. The very first thought that Jonathan had was 'Young'. He could see why Edward called him a kid. Obviously, this man was not a child, but he did have fairly softer features that made him seem a bit younger than he likely was. Not to mention the fact that Jonathan was almost a foot taller than the boy in front of him. Normally, in this case, people developed a complex about their appearance, or perhaps an obsession with appearing more manly. Just look at that Penguin for a prime example of a Napoleon complex. But here, all initial impressions suggested the opposite. This boy was comfortable with his soft features and small stature, and he even enhanced them by keeping his physical frame average in muscle tone and allowing his hair to grow fairly long. Tying his hair back did nothing to hide the fact that he had the confidence that many men seemed to lack to have long hair. Jonathan could only imagine how much this boy had been bullied for his height and his last name… he would have to ask about that one day.
It was also important to note that rather than letting the guard escort Jonathan to his chair, Dr. Mayflower had come to greet him at the door personally. Very polite… or perhaps nervous? He didn't seem nervous though considering that there was no waiver to his voice when he greeted him.
Speaking of greeting… Mr. This new doctor, like so many others, chose to use the prefix Mr instead of Dr as Jonathan preferred. Jonathan hypothesized that the reason they did this was out of some sort of fear. They did not want to associate themselves and their ‘type’ as being capable of becoming criminals so they attempted to revoke the title of Doctor, as if he had lost his past education just because he got arrested. As if killing people made all of his past accomplishments no longer exist just because a few people were no longer of this earth. It was always terrifying for people to see the greatest of them fall, and Jonathan was indeed considered great back then... although he did not see what he was doing now as a fall, quite the opposite in fact. He could only imagine how much panic would spread through the city if the great Batman fell. The very thought was momentarily enough to make Jonathan forget about the Mr. comment and about Arkham entirely.
Still, such a small thing such as his prefix being changed was not worth turning hostile or even a comment. “Thank you, Doctor,” Jonathan responded, looking down at the much shorter doctor with light brown eyes that obviously had just been checking him out. Not in the flirtatious way either, Jonathan’s stares were purely scientific and sought answers to questions he had yet to ask. Besides, it wasn't like Jonathan had a paper to take notes on so he had to do his best to commit everything to memory because you never knew what may be important later. Who knows, perhaps this doctor would end up ripping out his hair when overcome with fear, so knowing how long his hair was now was important.
Pulling his eyes away from the doctor, Jonathan stepped into the room as requested and took in the sights. It was rather plain at this point, perhaps because Dr. Mayflower was still moving in and getting comfy or, and this was more likely, Dr. Mayflower like so many other doctors feared their patients and so wanted to keep all signs of their personal life away from work. Plus, the fewer items in your office the fewer items that a patient could use to kill you. Yes, this too was born of fear, but keeping your office plain was a sign of bravery in some ways. The truly cowardly ones did not even take patients in their office and instead used the interview rooms where the patient could be chained to the table, locked in a cage, or kept on the other side of a glass wall.
Back in the day, Jonathan also used his office to speak with patients no matter their risk level, and his office looked fairly similar to this although with some key differences. He did not keep his personal artifacts away from his office since, by that time, there was nothing left in his personal life besides horror and his passion for fear. As such, Jonathan kept a stuffed bookshelf in his office that had reading material ranging from his own publishings, to other people's work and journals on psychology, to horror novels that he sometimes had to hide in order to not scare his patients. He kept his diploma visible since people liked to know who was and who was not born and raised in Gotham; sure Jonathan had spent the first decade of his life elsewhere, but graduating from Gotham made him appear to be a true Gotham citizen. They didn't need to know the full truth. Additionally, Jonathan kept a large couch in his office that he would let his patients use if they wanted to, but it was actually for his own use. Jonathan used to practically lived at the asylum and as such needed a place to take naps in between legal and illegal sessions.
The most obvious difference between the two doctors was that Dr. Mayflower had the asylum provided computer sitting nearby while Jonathan never used that thing. In fact, he never used paper and pens either since Jonathan took notes on a computer he bought with his own money and brought from home. It was more high tech than the one the asylum provided. Furthermore, these computer notes were only meant to support the audio recordings which were easily the most vital part of his studies. No matter who it was, Jonathan would make comments before and after the session as well as record every piece of dialogue that occurred between the two. Computer notes were only so that he could note physical habits or non-verbal communication attempts. This way Jonathan could review anything and everything the patient said if he wanted to rather than relying on mostly his memory and how fast his hands were at writing.
This preferred method of ‘note-taking’ did have some drawbacks though… such as the fact that Jonathan used the same audio recorder for his normal patients and for his illegal experiments. As such, when the cops came investigating why Jonathan snapped and for information about the gas he created, they were shocked to find hours and hours worth of audio files where Jonathan detailed his motivations, what little he knew about his financial donor, what level of fear he was aiming to produce, and most of all, there were hours of screams, whimpering, and begging from the patients often accompanied by Jonathan laughing with glee or whispering even more frightful words to them. Not a single minute of these recordings was ever shown to the public or other doctors, and only fifteen minutes of audio was enough to convince people that Jonathan was not only guilty but unhinged to do something like this. Sadly for some, if you were not a cop or in that room with the audiotapes, you would never hear the contents found within. After breaking out of Arkham for the first time, Jonathan also broke into the GCPD lockup center and stole the entire box of flash drives that contained Jonathan’s research notes. They have never been found since, although Jonathan has assured people that the recordings still exist and he has not destroyed them. Why would he? They contain vital research data and are proof at how far he and his toxins have come.
Mentally shaking memories from the past out of his head, Jonathan limped over to the desk and was about to take a seat when he noticed two more things of interest. One, the chairs had been switched. Normally the doctors had the leather chair and the patients got the cheap rollers, but they had been moved. For what reasons, Jonathan could not imagine, but not that he minded. He preferred the stable leather ones anyway. Secondly, there on the desk neatly stacked in a pile were files, and his was right on top in plain black and white. Interesting placement choice.
Naturally, most patients did not like being patients here and as such hated to see that their doctor was reading all about their past and habits. Oh, many of them knew that this was happening, but that didn't mean they liked it to be shoved in their face. So why in the world would Dr. Mayflower leave his patients information out as if implying he had been reading it right before Jonathan walked in? If he truly had just been reading the file, the man was a procrastinator, but based on what Hatter and Riddler had said, this man was smarter than that. It had to have been intentional then, although the purpose of doing that was not clear just yet.
Choosing not to comment on it for a minute, Jonathan took a seat in his chair and allowed himself to relax. Despite his formal way of speaking and preferred appearance, Jonathan did not sit like a man who cared about his appearance. He was highly hunched over, his posture positively horrible. It wasn't just his back either, but his shoulders were pushed forward as well. It made the thin but tall man look rather small and frail, but at the same time, if he were to contort himself a bit or twist his head in an odd way, it may have made him appear a bit creepy to the more sensitive of minds. Jonathan had this informal posture from before Batman and before Scarecrow, so it could not be blamed on any recent events. This was just how his back liked to curve.
“I’m rather well. Excited actually; I enjoy meeting new people here since it’s always the same faces day after day,” Jonathan said, cocking his head to the side when the doctor turned his back to him. Brave or stupid, it was hard to say. Sure, Jonathan had nothing on him today, but there was nothing stopping him from using the pens on the desk as weaponry. A few seconds was all it took to grab a pen, lunge across the desk, and plunge the entire thing into the neck of the cocky doctor. Even those short seconds were reduced if Jonathan managed to get a vial of his toxin into a syringe one day; depending on the version of his toxin, just a few drops on, not in, the skin would put an end to the doctor. Still, those were plans for later. Today was a meet and greet, so best to be friendly and stop focusing on all of the ways that the doctor was leaving himself wide open to injury. He would learn soon enough; the real question was whether or not Jonathan would be the one giving that lesson or if it would be a different patient to remind Dr. Mayflower of the dangers at hand.
In contrast to his thoughts, Jonathan did not even flinch towards the pens or some sort of weapon. Even with his back to him, the doctor should have realized how still Jonathan was being in the chair. See, the cuffs holding Jonathan's hands together were loud and jingled at the slightest of movements, so the fact that they were silent meant that Jonathan was being a statue. That was the price he was paying for being polite. Dr. Mayflower showed trust in turning his back, so Jonathan was being kind in turn by making sure that the doctor had no reason to fear. Jonathan's intentions to behave was hopefully becoming perfectly clear.
Pushing the conversation along, Jonathan kept his hands on his lap as he was supposed to, although he made no attempt to hide that he was glancing around the room and taking everything in. “A much more interesting question though is, how are you, Doctor? You are new to Arkham, after all, and today seems to be your first day actually handling patients. It must be quite the change from wherever you used to work.” The only place that could be compared to Arkham was Blackgate Prison a few cities over. The conditions there were even worse than here, and they didn't even have the bulk of Gotham’s supercriminals under their roof! “Are you adjusting well?”
“I hope that today has been interesting so far. It would be a shame if your first day was uneventful, especially considering the characters you have been buttering up all day.” Although many found this hard to believe, but Jonathan detested lying. He had lied before, but he would much rather just not say something rather than blatantly say the opposite of the truth. So in this case, Jonathan was more than willing to lay his cards on the table and inform Dr. Mayflower that he had spoken to some of his previous appointments. “Do I get tea as well, or are you saving it all for our dear Mad Hatter?” Joanthan asked, slightly smiling at his coy display of information gathering. This was not an accusation, because accusations had a negative connotation, instead this was just a way to bring them both to more or less the same standing. Jonathan was laying his hand on the table for everyone to see.
“He guzzles down tea faster than I thought possible, especially considering the temperatures he prefers his drinks at,” Jonathan continued casually. “No matter how many times he burns his mouth, he never learns, you see. I’m glad both of you got out of tea time without injury.” It was more than a few people could say that was for sure. One poor doctor was permanently scarred on the face when he took his eyes off the kettle for one second too long.
Jonathan was not necessarily trying to take over the conversation, but he definitely had no issue steering it a bit. He had questions he wanted answers to, and considering that Dr. Mayflower had played along with everyone else games, Jonathan figured that he would be no different. It didn't matter if Jonathan knew the game, or that this doctor knew that he knew, the situation was still the same. It wasn't like Jonathan was diving into any truly interesting, deep, or philosophical issues either; this was just casual banter that two doctors could be overheard having in a hallway. And it was the normality of this conversation that made this abnormal man seem all the more strange.
This was Arkham Asylum, not some normal therapy session taking place in someone's house to save money. The people here were expected to be bouncing all over the walls, be unable to tell fiction from reality, or at the very least be so devoted and obsessed with their passions and ideals that they could not converse without bringing it up. Just look at Isley, who loved her plants so much she could barely function without them around her and expressed her hatred of humans with every breath; Edward was the same with his inflated ego, riddles, and need to prove that he was above everyone else. Those two could not function like normal sane individuals because, even though they were not insane in the stereotypical sense, they were extremists without the ability to hold themselves back. Yet here Jonathan was, doing none of those things. Sure, he was thinking about fear and his experiments, but there was a huge difference in thought and action. Jonathan knew how to bite his tongue and discuss ‘other’ things even if at the end of the day he would much rather be focusing on what would make Dr. Mayflower go hoarse from screaming.
Letting out a slight chuckle, Jonathan shifted his weight so that he could reach up and fix his plastic glasses that he needed to wear in order to see anything clearly, near or far. He had gotten a few bad batches of toxin in the eyes and now they were more or less ruined. Once his vision was corrected, Jonathan opened his mouth once more, “So tell me, Dr. Mayflower, and do be honest with me,… what are your plans here? I’m not familiar with your name so I imagine that you are trying to build a reputation from scratch by interviewing Gotham’s supercriminals. Do you plan to write a book?” It wouldn't be the first time that someone came here to jumpstart their career or to try and get quick fame; it never worked out either because the patients were uncooperative or because the doctor was killed long before they could finish their study.
Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
•●•
"That's good, I like meeting new people as well," He answered swiftly while looking over the document and sat down on the roller chair. New people were nice in small quantities. Groups were somewhat of a different topic, but for the current conversation, he truly did enjoy meeting new people.
Matthias' gaze swept over the blank documents he had pulled from the filing cabinet as Mr. Crane spoke, occasionally flickering up to acknowledge that he was speaking. He was, by no means, ignoring him as he set the blank document flatly beside the folder labeled 'Dr. Jonathon Crane', then flipping open the latter document so that both were laying across the table to both observers. No, this wasn't any ordinary mundane movement, Matthias was aware of the issues that often arose with doctors analyzing their patients within open view, this was just using another little tactic in his rapidly forming storage of potential actions, behaviors, or details that could make the most of the session; simply performing the minor preparations of the interview within open sight.
However, there was no malice or naivety in this action. He had already learned that the format for the Arkham patient profiles had long been changed a couple of years ago, post-Dr. Jonathon Crane becoming the Scarecrow, that is. The old rosters had been too 'delicately worded' as it had been phrased to him when it was explained, hardly took any consideration to the 'criminally' part of 'criminally insane'. Rather than malice, he figured that it would possibly be refreshing to the former doctor, to know the new format as well as what was currently being said about him.
Besides, it was just a format, and the information on the completed document -- whether true or false -- could provide plenty of insight into the man. The way Dr. Mayflower saw it, this was a mutually beneficial tactic; Mr. Crane could learn what was said in the document while Dr. Mayflower could use this as a way to identify what Mr. Crane believed to be correct or incorrect about himself. Luckily, names other than those of the patient made themselves a rarity on these documents.
How are you, Doctor?
He glanced up at the question, currently filling in the blank of 'patient name' in the fresh document, his writing somewhat slow from the extra effort of writing legibly. It was a somewhat backhanded comment, lacking any genuine concern and clearly being used as a mere way to identify exactly how much the other man knew. Matthias did not let it sting, familiar with such bluntness after years back home. "Ah, I'm glad that you are able to talk to other patients. I was vaguely worried that they simply kept you all in complete isolation twenty-four seven." He chimed. "It's actually been a rather mundane. I'm somewhat surprised." He admitted, returning to finish writing the name 'Jonathon Hamish Crane' into the blank under patient name.
He gave a small and soft laugh as Mr. Crane mentioned the tea, "I'll have to keep the kettle's temperature lower next time then, thank you for the warning." He had already left it pretty low before, figuring that it would be best to avoid any sort of unfortunate injuries before they had the chance to occur, though now believed that it would likely be best to dial it down perhaps a few more notches since such injuries had already occurred in the past. Perhaps he would start making sure to not fill the kettle anymore than enough for one or two cups as well, in the event that the Mad Hatter did ever snap during a session, as there would be no water left to throw around.
Matthias retrieved his notepad, seeming to constantly be doing something as the interview proceeded. Some could find it irritating, he could recall more than a few times where his previous patients had snapped at him, accusing him of not listening. Usually, he would not be moving about so much, only occasionally tearing his focus away from the interview to write a note or two down, but the addition of his plan to document this interview in plain sight made it somewhat more difficult to maintain his usual stillness, particularly when his typical handwriting could be described as 'atrocious' at best.
The notebook page was already flipped to the former page filled with other brief reminders in the notepad before he even brought it out, his other hand setting both of the former documents aside as he wrote a swift note to himself about the tea kettle. 'Waterkoker,' written in near-illegible chicken scratch just like the others, set below the reminder to bring tea. Once finished with that, he flipped to a blank page a little bit deeper in the notepad and set it flatly on the desk, the pen resting on top of it. He looked up just as Mr. Crane began speaking again, putting his undivided attention on him as he folded his hands on the desk and listened.
What are your plans here?
Although he didn't let it show, the question vaguely amused him as he briefly reflected on the similar question posed by Ms. Quinzel. It seemed to be a common trait here, curiosity. He had no problem with that, even finding it to be somewhat refreshing to receive such a familiar question posed by countless other patients. Everyone liked to know what would come from the sessions, what they'd get out of it, knowing just brought them peace of mind.
It was different though with Mr. Crane's phrasing. It was not a question of what Mr. Crane would get out of it, but rather, what he would get from it. The question caught him slightly off-guard, causing him to hesitate briefly while considering a proper answer. There were countless minute reasons he could give; the paycheck being somewhat substantial due to the danger involved -- enough to pay off his student loans with a couple of years of work, or perhaps he could stick with the standard reason of 'I just want to help people,' something that was not entirely false, but even he could recognize that there were more reasons beyond that and using that as a definite answer would be somewhat shallow and likely to cause some irritation.
'It's an excuse,' he silently considered responding before swiftly dismissing the somber thought. It would be difficult to explain and was not something he wanted to dwell on.
For all simplicity, as much as he wanted to dismiss the comment, Mr. Crane had struck the reason precisely; it was a way to create the name he lacked. "I suppose that would be the primary reason for my employment here." He answered earnestly, still considering the question, glancing up and to the side slightly as he thought, watching the fluorescent lights as he continued, the annoying faint buzz of the lights making itself present again as he took notice of them once more. "Analyzing some of Gotham's most notorious minds is a quick route to earning a legacy, something that plenty of people prior to me have strived for and plenty of people afterward will still aim towards. If I am capable of doing that, then my secondary goal of assisting people -- both within and outside of this facility -- will be achieved." He spoke as if detaching Jonathon from the rest of the facility as if addressing just another doctor in a plain conversation.
If one were to reflect on the way he spoke to him and addressed him, they would likely find two noticeable facts; one, this tactic was simply being mirrored from Mr. Crane's own actions. Jonathon may have been the one to originally begin the ordinary dialogue, but Dr. Mayflower was undeniably continuing it; which leads to number two, in distancing the conversation from that of a therapist talking with a patient and keeping them both on the same level, Dr. Mayflower was, in turn, making it difficult for the dialogue to be turned back against him and preventing the possibility of the session turning to him being the patient and Mr. Crane being the analyzer.
Of course, due to this being a dialogue, Matthias would have a few questions posed to him, but it also opened the air to pose a few back to the former doctor. One question for another. One piece of information for another. An eye for an eye.
"I suppose it also helps to repay the student loan debt," He mused, giving a pleasant smile at his own joke before swiftly directing his attention back to the former doctor. "How about you?" He began, "What do you see yourself gaining from these sessions? I have been informed that you tend to use these chances to analyze those trying to question you, some have claimed that you would plainly refuse to answer their questions. May I ask if you believe this is due to you believing that you have no room to improve or that you do not need to?-" He asked, clearly questioning -- albeit in a faintly nicer way -- if Mr. Crane believed himself to be better than the doctors he spoke too, like Mr. Nygma. "-Would it maybe be an issue of you see no feasible way to change?-" Under the phrasing, that was a question of self-doubt, whether Mr. Crane believed there was no way to recover. "-Or would it be that you are just not interested in revealing personal details about yourself? You wouldn't be a first, for that, I am sure that you're already familiar with the concept of personal people." That was a harder question to decipher, lacking none of the flowery phrasings of the others.
Matthias spoke rather quick, but fluently and kept his voice level. Part of him was still faintly unsettled by how Mr. Crane had been so quick to analyze one of the biggest reasons for Matthias working here, making him somewhat swift to change the topic back on Jonathon; however, he kept the dialogue up. If he had to reveal some personal details in order to turn the topic back onto the other man, then it was a fair assumption that the topic could turn somewhat personal. While this made Matthias somewhat uncomfortable -- after all, he was one of those so-called 'personal people' he had formerly mentioned -- he was determined to make it worth it.
He waited a couple of moments after posing the question before letting his attention drift back to the document, setting the blank notepad aside and continuing to fill out the basics of the blank document. Sex; male. Date of birth; April 13th, 1984. He set the pen on the paper for the languages spoken section, considering it for a moment before recognizing it was likely intended for those that interviewed him to have a better idea of what he could read and such, glancing at the completed document for a moment and skimming over the two languages for a second, he seemed to resolve to skip that section, moving on to height. Skipped. Weight? Skipped as well.
He skipped quite a few areas, coming to the blank spot for level of education and copying that from the completed document onto the blank one; Psychology Doctorate, Chemistry Major. The one detail changed in that section between the two documents -- as the already completed one seemed to have quite a few marks and scuffs around it from past doctors adding their own notes and details, one was very clear in bright red ink across the previous titles -- DISBARRED. It was sharp, bold, and an ugly contrast to the rest of the page, almost as if Mr. Crane had pissed off the wrong person right before they had made the change to document. Most of the finished document was like this, with various sections written over or sticky notes littered across it, clearly having gone through quite a few researchers already.
Mayflower was simply making a clean copy. Devoid of the personal opinions of the former doctors that had long left the facility. Facts with the occasional observation.
Of course, the status of the man's degrees was an important detail and were not left out from the new document, instead written cleanly with a simple but universal slashed E at the end. No comically large and scribbled bright red letters, just a simple indicator of the fact that crime is a quick way to have your former degrees redacted.
Matthias skimmed over the rest of the document, flipping across the pages of both of them before seeming to not find any of his oddly cherry-picked sections to fill out, setting it aside as he returned his attention to Mr. Crane, setting the document aside on top of the other and setting his notepad back in front of himself so that he could write down anything important if needed. Keeping the other documents close; it was clear that they would be a topic of the conversation later.
The only brief interruption in Dr. Mayflower's focus seemed to be as his gaze drifted behind Mr. Crane to the clock above the door. Not much time had passed since the introduction, and as Matthias wrote down 1:30 PM on the top edge of the paper, taking the care to write neatly enough for it to be legible, it became clear that he had merely forgotten to write the time the interview had begun. After all, he was new to this style of session where times had to be recorded carefully and precisely -- unlike his former sessions where it could be off by a quarter-hour with little change. An honest blunder on his part that had already happened a couple of times today while he tried to catch the hang of things.
After the brief lapse of complete focus on Mr. Crane, similar to the former minute or so of restlessness, he turned his attention solely back to Mr. Crane.
It was a strange way of interviewing that could easily be interpreted as a mere lack of focus, what with Matthias shifting around so often and seeming to be keeping himself constantly busy. One could assume it to be unease, but he wouldn't be taking his focus off Mr. Crane so often if that was true -- most would keep their gaze strictly on him in order to have a faster reaction in the case that the patient tried to strike them. Inversely, it could be interpreted as being an intentional lapse of watching him in order to see if the former doctor would strike when given the chance. Of course, the flaw of that was the fact that Matthias was still taking the care to occasionally glance up, as well as the fact that plenty of charges had snapped at their doctors in the past, making it outright stupid for anyone to lose total focus on their charges. Perhaps naivety could also be an excuse? It was his first day here, after all, but he had already been told the stories that cautioned him against not dedicating a hundred-and-ten percent of his focus to those he spoke to.
"I apologize for my bluntness; however, you do not seem the type to care much for so-called 'buttering up'. Please tell me if there are any topics you would like to avoid and I will keep away from them to the best of my abilities." He eventually explained, his words sincere. There was no need for anyone to become riled up by the conversation. He preferred to keep the discussion light-hearted for the both of them, particularly for the first session. Matthias knew the importance of first impressions, as he had noticed Mr. Crane seemed to recognize too judging by the slightly less ragged appearance in comparison to some of the other people within the facility. There was no reason to be rude and turn the conversation anywhere that he wanted to avoid and get off on the wrong foot. "By the way, feel free to tell me if anything is bothering you, whether it is something that I am doing or something about the facility. That's what these sessions are intended for in the records, after all." He mused, it seeming to be a small jab at the facility or perhaps just a naive lack of recognizing the Asylum's lack of care for their patients. Sarcasm, but phrased carefully enough to only be such if Jonathon recognized it as such.
•●•
Viper
One Thousand Club
Paperwork. At the sight of the blank files Dr. Mayflower had before him, Jonathan made no attempts to hide his disgust for them. His nose scrunched up, wrinkled just as much as his brows at this point. They had changed the papers around from when Jonathan worked here, but from what he could see, it was not for the better. “Well, that looks as restricting as ever; no freedom to experiment or show your own personal flair,” Jonathan said, nodding his head towards the papers. For the moment his attention was on the black files Mayflower was filling out, but it wouldn't be long before Jonathan focused on his own files. “No matter how hard bureaucrats and management tries, the human mind will never fit so cleanly on a piece of paper. The human psyche is too fluid, too fragile…. Especially in places like these where behavior and mental states change daily and depending on who's around.”
“Besides,” Jonathan said, lifting both of his hands and waving at his own filled out and heavily edited document, “When so many people have access to the files they become rather worthless, especially when in the hands of someone with a grudge against a patient, or more dangerously, they are allied with the patient.” Jonathan did not explain further exactly what he meant by the influence of grudges and loyalty when it came down to what exactly was put on a patient’s files and reports. But one could imagine. Surely Harleen Quinzel, while treating the Joker once upon a time, wrote down many things on her reports that made him look far less dangerous than he actually was. In fact, her influence on these reports may have caused the guards watching Joker take him less seriously or they allowed him access to privileges that may have helped him escape. On the other hand, there were doctors with personal grudges against the patients and/or wanted to keep them around for selfish reasons; some doctors did not like for their toys to go home even after they were deemed safe enough to be freed and/or transferred to a lower-security facility.
In a voice not unlike a teacher, Jonathan continued without pause, “ If anything, preconceptions about a character is more detrimental than anything. Warnings for safety reasons, I understand, and facts about a patient's past can be useful tools… but far too many doctors lean on the words of their predecessors rather than simply investigating, observing, and asking the patient themselves. If you cannot do your job without the help of the others that came before you, then you are unqualified to even attempt diving into the minds of even the most mundane of people.” Jonathan paused, looking at Dr. Mayflower and then once again at the files sitting before them. “The most important lesson a psychologist should learn is that their job is centered around human to human interactions; it's all about one human with their own mind trying to understand a single other human who also has their own mind. The more people involved, the more minds in the room, the more impersonal every session will be.”
Jonathan paused, his voice losing that professor like quality and returning to the conversational tone from before. It wasn't a dramatic shift since who Jonathan was as a teacher was very similar to him as a person, but the slight change was visible. Jonathan shrugged and chuckled, “But perhaps that is just me failing to be a good team player. After all, I have always preferred to be the only doctor treating my patients at a time so that I could guarantee they were not getting influenced in ways that I thought was detrimental to their case and to reduce the number of times they heard the same questions." Exclusive patients were the way to go, and even from this side of the table, Jonathan would still rather have one doctor several times a week but for longer periods than a bunch of different ones every day. "Additionally, I suppose I just don’t put much stock in the words of a Doctor who abandoned from their patient out of fear or failure.” And unless the doctors were killed by their patients, this was exactly what happened. Fear of the patient or fear of failing caused many doctors to abandon their charges, and in Jonathan’s eyes, these actions were signs that their sessions were done wrong and therefore so too are the Doctors observations during that time.
“I’m an independent researcher for a reason, I suppose,” Jonathan concluded simply with another shrug of his thin shoulders.
“May I see?” Jonathan requested, curiosity about his own files strong enough to prompt the bold question. Although instructed to keep his hands in his lap, Jonathan lifted his cuffs and slowly set them on the table so that he could fold his hands together and lean in a bit. He could see the words since Mayflower was making no attempt to hide the file from view, but for the most part, there were too many edits and scribbles to make reading it upside down possible. “It’s been a long time since I was able to read my own file, and although I see that you are attempting to start fresh, I cannot help but find myself curious about what my peers have said about me as of late.” He could imagine that every word on that page was dripping in paranoia and speculation. he was hoping so. Honestly though, even when asking this Jonathan knew that the chances were low that Mayflower would give in. It was, after all, not allowed for patients to see their files or at least their whole files. Pointing at a sentence or two was allowed, but anything more was a big no for whatever reason.
Although this was a long tangent, things did eventually return to the topic of Jervis Tetch and solitary. “Oh, they certainly try to stop us from talking to each other. It’s been hard work just to get permission to have two hours and one meal out of my cell a day, and even then I am not allowed to go more than ten feet away from a guard at any given moment." Not to mention whispering and touching was out of the question. "Unfortunately, I am technically forbidden from talking to anyone along the lines of Hatter or the like no matter the circumstances. Most of the time we slip in small chats while we pass each other in the halls or in front of each others doors since they keep a lot of us in the same wing thankfully.” And by us, Jonathan meant the super criminals that were too dangerous not to be placed in the wing with heavy human and metal security, but also not enough of a threat to be in some of the underground hanging cells like Croc or Joker.
“Mundane, you say?” Jonathan said with honest surprise before continuing with more honest remarks. “How disappointing to come all the way to Arkham and be met with nothing… I’m curious, who did you speak with today that surprised you the most? Positively or negatively? If you are uncomfortable with sharing their names with me due to patient and doctor confidentiality, you don’t have to tell me.” Jonathan already knew about Riddler and Hatter, but there were likely others too and Jonathan could not help but fish for a bit more information about Mayflower's schedule. This was not Jonathan’s main motivation with this question though. He truly was just curious about Mayflower and his first day at the madhouse, or in this case, what was turning out to be the mundane house. “What were you expecting to face on your first day, anyway? Murder attempts on day one?”
While Mayflower fiddled with his notebook, as well as other things, Jonathan couldn't help but take notice. In comparison to his near stillness, watching someone flutter about so much was even more apparent. He watched the doctor scribble a few notes down on the page before moving to a clean page that was apparently being dedicated to Crane. Once again, it was near impossible to read things upside down so Jonathan rarely even tried to do it, instead choosing to keep his dark brown eyes on the younger doctor. Such a focused, unblinking gaze sometimes made people squirm, but until he noticed this trait, he fully intended on keeping his eyes locked on Mayflower. After all, being watched so closely when you were the one supposed to do the watching often resulted in nervousness and anxiety, both of which reflected some other fear hidden within them just as the fear of being judged.
Thanks to this close observation, Jonathan immediately noticed how the doctor paused after being asked his motivations. He had guessed the selfish motivation behind his presence at Arkham first try simply by being well informed on psychological studies. Jonathan could feel his own eyebrows twitch up as he realized he had gotten under this man’s skin, even if only slightly. This was not fear, but it was motivation, and behind every human motivation lurked a hidden terror pushing them forward.
Jonathan could not help it, when Dr. Mayflower left the door open to focus on his life work, Jonathan was compelled to take it even if it meant turning this pleasant conversation into a hazy, ill-advised territory. Jonathan visibly perked up and even straightened his back a bit before speaking. “You fear being remembered as worthless then, or not remembered at all,” Jonathan stated rather than questioned. “Finding a legacy means that you have done something in life that is worthwhile to more than just you, and in the same vein, helping people leaves behind direct proof that you existed and you mattered. I imagine that failure is also something that terrifies you then? Those who need to succeed often dread the opposite.”
This was bad territory to be in, every doctor who interacted with Jonathan knew this. If you gave him something to latch onto, something that he could use to make the mental jump from whatever you were talking about to fear, then he would. And when that happened, you needed to back peddle quickly. Distract him from the topic, or simply end the conversation, because giving him too much time to imagine your fears made him want to see you imagine your own fears, and the only way to make that happen was to target you specifically with his fear gas.
Thankfully though, whether Mayflower intended to do so or not, as the questions turned back to him, Jonathan he silently agreed to table the conversation for later. After all, it was a surprising question that deserved an answer. But Mayflower should know that it was only a matter of time before fear, and therefore his legacy, came up again. Mayflower was Jonathan’s patient now whether he wanted to be or not, and unless Mayflower gave up on his legacy already, they would have many more sessions to get to the heart of the matter.
Returning to his slouched position, Jonathan also corrected his glasses that had slid down his face during the fear conversation. “So many questions, Doctor! If I were not sound of mind, I’m sure half of those would have flown over my head.” This was not a criticism, but more like advice for how to handle some of the less mentally stable of patients such as Jervis whose memory was horrid. “But I’ll do my best to answer each in turn since you have been rather… cooperative and polite up until now.”
“Well, as to your first question, I see myself gaining a lot from these sessions. Talking to you doctors is often the highlight of my day, you see. Solitary is so dull without any books or people to occupy my mind, so conversing like this is always a pleasure.” This was a lighter, fluffy version of the truth that was indeed true, but not the whole truth. “And yes, as you said, I do take advantage of this intimate setting to analyze my ‘doctors.’ I see no reason to put my studies on halt when I am surrounded every day by people paid to talk to me; it is only fair that I profit off their attempts to profit off me.” This was not meant to be a pointed comment about Mayflower’s own selfish desires when it came to this session, but it could be taken that way without being entirely wrong.
At the mention of Jonathan refusing to answer questions, he let out a slight Ahh and nodded his head a few times. Oh yes, he refused to talk to his doctors for weeks before, but he would show up every time and behave. He was just uncooperative, although his motivations for doing so were not at all what Mayflower had listed. “Is it wrong for me to dislike some doctors in comparison to others? I am, after all, a person and it is unreasonable to expect me to enjoy every person I meet,” Jonathan responded. Dr. Mayson was a prime example of the type of doctor he disliked, all shouting and preaching with so little listening and responding. “I have no intention of answering the questions of others who do not show me the same courtesy, or those that do but lie to me the entire time. I make no claim to be a perfect or stagnant being, quite the opposite in fact, nor do I shy away from sharing my personal life… I simply will not take part in an interview with someone I fail to find interesting or at the very least receptive. It is as I said before, psychology is a two way street between two people; it is not a one-way road where I will just lay on the ground to be splattered by the neverending queries of men and women that have no passion for their craft."
Jonathan was, after all, a passionate man. No one could deny that even before he became Scarecrow he was a passionate psychologist, horror enthusiast, and professor. Even with all that has happened, his drive and love for his craft never died, so it was only natural he would respond ill to those who had no passion of their own and/or refused to let him indulge or even speak about his. Additionally, some doctors held too tightly onto the idea that Crane was crazy; he wasn't, he knew that for a fact, but being ambiguous on this matter was oftentimes amusing and allowed Crane to relate to different people more easily.
“Please note that I have answered every single one of your questions thus far without hesitation, and I have done the same with a number of other doctors in the past. “ This was an important fact, and so one Jonathan did not want Mayflower to miss. “Perhaps if those doctors had asked more intriguing questions or responded more interestingly, I would be speaking to them as openly as I am to you.” And with that, Jonathan had forced a relationship between the pair. It was a frail relationship that could change in an instant, but the fact that Jonathan was already placing Mayflower on the positive side of the fence was a good sign… or maybe not. Jonathan admitted himself that he spoke to those he found interesting, and there was only one reason he found people interesting as of late, so perhaps being seen positively was just as dangerous as being seen negatively.
Glancing down, Jonathan took note of how many sections were being skipped over. “Is none of that vital to you, or are you simply to shy to ask about them?” It was a simple question, far more mundane than the last few topics, but Jonathan still wanted to know. He was mainly interested in the fact that Mayflower skipped the weight section which, as he had learned during the last time he was arrested, was a very interesting topic to some doctors. Apparently ‘the food here is revolting’ was not a good enough response, and neither was ‘there are other things I would rather do with my time.’ Jonathan had been expecting questions about his weight and eating habits, although perhaps this doctor simply did not plan on discussing it today.
As if to prove his point previous about how these records were easily manipulated by the emotional waves of people with a drug, the bold red DISBARRED jumped out from the page. There were so many notes and changes on the page, yet still, this one change stood out. It was basically a single word meaning that Jonathan was not allowed to practice his work in any government or professional system due to past “unethical or criminal conduct.” Jonathan did not claim to be innocent, he broke the law, but he did it for a great reason. Science. He no longer officially had his license to practice, but it didn't matter, even that word did not take away the awards and certificates Jonathan had received his entire life. He was still one of the greatest minds psychology has ever seen, and not even losing his job could change that fact in his eyes and many others. He was, and always would be, a doctor of the mind and of fear.
It was almost sweet how tiny Mayflower made the note of this fact on the new, fresh document. Honestly, it was just nice that he was starting from scratch at all. Even before Jonathan’s rant at the start, it seemed like this was his plan, and Jonathan was very pleased to see Dr. Mayflower prioritizing his own observations over those of colleges he never met before. But with this final touch, it seemed like the paperwork was not important any longer and instead the free reign notepad was front and center.
That was just fine with Jonathan.
“You’ll get used to it,” Jonathan reassured, his tone seeming sincere when he noticed that the time on the notepad was late.
When the conversation continued, it was Jonathan's turn to be surprised. How rare to be asked what he didn't want to talk about rather than being asked what he did want to talk about, or just being forced into a dialogue about unpleasant or dead-end topics. “How unexpectedly considerate,” Jonathan said, a smile forming on his thin lips. “Well then, let me think for a moment. I hadn't expected this question to ever come up.” And so Jonathan thought, looking at his hands while he did so. Jonathan did not have to think for long though because within twenty seconds he was lifting his head again to look at Mayflower.
“Well, there is not much I am unwilling to talk to you about, to be honest, Dr. Mayflower. I will be open as long as you are open to me. However, I request that you do not ask me for my formulas or any details about their production. My fear toxin cannot be bought or forced out of me, so I ask that you don’t even try so that you save both of our time. I will, however, be open to talking to you about the vague overview of the toxin since I imagine you are very, very curious about it. Everyone is.” Not that Jonathan could blame them; his toxin was a beautiful invention never seen on Earth before he created it. There were plenty of things that created hallucinations, but none whose express purpose was to make fear come to life.
“And I do not wish to talk about Dr. Caster in great detail either. It is not for my sake, but he is a very ‘personal’ man and I wish to respect that.” Jonathan said, using Mayflower’s words to describe the higher ranking Arkham doctor. This was an off request since it was so out of the left field, but that was partially why Jonathan said it. He was hoping that this request would send Mayflower running to Caster to talk to him about it, and through that grapevine, Jonathan would let his old friend know that he was still thinking about him. “We knew each other back in the day and I know a fair bit about him that he’d rather not become widespread knowledge.” Mayflower likely did not know that the pair of doctors worked together in the past, and even if he did, Mayflower definitely did not know that the pair were close friends outside of work too.
Jonathan laughed about the records being designed to help the patients, a closed mouth chuckle that many people heard in their nightmares even after months of therapy. Still, in this situation without screams and dangerous gas around, it sounded rather normal. The idea that the reports were designed for patients to complain about the asylum was even more ridiculous. Only a handful of the Arkham staff cared about their patients first, everyone knew that. “Funny, but I will keep your offer in mind if I have any complaints about the facility just in case something major comes up.” Jonathan notably did not comment on Dr. Mayflowers offer to talk about anything that was bothering him.
He’d have nothing to say about his emotional state, he almost never did besides the occasional days where his boredom was so strong and his cravings so strong that he sometimes purposely antagonize guards or other patients in the hopes that their rage would be enough to trigger some sort of fear in him. It never did though. Jonathan felt the pain and regret, but never that rush of fear he wanted. Those were the only ‘bad days’ that Jonathan felt here for the most part, and there was nothing this doctors could do for him unless he was willing to give Crane access to some chemicals. Then he could get his fix.
Just thinking about being exposed to his own toxin made Crane's hands twitch aggressively. One snap for each hand, and then they were calm again. That bastard Bat had broken them both a year or two back, now they had this odd and unpredictable quirk. It was annoying, especially when he was working with highly volatile chemicals that required precise measurements.
“Besides,” Jonathan said, lifting both of his hands and waving at his own filled out and heavily edited document, “When so many people have access to the files they become rather worthless, especially when in the hands of someone with a grudge against a patient, or more dangerously, they are allied with the patient.” Jonathan did not explain further exactly what he meant by the influence of grudges and loyalty when it came down to what exactly was put on a patient’s files and reports. But one could imagine. Surely Harleen Quinzel, while treating the Joker once upon a time, wrote down many things on her reports that made him look far less dangerous than he actually was. In fact, her influence on these reports may have caused the guards watching Joker take him less seriously or they allowed him access to privileges that may have helped him escape. On the other hand, there were doctors with personal grudges against the patients and/or wanted to keep them around for selfish reasons; some doctors did not like for their toys to go home even after they were deemed safe enough to be freed and/or transferred to a lower-security facility.
In a voice not unlike a teacher, Jonathan continued without pause, “ If anything, preconceptions about a character is more detrimental than anything. Warnings for safety reasons, I understand, and facts about a patient's past can be useful tools… but far too many doctors lean on the words of their predecessors rather than simply investigating, observing, and asking the patient themselves. If you cannot do your job without the help of the others that came before you, then you are unqualified to even attempt diving into the minds of even the most mundane of people.” Jonathan paused, looking at Dr. Mayflower and then once again at the files sitting before them. “The most important lesson a psychologist should learn is that their job is centered around human to human interactions; it's all about one human with their own mind trying to understand a single other human who also has their own mind. The more people involved, the more minds in the room, the more impersonal every session will be.”
Jonathan paused, his voice losing that professor like quality and returning to the conversational tone from before. It wasn't a dramatic shift since who Jonathan was as a teacher was very similar to him as a person, but the slight change was visible. Jonathan shrugged and chuckled, “But perhaps that is just me failing to be a good team player. After all, I have always preferred to be the only doctor treating my patients at a time so that I could guarantee they were not getting influenced in ways that I thought was detrimental to their case and to reduce the number of times they heard the same questions." Exclusive patients were the way to go, and even from this side of the table, Jonathan would still rather have one doctor several times a week but for longer periods than a bunch of different ones every day. "Additionally, I suppose I just don’t put much stock in the words of a Doctor who abandoned from their patient out of fear or failure.” And unless the doctors were killed by their patients, this was exactly what happened. Fear of the patient or fear of failing caused many doctors to abandon their charges, and in Jonathan’s eyes, these actions were signs that their sessions were done wrong and therefore so too are the Doctors observations during that time.
“I’m an independent researcher for a reason, I suppose,” Jonathan concluded simply with another shrug of his thin shoulders.
“May I see?” Jonathan requested, curiosity about his own files strong enough to prompt the bold question. Although instructed to keep his hands in his lap, Jonathan lifted his cuffs and slowly set them on the table so that he could fold his hands together and lean in a bit. He could see the words since Mayflower was making no attempt to hide the file from view, but for the most part, there were too many edits and scribbles to make reading it upside down possible. “It’s been a long time since I was able to read my own file, and although I see that you are attempting to start fresh, I cannot help but find myself curious about what my peers have said about me as of late.” He could imagine that every word on that page was dripping in paranoia and speculation. he was hoping so. Honestly though, even when asking this Jonathan knew that the chances were low that Mayflower would give in. It was, after all, not allowed for patients to see their files or at least their whole files. Pointing at a sentence or two was allowed, but anything more was a big no for whatever reason.
Although this was a long tangent, things did eventually return to the topic of Jervis Tetch and solitary. “Oh, they certainly try to stop us from talking to each other. It’s been hard work just to get permission to have two hours and one meal out of my cell a day, and even then I am not allowed to go more than ten feet away from a guard at any given moment." Not to mention whispering and touching was out of the question. "Unfortunately, I am technically forbidden from talking to anyone along the lines of Hatter or the like no matter the circumstances. Most of the time we slip in small chats while we pass each other in the halls or in front of each others doors since they keep a lot of us in the same wing thankfully.” And by us, Jonathan meant the super criminals that were too dangerous not to be placed in the wing with heavy human and metal security, but also not enough of a threat to be in some of the underground hanging cells like Croc or Joker.
“Mundane, you say?” Jonathan said with honest surprise before continuing with more honest remarks. “How disappointing to come all the way to Arkham and be met with nothing… I’m curious, who did you speak with today that surprised you the most? Positively or negatively? If you are uncomfortable with sharing their names with me due to patient and doctor confidentiality, you don’t have to tell me.” Jonathan already knew about Riddler and Hatter, but there were likely others too and Jonathan could not help but fish for a bit more information about Mayflower's schedule. This was not Jonathan’s main motivation with this question though. He truly was just curious about Mayflower and his first day at the madhouse, or in this case, what was turning out to be the mundane house. “What were you expecting to face on your first day, anyway? Murder attempts on day one?”
While Mayflower fiddled with his notebook, as well as other things, Jonathan couldn't help but take notice. In comparison to his near stillness, watching someone flutter about so much was even more apparent. He watched the doctor scribble a few notes down on the page before moving to a clean page that was apparently being dedicated to Crane. Once again, it was near impossible to read things upside down so Jonathan rarely even tried to do it, instead choosing to keep his dark brown eyes on the younger doctor. Such a focused, unblinking gaze sometimes made people squirm, but until he noticed this trait, he fully intended on keeping his eyes locked on Mayflower. After all, being watched so closely when you were the one supposed to do the watching often resulted in nervousness and anxiety, both of which reflected some other fear hidden within them just as the fear of being judged.
Thanks to this close observation, Jonathan immediately noticed how the doctor paused after being asked his motivations. He had guessed the selfish motivation behind his presence at Arkham first try simply by being well informed on psychological studies. Jonathan could feel his own eyebrows twitch up as he realized he had gotten under this man’s skin, even if only slightly. This was not fear, but it was motivation, and behind every human motivation lurked a hidden terror pushing them forward.
Jonathan could not help it, when Dr. Mayflower left the door open to focus on his life work, Jonathan was compelled to take it even if it meant turning this pleasant conversation into a hazy, ill-advised territory. Jonathan visibly perked up and even straightened his back a bit before speaking. “You fear being remembered as worthless then, or not remembered at all,” Jonathan stated rather than questioned. “Finding a legacy means that you have done something in life that is worthwhile to more than just you, and in the same vein, helping people leaves behind direct proof that you existed and you mattered. I imagine that failure is also something that terrifies you then? Those who need to succeed often dread the opposite.”
This was bad territory to be in, every doctor who interacted with Jonathan knew this. If you gave him something to latch onto, something that he could use to make the mental jump from whatever you were talking about to fear, then he would. And when that happened, you needed to back peddle quickly. Distract him from the topic, or simply end the conversation, because giving him too much time to imagine your fears made him want to see you imagine your own fears, and the only way to make that happen was to target you specifically with his fear gas.
Thankfully though, whether Mayflower intended to do so or not, as the questions turned back to him, Jonathan he silently agreed to table the conversation for later. After all, it was a surprising question that deserved an answer. But Mayflower should know that it was only a matter of time before fear, and therefore his legacy, came up again. Mayflower was Jonathan’s patient now whether he wanted to be or not, and unless Mayflower gave up on his legacy already, they would have many more sessions to get to the heart of the matter.
Returning to his slouched position, Jonathan also corrected his glasses that had slid down his face during the fear conversation. “So many questions, Doctor! If I were not sound of mind, I’m sure half of those would have flown over my head.” This was not a criticism, but more like advice for how to handle some of the less mentally stable of patients such as Jervis whose memory was horrid. “But I’ll do my best to answer each in turn since you have been rather… cooperative and polite up until now.”
“Well, as to your first question, I see myself gaining a lot from these sessions. Talking to you doctors is often the highlight of my day, you see. Solitary is so dull without any books or people to occupy my mind, so conversing like this is always a pleasure.” This was a lighter, fluffy version of the truth that was indeed true, but not the whole truth. “And yes, as you said, I do take advantage of this intimate setting to analyze my ‘doctors.’ I see no reason to put my studies on halt when I am surrounded every day by people paid to talk to me; it is only fair that I profit off their attempts to profit off me.” This was not meant to be a pointed comment about Mayflower’s own selfish desires when it came to this session, but it could be taken that way without being entirely wrong.
At the mention of Jonathan refusing to answer questions, he let out a slight Ahh and nodded his head a few times. Oh yes, he refused to talk to his doctors for weeks before, but he would show up every time and behave. He was just uncooperative, although his motivations for doing so were not at all what Mayflower had listed. “Is it wrong for me to dislike some doctors in comparison to others? I am, after all, a person and it is unreasonable to expect me to enjoy every person I meet,” Jonathan responded. Dr. Mayson was a prime example of the type of doctor he disliked, all shouting and preaching with so little listening and responding. “I have no intention of answering the questions of others who do not show me the same courtesy, or those that do but lie to me the entire time. I make no claim to be a perfect or stagnant being, quite the opposite in fact, nor do I shy away from sharing my personal life… I simply will not take part in an interview with someone I fail to find interesting or at the very least receptive. It is as I said before, psychology is a two way street between two people; it is not a one-way road where I will just lay on the ground to be splattered by the neverending queries of men and women that have no passion for their craft."
Jonathan was, after all, a passionate man. No one could deny that even before he became Scarecrow he was a passionate psychologist, horror enthusiast, and professor. Even with all that has happened, his drive and love for his craft never died, so it was only natural he would respond ill to those who had no passion of their own and/or refused to let him indulge or even speak about his. Additionally, some doctors held too tightly onto the idea that Crane was crazy; he wasn't, he knew that for a fact, but being ambiguous on this matter was oftentimes amusing and allowed Crane to relate to different people more easily.
“Please note that I have answered every single one of your questions thus far without hesitation, and I have done the same with a number of other doctors in the past. “ This was an important fact, and so one Jonathan did not want Mayflower to miss. “Perhaps if those doctors had asked more intriguing questions or responded more interestingly, I would be speaking to them as openly as I am to you.” And with that, Jonathan had forced a relationship between the pair. It was a frail relationship that could change in an instant, but the fact that Jonathan was already placing Mayflower on the positive side of the fence was a good sign… or maybe not. Jonathan admitted himself that he spoke to those he found interesting, and there was only one reason he found people interesting as of late, so perhaps being seen positively was just as dangerous as being seen negatively.
Glancing down, Jonathan took note of how many sections were being skipped over. “Is none of that vital to you, or are you simply to shy to ask about them?” It was a simple question, far more mundane than the last few topics, but Jonathan still wanted to know. He was mainly interested in the fact that Mayflower skipped the weight section which, as he had learned during the last time he was arrested, was a very interesting topic to some doctors. Apparently ‘the food here is revolting’ was not a good enough response, and neither was ‘there are other things I would rather do with my time.’ Jonathan had been expecting questions about his weight and eating habits, although perhaps this doctor simply did not plan on discussing it today.
As if to prove his point previous about how these records were easily manipulated by the emotional waves of people with a drug, the bold red DISBARRED jumped out from the page. There were so many notes and changes on the page, yet still, this one change stood out. It was basically a single word meaning that Jonathan was not allowed to practice his work in any government or professional system due to past “unethical or criminal conduct.” Jonathan did not claim to be innocent, he broke the law, but he did it for a great reason. Science. He no longer officially had his license to practice, but it didn't matter, even that word did not take away the awards and certificates Jonathan had received his entire life. He was still one of the greatest minds psychology has ever seen, and not even losing his job could change that fact in his eyes and many others. He was, and always would be, a doctor of the mind and of fear.
It was almost sweet how tiny Mayflower made the note of this fact on the new, fresh document. Honestly, it was just nice that he was starting from scratch at all. Even before Jonathan’s rant at the start, it seemed like this was his plan, and Jonathan was very pleased to see Dr. Mayflower prioritizing his own observations over those of colleges he never met before. But with this final touch, it seemed like the paperwork was not important any longer and instead the free reign notepad was front and center.
That was just fine with Jonathan.
“You’ll get used to it,” Jonathan reassured, his tone seeming sincere when he noticed that the time on the notepad was late.
When the conversation continued, it was Jonathan's turn to be surprised. How rare to be asked what he didn't want to talk about rather than being asked what he did want to talk about, or just being forced into a dialogue about unpleasant or dead-end topics. “How unexpectedly considerate,” Jonathan said, a smile forming on his thin lips. “Well then, let me think for a moment. I hadn't expected this question to ever come up.” And so Jonathan thought, looking at his hands while he did so. Jonathan did not have to think for long though because within twenty seconds he was lifting his head again to look at Mayflower.
“Well, there is not much I am unwilling to talk to you about, to be honest, Dr. Mayflower. I will be open as long as you are open to me. However, I request that you do not ask me for my formulas or any details about their production. My fear toxin cannot be bought or forced out of me, so I ask that you don’t even try so that you save both of our time. I will, however, be open to talking to you about the vague overview of the toxin since I imagine you are very, very curious about it. Everyone is.” Not that Jonathan could blame them; his toxin was a beautiful invention never seen on Earth before he created it. There were plenty of things that created hallucinations, but none whose express purpose was to make fear come to life.
“And I do not wish to talk about Dr. Caster in great detail either. It is not for my sake, but he is a very ‘personal’ man and I wish to respect that.” Jonathan said, using Mayflower’s words to describe the higher ranking Arkham doctor. This was an off request since it was so out of the left field, but that was partially why Jonathan said it. He was hoping that this request would send Mayflower running to Caster to talk to him about it, and through that grapevine, Jonathan would let his old friend know that he was still thinking about him. “We knew each other back in the day and I know a fair bit about him that he’d rather not become widespread knowledge.” Mayflower likely did not know that the pair of doctors worked together in the past, and even if he did, Mayflower definitely did not know that the pair were close friends outside of work too.
Jonathan laughed about the records being designed to help the patients, a closed mouth chuckle that many people heard in their nightmares even after months of therapy. Still, in this situation without screams and dangerous gas around, it sounded rather normal. The idea that the reports were designed for patients to complain about the asylum was even more ridiculous. Only a handful of the Arkham staff cared about their patients first, everyone knew that. “Funny, but I will keep your offer in mind if I have any complaints about the facility just in case something major comes up.” Jonathan notably did not comment on Dr. Mayflowers offer to talk about anything that was bothering him.
He’d have nothing to say about his emotional state, he almost never did besides the occasional days where his boredom was so strong and his cravings so strong that he sometimes purposely antagonize guards or other patients in the hopes that their rage would be enough to trigger some sort of fear in him. It never did though. Jonathan felt the pain and regret, but never that rush of fear he wanted. Those were the only ‘bad days’ that Jonathan felt here for the most part, and there was nothing this doctors could do for him unless he was willing to give Crane access to some chemicals. Then he could get his fix.
Just thinking about being exposed to his own toxin made Crane's hands twitch aggressively. One snap for each hand, and then they were calm again. That bastard Bat had broken them both a year or two back, now they had this odd and unpredictable quirk. It was annoying, especially when he was working with highly volatile chemicals that required precise measurements.
Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
•●•
Matthias gave a small amused sound at Mr. Crane's comment on the flexibility of the psyche, the noise caught somewhere between a laugh and a mere breath. He couldn't agree more with the fact. While the documents could be helpful for getting a general idea of the patients, they were hardly a record to set in stone. Matthias had learned that rather quick many years ago, back when he was working in trauma care, after a few various situations where he had trusted in the old documents a little too full-heartedly and been promptly let down when it came to surface that the patients had completely changed -- for better or worse -- prior to him making an appearance.
At the beginning of the other man's tangent, Matthias looked back up and listened with his undivided intention. Part of it was a simple tactic to err on the better side of the former professor -- after all, nobody likes teaching to deaf ears -- the other part was out of genuine interest.
If you cannot do your job without the help of the others that came before you, then you are unqualified to even attempt diving into the minds of even the most mundane of people.
It was a strange remark, one that Matthias was unsure he completely agreed with, leading him to consider it further a bit as he remained on the silent side. It was not always bad to work with others, even if Matthias was a rather solitary researcher, it provided room for extra input and new perspectives. He was not naive to his own sheltered history, living in such a rural area as a child that the biggest crime was a hunter accidentally shooting a farmer's sheep or a couple of teenagers trying to make a break out of a store with a few sodas and snacks on the shop's dime. Even when he had moved here, he had still remained in his own little separate bubble in the cozy little apartment complex a distance out from the main city -- too far away to ever have any major crime or attacks. In turn, this had hindered his work on a few occasions, making it somewhat difficult to relate to those that were not as fortunate. In turn, it benefitted him to have a second opinion for most of his records at the previous two facilities; simply because they were faster to recognize possible things that patients were omitting.
On the other side, Matthias was not ignorant of the benefits of working alone, as described by Mr. Crane. It was too easy to muddy the documents with personal opinions and beliefs of those before the current doctor. Dr. Mayflower did not need to know what some doctor from three years prior thought about Mr. Crane's eating habits; or the fact that some other doctor assumed the limp Mr. Crane had was being faked, as scribbled beside the margins of Physical Ailments & Disabilities. Neither of those things mattered to Matthias, and only served to make the facts difficult to read and sort out from the undesired opinions. So, by that logic, working alone made it easier to distinguish facts from opinions.
A double negative, of sorts. The secondary opinion was just as helpful as it was harmful, beneficial to only those who knew how to use it. Perhaps that was the primary issue with the secondary opinions; the very core that made them so fickle in the field of psychology to those that were not careful. "I do not agree with that statement," Matthias calmly responded, a spark of interest in his gaze as he spoke. "Secondary opinions are useful under careful circumstances. To those who are unaware of past issues, they are a highlighter for what to look for and can be an excellent resource to expand upon through careful research. While they could understandably be incorrect to current times -- as the human mind is, like you said, a changing and fluid concept that is influenced by plenty of factors that will differ between each professional observation -- they can help guide researchers in areas they may not be familiar with, understand, or have witnessed before." He claimed. He spoke calmly, words unwavering and having a tinge of passion to them, but did not mirror Jonathon's own style. If Jonathon was most akin to a professor lecturing or discussing a topic, then Matthias was a student quick to voice their own beliefs on the matter; not completely disagreeing with the others opinions and respectfully leaving room for him to speak more, but clearly critiquing the errors they found in the rant. "Secondary opinions and past works are meant to be like a highlighter on a page, they'll point out what to look for, but the research and analysis of what is marked are left for the reader to decipher."
It was a small quirk of Matthias that he had picked up from his father at a young age; curiosity that satisfied itself in the form of debate. If he disagreed with something, he was quick to say so, state his opinions, and oftentimes expect genuine answers. He knew everyone had flaws in their arguments and he was always one of the first to pick them apart -- after all, he had spent countless hours of his youth trying to argue with his father about silly things like why the rolling shoes were better than his light-up ones, or why ice cream would be an excellent substitute for dinner -- his father having nurtured the curiosity through sharply critiquing every little fallacy and mistake of his own points. He could trip on the rolling shoes and break something. Ice cream was going to make his teeth rot out of his head before he even reached the double digits of age. If Matthias could not make a proper argument for something and sway the strict policeman, he would not get it. That was simply how things had worked.
This trait, by the time he was in college, had helped with writing papers and sparked a few interesting conversations with some of the other majors at Gotham University. He remembered spending hours in the courtyard debating some of the most pointless things he had ever discussed. Wheeled shoes and ice cream dinners became debates of whether or not you could unintentionally boil your own hand, or that if time travel existed, what movie had depicted it the most accurately? Pointless and silly arguments, but filled with so much passion and knowledge, every major having different connections to their own specialties. The philosophy majors believed that you would not notice your hand in boiling water if you started with a lukewarm temperature and slowly heated it. The medical majors had more than a few problems with that theory. The engineering majors believed that time was a closed-loop, making Back to the Future the most reflective of it, while the software majors refused to believe that time travel had any real possibility.
It was pointless, stupid, and completely fascinating to see how passionate everyone became in the face of potential conflicting opinions. As much as Matthias would not admit it, there had been plenty of times he had merely sparked a debate just to quickly step back and just take in the ideas presented by both sides.
Of course, that was the past and everyone had grown up since then. Good debates were hard to come by anymore. Nobody liked the pointless arguments about shoes, ice cream, boiling hands, or time travel movies. Instead, they only argued about politics, ethics, or celebrities nowadays -- none of which were Matthias' preferred topic. So, the moment a spark of an interesting debate began to show itself, he was quick to leap for it in an effort to get something -- anything -- interesting.
It was somewhat disappointing to lose the former topic as Mr. Crane brought his attention to the document that had already been marked countless times, losing the chance for Matthias to gain a bit more insight on Mr. Crane's perspective of the response. However, all good things must end. These sessions were meant to be fluid and there was no need for Matthias to prioritize one off-hand tangent just because it interested him.
Dr. Mayflower picked up the document, glancing over it briefly as he considered it. Flipping through the pages to ensure that there were no names -- something that thankfully seemed to have been redacted with thick black lines of ink through the start of any name, for security purposes in the facility, before calmly nodding and handing it over. Of course, there were a few strings attached as Matthias set it on the desk in front of Mr. Crane and then began to retrieve something from his bag. "I was actually going to leave this for later in the session, but I would like you to highlight anything that is incorrect in it," He explained as he set a small yellow highlighter on the desk, seeming to not have been joking about that 'highlighting a page' part of his own tangent.
It was a wildcard request, and he knew that he should be cautious with whatever claims the former doctor made. It would be so easy to simply mark something true and call it false, just to skewer his research. However, even that could provide some insight. As Matthias had claimed earlier, it was meant to help him understand what to look for. Anything highlighted, whether true or false, would assist him in this plan.
Mr. Crane had so many rumors and stories about him, all of which were scribbled along the margins or in sticky notes covering blocks of text. Some were likely true, some were likely false; all were difficult to distinguish with Matthias' lack of former knowledge on the man. Besides, all the information on there would be covered eventually. As Matthias had formerly mentioned, it was just to give him a guide for important topics.
"Please?" He added with a hesitant tone and timid smile, hoping it would not be too outlandish of a request of the man who had just claimed his disdain for people who rely too heavily on the notes of others.
------------------
Matthias was not exactly surprised by the mention of the lack of contact with any of the others in the building. It was not to be unexpected, but he had been somewhat hopeful that it was not as solitary and depressing as the context had seemed to paint earlier. However, that was not something that Matthias could change. Not currently, and perhaps not for a long time until he had a much better understanding of all the patients and a more solid standing in the facility. He had already been warned to not trust them with communicating to each other -- no passing notes and such -- as the patients were clever and quick to learn how to manipulate any form of communication if it could result in a potential breakout. In turn, Matthias elected to calmly listen to Jonathon as he spoke, giving little response to the topic other than a small nod at the end and a single note to be written on the notepad; English this time, 'communication'.
------------------
Who did you speak with today that surprised you the most?
Another question that caused Matthias to hesitate briefly. Just moments prior, he knew his answer would have likely been everyone. It was an unsettling feeling here, from the passive-aggressive guard to the rather ordinary sessions, almost as if the expected roles had been flipped. Those that he had anticipated being the cold, uncaring, and aggressive patients were less than they had been made out to be.
He had been prepared for Ms. Pamela to be rude and quick to bash any topic he brought up rather than the cold and somewhat somber discussion they had endured earlier. He expected Mr. Nygma to be some sort of criminal mastermind that would try to strike him just for any small comment. While the interview had been tense a couple times, it had gone much smoother than he had predicted. Ms. Quinzel? Judging by the fact that six guards had escorted her to his door, he had a strong feeling that her interview would not be going very well -- yet she had actually been rather sweet and was just looking for some conversation. It was a similar situation for Mr. Tetch who had been made out to be a raving lunatic. While he had some peculiar fantasies, Matthias saw nothing more than someone with a strong passion who had trouble distinguishing it from reality.
As for Mr. Crane? There had been a few surprises already. He was more talkative than Matthias had prepared for. He was quick-witted as well, swift to pick up on the smallest details. It made Matthias admittedly cautious. Unlike the other interviews, it was less of playing either offense or defense; Ms. Pamela and Mr. Tetch had both been rather reserved, making it ideal for him to be the one asking questions and analyze the responses; while for Ms. Quinzel and Mr. Nygma it had been a defense tactic, Matthias being forced to constantly push the conversation back towards Ms. Quinzel when she tried to pry into his own life, or Mr. Nygma and his plenty 'tests' of whether or not Matthias was actually worthy of talking to.
For Crane, it was a different story. For every question, there needed to be a response; one from himself and one from the former doctor. Any time he wanted to try and pry further, he had to consider what the implications of it would be if it were to be turned back on him. Of course, silence was a possible route he could take, though he worried that would be a quick way to lose the grip on the session he was currently attempting to maintain.
"I'm not really sure, I was told many stories about the patients I have currently. I suppose I was anticipating at least one or two attempts, either on my life or at an escape." He mused with another faint tinge of sarcasm, voiding the names and omitting a large portion of his thought process that had brought him to that conclusion.
---------------------
He heard the soft jingle of the chain, having been briefly glancing back between the notebook and documents, causing his gaze to drift back up to Mr. Crane. His eyes fixed on him carefully before Jonathon even began speaking, noticing the change in posture, the flicker of interesting, the way the tone of the room had seemingly changed in the moment between his confirmation and his brief glance at the writing he had completed so far. The former doctor was looking directly at him, back straight and taking them both out from the shared eye-level, making Matthias have to gaze up just slightly in order to look him in the eyes.
For a moment, he was surprised by the movement. It reminded him of the videos he had seen on the documentary channels, like a snake raising themselves over a field mouse just before striking. Matthias visibly tensed, expecting the blow. He had made a mistake, answered a question that should have been left avoided, and had left himself completely defenseless.
For just a single split second, the emotion flickered behind Matthias' honey-colored eyes. Fear.
You fear being remembered as worthless then, or not remembered at all.
The snake missed its mark, and in turn, the little mouse was gone in an instant.
Matthias tilted his head faintly, his brows knitting together and a small frown making its way onto his lips almost as if Mr. Crane had said something that struck the doctor off-guard. However, there was no fear or surprise in his reaction, just confusion. Just a few seconds ago, the doctor had feared the worst; he must have slipped up and let the other in on to much, said things he shouldn't have, put himself in a defenseless position. Now? Matthias was not sure what to say. The former doctor had clearly been close -- so confident in his shallow assumptions that there would be no way for Matthias to take it back and escape the analysis.
But, he had not been close. Not close enough, at least.
That line of question would end in the exact spot that the former doctor had struck without another opening to be redirected back to the area.
"Let's," Matthias said after a brief pause of silence, hesitating as his composure returned. "Move on." He finished. Not a denial of Jonathon's assumptions, but clearly nowhere bordering a confirmation.
--------------------
As Mr. Crane gave a remark to the rapid succession of questions, Matthias gave a somewhat awkward smile, and leaned back a little in his seat, stretching after spending hours in this chair with only the movement of going to the door and back. "Ah, my apologies," He hummed as he finished stretching and moved some of the miscellaneous papers at the edge of his desk to a single stack. He'd organize the pile later, for now, he was interested in the response and brought his gaze back to Jonathon soon after setting the papers aside, occasionally writing down various things such as the words, 'doctors,' and 'conversational' while Jonathon spoke. Both were written in English, a contrast to the other notes -- if Jonathon had caught a glimpse of them before the doctor had flipped the page. It was clearly an intentional action, though was still rather abstract.
It took long enough just for Dr. Mayflower to write neatly, using full detailed and unnecessarily lengthy sentences would just consume his focus and make it difficult to keep his attention on the former doctor. Not to mention the fact that these were his private notes, meaning they could be phrased much more simplistically than in the full documents. If a word was all he needed to jog his memory about a topic that was discussed during the interview, then that was all he would write. Contrary to his occasionally horrid lack of complete focus, he had an excellent memory.
He seemed a little surprised by the connection Mr. Crane tried to place between the two, noticing it rather quickly as Jonathon made the distinction. He was not sure if he was comfortable with that. On one hand, it seemed he was somewhat in the clear and past the 'initial impressions' phase, meaning questions could possibly be answered with a bit more ease. On the other hand, he knew it was a dangerous area to stray into. Jonathon was not the type of person to let your guard down around, as Matthias had already learned from the close shot and lucky miss before. If approached carefully, perhaps Matthias could use it to his own advantage? Was this not his specialty?
Matthias knew he was the one to have made the mistake of letting his guard slip too easily last time -- a fatal flaw that had luckily ended with little-to-no wounds. This time; however, the blame could not be placed on him, as it was not his own guard to slip.
Matthias gave Jonathon a small smile after having been caught so easily surprised by the comment. "I'm glad to hear that." There was no straightening his posture or watching Mr. Crane closely for a reaction, just an off-hand smile and a comment of acknowledgment before he returned to his notes on the blank document.
---------------------
As Mr. Crane commented the things he wanted to avoid, Matthias made a small slash beside one of the corners of the notepad to separate the words as he wrote them. 'Toxin production,' and 'Dr. Caster' were the two things he wrote in the margin, furrowing his brow slightly as Mr. Crane mentioned Dr. Caster, a name he had heard a few times since he had come here. He wanted to inquire more into it, noticing the phrasing that Jonathon had used and finding it to be somewhat particular, but abided by the other's wishes and did not say a word about it.
Completing the margin note, he skimmed over the notepad for a couple of seconds as he glanced over each word, recalling the context he had for each to ensure it stayed fresh in his mind. He glanced up briefly as Jonathon's hands twitched, hearing the faint rattle of the chain again, but quickly excused it as a mere fidget. His own wrist sometimes had a similar sort of fidget or gave a light crack if he was putting too much weight on it. Barely audible, but Matthias swore he could hear it every time. Matthias understood how annoying such little things could be.
"How is the medical treatment here?" He asked.
He had noticed it among a few of the other patients already. It seemed things did not heal well in this facility. From Jonathon's limp and hands, to the scar he had noticed on Jervis' head, to the countless other little marks and scuffs littered throughout the others. If Matthias didn't know better, he would have assumed that they all had some sort of secret weekly underground organized cage matches. He already knew the cause of most of the scuffs, crime wasn't exactly the type of thing that would let you get out mark-free, but it was still an important detail of the medical care in the facility. If he was successful in treating his patients and was able to release them, he wanted to ensure that they were capable of supporting themselves once on the outside.
Matthias kept his gaze on his notes and the blank document, or on the completed document if Jonathon was flipping through it. His eyes eventually drifted to the lettering of Jonathon Crane's name on the document, then falling to the job area again. Gotham University. Something about it caused Matthias to get somewhat stuck on the two words despite his former question, his focus only partially returning to Jonathon if he answered the question, divided between the name, the school, and anything that Jonathon began to respond.
Matthias had graduated from the school only two years prior, having been there for eight years while earning his degree. As for the dates, what Mr. Crane had taught, and name? Well, by all accounts, it seemed rather likely that they had crossed paths at some point in the past. Matthias could not recall ever having the man's class, but it had sounded familiar the countless times he had heard it over the last couple of weeks. Perhaps he had known someone who had him as a professor? The class name was familiar, Matthias undoubtedly having had it at some point, though was certain that Mr. Crane had not taught it. There was, of course, the chance Dr. Crane taught the class after the former professor -- if Matthias remembered correctly, it had been an elderly woman near retirement — had taught it following her retirement? It was still an odd thing to consider, the idea that under only slightly different circumstances, Matthias could have taken a class with the infamed Dr. Crane.
•●•
Viper
One Thousand Club
“Oh?” Jonathan started, interested to hear exactly why Dr. Mayflower disagreed. Jonathan listened to the other man speak, his face fairly blank but his eyes remaining focused. “I can see your points,” Jonathan conceded partially, “but how often are people careful rather than trusting? As a professor, it is near impossible to get students to comprehend that to get actual knowledge they need to personally experience things rather than just looking at a textbook or memorizing what I say to them. That’s why internships are so vital to psychologists. People are conditioned to listen to people ‘better’ than them without question, they are raised to do so or punished, which makes many of them unable to do what you suggested.” And by that he meant using secondary opinions as guiding markers, not a road map. “I am not disagreeing that secondary sources can sometimes be of help to those who know how to use them and if you trust the words of whoever wrote the sources, but I hold to the point that if you cannot do your job without them, then you are missing something vital in your skill set. You should be able to treat a first time patient with as much skill as a patient who has been seeing doctors for decades.”
“If there are gaps in your knowledge and life experience, then it is the doctors responsibility to educate themselves as much as possible.”
“I have always encouraged personal experimentation as a way to better understand patients and the things doctors have never experienced. You will never get a true, deep understanding of someone and their trauma until you have experienced it yourself. Take for example...” Jonathan paused, trying to think of a case where a doctors imagination was not enough to comprehend the issue set before them, “a drowning victim who is now scared of even bath water; you will never be able to understand their terror until you too have felt the burn of water in your lungs and your arms pointlessly struggle to reach the surface ” This was an extreme example, but it highlighted the extreme importance Jonathan placed on personal experience over textbook knowledge or opinions. “How can you hope to understand nymphomania or satyromania as a virgin? Or someone who has spent their life fighting when you yourself have never even been hit before? Someone who got attacked at a concert will not relate to someone who has never been to one themselves and relied solely on their imagination and the words of others to fill in the blanks.”
“A sheltered psychologist will find it hard to keep up with one who has actually placed themselves in the shoes of their patient,” Jonathan concluded, rather pleased with their chat even if he was getting carried away and as such straying away from the core of the topic at times. He knew that he was a bit opinionated in matters such as psychology, and sometimes his opinions went a bit far, but he honestly thought himself correct. He did, after all, know how the story went on both sides of the desk. “I am willing to admit my bias on the matter. I have been a victim of doctors using secondary opinions and textbooks, rather than experience, to treat me over the course of my life, and every single time I was approached in a way I now identify as detrimental or lacking. “
It wasn't hard to guess what Jonathan wanted from his doctors in order for him to fully 'relate' to them. They needed to be horror fans, enjoy getting scared, or they need to have felt fear at such a great intensity that fear toxin was the only way to get it. Naturally, not many doctors were willing to expose themselves to psychological hallucinogens just to relate to a crazed scientist. Still, without a doctor who saw fear and horror in the same way as Jonathan did, it was hard to have a detailed conversation with them due to the fact that they were unable to comprehend how addicting it was to be terrified.
Jonathan took the paper and the highlighter slowly, still trying to show that he could be trusted, but once they were in his hands Jonathan moved as if he was intimately familiar with the contents of the pages. His eyes rapidly flicked over the entire document, skimming over every word before making a single mark on the pages. Sometimes he had to turn the pages at odd angles to read the words clearly, but it didn't slow him down too much. He also looked at the words underneath the sticky notes out of curiousity to see what once was thought true but no longer.
Even without the please, Jonathan had been planning on doing as he was asked. Although he had no intention of falsifying himself too much, it was nice to have this amount of control on what he claimed to be true about himself. This was, in a way, a chance for Jonathan to psychoanalyze himself and for Dr. Mayflower to see the results of that. Still, when Jonathan heard the man say please, he uncapped the highlighter with a smile, “Of course. I’d be happy to.”
Now that he had skimmed over everything to sate his curious mind, Jonathan could take his time highlighting and deeply reading every word. And so this is where Jonathan mostly kept his gaze for the rest of the conversation, although a few matters were interesting enough to shift his main focus.
Perhaps Dr. Mayflower had forgotten this, or maybe he did not care, but Jonathan had been working with some of the one staff doctors for years either as a patient or as a peer. He may not normally see them writing these files themselves, but he had seen the doctors write plenty of things before in their notes. It didn't matter that the names on the document were blacked out, he knew the handwriting of many of them; some he knew more intimately than others while the rest he had to use context clues and educated guesses to figure out who wrote what.
A few comments written at the bottom of the page were put there either by Dr. Whitman, or perhaps Dr. Carmichael. These notes were mainly about Jonathan being manipulative and suggesting higher security when it came to his interactions with others because he may be plotting something with them. Jonathan did not mark these in anyway. However, he did highlight a few things in the same section that suggested that he was controlling Jervis and intimidating Diana Merwin.
A handwriting that could not be identified suggested that Jonathan was faking his limp, which was such a lie that Jonathan grimaced when he read it. He highlighted this with more eagerness than the others. It was ridiculous to suggest that he would lie about an injury that completely made him unable to run. If the infirmary here had better management and equipment, perhaps this mysterious hand would have seen his x-rays. And if this place relaxed a bit, they would realize how helpful a cane would be to him.
Dr. Janis, who was killed by Victor Zsasz half a year ago, suggested that Jonathan was always being affected by his fear toxin; he was not an exception to the long lasting effects of the gas. She seemed to think that Jonathan was just better at hiding it than most people. This Jonathan highlighted. He was not plagued by false visions or sounds, so he had nothing to hide in that regard. The toxin’s effects did not last forever, it was just that most people broke before that point and were unable to return to the real world.
There were a few more spots that Jonathan highlighted such as the ones that implied that he had conducted experiments on his students all those years ago along side the asylum patients, that he had a hand in his parents murder, that he wanted to return to his old job, and other similar theories that seemed to come from nowhere. However, there were a few other concerning theories and ideas that Jonathan notably left un-highlighted. The topics ranged from Jonathan having a role in his grandmother's death, to having allies in the asylum, to the theory that he could make his fear toxin out of almost anything, to the idea that Jonathan chose a Scarecrow mask because of his own fear of Scarecrows.
At the question about being surprised, Jonathan noted the hesitation but didn't think much of it. The lad was thinking, that was all it seemed to be. Sadly though, the answer was not worth the wait and this showed on the way that Jonathan’s brows creased upon hearing the answer. He had given Dr. Mayflower permission not to use names if that made him uncomfortable, but that didn't change the fact that the answer was more vague than anything. In fact, Jonathan got nothing at all out of Dr. Mayflower’s response. Names were unnecessary, but a specific example or even a vague example would have been lovely. ‘Many stories’ was the source of the problem if Jonathan had to pick one. What stories were you told that proved to be the opposite?
Perhaps it was out of his disappointment for receiving such a dull, worthless answer, but the way Jonathan responded to Dr. Mayflowers musing and light sarcasm had a hit of annoyance, and more than that, a threatening undertone to it. “This is only your first day, it will happen soon enough.” Although it could be interpreted that way, Jonathan was not saying that he was going to be the one to attempt to take Mayflower’s life. After all, this was only one disappointing answer out of many good, thorough responses; Jonathan could handle that.
“Many patients don’t get violent until you start asking questions actually pertaining to their crimes, after all.” Jonathan continued, his tone returning to normal and the conversation continuing without further signs of Jonathan’s disappointment.
Jonathan, once again, found himself displeased by the response he got from the doctor. This time though, it was the physical reaction that disappointed Jonathan rather than the verbal. He had gotten a response out of Mayflower, a frown, but that felt weak. It wasn't enough. Jonathan felt nothing when he saw the man’s reaction, no rush of pleasure from being right or witnessing someone’s face twisted in concern when they realized that Jonathan had figured them out.
But this? This was nothing! Nothing vital was triggered in Mayflower, and as such, nothing was triggered at all in Jonathan. And all of the nothing before him caused Jonathan to sigh audibly and slump back into his chair.
He wasn't defeated; he’d try again in the next session after getting more information. Without the fear gas, Jonathan could only make guesses based on the information that people let slip. And he still knew very little about the shorter man sitting before him. Mayflower was a novice, or at least unrecognized, but he seemed to want that recognition. That still felt right based on what Jonathan knew, but he would not push his legacy theory until he knew a bit more. Talking about a legacy did not trigger any kind of primal reaction that Jonathan wanted to see, so he’d wait.
“If you insist; we can discuss this further another time.” In another one of my sessions, Jonathan added silently. This was the closest Jonathan had come to talking about this meeting as something he was in control of. Saying that they would discuss legacies again in the future meant that he expected to be in control of the line of questioning, and more than that, that he would not be the one responding to questions.
“Hm?” Jonathan responded when Mayflower suddenly asked about the medical treatment at Arkham, but after a moment, he understood. “Ah, so you noticed then? It’s a rather obnoxious new physical quirk I have to deal with.” Jonathan raised his hands in the air, not to attack, but so that everyone in the room could get a good look at his long, bony fingers.
“Apparently, my fingers did not like being snapped backward so that they could puncture my neck.” Jonathan tilted his head to the side now, shifting his hair out of the way in the process, to reveal three red dots on his neck; they were scars caused by thick needles being roughly forced into the skin at an odd, unnatural angle. To make it worse, the needles had been left to hang there too, gravity pulling them down and making the scarring even more visible when in the right lighting. All the while, Jonathan was pumped with his own toxin. If it were possible to overdose on the fear toxin, Jonathan surely would have done so.
“But you asked about Arkham, not my scars,” Jonathan said, shifting back into his normal position and moving his hair back in place to hide them from view. He wasn't ashamed by them, they were just skin marks after all, but at the same time this was the first session and Jonathan had noticed these marks being a bit more distracting to others in comparison to the other scars on his body. Not surprisingly though, they were far more visible than the puncture marks found on his arms which were hidden under the jumpsuit sleeves.
Now that they were the subject of conversation, Jonathan began gently and mostly silently rubbing his hands with the blunt end of the highlighter. They had begun to throb for no reason. “To answer your question simply, it’s horrid. All of the money Bruce Wayne is putting into this place mainly goes towards increasing security rather than increasing quality of living. Obviously this is a problem for anyone brought here by the Batman; if I were taken to an actual hospital I’m sure that my hands and leg would be in much better condition than they are now.” Jonathan fully understood why Batman brought people directly here after he caught them since they surely would try to escape the hospital during their recovery time. In fact, Jonathan knew for a fact that if he were brought to the hospital he would be able to escape in time. He’d at least try, and through the attempt, people would surely die.
This information did not change the fact that Batman’s brutish ways caused permanent damage to a lot of people, especially when medical care is not 100%. After all, many doctors probably think that it is better if the crazies in this place can’t run as easily as before. It could be worse though. Jonathan was never a runner in the first place, so having a weakened leg was far from the worst thing that could happen; his hands twitching was a far greater inconvenience since they could not be fixed by a simple cane. Not to mention the fact that creating fear toxin required a steady hand otherwise the results may literally backfire.
“I have spoken to a few patients who fear a specific medical doctor that works here due to what he did to them while strapped down,” Jonathan added in casually, even twitching his mouth up in a smile as he imagined the look on their faces while telling Jonathan. He did not clarify whether these incidents were sexual or violent in nature. “It’s an interesting case, because I know that they are all speaking about the same person, yet their descriptions of their attacker are universally vague. Black hair and a white mask is all that I have been able to get out of them before they start weeping again or are consumed by another psychological fit. It seems that this doctor targets those with rather intense and frequent bouts of hallucinations which makes me further believed that the perpetrator is the same person; he's cover his tracks by targeting those whose words are never trusted."
Jonathan shared this fact for numerous reasons; partially it was because it was a fair comment to make when discussing the medical staff here, but it was also because it was a terrifying situation and therefore fascinating. As far as Jonathan was aware, he was not a victim of this doctor… although it is not fully possible to make a claim since if Jonathan was overcome by his fear gas he would not have been able to identify any real humanoids around him versus the fake ones. Additionally, and thankfully, Jervis did not seem to be a victim of this man either since Jervis either rarely got hurt enough to be in the medical bay overnight or his mind never got so bad that the things he saw could be considered fake. Yes, Jervis was insane by many definitions of the word, but most of the time he knew what was real and what was not… he just saw the real things as something else. His hallucination were basically just re-skins of preexisting models.
“It truly is as they say… this island really is cursed. No one comes here and leaves unaffected.” The unspoken question and the implication was clear, just how long would Dr. Mayflower manage to stay innocent and un-traumatized while he was here? His mind would either turn black or it would just turn off through death or insanity.
As if the world was working to favor Jonathan’s dramatic warnings, right after saying these words there were hard knocks on the office door before Smith, the guard from before, opened the door and poked his head inside. Once seeing that there were no dangers, he opened the door fully. Before he spoke, Smith noticeably looked at the pair and at the desk with a glare, but he did not express what prompted the glare and instead said, “Sorry, doctor, but the hours up. I’ve gotta get him back to his cell.”
As everyone knew, it was rare for sessions to be allowed to go on for longer than the assigned times. After all, it was dangerous to have a doctor exposed to such dangerous and manipulative people without a break. People like Ivy could work true magic on someone in two hours whereas in just one they may be more or less unaffected. It took submitting a request to the higher ups in order to get approval for a single session to go on longer, and if you wanted every session to go longer then it took more than just a written request. It took begging and pushing. Of course, doctors could also just tell the guards to come back later and sometimes the guards were follow that request. It was worth remembering that the guards had their own schedules they needed to focus on.
Jonathan had suspected that his time was almost up, but even though the conversation had a few down points, he still rather enjoyed it. “Well, Doctor Mayflower, looks like our time is up for today. I look forward to speaking with you tomorrow as well. I’ll be sure to think of some interesting conversation topics for us.” Slowly, Jonathan stood up before setting the now lightly highlighted report on the desk. He then set the highlighter itself on top and slightly pushed the pile towards Mayflower. “Thank you again for letting me read over this. It was a fascinating read.” Especially because Jonathan was able to identify a fair number of the author’s handwritings.
“Come on, Crane.” Smith ordered, walking over to grab hold of Jonathan’s shoulder so that he could part lead part push Jonathan out of the office.
Glancing over his shoulder, not resisting the force behind his guard’s actions or thinking it odd, Jonathan had one final polite smile to his doctor before they rounded the corner and sight was cut off. Once out of sight though, Jonathan glanced up at Smith who still had the same glare from earlier. “You seem troubled suddenly, Smith. Would you like to talk about it?”
“Watch yourself, Crane. I don’t know what that doctor is giving you permission to do, but I swear, if you even try to hurt someone on my watch again, I’ll kill you myself.”
As far as Jonathan was concerned, this threat was out of the blue, but then he remembered that Jerry Smith walked in and saw Jonathan hand over the supposed-to-be-private files. That was far from a weapon, but perhaps Jerry feared that if Dr. Mayflower was willing to let Jonathan hold things on his first day, then there was a chance that he may give Jonathan something worse in the future. It was a safe guess. “You’ve seen my work then?” Jonathan asked, excitement slipping in unwillingly, choosing not to acknowledge the threat and instead look for the source of the sudden burst of paranoia.
“Yeah, I did. The last doctor you got a needle into was my buddy. I’m just waiting for you to slip--”
“--is your friend still alive?” Jonathan interrupted, finding the threats boring in comparison to the rest of the conversation. Jonathan was only re-arrested a month ago, and he had not done any harm since then, so this must have been at least half a year previous. “How is his mental state all these months later?”
Nothing would have pleased Smith more than to take his gun out and shoot Jonathan right there, but he held himself back and just started shoving Jonathan with enough force that the ex-doctor actually stumbled to the ground.
“Not well then,” he whispered as he was yanked to his feet. Despite just falling, Jonathan was practically grinning at the idea that his toxin made here, without the prime materials he normally used, was still having such a lasting affect that Jerry Smith was seeking revenge. The poor guard needed permission first though, a real reason to draw his gun. It was almost funny; Smith wanted this new doctor to be safe, but at the same time, Smith wanted Dr. Mayflower to be attacked because that would mean he would have a legitimate reason to shoot to kill. Paranoia and rage were fighting for control, and all it took to make these two emotions rear their heads was a little piece of paper in the hand of a corrupted psychologist. How beautiful.
“If there are gaps in your knowledge and life experience, then it is the doctors responsibility to educate themselves as much as possible.”
“I have always encouraged personal experimentation as a way to better understand patients and the things doctors have never experienced. You will never get a true, deep understanding of someone and their trauma until you have experienced it yourself. Take for example...” Jonathan paused, trying to think of a case where a doctors imagination was not enough to comprehend the issue set before them, “a drowning victim who is now scared of even bath water; you will never be able to understand their terror until you too have felt the burn of water in your lungs and your arms pointlessly struggle to reach the surface ” This was an extreme example, but it highlighted the extreme importance Jonathan placed on personal experience over textbook knowledge or opinions. “How can you hope to understand nymphomania or satyromania as a virgin? Or someone who has spent their life fighting when you yourself have never even been hit before? Someone who got attacked at a concert will not relate to someone who has never been to one themselves and relied solely on their imagination and the words of others to fill in the blanks.”
“A sheltered psychologist will find it hard to keep up with one who has actually placed themselves in the shoes of their patient,” Jonathan concluded, rather pleased with their chat even if he was getting carried away and as such straying away from the core of the topic at times. He knew that he was a bit opinionated in matters such as psychology, and sometimes his opinions went a bit far, but he honestly thought himself correct. He did, after all, know how the story went on both sides of the desk. “I am willing to admit my bias on the matter. I have been a victim of doctors using secondary opinions and textbooks, rather than experience, to treat me over the course of my life, and every single time I was approached in a way I now identify as detrimental or lacking. “
It wasn't hard to guess what Jonathan wanted from his doctors in order for him to fully 'relate' to them. They needed to be horror fans, enjoy getting scared, or they need to have felt fear at such a great intensity that fear toxin was the only way to get it. Naturally, not many doctors were willing to expose themselves to psychological hallucinogens just to relate to a crazed scientist. Still, without a doctor who saw fear and horror in the same way as Jonathan did, it was hard to have a detailed conversation with them due to the fact that they were unable to comprehend how addicting it was to be terrified.
~~~
Jonathan took the paper and the highlighter slowly, still trying to show that he could be trusted, but once they were in his hands Jonathan moved as if he was intimately familiar with the contents of the pages. His eyes rapidly flicked over the entire document, skimming over every word before making a single mark on the pages. Sometimes he had to turn the pages at odd angles to read the words clearly, but it didn't slow him down too much. He also looked at the words underneath the sticky notes out of curiousity to see what once was thought true but no longer.
Even without the please, Jonathan had been planning on doing as he was asked. Although he had no intention of falsifying himself too much, it was nice to have this amount of control on what he claimed to be true about himself. This was, in a way, a chance for Jonathan to psychoanalyze himself and for Dr. Mayflower to see the results of that. Still, when Jonathan heard the man say please, he uncapped the highlighter with a smile, “Of course. I’d be happy to.”
Now that he had skimmed over everything to sate his curious mind, Jonathan could take his time highlighting and deeply reading every word. And so this is where Jonathan mostly kept his gaze for the rest of the conversation, although a few matters were interesting enough to shift his main focus.
Perhaps Dr. Mayflower had forgotten this, or maybe he did not care, but Jonathan had been working with some of the one staff doctors for years either as a patient or as a peer. He may not normally see them writing these files themselves, but he had seen the doctors write plenty of things before in their notes. It didn't matter that the names on the document were blacked out, he knew the handwriting of many of them; some he knew more intimately than others while the rest he had to use context clues and educated guesses to figure out who wrote what.
A few comments written at the bottom of the page were put there either by Dr. Whitman, or perhaps Dr. Carmichael. These notes were mainly about Jonathan being manipulative and suggesting higher security when it came to his interactions with others because he may be plotting something with them. Jonathan did not mark these in anyway. However, he did highlight a few things in the same section that suggested that he was controlling Jervis and intimidating Diana Merwin.
A handwriting that could not be identified suggested that Jonathan was faking his limp, which was such a lie that Jonathan grimaced when he read it. He highlighted this with more eagerness than the others. It was ridiculous to suggest that he would lie about an injury that completely made him unable to run. If the infirmary here had better management and equipment, perhaps this mysterious hand would have seen his x-rays. And if this place relaxed a bit, they would realize how helpful a cane would be to him.
Dr. Janis, who was killed by Victor Zsasz half a year ago, suggested that Jonathan was always being affected by his fear toxin; he was not an exception to the long lasting effects of the gas. She seemed to think that Jonathan was just better at hiding it than most people. This Jonathan highlighted. He was not plagued by false visions or sounds, so he had nothing to hide in that regard. The toxin’s effects did not last forever, it was just that most people broke before that point and were unable to return to the real world.
There were a few more spots that Jonathan highlighted such as the ones that implied that he had conducted experiments on his students all those years ago along side the asylum patients, that he had a hand in his parents murder, that he wanted to return to his old job, and other similar theories that seemed to come from nowhere. However, there were a few other concerning theories and ideas that Jonathan notably left un-highlighted. The topics ranged from Jonathan having a role in his grandmother's death, to having allies in the asylum, to the theory that he could make his fear toxin out of almost anything, to the idea that Jonathan chose a Scarecrow mask because of his own fear of Scarecrows.
~~~
At the question about being surprised, Jonathan noted the hesitation but didn't think much of it. The lad was thinking, that was all it seemed to be. Sadly though, the answer was not worth the wait and this showed on the way that Jonathan’s brows creased upon hearing the answer. He had given Dr. Mayflower permission not to use names if that made him uncomfortable, but that didn't change the fact that the answer was more vague than anything. In fact, Jonathan got nothing at all out of Dr. Mayflower’s response. Names were unnecessary, but a specific example or even a vague example would have been lovely. ‘Many stories’ was the source of the problem if Jonathan had to pick one. What stories were you told that proved to be the opposite?
Perhaps it was out of his disappointment for receiving such a dull, worthless answer, but the way Jonathan responded to Dr. Mayflowers musing and light sarcasm had a hit of annoyance, and more than that, a threatening undertone to it. “This is only your first day, it will happen soon enough.” Although it could be interpreted that way, Jonathan was not saying that he was going to be the one to attempt to take Mayflower’s life. After all, this was only one disappointing answer out of many good, thorough responses; Jonathan could handle that.
“Many patients don’t get violent until you start asking questions actually pertaining to their crimes, after all.” Jonathan continued, his tone returning to normal and the conversation continuing without further signs of Jonathan’s disappointment.
~~~
Jonathan, once again, found himself displeased by the response he got from the doctor. This time though, it was the physical reaction that disappointed Jonathan rather than the verbal. He had gotten a response out of Mayflower, a frown, but that felt weak. It wasn't enough. Jonathan felt nothing when he saw the man’s reaction, no rush of pleasure from being right or witnessing someone’s face twisted in concern when they realized that Jonathan had figured them out.
But this? This was nothing! Nothing vital was triggered in Mayflower, and as such, nothing was triggered at all in Jonathan. And all of the nothing before him caused Jonathan to sigh audibly and slump back into his chair.
He wasn't defeated; he’d try again in the next session after getting more information. Without the fear gas, Jonathan could only make guesses based on the information that people let slip. And he still knew very little about the shorter man sitting before him. Mayflower was a novice, or at least unrecognized, but he seemed to want that recognition. That still felt right based on what Jonathan knew, but he would not push his legacy theory until he knew a bit more. Talking about a legacy did not trigger any kind of primal reaction that Jonathan wanted to see, so he’d wait.
“If you insist; we can discuss this further another time.” In another one of my sessions, Jonathan added silently. This was the closest Jonathan had come to talking about this meeting as something he was in control of. Saying that they would discuss legacies again in the future meant that he expected to be in control of the line of questioning, and more than that, that he would not be the one responding to questions.
~~~
“Hm?” Jonathan responded when Mayflower suddenly asked about the medical treatment at Arkham, but after a moment, he understood. “Ah, so you noticed then? It’s a rather obnoxious new physical quirk I have to deal with.” Jonathan raised his hands in the air, not to attack, but so that everyone in the room could get a good look at his long, bony fingers.
“Apparently, my fingers did not like being snapped backward so that they could puncture my neck.” Jonathan tilted his head to the side now, shifting his hair out of the way in the process, to reveal three red dots on his neck; they were scars caused by thick needles being roughly forced into the skin at an odd, unnatural angle. To make it worse, the needles had been left to hang there too, gravity pulling them down and making the scarring even more visible when in the right lighting. All the while, Jonathan was pumped with his own toxin. If it were possible to overdose on the fear toxin, Jonathan surely would have done so.
“But you asked about Arkham, not my scars,” Jonathan said, shifting back into his normal position and moving his hair back in place to hide them from view. He wasn't ashamed by them, they were just skin marks after all, but at the same time this was the first session and Jonathan had noticed these marks being a bit more distracting to others in comparison to the other scars on his body. Not surprisingly though, they were far more visible than the puncture marks found on his arms which were hidden under the jumpsuit sleeves.
Now that they were the subject of conversation, Jonathan began gently and mostly silently rubbing his hands with the blunt end of the highlighter. They had begun to throb for no reason. “To answer your question simply, it’s horrid. All of the money Bruce Wayne is putting into this place mainly goes towards increasing security rather than increasing quality of living. Obviously this is a problem for anyone brought here by the Batman; if I were taken to an actual hospital I’m sure that my hands and leg would be in much better condition than they are now.” Jonathan fully understood why Batman brought people directly here after he caught them since they surely would try to escape the hospital during their recovery time. In fact, Jonathan knew for a fact that if he were brought to the hospital he would be able to escape in time. He’d at least try, and through the attempt, people would surely die.
This information did not change the fact that Batman’s brutish ways caused permanent damage to a lot of people, especially when medical care is not 100%. After all, many doctors probably think that it is better if the crazies in this place can’t run as easily as before. It could be worse though. Jonathan was never a runner in the first place, so having a weakened leg was far from the worst thing that could happen; his hands twitching was a far greater inconvenience since they could not be fixed by a simple cane. Not to mention the fact that creating fear toxin required a steady hand otherwise the results may literally backfire.
“I have spoken to a few patients who fear a specific medical doctor that works here due to what he did to them while strapped down,” Jonathan added in casually, even twitching his mouth up in a smile as he imagined the look on their faces while telling Jonathan. He did not clarify whether these incidents were sexual or violent in nature. “It’s an interesting case, because I know that they are all speaking about the same person, yet their descriptions of their attacker are universally vague. Black hair and a white mask is all that I have been able to get out of them before they start weeping again or are consumed by another psychological fit. It seems that this doctor targets those with rather intense and frequent bouts of hallucinations which makes me further believed that the perpetrator is the same person; he's cover his tracks by targeting those whose words are never trusted."
Jonathan shared this fact for numerous reasons; partially it was because it was a fair comment to make when discussing the medical staff here, but it was also because it was a terrifying situation and therefore fascinating. As far as Jonathan was aware, he was not a victim of this doctor… although it is not fully possible to make a claim since if Jonathan was overcome by his fear gas he would not have been able to identify any real humanoids around him versus the fake ones. Additionally, and thankfully, Jervis did not seem to be a victim of this man either since Jervis either rarely got hurt enough to be in the medical bay overnight or his mind never got so bad that the things he saw could be considered fake. Yes, Jervis was insane by many definitions of the word, but most of the time he knew what was real and what was not… he just saw the real things as something else. His hallucination were basically just re-skins of preexisting models.
“It truly is as they say… this island really is cursed. No one comes here and leaves unaffected.” The unspoken question and the implication was clear, just how long would Dr. Mayflower manage to stay innocent and un-traumatized while he was here? His mind would either turn black or it would just turn off through death or insanity.
As if the world was working to favor Jonathan’s dramatic warnings, right after saying these words there were hard knocks on the office door before Smith, the guard from before, opened the door and poked his head inside. Once seeing that there were no dangers, he opened the door fully. Before he spoke, Smith noticeably looked at the pair and at the desk with a glare, but he did not express what prompted the glare and instead said, “Sorry, doctor, but the hours up. I’ve gotta get him back to his cell.”
As everyone knew, it was rare for sessions to be allowed to go on for longer than the assigned times. After all, it was dangerous to have a doctor exposed to such dangerous and manipulative people without a break. People like Ivy could work true magic on someone in two hours whereas in just one they may be more or less unaffected. It took submitting a request to the higher ups in order to get approval for a single session to go on longer, and if you wanted every session to go longer then it took more than just a written request. It took begging and pushing. Of course, doctors could also just tell the guards to come back later and sometimes the guards were follow that request. It was worth remembering that the guards had their own schedules they needed to focus on.
Jonathan had suspected that his time was almost up, but even though the conversation had a few down points, he still rather enjoyed it. “Well, Doctor Mayflower, looks like our time is up for today. I look forward to speaking with you tomorrow as well. I’ll be sure to think of some interesting conversation topics for us.” Slowly, Jonathan stood up before setting the now lightly highlighted report on the desk. He then set the highlighter itself on top and slightly pushed the pile towards Mayflower. “Thank you again for letting me read over this. It was a fascinating read.” Especially because Jonathan was able to identify a fair number of the author’s handwritings.
“Come on, Crane.” Smith ordered, walking over to grab hold of Jonathan’s shoulder so that he could part lead part push Jonathan out of the office.
Glancing over his shoulder, not resisting the force behind his guard’s actions or thinking it odd, Jonathan had one final polite smile to his doctor before they rounded the corner and sight was cut off. Once out of sight though, Jonathan glanced up at Smith who still had the same glare from earlier. “You seem troubled suddenly, Smith. Would you like to talk about it?”
“Watch yourself, Crane. I don’t know what that doctor is giving you permission to do, but I swear, if you even try to hurt someone on my watch again, I’ll kill you myself.”
As far as Jonathan was concerned, this threat was out of the blue, but then he remembered that Jerry Smith walked in and saw Jonathan hand over the supposed-to-be-private files. That was far from a weapon, but perhaps Jerry feared that if Dr. Mayflower was willing to let Jonathan hold things on his first day, then there was a chance that he may give Jonathan something worse in the future. It was a safe guess. “You’ve seen my work then?” Jonathan asked, excitement slipping in unwillingly, choosing not to acknowledge the threat and instead look for the source of the sudden burst of paranoia.
“Yeah, I did. The last doctor you got a needle into was my buddy. I’m just waiting for you to slip--”
“--is your friend still alive?” Jonathan interrupted, finding the threats boring in comparison to the rest of the conversation. Jonathan was only re-arrested a month ago, and he had not done any harm since then, so this must have been at least half a year previous. “How is his mental state all these months later?”
Nothing would have pleased Smith more than to take his gun out and shoot Jonathan right there, but he held himself back and just started shoving Jonathan with enough force that the ex-doctor actually stumbled to the ground.
“Not well then,” he whispered as he was yanked to his feet. Despite just falling, Jonathan was practically grinning at the idea that his toxin made here, without the prime materials he normally used, was still having such a lasting affect that Jerry Smith was seeking revenge. The poor guard needed permission first though, a real reason to draw his gun. It was almost funny; Smith wanted this new doctor to be safe, but at the same time, Smith wanted Dr. Mayflower to be attacked because that would mean he would have a legitimate reason to shoot to kill. Paranoia and rage were fighting for control, and all it took to make these two emotions rear their heads was a little piece of paper in the hand of a corrupted psychologist. How beautiful.
Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
•●•
Matthias listened to Jonathon's opinions on the matter, his own eyes still flickering with interest. -if you cannot do your job without them, then you are missing something vital in your skillset. It was a true fact, and Matthias had no problem acknowledging that it could be rather difficult for new researchers and therapists alike to look beyond the work of their predecessors, but Matthias felt as if the majority of the psychology community was being completely underrated by the statement as well as what Jonathon followed with. There were plenty of good doctors, many just simply avoided Arkham or -- even in their level of skill -- were not skilled enough to assist someone of Jonathon's background.
During his time as both a student and a psychologist, Matthias had encountered plenty of people from a variety of backgrounds, all of which had their own skillset that changed how they could communicate with their patients. Trauma was, in no means, a limited matter. Of course, it can come in various levels or display itself in various ways, but it was still trauma. Perhaps a man had never experienced drowning, but has been in the middle of a burning building before? Ask the man from the fire what he felt and he will describe the very same as the man from the water; the burning in his eyes, the suffocating lack of air; if you took out the words 'water' and 'fire', then both descriptions would be relatively the same. It all fell down to one thing; how they each felt.
You would need to have a rather limited imagination to be unable to simply acknowledge the emotions of your patient. You do not need to drown yourself to imagine the sting of suffocation burning your lungs, you did not need to burn yourself alive to feel the sear of the flames; you just needed to have a bit of empathy. If you can recognize the feelings or the emotions of those you speak to, then you can start to guide them elsewhere. Is that not what being a therapist is about? Understanding and guiding?
As much as Matthias respected the former doctor across from him -- a respect held for all his patients and clients -- it was easy to tell that empathy was a foreign matter to Mr. Crane.
The conversation had clearly been derailed along the way, making his consideration for a refute to be quickly dismissed as he elected to merely acknowledge Mr. Crane's words and move on. As much as he enjoyed arguing, that was not the aim that Matthias was going for. He wrote down a couple of notes for later reference before the topic was changed.
------------
This is only your first day, it will happen soon enough. It was not exactly something that Matthias was fond of hearing, somewhat unsettling due to the threatening way it was delivered, but likely better than delving too deep into a conversation about what had surprised him about the day. After all, surprise was not that far from fear on the emotional spectrum. Not an ideal step, but a necessary one. However, the second comment was actually rather useful, Matthias finding himself pausing for a moment as he considered it before flipping back to his other page with the majority of his writing and swiftly scribbling something in his typical chicken-scratch writing as a note for later before flipping back to the other section. "That's actually really helpful, thanks," he murmured as he wrote the note, figuring that he would likely need to be cautious and slow to approach that topic, or to only take such a route when he was completely certain it would be alright.
------------
Discussing the line they had been on later was not exactly something Matthias was eager about, but it was at least another warning, indicating that Mr. Crane clearly intended on revisiting the topic another time. With the warning, Matthias could at least remember to keep himself on the defense again. Part of him began to consider whether it would have just been easier to claim Jonathon had been correct in the assumption.
Of course, he had gotten close, but also distant. It was difficult to name exactly, considering fear never really being a big factor to Matthias. He lived in a safe area, he had had a happy childhood, and was rare to make enemies with those he spoke to often. His life paled greatly in comparison to most of the patients Matthias had interacted with during the last few hours; there was just nothing he could actively name as being a fear of his, only desires and discomforts. He wanted to keep mostly to himself. He wanted to make sure his friends and family were happy. He wanted to have some reason to be here, just as his parents had a reason to be back home when they'd been in the police force. None of those were fears.
Part of him, for just a moment as the tension of the room lowered, was curious as to what the other man would try to throw at him next. Of course, that was not a topic that would be explored further, precisely considering the fact that Dr. Mayflower now had a better idea of how to dodge around some of the various areas of talking with Jonathon. He did not want to keep things too vague, as that was clearly what had caused the seemingly spontaneous threat earlier, though there were some topics that were best left alone.
------------
Dr. Mayflower's attention turned back to Jonathon as he spoke about the injury, a faintly concerned gaze crossing his features as he looked at the scars. He had seen his fair share of injuries before, patients who had been victims of abuse or fights with little scars and scratches all across them -- not to mention some of his old friends having faired more on the reckless side -- but it did not ease his concern when seeing such things.
The patients were not the only stories he had heard of prior to entering the facility, one story was much more common among the city. Batman. For most of the time that Matthias had been in the city, Batman had been around and a large phenomenon. Matthias could even recall the original mention he had heard of him, some drug deal gone wrong that was broadcast on the news, mentions of a man in a bat suit having intervened. His friends had been all over the topic, joking that the 'Batman' must have been offended cause the dealers asked for too much.
Come to a couple of years later and there were few people in Gotham that hadn't heard of the Batman. If Matthias recalled correctly, it was actually around that time that he heard of most of the major villains of the city. Penguin, Two-Face, Joker, and even some of the mentions of Scarecrow. The city had changed around that time, possibly just before that time. The one things that always stood out to him was the first that had mentioned, the first to surface; Batman. A vigilante who fought crime.
It was only later that the actual threats surfaced, and sometimes, Matthias couldn't help but wonder if it was due to the Batman that the others surfaced. He held no disdain or assumptions, just curiosity for the matter.
Nonetheless, the marks were somewhat concerning at first glance but had appeared to have healed fine, nothing to make a fuss over and try to get medical.
Of course, that was not even the most concerning statement or concept of the conversation, as Dr. Mayflower quickly realized while Mr. Crane continued and began describing the mysterious doctor. Black hair and a white mask, terrorizing the patients who went in there; frankly, it sounded awful, almost to the point that Matthias would have considered it being just another of the hundreds of stories surrounding this facility. However, from what he had noticed about Jonathon already, he did not seem the type to make up stories for the mere sake of telling them.
If Mr. Crane was merely trying to elicit some fear response from him, he wouldn't have made a story that only affected a small range of patients. Therefore, Dr. Mayflower assumed it to be unlikely that it was just a made-up story -- at least not from him. There was always the possibility that the patients had seen an interaction a different way than others, or that the patients had lied well enough to slip past the former doctor's judgment, though the latter seemed unlikely. Regardless, it was Dr. Mayflower's duty to at least check in on this situation.
He began to open his mouth to speak before finding himself interrupted by the knock at the door and it soon opening afterward. He had many questions, but before the guard even mentioned the time, Dr. Mayflower's glance flickered to the clock and he resigned to continue the line of questioning tomorrow. As his gaze flickered to the man, he noticed the peculiar glare but elected to not mention it. "Ah, of course. No worries." Matthias hummed, offering the guard a bright smile. Despite the polite smile, there was a bit of concern still lingering in his thoughts as he reflected on the information he had just been told. It was not unheard of, particularly considering Mr. Crane had ended up within the Asylum due to similar reasons, but it was no less a concerning thought.
I’ll be sure to think of some interesting conversation topics for us.
His attention turned back to Mr. Crane as the former doctor spoke and Matthias blinked once before giving him a polite smile in return. "Of course, I'm sure we'll both have a lot to talk about." He chimed calmly, forcing the equal footing in the dynamic yet again.
Matthias stood up, following the guard and Mr. Crane to the door, his gaze briefly catching on the uncanny smile from Jonathon just before he shut the door, the doctor automatically returning it as he was already beginning to throw his mind back into considering the interview. There was a lot to process; from the way he had noticed the interview to be so carefully balanced between them each with a couple missteps on his own part, to the various answers that Jonathon had given throughout the conversation.
Dr. Mayflower walked back to the desk, thoughts still glazing over the interaction as he looked at the lightly highlighted file.
'And yes, as you said, I do take advantage of this intimate setting to analyze my ‘doctors.'' It stood out against the rest of the conversation, though not for the matter that Jonathon had been discussing at the time. It was a key comment to the conversation and to Mr. Jonathon Crane as a whole. '
I have no intention of answering the questions of others who do not show me the same courtesy, or those that do but lie to me the entire time.' Why not? It was not an interview for the doctors themselves, something that Matthias had noticed to not be a belief shared by the other man. Throughout the entire interaction, it had been almost like a game, in order to ask a question, you had to propose an answer. Jonathon believed it to be his interview. '
'It is as I said before, psychology is a two way street between two people; it is not a one-way road where I will just lay on the ground to be splattered by the neverending queries of men and women that have no passion for their craft.' Matthias could understand the words, but also struggled to completely understand them. This is not how interviews are conducted, nor is this the reason for them. These sessions are meant for discussing and working through problems with the patient, not the doctor.
It was a dynamic foreign to Matthias. He had experienced it a couple of times before, patients loosely inquiring small things such as if he could relate to a bad experience they had been through or if he could understand where they were coming from in their own opinions, questions that were always somewhat tough to answer or navigate around. However, with this interview, it was as if the dynamic had been flipped on him. Nothing would come of it, not for him.
If Matthias were to push too hard to regain his footing, he understood that meant that Mr. Crane would eventually lose interest and sever the fragile spider thread of a dynamic, in turn, breaking the possibility for Matthias to continue his attempts at analyzing the man. As the former doctor had said, he despised being trampled by one-way questions and saw no need to indulge in them if he was not able to use them for his own research.
Inversely, if Matthias were to stumble too much and lose his footing in the delicate game, then Mr. Crane would certainly be quick to seize control of the sessions, making the sessions just as pointless as they would have been otherwise. If the sessions were focussed solely on him, then Matthias would not be able to inquire further and there would be no need to continue something so utterly useless.
The fact of the matter, the one detail that proved to be the hidden stakes; the sole reason for Matthias to continue the careful game, both he and Mr. Crane would lose if the scales tipped too far in either direction. If Matthias succeeded in gaining full control, Mr. Crane would sever the connection and close off just as he had done with the countless doctors prior to him, meaning that Matthias would not be able to further his questions and, in turn, would be unable to see if anything could prove to help the former doctor. If Mr. Crane won and was able to pry too far into Matthias' mind, then he would simply continue his old ways and Matthias would be unable to try to continue any efforts at progress.
It was such a delicate and careful dynamic, but if Matthias had any chance of trying to help the former doctor improve, and potentially help countless others from falling to his attacks just as they had done in the past, then it was a worthy challenge.
The other sessions were important, Matthias had no question about that, but he had seen the effects of the fear toxin already. People huddled up in insane wards, babbling about things that Dr. Mayflower could not see and begging him to not hurt them. People who had killed loved ones because they believed them to be monsters or demons. People who could not erase the memories of their fears and saw them every time they shut their eyes as if they were just in front of them.
Ms. Isley hated people but was surprisingly isolated in comparison to the others, her attacks often only targetting those in the factory industry and those she believed to be slowly killing the world. They were attacks that hurt and oftentimes killed people, but they were so secluded and closed off to only a particular group of people that not many people had to worry.
Mr. Nygma, while younger than most of the others, also had an important detail that had seemed to hinder his potential for increasing his body count, the fact simply being; you can't prove your brilliance if you have no audience to see it. People occasionally died in his attacks, just like in Ms. Isley's, but he was always after his ego.
Ms. Quinzel was insane, completely and utterly mad. However, she was not always that way. She had snapped. Broken by the Joker with next to no chance of recovery in her lifetime, but that didn't mean that he couldn't try. She was also a delicate dynamic, but in the end, it all came down to who she could relate to. At the time of her breaking, she had best related to Joker. With the right amount of pushing, Dr. Mayflower hoped he could push her away from those beliefs. She was not a lost cause by any means; like everyone else, she had good in her.
Mr. Tetch, in his own brand of insanity, was perhaps the sanest of the patients Matthias had spoken with today. If Matthias could carefully widdle away the fantasy that the man had created, then there was a chance for helping the man. It wasn't even a delusion that needed to be completely broken. Matthias had met plenty of people who had believed their own delusions -- a woman who claimed to be able to see an angel and a demon on her shoulders, or the man that had believed everyone around him to be an imposter in some sort of scheme against him -- it was about finding a way to connect the fantasy to reality. The woman's trick was to have her wear extravagant scarves or jackets draped across her shoulders to keep the 'angels and demons' from landing. The man's issue was solved by convincing him to play along with their scheme and convince him that he deserved a stake in whatever the 'imposters' were putting on. Reality didn't need to be solid, it just needed to have it's own grounding points like scarves or a good scheme. Otherwise, unless someone directly went against Mr. Tetch's delusions, he was hardly an aggressive person according to what Matthias had noticed about him earlier.
Mr. Crane, in his polite and passionate exterior, was perhaps the most difficult personality of all of them, for the sole reason that a single misstep could result in the end of the careful dynamic. Sure, that was true for the others, but there were ways to get around the others; small psychological tricks that Matthias could use if an error was made on his part. If he accidentally pushed too hard at Nygma, he had to quickly back down and admit it and be quick to prove himself. If he made a mistake with Quinzel, he similarily needed to just admit it and apologize. For Tetch, it was just a matter of playing along. For Isley, he was still somewhat uncertain about her but from what he had noticed so far, she seemed to be more passive than aggressive and quick to ignore mistakes for the sake of not having to deal with them herself.
For Crane, a former doctor who clearly knows all the tricks in the book, it was not so easy to take back any blunders. From what Matthias had noticed of the man, forgiveness was just not an aspect of his nature.
It would be troublesome to treat him, but was that not the reason he was here? If he could make an impact, even if just a small one, then it was worth it.
For now; however, as Matthias' thoughts began to slip away from the conflict, there were other matters at hand. Namely, the sparsely highlighted document.
Matthias approached it and picked it up, looking over it for a few moments with slight interest. He was surprised by some parts of it, though not the areas that were highlighted, rather, those left unmarked. On the sheet, a few things were notable, all of which Matthias would begin to swiftly write down with one hand, leaning slightly over his desk to reach the notepad. The fact that the mention that Jonathon had not highlighted the possibility of his involvement in the death of his grandmother was one of the more noticeable details, the fear of scarecrows being a second point.
After marking down the areas of interest, Matthias pulled the notepad towards him and took a few moments to skim over his notes. Once satisfied, he gave a small nod of self-approval before glancing to the clock. Twenty minutes from his scheduled clock-out time. He gave a small sigh and skimmed over the work before setting it aside and retrieving the reports of the other sessions from the stack of papers. Setting them together and tapping them against the desk to line them up, he put the other papers in his bag and began towards the door.
One report would need to be filed for what Harley had mentioned of the guard, another would need to be filed for Jonathon's mention of the doctor. He needed to turn in the session reports, as well as potentially make a final effort at getting access to the footage of prior sessions.
-----------------
Dr. Mayflower stepped into the hall, his gaze immediately drifting to the nearby door where two guards were currently perched, the faint sound of loud arguing resounding from behind the door where the older doctor seemed to be in one of her louder 'sessions'. It seemed he would not have time to talk to her for the time being, perhaps he could see her briefly tomorrow and try to cross-check some of the information he had come up with during his session with Nygma, as he recalled her mentioning he was a common patient for her. Just past the guards, two janitors seemed to be busy at work on one of the doors, a doctor standing just outside watching the two men work and talking vividly with hand movements.
Matthias took the opposite direction of the two janitors and doctor, beginning to follow the room numbers towards the number he had memorized since Dr. Mayson had mentioned it, Room 212, Dr. Caster. He had been directed by the other doctor to seek him out for the reports, as well as he couldn't help but recall the mention of him from Mr. Crane, a small note that had been jotted down as a topic for avoidance in the session report, just beside the mention of the fear toxin formula.
Upon nearing the office, he quickly came to recognize it was not an office, but rather it appeared to be a secretary room, sparsely decorated with a row of filing cabinets against the back wall and a few wooden mailboxes with a small group of women working at the desks. It was somewhat of a stark contrast to the rest of the facility, looking almost ordinary in comparison to the stark white or metal all across the Asylum, the only indication of it not just being another office room being the familiar flicker of the fluorescent lights above.
"Ehm," He began after approaching one of the front desks, the woman currently typing away quickly on her keyboard. She only bothered to glance up after he began speaking. "I'm rather new here, I have the session reports, but I was not told who I was supposed to deliver them to?" He said, a faint bubble of unease in his tone, briefly holding up the folder with the documents.
"Who is your patient?" The woman asked, tone vaguely sour as if she'd had a bad day, holding out her hand for the folder without even looking at him, the woman still starring at her computer screen. He could make out the faint reflection of the dark blue Facebook logo in her glasses.
"Pamela Isely, Edward Nygma, Harleen Quinzel, Jervis Tetch, and Jonathon Crane," Matthias answered as he passed the folder to her, feeling his pocket buzz silently and beginning to fish his phone from his jacket -- having already exchanged the pristine white lab coat for his smaller tan overcoat. He glanced at the message, noticing it to merely be a spam email that he quickly dismissed. Looking back up as he slid his phone back into his pocket, he noticed the woman to have been just in the process of turning her gaze away from him the moment he looked up.
She went silent, no longer looking at her computer screen and instead currently flipping through the document to the cover of each, seeming to hesitate for a moment as he noticed her to be reading over the names. She glanced up for a moment, catching Matthias off guard and causing him to give a somewhat awkward smile. "Is something wrong?" He asked after a pause of silence.
The woman did not say a word for a second before shaking her head. "No," She murmured, returning to her computer screen and flicking away from the previous tab, Matthias assuming she was in the process of finding the correct superior. After waiting a few moments, Matthias taking the time to glance around the room in awkward silence, shifting his weight to his other leg as he listened to her tap away at the keyboard. Finally, after an almost painful amount of silence, the woman gave a firm nod and set the folder aside. "I've got it covered, is that all, sir?" She asked politely, tone seeming to have taken an odd shift.
He blinked in surprise and considered it for a second before recalling the footage he had previously been reminiscing over. "I would like to gain some access to any former video or audio sessions conducted with my charges, would there be any way for me to obtain those?" He asked, giving a hopeful smile.
The woman hesitated again giving him an unreadable look before she directed her gaze back to the computer and typed at it quickly again before she gave a small nod. "You'll have to fill out some forms, and it may take a couple of weeks to get the clearance, but you can make a request to see them?" The woman said, looking back up at him, the previous look in her eyes seeming to be gone in a second.
Despite recognizing that meant he would have to endure another few weeks of being left mostly in the dark, it was still a start. Better than he could have hoped for.
"Of course! Do you have the forms?"
"Give me one moment, please." The woman said, hitting a couple more keys before moving in her rolling chair to the other side of the desk, waiting as the printer began to run the document off, her tone still sticking to the oddly sweet lilt that it had taken after their first small exchange. "Here you go, sir!" The woman chimed with a pleasant smile, something about the bright red lipstick painting her smile as forced. "They're rather lengthy, you can take them and return them in the morning if you would prefer." She said as she set the documents on the counter.
"Thank you so much!" He replied, trying not to place too much thought in the strange and sudden sweetness of the woman. He took the forms and put them in his bag, glancing over the small stack of papers before looking back up. "Oh, where should I bring my session reports in the future?"
The woman seemed caught off guard for a moment, something in her gaze seeming just as false as the smile she was still wearing. "Oh," She began, hesitating a moment before forcing the sweet tone again. "You can bring them here and we will deliver them to their places." She said brightly.
His own smile faltered slightly, confused by the strange behavior, but quickly tore his thoughts away from it. "Ok, thank you." He said, his own tone losing some of its chipper edge as he began back towards the door, eager to leave the strange room and the strange secretary.
-----------------
He took the hallway back past his office, noticing the argument between Dr. Mayson and her patient to have seemed to grow much louder and the guards to have fallen into an uneasy silence with one of them having already drawn a taser and the other just waiting at the door for a sign of trouble. Matthias passed by in silence, aiming to not interfere with the business of the loud patient and his louder doctor.
At the end of the hallway, the two janitors still remained, the doctor having departed already and the older janitor having taken the place of the doctor's judgemental gaze while he starred up at the larger man on the ladder, fiddling with the top of a door. A security system or lock, Matthias assumed, judging by the blinking red light of a couple of small metallic boxes sitting at the side, a few wires were strewn across the area and a bag of small pieces clutched in the older doctor's grip.
Again, Matthias began to walk past the two, turning his gaze briefly back to his phone as he skimmed over the scam email before moving it to the garbage bin. He would have completely passed the two if not for the familiar voice from the man on the ladder that he overheard as he passed.
"Do you actually know what you're doing?" The elderly janitor grumbled, voice a low croak and his back slouched and his gaze briefly following Matthias as he passed the two.
The man on the ladder waved his hand dismissively. "Come on, when do I ever not know what I'm doing?" The man on the ladder mumbled from his spot, his accent thick and distinctly Gotham. Something about the deep rumble of a voice was familiar and forced Matthias to begin to slow silently. He did not turn back, briefly considering it was just a mere trick of the mind or sound that had caused it to sound so familiar and yet so oddly distant. "Besides, if I don't, we'll just come back and waste more time on it later, how 'bout that?" The man added, a low growl of a quiet laugh at his own joke punctuating the comment.
"Tiedrich?" Matthias couldn't help but ask, recognizing the voice the moment the large man had spoken a second time. He turned back in surprise and took a good look at the man on the ladder.
There was a pause of silence as the two connected their stares, a small mess of wires dangling right in front of the younger janitor's face, the man's grey cap being the only think keeping it out of his eyes. "Holy shit, I haven't seen you in forever." The man murmured in a low but bubbly grumble. "What's up, Matty?"
Absolutely nothing had changed about the older man and long-time friend. Tiedrich Kiemer was exactly the same as he had last seen the man years ago. His hair was a bit longer, and somewhat greasier, but he was still a giant of a man, seeming to tower rather decent over the six-foot-and-a-half mark as he began to descend the stairs, foot catching slightly on the bottom one and snarling a short 'fuck' along with a snarky grin at the elderly man as he quickly smoothed the trim of his brown jacket. He still had the same glasses as before, it seeming clear the lenses had been replaced a few times judging by the beat up edges, and his shave still as poor and sloppy as ever. Nothing at all was different about him.
"Jesus, you look like a 'gal." Tiedrich huffed slightly with a grin as he walked over and tugged Matthias into a tight embrace, Matthias too surprised to move away from the man as he was pulled into him. "The hell you doing here? You finally lose your marbles like the rest of us?" He grunted with a grin before letting Matthias go as Matthias began to pull back.
Matthias gave a small uncertain laugh. "I work here." He claimed sincerely.
"All the more reason to assume you mad, Matty." Tiedrich claimed before placing his hands on his hips and looking over Matthias for a second or two before shaking his head. "I haven't seen you around, you new here?"
"Can you please get back to work, I want to get this finished with." The elderly man grumbled, seeming eager to clock out for the day.
Tiedrich glanced back and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "There's no rush, don't you get paid for overtime?"
The other man rolled his eyes before eventually giving a resigned sigh and mumbling something under his breath as he carefully pulled himself to sit down on the second to last step of the ladder, watching the two closely.
"If you need to get back to work, I don't want to keep you-" Matthias began, eyebrows raising a little. He did not want to get the other man yelled at or fired over something as trivial as a hallway chat.
"Nonsense." Tiedrich interrupted. "How long you've been 'ere?" He repeated, more directly this time. "You on another internship? I thought you were bored with those. Who asked you to get coffee? Mind grabbing me a cup?"
Matthias gave a timid laugh and lightly scratched the back of his neck. "No, I-" He considered the small interaction at the secretary job as he turned his gaze to the side before letting it flicker back to Tiedrich. "Just a doctor. I haven't done an internship in at least four years now. I thought I mentioned that last time we spoke?" He hummed, trying to recall their last interaction. Reflecting back on it, nothing much came to mind. Some chat over the phone, twenty-or-so minutes that Matthias could not recall for the life of him.
"I thought you were doing one a couple years ago, the whole Saint Joseph's Hospital one, you were working with those old farts." Tiedrich murmured, Matthias cringing slightly at the phrasing.
It took him a moment to even start to piece together what Tiedrich was talking about, but even as he came to decipher it, none of it was familiar. He had only been to that hospital a couple of times before, back when he was working with a young girl with anxiety, but that was not nearly the type of job that Tiedrich was describing. Besides, that had been -- again -- four years ago. One of his last internships. "No, I am not sure if you have the right person-" Matthias began.
"Maybe it's Creed I'm thinking about then, wasn't he doing the job with you?" Tiedrich interrupted.
Matthias shook his head. Creed? Who was Creed? "No, I don't recall a Creed. Saint Joseph's is a bit of a distance for me, and I don't have a specialty in elderly patients. I used to work in trauma care, not nursing-"
"Same thing." Tiedrich interrupted again, causing Matthias to shift in place again uncomfortably.
"No, it's honestly not." He finally murmured, faint irritation in his tone. "Nursing is mainly about keeping people comfortable or assisting medically through mostly physical means. Trauma care is about assisting mentally through both physical means and therapy."
"Right, my cousin went through therapy, you remember Tim, right? I think you met him at that party back in Freshman or Sophmore year. You know the guy," Tiedrich began.
Matthias furrowed his brow and began to shake his head, unable to recall the cousin. He probably had met him before, but it was unlikely he'd recall him after such a long time.
"-Course you remember him, here, I got a picture of him. He's the one that crashed a few years back, I told you about that, right? Some chick ran out in front of his car and he swerved into a semi, you remember that story?" Tiedrich asked, pulling his phone and beginning to pull up a picture as the conversation quickly derailed further and further. Back by the ladder, the old man had tipped his head down, giving a silent laugh as he watched the butchered conversation.
"Leave the poor doctor alone, he doesn't care, come finish this shit up so we can be done here." The older janitor finally croaked from his spot at the ladder.
Tiedrich ignored him, waving a hand as his dismissed the elder and continued to pull up the picture, "Just a sec, Matt-" Tiedrich began, something about his tone seeming to shift again. It was not like the woman though, it was smaller. His fingers swiped across the cracked screen as he tried to find the promised picture. His brows were knitted and something about all of it unsettled Matthias. He spoke with the same old rumbled thunder of a voice but something beneath it. Desperation.
He knew this man, had been friends with him for a while back, but that was ages ago. Back then, Tiedrich had been larger than life, constantly on some sort of mission or adventure, confidant down to his very core, enough to seep into the air around him. Now? He looked the same, acted the same, and perhaps that was the very thing that disturbed Matthias. He wore the same old jacket he had in college -- now scuffed and filthy -- and even the same old hat. He still had the same laugh. The same lack of conversational elegance. The same everything.
It was as if the man had forgotten that time was a concept and that people grow and change.
Matthias shook his head and took a step back, hesitantly raising a hand and indicating to behind him with a thumb. "It's alright, I think I need to get going." He murmured, giving an uncertain smile as he backed up a little.
Tiedrich seemed surprised by this action, gaze flickering down to notice the distance between them before raising back up. For a moment, Matthias caught it, a brief flash of sadness in his deep green eyes. It was enough to give him a pang of regret.
Tiedrich masked it quickly and gave a nod, glancing a final time at his screen before giving a resigned nod and tense smile. "Right, don't wanna keep ya', Matty." He reached a hand behind his neck and scratched it lightly before continuing, his tone somewhat lower and returning to its relaxed ease, far more befitting for the gentle giant. "Should hang out sometime, if you're crazy enough to work here, I'm eager to catch up a little." He murmured before finally cracking one of his signature grins as he lowered his hand back to his jacket's pocket. "You haven't lost my number, have ya'?"
The guilt still lingered like a lump in the back of Matthias' throat. Tiedrich was not trying to be rude, he was just eager to see a familiar face, Matthias could relate to the feeling. As much as it had unsettled him at first, Tiedrich had never done anything to warrant the unease. He was the same as he was before. Maybe that was not as bad of a thing as he originally thought. "Of course," He finally murmured after a second. "I've still got it saved under the contact 'van man' like always." He finally admitted, reflecting back on their old calls.
Tiedrich visibly cringed at the mention of the old inside joke. "Ugh, please don't mention that again." He mused with a slight grin, a faint flash of relief crossing his gaze. "Well let me know when you get the chance to hang out. I'll see you later, Matty."
Matthias gave him a sincere smile, "See you, Tiedrich." He said as he turned around, giving a small wave as he began back towards the path towards the exit, slipping a hand back around the strap of his messenger bag and the other back into his pocket, eventually hearing the distant croak of the man by the ladder and the old friend chatting behind him. It was a surprising encounter, but it had been oddly satisfying by the end. Maybe reconnecting with an old friend wouldn't be as bad of a thing as he thought?
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He arrived home somewhat late after stopping for dinner at a nearby cafe. Throughout his entire silent meal in the small but cozy building, he spent his time reflecting back on the day. Eventually, he recalled the forms the odd secretary had given him and was able to waste a chunk of his time during dinner on finish those off. Once he had completely exhausted his thoughts on that, he couldn't help but begin to recall some of the more specific details of the day. In the end, there was only one that stood out; This is only your first day, it will happen soon enough.
There was no previous footage or audio sessions to reflect on for the time being, and all that he could remember from those already shown to him were next to useless when considering that most seemed to be from an ideal day for the patients, never even edging towards one of their bad reactions. It was almost like the Asylum was trying to shield new doctors from the harsh reality that there would not; in fact, always be good situations or good days. It irritated Matthias to no end.
So, after sitting starring at his long-cold cup of tea with his chin resting on the back of his hand, he finally resigned to slide his phone back out of his pocket and spend the next hour flipping through anything he could scrape from the internet. The Riddler's Attack on the Gotham Art Museum. Joker & Harley Quinn Take Over the Appleton Charity Gala. Scarecrow Strikes During F. Marks Orchestra Performance. Just a handful of articles that Matthias skimmed through in his time. If he came upon a video, he would always click it, the subtitles on when they existed and volume off, or the volume next to nothing if there were no subtitles. If the video seemed bogged down be reporters or outside parties discussing it, he would scroll through until he could find video footage, audio, or even witness claims when he was truly desperate.
It was only when his screen flashed the little 'low battery' warning that brought him back out of his research. He blinked a couple of times, surprised as he looked to the time and noticed how long he had been in his studies. With a small sigh, he finally turned his phone off and waited a moment. He reached to the back of his head, lightly tugging his hair tie out and placing it around his wrist as he considered the new details.
He placed a hand over his mouth, giving a small yawn as his gaze finally drifted to the ignored cup of tea, only a few sips of it remaining. Silently, he finished off the frigid last bit before sliding out of the booth and returning it to the counter with a small thanks to the staff who took it.
Autonomously, he began back on his way towards home, having gotten out of the subways just a couple blocks from his apartment. There was so much to reflect back on, to consider, to think over; and Matthias was still as clueless as he had been before.
After entering his apartment room, a shower, and the minute preparations for bed, his thoughts were all but collected in the slightest. So, turning out the light, for the first time in years, he did not return to his computer and keyboard to put forth more effort on the Word document and blinking cursor, instead, he went to sleep without another thought on the matter.
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The travel to work was as ordinary as it had been the last two weeks. He had chosen a different scanner this time, the punk nowhere to be seen this time. Once in the subway car, the only familiar face was the same man in the suit as yesterday. No mother and baby, no old man and wife, no kid and backpack. Just a different small collective of unfamiliar faces.
Once checked in with security, he was already on his way towards the secretary room. Walking in, the woman from yesterday seemed to not be in currently, so he turned in the forms to a different woman, electing to be somewhat more sparse in his information. She took the forms, not looking at them as he claimed to merely be trying to see if there was any prior footage or audio for his patient's sessions. The woman promptly mumbled something about 'checking it and getting back to him soon' before returning to whatever she found interesting on her computer screen.
Oddly enough, he had preferred the woman's coldness to the other secretary's sickeningly sweet tone. With that matter resolved, he made his way back towards his office, briefly glancing to the clock on his phone. 6:32 AM. Enough time to drop by his office, get settled back in a little, and then wait for the first session.
After reaching his door, he hesitated briefly as he recalled his research on Mr. Nygma, eyes focussed on Dr. Mayson's door for a few moments before he approached it and knocked a few times. When there was no reply, he knocked a few more times on the door before eventually recognizing that she likely wasn't in currently. For a moment, he found it a somewhat odd thought, she was usually in at this time. He opened his own office, recognizing his minor error as he closed and locked the door behind him, the realization hitting him like a smack in the face. Tuesday. She was never here on Tuesdays. Well, there was always tomorrow.
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A few more minutes passed as Matthias sat alone at his desk, shifting in his chair as he looked silently at one of the blank session reports he had already set out in preparation for Ms. Isely's interview. Eventually, the same word he had used yesterday began to rear it's head again; mundane.
After waiting another minute or so, he stood up and grabbed the paper, looking around the room for a few moments for a clipboard before snatching an empty folder from the side of the desk and setting the paper on top of it, clipping a pencil to the top of it neatly before he began making his way out, electing to rely on the directions from passerby guards towards Ms. Isely's cell five minutes before her session arose.
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Her interview went rather similar to the previous day, her mostly brushing off any of his questions or outright ignoring him for some of the more personal questions. There was not much that rose from the conversation outside of the few mentions she gave of her plants, the woman at one point implying that she had a specific skill at making her plants grow so well. Outside of that, very little came from the interview.
-----------------
Mr. Nygma's interview seemed to be a little more on edge, even despite Matthias' care to avoid asking any personal questions yet. It seemed that the 'new doctor grace period' had worn off rather quick, something that Matthias had hoped to extend for just a few sessions past then, but perhaps he would not be as lucky this time.
As the interview strayed into a tenser area, Matthias quickly brought it out and began inquiring about the other man's inventions, the videos from the night prior seeming to actually come in handy as he brought up a recent example of one of the many creations by the genius. Matthias took care to show his genuine interest in the work and admiration for it; after all, he truly was impressed by it. It was an A.I., something that Matthias was admittedly lacking knowledge of, but it was not too far of a stretch if compared to a human mind. It was just a mind, but smarter, faster, and with perfect memory. Still, it was somewhat of a simplistic perception of the concept so Matthias took care to try and not give any opinions on the subject.
Overall, not much progress was made. He was at least able to get some roundabout answers to his questions, though required a bit of deciphering the meaning in order to get the responses.
-----------------
At the time for his next interview, he found the directions to Ms. Quinzel's cell and took the route. It was somewhat of an endeavor to get to her cell, it being near the complete back of the facility, but he was able to eventually reach it and politely greeted the guards as he approached, the four already in the process of pulling the woman out of the cell. "Hello," He chimed as he approached.
He got a strange look from one of the guards, Matthias already recognizing it was uncommon to walk between the cells and interviews. The guard began to open his mouth to say something before noticing a stray gaze from another guard near him and quickly falling silent. Matthias vaguely recognized the other guard as one that had walked with him for Ms. Isely's interview. At least this was not too outlandish of a move.
"Hands off me, bub! I won't hesitate to bite 'cha!" A familiar voice shouted from the cell, causing Matthias' gaze to snap towards the woman as she was pulled out of the cell by a guard, another guard sticking closeby in case she tried to make a break for it. "Sheesh, you really dunno the meaning of no, huh?" She snapped at the guard, jerking in his grasp again. Her gaze caught on the intruder to her tantrum and for a moment, Matthias almost thought she had thrown a glare at him. After a second or two, it seemed it had merely been leftover from her quarrel with the guard. "Oh hey, you still work 'ere, don't 'cha? Glad to see you haven't run out on us, doc!" She shouted, still struggling in the guard's tight grip.
"Ms. Quinzel, could you please start walking? It would make it a lot easier on both of us!" The guard snapped at her, exasperation in his tone as he struggled to keep a grip on the thrashing woman.
"Ey, I'm try'na have a conversation here!" She shouted back, jerking an elbow into the man's side and causing him to give a slight gasp of pain and send her into a laughing fit. "Serves 'ya right! Touchin' a lady like that!"
Matthias remained silent, taking a couple of steps back as one of the guards he had greeted darted over to help with the fight. He was not sure how to react to the tantrum, it clearly seemed a little undeserved, the man was merely trying to do his job, but he had a feeling admitting such would only further anger the woman. For now, the best option was to just stay out of the way of the guards.
"I'm calm, I'm calm, jeez!" The woman eventually growled under her breath after the giggles had died down, one of the guards keeping a tight grip on her arm, forcing it behind her back and another on her shoulder to force her to walk forwards. Despite how he intended to get her to walk, it seemed clear that she was not going to hesitate to make it rough for the poor man, the woman occasionally locking her legs with no warning and a sharp giggle as the man would walk straight into her back. "Ya' really don't learn, do 'ya?" She chirped after catching him for the fifth time in the childish act. "So what'a we gonna talk 'bout today, doc? I'm in mood for somethin' about food, do 'ya like food, doc?" She chirped.
He was caught a little off guard by the question, mostly still trying to stick to the side of the guards and keep out of their way as the woman would suddenly jerk to a stop occasionally. "Uhm," He murmured, considering it for a moment. "I suppose food is nice." He stated, finding it to be a somewhat useless question. However, she seemed pleased by the response judging by the bright grin she'd flash after his words. More importantly, she seemed to be focussing less on thrashing in the guard's grip while they passed the other cells and more content on carrying a conversation -- even if it was clearly just to annoy the guards.
"What do ya' mean 'food's alright'? Food's amazing!" She shouted, giggling slightly after her words and clearly putting the guards on edge as one tightened their grip on her. "What's ya' favorite food, doc? Make it good or I'll stab the bum." She chirped while briefly shaking her head to the guard holding her arms behind her back.
He hesitated again, uncertain as to whether that was a genuine threat or not. As far as he knew, the woman was unarmed with no way to go after the man. That did not serve to calm him that much though, considering her past behavior he had been warned about already. After considering it for a moment, he finally responded, offering the woman a bright smile. It was a silly answer, but no less true. In this situation, with her threat to 'make it good', he had a feeling that perhaps that was for the best. "Ice cream, peach flavored." He finally stated, clarifying what he figured her next question would be. "What about yours, Ms. Quinzel?"
It seemed to be an unexpected answer for her and after a few seconds of tense silence, she eventually gave a delighted giggle. "Fine, I'll spare 'im. I'm more of a Rocky Road 'gal myself." She chirped pleasantly as if she had not just been threatening to end a man's life.
•●•
Viper
One Thousand Club
The rest of the walk to the cell was silent, and even calmer now that Smith no longer had his rage left unsaid.Talking was supposed to have a positive effect, after all, and this interaction seemed to prove it. Imagine how much better of poor, revenge-seeking Smith would be if he actually took advantage of this place and sat down with someone qualified. Jonathan was happy to be that person, although he knew that offering his services would likely result in a blow to the face or gut so it the offer was not said. Besides, Jonathan had no interest in having Smith work through his rage and come out happier for it; that was no longer his job to help. It would be far better to spend time figuring out the underlying terrors connected to and caused by his doctor friend losing their mind to fear gas. Jonathan, if he were a betting man, would put a fairly good amount of money that Smith was scared of ending up the same way and that was the main reason why he wanted Crane dead; it wasn't about justice for his friend, it was out of self preservation. It turned out that most humans were rather selfish and rarely felt or did anything purely for another person's sake.
Not wanting to spend the rest of your life seeing unspeakable horrors was an understandable fear that was growing more and more common every time Jonathan managed to escape and perform another large scale experiment. It was almost flattering to have such a growing reputation in his chosen field.
What further pushed the idea that the Smith’s rage was just a way to hide his need to guarantee his mental and physical safety was the way he rushed putting Jonathan back in his cell. Even his hands which had locked and unlocked cuffs dozens of times every day seemed less steady than usual. Jonathan kept still while the guard fumbled for a few extra seconds, and even kept silent while Smith pushed him inside of the cell and slammed the door as quickly as possible. Jonathan could practically hear the way Smith triple checked the locks before using his long steps to his advantage to rush to his next, far less hated patient.
In the privacy of his own room, that may or may not have been actually private, Jonathan took a stance in the center of the room so that he could just let himself smile openly and take a few long breaths to regain his mental fortitude. He was not anxious or worried about anything, those very emotions were basically impossible due to their close relation to the unreachable fear, but taking the time to just breathe and think was good for the mind. It was like taking a nap for babies; just thinking like this helped him comprehend and retain the events of the last few hours.
Dr. Mayflower, first name unknown, age unknown but suspected to be late twenties, new to Arkham but not new to psychology, patients include Edward Nygma, Jervis Tetch, and likely others. This was not much to go on, but it was a start. But there were so many blanks that needed to be filled about this Mayflower’s history. What school did he graduate from? What are his past work experiences? What is his family like and are they around at all? Any notable medical or criminal records? Honestly, the questions went on and on forever. There were so many blanks that Jonathan forced his mind to move on before he found himself bogged down in the details.
Slowly, Jonathan moved over to his bed and took a comfortable position in the corner that resulted in him being in a ball and one of his hands resting on the barred and tinted window sill. With said hand, Jonathan began moving his hand in curving motions that, if looked at clearly, were letters. These hand movements were writing as if with an invisible pen and ink, the only signs of it happening were lines in the dust that settled over this room without end. This kind of memory technique was vital to Jonathan’s life since he didn't have access to actual paper or word documents; he had to try his best to memorize everything he saw and heard that may be important. Jonathan was no Edward Nygma, after all. Edward’s memory was so developed that it was oftentimes a hindrance, but Jonathan’s was only slightly above average due to the time and practice he put into improving it.
Until Jonathan escaped this place, he needed to remember today’s events. After all, it was always so exciting to get a new doctor, and the first impressions were so important to future interviews. There were two types of doctors, those that were so on guard that they let very little out or those that were not on guard enough and gave up all the goods right away. Dr. Mayflower was not exactly either, but if Jonathan had to put him in a category it would be closer to the former. Mayflower had a plan when Jonathan came in, or at least it seemed like that. Anything that changed or pulled away from that plan didn't throw him off either so it would be unfair to act like he was not on guard. Even though Mayflower shared information, that information was selective; it was too early to say if the information given up today would prove to be vital to Jonathan’s future studies… although there were some things that would be studied in more detail at a later date.
The most important fact was the quick discussion about why Mayflower was here, aka his legacy and reputation. Dr. Mayflower had used the word himself to describe his motivations behind being here, it was his main reason, and the second but connected motivation was helping people. Both were understandable, even noble, motivations that many people possessed. In fact, trying to make a name for themselves was one of the main reasons any doctor took a job here; the second push towards Arkham was more about raw curiosity to be honest. Even Jonathan himself had chosen to go to Arkham out of curiosity. He knew the negative reputation this place had even back then, and from his own personal research, he knew that it was a dark, cursed, dangerous place; it made it perfect for his studies and interest in fear even long before the mysterious sponsor showed up. Making a legacy was pointless for Jonathan who already knew that he was doing great, memorable things.
Now though, Jonathan was conducting experiments and creating things that no one would ever forget. He and his fear toxin would go down in history forever as one of the greatest chemical weapons ever created, although Jonathan would die before he let the military or world learn how to create it. Still, despite his near eternal infamy, Jonathan did not care. Let the world forget his name and face, just let them remember the fear. Even when Scarecrow was dead and gone he hoped that they would all feel a rush of paranoia every time a cloud of dust was just a bit too big or they caught sight of discolored mist inching through Gotham. As long as fear and paranoia continued in Gotham, then Jonathan could be forgotten without regret. Until that point though, Jonathan would work and continue his experiments so that he, and maybe others, would have a deeper understanding of human terror.
Considering the ‘legacy,’ or rather impact, that Jonathan wanted to leave behind, it made no sense for him to help anyone. What would he have to gain from being kind and merciful? In fact, appearing soft and gentle would reduce the level of terror he could create just by existing, yet at the same time Jonathan sat in his room wondering if he wanted to help Mayflower achieve his desired legacy or if he would rather hinder the lad. The most direct way Jonathan could be of help would be to help give Mayflower advice and material for a hypothetical book; Jonathan had written a lot of material on psychology and fear himself so he was sure that his words would be of use. On the other hand, it would be easy to hinder Mayflower simply by not answering his questions or by lying… although the latter option was far less appealing.
Frankly, at the end of the day, Jonathan’s behavior would reflect Mayflowers. If the man continued to be interesting and receptive, then there would be no harm in helping him out as much as he could. At the very least Jonathan would guarantee an amusing conversation partner for as long as he was here.
All would change when Jonathan had a chance to experiment on him though, of course. Being here, being friendly, meant nothing when fear toxin was around; once that happened, no one was safe and everyone was an experiment. Of course, there were some people that Jonathan did not want to break as much as others, but those people mainly just included Jervis and it wasn't just because Jervis and Jonathan got along. No, the reason Jervis was a less interesting test subject for the fear gas was that he was already a coward. What was there to learn from a man who already showed most or not all of his fears? Nothing. There was a lot to learn from someone who was brave and reserved though; those people had terrors yet to be discovered.
Mayflower seemed to be more on the courageous side. It would take time or fear gas to get under his skin since, unfortunately, Jonathan did not get his desired outcome when he called out Mayflower’s need for a legacy and therefore fear of being forgotten or seen as useless. He needed to experiment more, he needed to learn more, and then he may get the response from the doctor that he craved.
The sound of pounding on the door snapped Jonathan out of his thoughts. He had been thinking for hours on this single topic which, even for him, was a bit extreme. Normally he spent a long time just staring at the wall in thought, but that was only because he had no other options, and even then his mind would drift a bit more. Still, it was nothing to worry about.
As per usual, Jonathan sat on his bed with his hands on his lap so that the guard could come in without fear and chain together his hands. It was strange how used to handcuffs he was. Why, he could do just about everything with handcuffs on as he could without them! Jonathan was no fighter after all, so at most the greatest hindrance to his work these posed would be the chains dangling and knocking over a vial of chemicals. Clearly that was a small annoyance that could be rectified just by setting the chains above his arms. Easy.
And as for eating, the only real inconvenience his hands being locked together gave was the fact that he could not reach for a drink while he was still holding food. It was one item at a time, but for someone who didn't care about eating anyway, such a thing was immaterial.
On any normal day, Jonathan would have hated the cafeteria. It was loud, messy, and every five minutes someone was screaming, laughing without logic, or committing some unhygienic act ranging from throwing their hair to shitting themselves. It would be far better to watch this scene from the other side of the bars, but that was not an option. The doctors and guards had their own, separate cafeteria that was, unsurprisingly, of higher quality than this place in every way. It was cleaner, the food was at least one step up, and they even had televisions set up so that those working long shifts could be reminded that there was still a world out there just waiting for them to clock out.
Sadly, Jonathan had not seen that cafeteria since the accident. After gassing the patient cafeteria, he had started to move towards the staff cafeteria while gassing every room he passed on the way. It wasn't the most well thought out plan since, while wearing a creepy mask, he walked into a room full of doctors and guards on break; the guards had their guns and their muscle still so Jonathan was taken down before he could make his body count that day even larger. Honestly though, Jonathan couldn't fault himself for not thinking clearly about his attack that day. He didn't plan on infecting himself after all, and a scared man did not think as clearly as a stable one.
So like everyone else in the patient cafeteria, into the unorganised food line Jonathan went. And as always, it took forever. People sometimes just stood catatonic at the servers while other times they would immediately start tossing the food until they had to be restrained. It was an unorganized mess that thankfully improved once the plate of mashed potatoes, a brownie, a rubber steak, and some canned corn was in Jonathan’s hands.
Technically no one had to sit anywhere, you could make friends and sit wherever you would like… unless you were a super-criminal or deemed too unstable for that freedom. So even though he had permission to be in the cafeteria, Jonathan had no choice but to sit at a table close to one of the guards. Those tables were always less populated than the ones in the center; not that that was surprising though since no one wanted the guards to listen in on their conversations or immediately stop them from whatever chaotic mayhem they wanted to cause. There was more than one guard in this area though so at least he had options.
Jonathan held his tray and looked over the hall, glad to have glasses so that he could actually see who he was looking for. Thankfully, it was never hard and probably could be done without glasses too because, on the far side of the cafeteria, was a bright head of red hair sitting at a mostly empty table eating the corn one by one. Even from this far away and above all the noise, Jonathan could tell that Jervis was humming to himself as he ate; Jervis would have have been swaying a few inches left and right for any other reason.
“What are we singing today, my dear Hatter?” Jonathan asked once he had reached the table.
Before sitting down, Joanthan made a point to meet the gaze of the nearest guard who looked like he was just waking up from a nap. He probably had been staring off into space until Jonathan’s arrival broke him out of the self induced trance. There would be no sleeping on the job when two criminals were chatting over dinner… or at least not without risking major consequences.
Slowly, Jervis looked up from his food before giving a big grin. “Dr. Crane, what a surprise. That was just a melody I managed to memorize. Where it came from though, I don’t know.”
Jonathan hummed out confirmation while he picked at the mashed potatoes, the only thing that seemed even remotely edible on this plate. As he did so, he noticed that Jervis had already eaten his rubber brownie and only now was moving onto the actual dinner portion of the meal.
“I met the flower you mentioned earlier,” Jonathan said in a lower voice now. The subject of conversation was not illegal, but it was still something he would rather not say so loud that anyone could hear. Joanthan would continue at this volume until the guard told him to speak up. It was the rules, after all. “He seems interesting, or at the very least accommodating.”
“Did you get your tea?” Jervis asked, intentionally or not, also dropping his volume to mimic Jonathan.
Shaking his head, Jonathan offered the other a smirk. At least he remembered their conversation from earlier, that was a plus, although it didn't seem like Jervis was in a very focused mood today. “I forgot to ask, but maybe I’ll do that tomorrow. I did, however, get to read my old file with everyone's notes on it.”
Jervis quickly giggled and let out an excited oo sound. “Was it interesting? Did those mean old doctors spin a web of lies and un-truths?”
“They did indeed. So many fairy tales in those pages… and not the good kind. But Dr. Mayflower was kind enough to give me a chance to correct those mistakes more or less.” With just a highlighter all Jonathan could say was yes or no, there was no flexibility to point out ‘facts’ that were partially correct but also partially wrong. It would have been possible to write a few notes on the sidelines detailing those issues, but that would be far too messy considering how littered those reports already were. Besides, failing to mark partial truths was not a lying, although Jonathan would admit that he was not being as clear as he could possibly be. He’d have time to explain himself more if and when Mayflower questioned him about those topics. “I hate to ask, but would you do me a favor, Jervis?”
The Hatter raised his brows and leaned in closer, which basically meant that the short man was standing and leaning most of his torso over the table. He looked rather odd, and not at all subtle.
“Try to behave yourself with Dr. Mayflower, will you? I’m very interested in continuing my sessions with him.” Jervis nodded, either out of understanding or agreement, but Jonathan was not done. “This may be difficult for you, but I would really appreciate it if you would try your best to remember your conversations and report them to me over dinner each day. I don’t need every detail, but anything he lets slip about--”
“--Hey, you two! Break it up!” The guard shouted, taking two steps towards the criminals with the full intention of getting violent if his orders were not immediately followed. Jervis did not move, still looking at Jonathan with mostly focused eyes. This prompted Jonathan to raise his long, boney hand to Jervis’ shoulder and lightly push him back down to his chair. Once Jervis was sitting down again, the guard slowly returned to his post but his eyes were not locked on the criminals. “Keep your voices up too. If I can’t hear a syllable then I’m splitting you two up!”
Clearing his throat, Jonathan continued although still at a volume too low for the guards liking. “What do you say? I really hope that I’m not asking too much of you.” Frankly, this was a gamble since there was a chance that Jervis would either forget this entire conversation or he would fail to keep his mouth shut about Jonathan’s request. Is was not asking Jervis to act differently though; all he wanted was for Jervis to use what remained of his brain to remember the events of his interviews. Theoretically, Jervis was capable of doing that.
“That can be done, Dr. Crane, but why don’t you follow me in there? Can’t you disappear, and listen with your own ear?”
“No, I can’t, not in Arkham at least. I can only trust you with this job, my friend.”
Aggressively, Jervis started nodding his head as he once again went to eating his corn one by one. “I got it! I’ll do it! I’ll be the fly on the wall for the Crane in the hood.” Whatever that meant about the hood didn't matter since the rest of the sentence was confirmation that Jervis would do his best to be a good ‘snitch’.
“Thank you, Hatter. If this goes well, I’ll owe you a favor when we get out of--”
“That’s it; you two are done here.” The guard interrupted again, not too happy about the whispered conversation continuing after his intervention. “One more word to each other and I’m submitting a report and you can see your dinner dates go out the window.
Jervis visibly flinched when he heard the loud sound and felt the man rushed towards them. Noticing that, Jonathan stood up himself so that the attention was on him instead. “Apologies guardsman; I’ll head back to my cell now so that I won’t disturb you again. I’ve finished with my dinner anyways.” As expected, the guard gave Jonathan an odd look but he did not protest the suggestion. “That guard over there, Alexander I believe his name is, has taken me to my cell in the past. I’m sure he’d get me out of your hair if you ask him to.”
And sure enough, within the next minute, Alexander was standing next to Jonathan with a firm hand on the cuff chains. It felt like a dog leash if Jonathan were being honest. But unfortunately for the guard, Jonathan was able to make one more movement towards Jervis before control of his arms was mostly taken away from him; this action was taking his tray and pushing the rest of it, but most importantly the brownie, towards Jervis. “Your welcome to the brownie, if you want it, Jervis.” And, of course, Jervis did. In fact, he had his hand reaching towards the sweet before Jonathan was out of the room.
Thankfully for Jonathan, he only had to wait for the hour to end before dinner was technically over for this block of patients, and that meant it was time for Jonathan to get his hour of recreational time. Normally he would head there directly after lunch, but the routine was broken slightly due to Jonathan thinking it unwise to mention his normal schedule to Alexander.
Still, things mostly went back to normal once the hour changed and Jonathn was brought to the high security recreational room. There were many of these scattered throughout the asylum, mostly used for less violent patients, but due to the moral side of things, even the dangerous ones got break times. Of course, that was only if they seemed to be on an upward spiral rather than people like the Joker who never showed signs of mental recovery or control over their violence. Thankfully in Jonathan’s case, he had not harmed anyone or even made a single threat in the entire month since his recapture so he had gained the right to get out of his cell one hour a day to just relax in a room of other people who also recently got their privileges returned.
There were some key similarities and differences between high security and regular rec rooms. First of all, the high-security room had no windows at all and it was locked from the inside and outside. Without a guard and their keycard, you were stuck even in the case of a fire. Oh, this was a major safety risk, but what the inspectors didn't know would only hurt the crazies and the handful of guards in there too. Secondly, those in the regular rec room had several TVs and newspapers in the room; high-risk patients did not have direct access to the outside world in any form but the regular patients did. It was a shame too because Jonathan would have loved to know what chaos Batman was involved in as of late… although just as many other patients would have reacted negatively to even hearing his name so it made sense why they tried to reduce the chances of him coming up. And third, the high-security rec room was less populated than the other one since it was rare for dangerous patients to ever be allowed there, it was organized in a way that there would never be more than a dozen patients in the room at a time, and even if you got permission to be there it was common for that right to be taken away.
As for similarities, it was surprising to know that the number of fights in both rooms was about the same. Apparently it didn't matter if you had a history of violence or not, when someone cheated at checkers, hogged the television, or had taken the book you were in the middle of, you got pissed enough to shout or punch. That’s why, no matter what, both rooms had guards in them although obviously there were more guards in the high-security area than the other. Excluding the televisions though, most of the entertainment options were the same: books, checkers, chess, cards, other board games, and even a piano that was days away from breaking. Unlike Blackgate or more normal prisons, Arkham did not have an outside area for physical activity or just energy burning; the most you could hope for was that your doctor agreed to take you to the greenhouse to walk. Unsurprisingly, this worked out for Jonathan who would much rather read inside and go out and ‘play ball’ or the like.
Besides the fact that sweating was not one of Jonathan’s pastimes, he did get further benefits from this free time since it offered him time to people watch… and as a psychologist that was naturally something he enjoyed. There was a man playing chess against himself, rather well surprisingly, since the white pieces were playing a rather cunning game against the black pieces who seemed to be a novice based on their amateurish moves; sadly, the player was rooting for the underdog so he was a bit down. Apparently this man killed a dozen people when his football team lost. Across the room was a man who kept pulling out a book from the bookshelf, reading the back cover, putting it back, waiting ten seconds, and then repeating the same process with the same book; he was guilty of drug dealing on a district size scale, and when caught, he overdosed himself to the point that his brain never fully returned. And most amusing, although for more simple, was the scarlet red haired man flirting with the door guard without end; he had faked his insanity to avoid blackgate and now was just doing what he did best, getting people into bed and blackmailing some of them into doing his dirty work. Honestly though, Jonathan did not think that the asylum knew that he was a faker considering they were trying a range of drugs to keep his physical and ‘mental’ sex addiction under check. The only reason Jonathan found this man interesting was because his constant fliration with the guard was actually turning into something, not necessarily lovers, but the guard seemed just as entertained as Jonathan was at this point.
“Dr. Crane?” a voice said hesitantly. Jonathan had not noticed, but a blond man had snuck up on him while Jonathan was busy people-watching. This man was well fit, muscular and above-average height, and to make it better he was actually good looking; no one would suspect that this man had auditory hallucinations almost constantly. He claimed to hear whispers in the back of his mind at all hours; they told him secrets about places and people, they told him the future, and they hold him that everyone around him was scheming to cause him harm because they were jealous of his powers. Jonathan was currently treating this man during his hour break, or at least he was whenever their schedules lined up.
Jonathan turned to face the light footed man before offering a polite nod, “Malcolm, good to see you. Our time is limited, so shall we start now or is this just a social call?”
“No, no, I wanted to talk. I'm managing to keep them quiet once and awhile thanks to your advice, but I fear I’m having a relapse. See, I got this new doctor, some lady with glasses, but the voices are so loud whenever I’m around her I can't even hear her name! “
This was always interesting. Malcolm was interesting. Back when the pair first met, Malcolm commented that the voices kept screaming ‘He watches from the fields’ or ‘Don’t breathe the air.’ The voices seemed like they knew more than Malcolm did, that was for sure, yet he feared the intelligent voices greatly. Just talking about them gave him a headache. “And what do they say around her?”
A single gulp, and suddenly Malcom was spilling his guts. Words rushed out of his mouth at such a speed that Jonathan was relying more on lip-reading than his ears to understand the man. “I don’t understand what it means, and no matter how many times I tell them to be quiet or try to distract myself or try to just think my own thoughts louder, they just keep screaming. They call her Diana, and I asked if that was her name, but she didn't respond so I don’t even know if they are right! But but then, then they said that Diana was going to become Dianas. Split in two, they said again and again. I don’t what what they mean by in two; is it literal, is it figurative, does she have a split personality? I just don’t know, but whenever I hear them say that and look at her, it looks like she’s ripped down the middle. You know, like a piece of paper, except she doesn't split even. It’s horrible and gross, and the sounds the voices make are not just talking anymore. It’s like metal against metal, and they normally don’t do that, and--”
“--That’s enough Malcolm. I understand.” To be honest, Jonathan just wanted him to calm down. There was no need to get the guards attention, and if he kept waving his arms like that and raising his voice, then he would. Although he was being comforting with his words, Jonathan was smiling a touch too much for it to be considered comforting. How could he help it? Malcolm was so concerned and terrified by his little ‘prophecy’ voices! “And I’ve said this before, but have you thought about the fact that these voices may be trying to help you, not hinder you? They grow louder because you continue to ignore them.”
“But the last time I listened to them I-I”
“Killed your brother, yes, I know. But perhaps that was a good thing too. After all, the voices did tell you that he was sleeping with your wife and sure enough, that turned out to be true. They are not inside of you to hurt you, Malcolm, they are trying to help, and so if ignoring them is not helping you then perhaps giving them a bit more attention is for the better. I’m not saying that you should follow every order, but they deserve to be considered.”
“A-and Diana?” Malcom said, hesitant about trying this new method which was highly different than the other doctors advice as well as Jonathan's past advice.
Jonathan reached forward and placed a hand on Malcom’s arm. The other patient did not pull away, but instead remained focused. “They are trying to help you. And perhaps they are trying to help her too. Metal against metal sounds? Cut down the middle? This sounds like an accident waiting to happen; pay attention to them and the world around you, perhaps you can save her from this fate.”
Malcolm nodded, not comfortable with the idea but seemingly open to the idea that he could save a life. After all, this man was not violent by nature, just once and a while weak against the constant orders and whispers within his mind.
“Thank you, doctor.”
“Anytime, Malcolm, honestly. Keep me updated on how this new method works out for you and this Diana’s condition. Be well,” Jonathan said, standing up and walking away so that the conversation did not continue further. There was no reason to. Jonathan had an update and he set things in motion for their next meeting. He was done and so decided that he would spend the rest of his break, which was only twenty minutes now, reading the first book he touched. And so he did.
Unfortunately, the hour of entertainment and socializing, or more accurately people watching, quickly came to an end. Jonathan was collected and brought back to his room where he would spend the rest of the night alone and bored. Honestly, in these kinds of conditions, it was no surprise that the super criminals did not mentally improve. How could they? They were given very few outlets during the day and at night they were stuck inside of their own minds. It was only natural that their minds turned towards hurting their captors. All humans needed stimulation so even high-level criminals should be given activities to do in their room. Sure, some people would get hurt, but it would also give patients a chance to find other, non-violent hobbies. A pencil and a book could only be used as weapons against those with no skills or if they had their guard down.
This was an unrealistic dream though, Jonathan knew this even as he thought about it. No one deemed a super-criminal wanted to be cured, and that was part of the problem. When they were not invested in their own recovery how could you trust them not to do anything it took to escape, even take advantage of the luxuries given to them? Jonathan certainly had not helped this case since he had used, and would use, anything given to him to cause terror whether that was a shard of glass or pills. He was part of the reason no one was allowed to have anything ‘fun’ in their cells; at most Jonathan had been able to petition getting a book but even that was a challenge.
In fact, as Jonathan relaxed in his room, his mind swam with thoughts of the many ways he could escape using the tools he had at his disposal. Obviously an escape attempt while in his solitary cell would not work without fear toxins; there was nothing in here to use. The best bet would be his therapy sessions where there were only two or three threats at a time, or maybe his rec room time would be the best since all it would take would be getting the card from a guard without causing a large enough fuss that lockdown would happen.
It was unclear how long Jonathan sat on his bed trying to imagine his escape, and more importantly, what he would do once escaped, but the cell light suddenly turned off implying that it had at least been two hours since he had been pulled from the rec room. This sudden burst of darkness signalled that it was bedtime whether the patients wanted it to be or not. Not that it made a difference for Jonathan though since, light or dark, Jonathan only had his mind for entertainment anyway. Normally the few hours between lights out and Jonathan’s actual attempts to sleep were filled with flawed formulas, past experiments, and the tests that were still ongoing even while he was locked in here, but tonight his thoughts kept returning to one topic; Dr. Mayflower and their first session which served as more than enough stimulus to keep Jonathan’s mind from growing bored as he waited to become tired.
Of course, he had spent much of the afternoon thinking about the same topic, but mainly it had been about Mayflower in regards to his fears and legacy. Jonathan had been wrapped up in his excitement over having a new patient that he was ignoring the vital data collection aspect of any study. The first priority for future interactions was to see who else Mayflower was treating. Doing this would shed more light on who Dr. Mayflower was and his goals.
Jonathan already knew about himself, obviously, as well as Edward Nygma and Jervis Tetch. All three were, or continued to be, intelligent men with great skill in their fields. With that information, it was safe to say that the rest of the people Dr. Mayflower was focusing on were also professionals turned ‘insane’ criminals. Possible other patients were Victor Fries aka Mr. Freeze; Thomas Elliot, aka Hush, Kirk Langstrom aka Manbat; and Pamela Isley aka Poison Ivy. At first thought, these were the names that came to mind, although someone like Kirk Langstrom, who was an experiment gone wrong that resulted in him hurting people when he was not at all in control, did not seem to fit the profile Mayflower was going for. Plus, Langstrom likely was not even in Arkham although Jonathan could not say either way. There was also Harvey Dent aka Two-Face who was indeed criminally insane but did not have a background worthy to make him a candidate for Mayflower’s test subjects; lawyers did not compare to doctors. The rest though were reasonable candidates that Jonathan would have to ask about or subtly hint towards.
It sounded like a plan, or at least a place to start, so it would have to do for the night. Although it was impossible to know what time it was, Jonathan knew that he had been in the dark for a bit now so it was better to go to bed now. A mind needs rest to function properly, and Jonathan had no intention of harming his mind more than it may have already been.
Jonathan woke up to hands around his neck. Large, black, and metallic hands clenched around his thin throat with so much force that Jonathan could not even let out a whimper. Death was nothing to fear, yet the pain of not being able to breath caused the Scarecrow’s hands to reach up feebly towards his throat to try and peel them off his skin, but to no avail. It was so dark in the room though that Jonathan could not see his attacker, he could only abandon his neck in favor of reaching forward to find the source of his agony. The only thing that Jonathan felt though was metal, metal over his throat and everywhere his wandering hands explored. That is, at least until Jonathan reached up higher and found two metal-like horns poking from the attackers head.
There was no air in Jonathan’s lungs, but as the fingers dug in deeper and deeper into his neck, Jonathan was still somehow able to whisper out one word. “Batman.”
As soon as the words left his lips, Jonathan found his eyes opening once again but instead of seeing a pit black room like before, he saw light streaming through a tinted barred window and the familiar cracks of his cell. A dream, no that was a nightmare of the best, glorious, pulse racing, quality.
Sitting up in bed, Jonathan reached his hand to his throat. It still hurt, and if he really focused, he could feel where each finger crushed his windpipe. His mind was tricking his body into thinking that the pain was real, and as such, every hesitant, ragged breath was euphoric but fleeting. Jonathan had only been awake for a collective twenty seconds, but already his heart rate was starting to slow down and the hazy feeling in his head was dissipating. If there was anything Jonathan could have done to continue this sensation, he would do it, but this rare moment of fear was gone just as quickly as it had come. After over a month of nothing even coming close to that feeling, it was nice to have it but far more upsetting when it left. After all, there was nothing that could replace the feeling of a nightmare… or at least nothing that Jonathan had access to or would have a reaction to anymore.
Grumbling, Jonathan crawled out of bed to stretch. He was sadly awake now so he may as well actually get up instead of just sitting in bed hoping to have another bad dream; it was unlikely to happen since they were freakishly rare nowadays.
Apparently though, Jonathan would not have to wait long because before he was even fully mentally ready to start the day, the light was on and breakfast was served not long after. More importantly though was the sound of a high pitch voice dripping in a Jersey accent that was certainly not real or at least not as heavy as she was acting like it was; even her accent becoming thicker and more annoying was likely an attempt to ‘better suit’ the Joker’s unique, eccentric tastes.
Frankly, Jonathan despised her now, and he disliked her back when she used to work here. She was dumb, a bit too bubbily and naive, but now all of these flaws were more extreme just like her appearance; her only skills remaining were gymnastics and taking orders from those better than her. It didn't help matters that she was also a hothead which naturally clashed against Jonathan’s calm, actually controlled persona. She was not too brave though, or at least she had one clear, major fear that kept her amusing to watch from a great distance. One sign of Joker being hurt or captured caused her entire being to become frantic, either resulting in an unthought out rescue attempts or just a tearful breakdown that could not end until she cried herself to sleep. It would be fascinating to see what she would do if he were actually killed, although Jonathan dared not have a hand in his death. At that point, Jonathan would be risking his life and data cannot be collected after his heart stopped beating.
Most interesting though was the voice that followed hers. Dr. Mayflower, once again. It was a surprise to be honest considering that Harley Quinn, who Jonathan once knew as Dr. Harleen Quinzel, was far from the intelligent criminal profile that he had thought Mayflower was basing his patients on. It was odd, and a bit disappointing that he was speaking with her. Sure, she was an interesting case when it came to obsessiveness among other things, but she definitely was not smart past or present. Her title was a doctor though, so maybe that was enough for Mayflower. Hopefully not, but that was certainly how it looked.
Jonathan was no in mood for Harley today; his rush from the nightmare should have made today magnificent, but considering how quickly he lost the feelings before being able to fully relish it put a damper on everything. Some said that something was better than nothing, but ask a starving man if a single cracker made him feel better and he’s surely say no; just a taste of the thing you desire most merely makes your gut burn and roar for more.
Stepping away from the door in the hopes that she would pass by soon and her voice would be absorbed within the pale tiles, Jonathan was content to just wait until his therapy session later. Hopefully, by then his mind would relax. He did not want to go to work perturbed or distracted. It was bad for research, after all.
And so, that was exactly what he did. He waited, and waited, and waited for the hours to pass like he did every day, but just like he hoped his frustration and annoyance from the morning eventually passed. However, instead of neutrality returning to him, Jonathan instead found himself overcome with an emotion he would describe as ennui. Or perhaps just empty was the right word? Oh, he had never been too emotional, nothing besides his work bringing him much emotional stimuli positively or negatively, but today was one of the days that the glass was not half full or half empty, there was just a missing glass and a quickly evaporating puddle.
When the knock was heard through the cell door, Jonathan let out a sigh but moved in place so that he could await the cold handcuffs that used to chafe his wrists but no longer did so thanks to the jumpsuit sleeves and his thinner wrists. While the metal was attached to his body, Jonathan wondered if Dr. Mayflower would be outside waiting for him. He had met with Harley, someone far more dangerous and unpredictable than Jonathan, so surely Mayflower would be here as well. It made logical sense at least.
Jonathan had not been the type of doctor to walk patients back and forth. It was a waste of time in his mind, however, he would be the type to visit his patients in their cells should they prove to be unable to unwilling to come to the office; plus, sometimes non-scheduled or night visits were something Jonathan liked to do. But walking back and forth? Jonathan was too busy for such an act and never saw too much use for it besides observing their interactions with the guards and how their eyes examined the facility. What did they pay attention to verus what aspects of the asylum didn't matter to them at all? Those kinds of questions.
And sure enough, when the ex-psychologist was lead out of the room by a familiar guard, there was Dr. Mayflower standing there waiting. And once again, Jonathan found himself shocked and amused by the man's height. He was nearly as short as Jervis! In fact, due to Jervis slouching a lot, they have been exactly the same height! Mayflower was just a bit more fit as one would expect of an adult man.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Mayflower. How are you feeling today?” Jonathan started, his formal greeting not revealing any signs of his slightly subpar mood that day. “I’m flattered you came to pick me up. May I ask why? You are likely aware that escorting patients is an uncommon job for a doctor of your standing.” Surely he was aware that traveling with patients was dangerous. Most escape attempts happened after the patient was taken out of his cell. It was far easier to kill two or three escorts with their guard down rather than break down a large metal door built to keep people locked in. People were far more fragile than doors, after all.
Not wanting to spend the rest of your life seeing unspeakable horrors was an understandable fear that was growing more and more common every time Jonathan managed to escape and perform another large scale experiment. It was almost flattering to have such a growing reputation in his chosen field.
What further pushed the idea that the Smith’s rage was just a way to hide his need to guarantee his mental and physical safety was the way he rushed putting Jonathan back in his cell. Even his hands which had locked and unlocked cuffs dozens of times every day seemed less steady than usual. Jonathan kept still while the guard fumbled for a few extra seconds, and even kept silent while Smith pushed him inside of the cell and slammed the door as quickly as possible. Jonathan could practically hear the way Smith triple checked the locks before using his long steps to his advantage to rush to his next, far less hated patient.
In the privacy of his own room, that may or may not have been actually private, Jonathan took a stance in the center of the room so that he could just let himself smile openly and take a few long breaths to regain his mental fortitude. He was not anxious or worried about anything, those very emotions were basically impossible due to their close relation to the unreachable fear, but taking the time to just breathe and think was good for the mind. It was like taking a nap for babies; just thinking like this helped him comprehend and retain the events of the last few hours.
Dr. Mayflower, first name unknown, age unknown but suspected to be late twenties, new to Arkham but not new to psychology, patients include Edward Nygma, Jervis Tetch, and likely others. This was not much to go on, but it was a start. But there were so many blanks that needed to be filled about this Mayflower’s history. What school did he graduate from? What are his past work experiences? What is his family like and are they around at all? Any notable medical or criminal records? Honestly, the questions went on and on forever. There were so many blanks that Jonathan forced his mind to move on before he found himself bogged down in the details.
Slowly, Jonathan moved over to his bed and took a comfortable position in the corner that resulted in him being in a ball and one of his hands resting on the barred and tinted window sill. With said hand, Jonathan began moving his hand in curving motions that, if looked at clearly, were letters. These hand movements were writing as if with an invisible pen and ink, the only signs of it happening were lines in the dust that settled over this room without end. This kind of memory technique was vital to Jonathan’s life since he didn't have access to actual paper or word documents; he had to try his best to memorize everything he saw and heard that may be important. Jonathan was no Edward Nygma, after all. Edward’s memory was so developed that it was oftentimes a hindrance, but Jonathan’s was only slightly above average due to the time and practice he put into improving it.
Until Jonathan escaped this place, he needed to remember today’s events. After all, it was always so exciting to get a new doctor, and the first impressions were so important to future interviews. There were two types of doctors, those that were so on guard that they let very little out or those that were not on guard enough and gave up all the goods right away. Dr. Mayflower was not exactly either, but if Jonathan had to put him in a category it would be closer to the former. Mayflower had a plan when Jonathan came in, or at least it seemed like that. Anything that changed or pulled away from that plan didn't throw him off either so it would be unfair to act like he was not on guard. Even though Mayflower shared information, that information was selective; it was too early to say if the information given up today would prove to be vital to Jonathan’s future studies… although there were some things that would be studied in more detail at a later date.
The most important fact was the quick discussion about why Mayflower was here, aka his legacy and reputation. Dr. Mayflower had used the word himself to describe his motivations behind being here, it was his main reason, and the second but connected motivation was helping people. Both were understandable, even noble, motivations that many people possessed. In fact, trying to make a name for themselves was one of the main reasons any doctor took a job here; the second push towards Arkham was more about raw curiosity to be honest. Even Jonathan himself had chosen to go to Arkham out of curiosity. He knew the negative reputation this place had even back then, and from his own personal research, he knew that it was a dark, cursed, dangerous place; it made it perfect for his studies and interest in fear even long before the mysterious sponsor showed up. Making a legacy was pointless for Jonathan who already knew that he was doing great, memorable things.
Now though, Jonathan was conducting experiments and creating things that no one would ever forget. He and his fear toxin would go down in history forever as one of the greatest chemical weapons ever created, although Jonathan would die before he let the military or world learn how to create it. Still, despite his near eternal infamy, Jonathan did not care. Let the world forget his name and face, just let them remember the fear. Even when Scarecrow was dead and gone he hoped that they would all feel a rush of paranoia every time a cloud of dust was just a bit too big or they caught sight of discolored mist inching through Gotham. As long as fear and paranoia continued in Gotham, then Jonathan could be forgotten without regret. Until that point though, Jonathan would work and continue his experiments so that he, and maybe others, would have a deeper understanding of human terror.
Considering the ‘legacy,’ or rather impact, that Jonathan wanted to leave behind, it made no sense for him to help anyone. What would he have to gain from being kind and merciful? In fact, appearing soft and gentle would reduce the level of terror he could create just by existing, yet at the same time Jonathan sat in his room wondering if he wanted to help Mayflower achieve his desired legacy or if he would rather hinder the lad. The most direct way Jonathan could be of help would be to help give Mayflower advice and material for a hypothetical book; Jonathan had written a lot of material on psychology and fear himself so he was sure that his words would be of use. On the other hand, it would be easy to hinder Mayflower simply by not answering his questions or by lying… although the latter option was far less appealing.
Frankly, at the end of the day, Jonathan’s behavior would reflect Mayflowers. If the man continued to be interesting and receptive, then there would be no harm in helping him out as much as he could. At the very least Jonathan would guarantee an amusing conversation partner for as long as he was here.
All would change when Jonathan had a chance to experiment on him though, of course. Being here, being friendly, meant nothing when fear toxin was around; once that happened, no one was safe and everyone was an experiment. Of course, there were some people that Jonathan did not want to break as much as others, but those people mainly just included Jervis and it wasn't just because Jervis and Jonathan got along. No, the reason Jervis was a less interesting test subject for the fear gas was that he was already a coward. What was there to learn from a man who already showed most or not all of his fears? Nothing. There was a lot to learn from someone who was brave and reserved though; those people had terrors yet to be discovered.
Mayflower seemed to be more on the courageous side. It would take time or fear gas to get under his skin since, unfortunately, Jonathan did not get his desired outcome when he called out Mayflower’s need for a legacy and therefore fear of being forgotten or seen as useless. He needed to experiment more, he needed to learn more, and then he may get the response from the doctor that he craved.
The sound of pounding on the door snapped Jonathan out of his thoughts. He had been thinking for hours on this single topic which, even for him, was a bit extreme. Normally he spent a long time just staring at the wall in thought, but that was only because he had no other options, and even then his mind would drift a bit more. Still, it was nothing to worry about.
As per usual, Jonathan sat on his bed with his hands on his lap so that the guard could come in without fear and chain together his hands. It was strange how used to handcuffs he was. Why, he could do just about everything with handcuffs on as he could without them! Jonathan was no fighter after all, so at most the greatest hindrance to his work these posed would be the chains dangling and knocking over a vial of chemicals. Clearly that was a small annoyance that could be rectified just by setting the chains above his arms. Easy.
And as for eating, the only real inconvenience his hands being locked together gave was the fact that he could not reach for a drink while he was still holding food. It was one item at a time, but for someone who didn't care about eating anyway, such a thing was immaterial.
On any normal day, Jonathan would have hated the cafeteria. It was loud, messy, and every five minutes someone was screaming, laughing without logic, or committing some unhygienic act ranging from throwing their hair to shitting themselves. It would be far better to watch this scene from the other side of the bars, but that was not an option. The doctors and guards had their own, separate cafeteria that was, unsurprisingly, of higher quality than this place in every way. It was cleaner, the food was at least one step up, and they even had televisions set up so that those working long shifts could be reminded that there was still a world out there just waiting for them to clock out.
Sadly, Jonathan had not seen that cafeteria since the accident. After gassing the patient cafeteria, he had started to move towards the staff cafeteria while gassing every room he passed on the way. It wasn't the most well thought out plan since, while wearing a creepy mask, he walked into a room full of doctors and guards on break; the guards had their guns and their muscle still so Jonathan was taken down before he could make his body count that day even larger. Honestly though, Jonathan couldn't fault himself for not thinking clearly about his attack that day. He didn't plan on infecting himself after all, and a scared man did not think as clearly as a stable one.
So like everyone else in the patient cafeteria, into the unorganised food line Jonathan went. And as always, it took forever. People sometimes just stood catatonic at the servers while other times they would immediately start tossing the food until they had to be restrained. It was an unorganized mess that thankfully improved once the plate of mashed potatoes, a brownie, a rubber steak, and some canned corn was in Jonathan’s hands.
Technically no one had to sit anywhere, you could make friends and sit wherever you would like… unless you were a super-criminal or deemed too unstable for that freedom. So even though he had permission to be in the cafeteria, Jonathan had no choice but to sit at a table close to one of the guards. Those tables were always less populated than the ones in the center; not that that was surprising though since no one wanted the guards to listen in on their conversations or immediately stop them from whatever chaotic mayhem they wanted to cause. There was more than one guard in this area though so at least he had options.
Jonathan held his tray and looked over the hall, glad to have glasses so that he could actually see who he was looking for. Thankfully, it was never hard and probably could be done without glasses too because, on the far side of the cafeteria, was a bright head of red hair sitting at a mostly empty table eating the corn one by one. Even from this far away and above all the noise, Jonathan could tell that Jervis was humming to himself as he ate; Jervis would have have been swaying a few inches left and right for any other reason.
“What are we singing today, my dear Hatter?” Jonathan asked once he had reached the table.
Before sitting down, Joanthan made a point to meet the gaze of the nearest guard who looked like he was just waking up from a nap. He probably had been staring off into space until Jonathan’s arrival broke him out of the self induced trance. There would be no sleeping on the job when two criminals were chatting over dinner… or at least not without risking major consequences.
Slowly, Jervis looked up from his food before giving a big grin. “Dr. Crane, what a surprise. That was just a melody I managed to memorize. Where it came from though, I don’t know.”
Jonathan hummed out confirmation while he picked at the mashed potatoes, the only thing that seemed even remotely edible on this plate. As he did so, he noticed that Jervis had already eaten his rubber brownie and only now was moving onto the actual dinner portion of the meal.
“I met the flower you mentioned earlier,” Jonathan said in a lower voice now. The subject of conversation was not illegal, but it was still something he would rather not say so loud that anyone could hear. Joanthan would continue at this volume until the guard told him to speak up. It was the rules, after all. “He seems interesting, or at the very least accommodating.”
“Did you get your tea?” Jervis asked, intentionally or not, also dropping his volume to mimic Jonathan.
Shaking his head, Jonathan offered the other a smirk. At least he remembered their conversation from earlier, that was a plus, although it didn't seem like Jervis was in a very focused mood today. “I forgot to ask, but maybe I’ll do that tomorrow. I did, however, get to read my old file with everyone's notes on it.”
Jervis quickly giggled and let out an excited oo sound. “Was it interesting? Did those mean old doctors spin a web of lies and un-truths?”
“They did indeed. So many fairy tales in those pages… and not the good kind. But Dr. Mayflower was kind enough to give me a chance to correct those mistakes more or less.” With just a highlighter all Jonathan could say was yes or no, there was no flexibility to point out ‘facts’ that were partially correct but also partially wrong. It would have been possible to write a few notes on the sidelines detailing those issues, but that would be far too messy considering how littered those reports already were. Besides, failing to mark partial truths was not a lying, although Jonathan would admit that he was not being as clear as he could possibly be. He’d have time to explain himself more if and when Mayflower questioned him about those topics. “I hate to ask, but would you do me a favor, Jervis?”
The Hatter raised his brows and leaned in closer, which basically meant that the short man was standing and leaning most of his torso over the table. He looked rather odd, and not at all subtle.
“Try to behave yourself with Dr. Mayflower, will you? I’m very interested in continuing my sessions with him.” Jervis nodded, either out of understanding or agreement, but Jonathan was not done. “This may be difficult for you, but I would really appreciate it if you would try your best to remember your conversations and report them to me over dinner each day. I don’t need every detail, but anything he lets slip about--”
“--Hey, you two! Break it up!” The guard shouted, taking two steps towards the criminals with the full intention of getting violent if his orders were not immediately followed. Jervis did not move, still looking at Jonathan with mostly focused eyes. This prompted Jonathan to raise his long, boney hand to Jervis’ shoulder and lightly push him back down to his chair. Once Jervis was sitting down again, the guard slowly returned to his post but his eyes were not locked on the criminals. “Keep your voices up too. If I can’t hear a syllable then I’m splitting you two up!”
Clearing his throat, Jonathan continued although still at a volume too low for the guards liking. “What do you say? I really hope that I’m not asking too much of you.” Frankly, this was a gamble since there was a chance that Jervis would either forget this entire conversation or he would fail to keep his mouth shut about Jonathan’s request. Is was not asking Jervis to act differently though; all he wanted was for Jervis to use what remained of his brain to remember the events of his interviews. Theoretically, Jervis was capable of doing that.
“That can be done, Dr. Crane, but why don’t you follow me in there? Can’t you disappear, and listen with your own ear?”
“No, I can’t, not in Arkham at least. I can only trust you with this job, my friend.”
Aggressively, Jervis started nodding his head as he once again went to eating his corn one by one. “I got it! I’ll do it! I’ll be the fly on the wall for the Crane in the hood.” Whatever that meant about the hood didn't matter since the rest of the sentence was confirmation that Jervis would do his best to be a good ‘snitch’.
“Thank you, Hatter. If this goes well, I’ll owe you a favor when we get out of--”
“That’s it; you two are done here.” The guard interrupted again, not too happy about the whispered conversation continuing after his intervention. “One more word to each other and I’m submitting a report and you can see your dinner dates go out the window.
Jervis visibly flinched when he heard the loud sound and felt the man rushed towards them. Noticing that, Jonathan stood up himself so that the attention was on him instead. “Apologies guardsman; I’ll head back to my cell now so that I won’t disturb you again. I’ve finished with my dinner anyways.” As expected, the guard gave Jonathan an odd look but he did not protest the suggestion. “That guard over there, Alexander I believe his name is, has taken me to my cell in the past. I’m sure he’d get me out of your hair if you ask him to.”
And sure enough, within the next minute, Alexander was standing next to Jonathan with a firm hand on the cuff chains. It felt like a dog leash if Jonathan were being honest. But unfortunately for the guard, Jonathan was able to make one more movement towards Jervis before control of his arms was mostly taken away from him; this action was taking his tray and pushing the rest of it, but most importantly the brownie, towards Jervis. “Your welcome to the brownie, if you want it, Jervis.” And, of course, Jervis did. In fact, he had his hand reaching towards the sweet before Jonathan was out of the room.
Thankfully for Jonathan, he only had to wait for the hour to end before dinner was technically over for this block of patients, and that meant it was time for Jonathan to get his hour of recreational time. Normally he would head there directly after lunch, but the routine was broken slightly due to Jonathan thinking it unwise to mention his normal schedule to Alexander.
Still, things mostly went back to normal once the hour changed and Jonathn was brought to the high security recreational room. There were many of these scattered throughout the asylum, mostly used for less violent patients, but due to the moral side of things, even the dangerous ones got break times. Of course, that was only if they seemed to be on an upward spiral rather than people like the Joker who never showed signs of mental recovery or control over their violence. Thankfully in Jonathan’s case, he had not harmed anyone or even made a single threat in the entire month since his recapture so he had gained the right to get out of his cell one hour a day to just relax in a room of other people who also recently got their privileges returned.
There were some key similarities and differences between high security and regular rec rooms. First of all, the high-security room had no windows at all and it was locked from the inside and outside. Without a guard and their keycard, you were stuck even in the case of a fire. Oh, this was a major safety risk, but what the inspectors didn't know would only hurt the crazies and the handful of guards in there too. Secondly, those in the regular rec room had several TVs and newspapers in the room; high-risk patients did not have direct access to the outside world in any form but the regular patients did. It was a shame too because Jonathan would have loved to know what chaos Batman was involved in as of late… although just as many other patients would have reacted negatively to even hearing his name so it made sense why they tried to reduce the chances of him coming up. And third, the high-security rec room was less populated than the other one since it was rare for dangerous patients to ever be allowed there, it was organized in a way that there would never be more than a dozen patients in the room at a time, and even if you got permission to be there it was common for that right to be taken away.
As for similarities, it was surprising to know that the number of fights in both rooms was about the same. Apparently it didn't matter if you had a history of violence or not, when someone cheated at checkers, hogged the television, or had taken the book you were in the middle of, you got pissed enough to shout or punch. That’s why, no matter what, both rooms had guards in them although obviously there were more guards in the high-security area than the other. Excluding the televisions though, most of the entertainment options were the same: books, checkers, chess, cards, other board games, and even a piano that was days away from breaking. Unlike Blackgate or more normal prisons, Arkham did not have an outside area for physical activity or just energy burning; the most you could hope for was that your doctor agreed to take you to the greenhouse to walk. Unsurprisingly, this worked out for Jonathan who would much rather read inside and go out and ‘play ball’ or the like.
Besides the fact that sweating was not one of Jonathan’s pastimes, he did get further benefits from this free time since it offered him time to people watch… and as a psychologist that was naturally something he enjoyed. There was a man playing chess against himself, rather well surprisingly, since the white pieces were playing a rather cunning game against the black pieces who seemed to be a novice based on their amateurish moves; sadly, the player was rooting for the underdog so he was a bit down. Apparently this man killed a dozen people when his football team lost. Across the room was a man who kept pulling out a book from the bookshelf, reading the back cover, putting it back, waiting ten seconds, and then repeating the same process with the same book; he was guilty of drug dealing on a district size scale, and when caught, he overdosed himself to the point that his brain never fully returned. And most amusing, although for more simple, was the scarlet red haired man flirting with the door guard without end; he had faked his insanity to avoid blackgate and now was just doing what he did best, getting people into bed and blackmailing some of them into doing his dirty work. Honestly though, Jonathan did not think that the asylum knew that he was a faker considering they were trying a range of drugs to keep his physical and ‘mental’ sex addiction under check. The only reason Jonathan found this man interesting was because his constant fliration with the guard was actually turning into something, not necessarily lovers, but the guard seemed just as entertained as Jonathan was at this point.
“Dr. Crane?” a voice said hesitantly. Jonathan had not noticed, but a blond man had snuck up on him while Jonathan was busy people-watching. This man was well fit, muscular and above-average height, and to make it better he was actually good looking; no one would suspect that this man had auditory hallucinations almost constantly. He claimed to hear whispers in the back of his mind at all hours; they told him secrets about places and people, they told him the future, and they hold him that everyone around him was scheming to cause him harm because they were jealous of his powers. Jonathan was currently treating this man during his hour break, or at least he was whenever their schedules lined up.
Jonathan turned to face the light footed man before offering a polite nod, “Malcolm, good to see you. Our time is limited, so shall we start now or is this just a social call?”
“No, no, I wanted to talk. I'm managing to keep them quiet once and awhile thanks to your advice, but I fear I’m having a relapse. See, I got this new doctor, some lady with glasses, but the voices are so loud whenever I’m around her I can't even hear her name! “
This was always interesting. Malcolm was interesting. Back when the pair first met, Malcolm commented that the voices kept screaming ‘He watches from the fields’ or ‘Don’t breathe the air.’ The voices seemed like they knew more than Malcolm did, that was for sure, yet he feared the intelligent voices greatly. Just talking about them gave him a headache. “And what do they say around her?”
A single gulp, and suddenly Malcom was spilling his guts. Words rushed out of his mouth at such a speed that Jonathan was relying more on lip-reading than his ears to understand the man. “I don’t understand what it means, and no matter how many times I tell them to be quiet or try to distract myself or try to just think my own thoughts louder, they just keep screaming. They call her Diana, and I asked if that was her name, but she didn't respond so I don’t even know if they are right! But but then, then they said that Diana was going to become Dianas. Split in two, they said again and again. I don’t what what they mean by in two; is it literal, is it figurative, does she have a split personality? I just don’t know, but whenever I hear them say that and look at her, it looks like she’s ripped down the middle. You know, like a piece of paper, except she doesn't split even. It’s horrible and gross, and the sounds the voices make are not just talking anymore. It’s like metal against metal, and they normally don’t do that, and--”
“--That’s enough Malcolm. I understand.” To be honest, Jonathan just wanted him to calm down. There was no need to get the guards attention, and if he kept waving his arms like that and raising his voice, then he would. Although he was being comforting with his words, Jonathan was smiling a touch too much for it to be considered comforting. How could he help it? Malcolm was so concerned and terrified by his little ‘prophecy’ voices! “And I’ve said this before, but have you thought about the fact that these voices may be trying to help you, not hinder you? They grow louder because you continue to ignore them.”
“But the last time I listened to them I-I”
“Killed your brother, yes, I know. But perhaps that was a good thing too. After all, the voices did tell you that he was sleeping with your wife and sure enough, that turned out to be true. They are not inside of you to hurt you, Malcolm, they are trying to help, and so if ignoring them is not helping you then perhaps giving them a bit more attention is for the better. I’m not saying that you should follow every order, but they deserve to be considered.”
“A-and Diana?” Malcom said, hesitant about trying this new method which was highly different than the other doctors advice as well as Jonathan's past advice.
Jonathan reached forward and placed a hand on Malcom’s arm. The other patient did not pull away, but instead remained focused. “They are trying to help you. And perhaps they are trying to help her too. Metal against metal sounds? Cut down the middle? This sounds like an accident waiting to happen; pay attention to them and the world around you, perhaps you can save her from this fate.”
Malcolm nodded, not comfortable with the idea but seemingly open to the idea that he could save a life. After all, this man was not violent by nature, just once and a while weak against the constant orders and whispers within his mind.
“Thank you, doctor.”
“Anytime, Malcolm, honestly. Keep me updated on how this new method works out for you and this Diana’s condition. Be well,” Jonathan said, standing up and walking away so that the conversation did not continue further. There was no reason to. Jonathan had an update and he set things in motion for their next meeting. He was done and so decided that he would spend the rest of his break, which was only twenty minutes now, reading the first book he touched. And so he did.
Unfortunately, the hour of entertainment and socializing, or more accurately people watching, quickly came to an end. Jonathan was collected and brought back to his room where he would spend the rest of the night alone and bored. Honestly, in these kinds of conditions, it was no surprise that the super criminals did not mentally improve. How could they? They were given very few outlets during the day and at night they were stuck inside of their own minds. It was only natural that their minds turned towards hurting their captors. All humans needed stimulation so even high-level criminals should be given activities to do in their room. Sure, some people would get hurt, but it would also give patients a chance to find other, non-violent hobbies. A pencil and a book could only be used as weapons against those with no skills or if they had their guard down.
This was an unrealistic dream though, Jonathan knew this even as he thought about it. No one deemed a super-criminal wanted to be cured, and that was part of the problem. When they were not invested in their own recovery how could you trust them not to do anything it took to escape, even take advantage of the luxuries given to them? Jonathan certainly had not helped this case since he had used, and would use, anything given to him to cause terror whether that was a shard of glass or pills. He was part of the reason no one was allowed to have anything ‘fun’ in their cells; at most Jonathan had been able to petition getting a book but even that was a challenge.
In fact, as Jonathan relaxed in his room, his mind swam with thoughts of the many ways he could escape using the tools he had at his disposal. Obviously an escape attempt while in his solitary cell would not work without fear toxins; there was nothing in here to use. The best bet would be his therapy sessions where there were only two or three threats at a time, or maybe his rec room time would be the best since all it would take would be getting the card from a guard without causing a large enough fuss that lockdown would happen.
It was unclear how long Jonathan sat on his bed trying to imagine his escape, and more importantly, what he would do once escaped, but the cell light suddenly turned off implying that it had at least been two hours since he had been pulled from the rec room. This sudden burst of darkness signalled that it was bedtime whether the patients wanted it to be or not. Not that it made a difference for Jonathan though since, light or dark, Jonathan only had his mind for entertainment anyway. Normally the few hours between lights out and Jonathan’s actual attempts to sleep were filled with flawed formulas, past experiments, and the tests that were still ongoing even while he was locked in here, but tonight his thoughts kept returning to one topic; Dr. Mayflower and their first session which served as more than enough stimulus to keep Jonathan’s mind from growing bored as he waited to become tired.
Of course, he had spent much of the afternoon thinking about the same topic, but mainly it had been about Mayflower in regards to his fears and legacy. Jonathan had been wrapped up in his excitement over having a new patient that he was ignoring the vital data collection aspect of any study. The first priority for future interactions was to see who else Mayflower was treating. Doing this would shed more light on who Dr. Mayflower was and his goals.
Jonathan already knew about himself, obviously, as well as Edward Nygma and Jervis Tetch. All three were, or continued to be, intelligent men with great skill in their fields. With that information, it was safe to say that the rest of the people Dr. Mayflower was focusing on were also professionals turned ‘insane’ criminals. Possible other patients were Victor Fries aka Mr. Freeze; Thomas Elliot, aka Hush, Kirk Langstrom aka Manbat; and Pamela Isley aka Poison Ivy. At first thought, these were the names that came to mind, although someone like Kirk Langstrom, who was an experiment gone wrong that resulted in him hurting people when he was not at all in control, did not seem to fit the profile Mayflower was going for. Plus, Langstrom likely was not even in Arkham although Jonathan could not say either way. There was also Harvey Dent aka Two-Face who was indeed criminally insane but did not have a background worthy to make him a candidate for Mayflower’s test subjects; lawyers did not compare to doctors. The rest though were reasonable candidates that Jonathan would have to ask about or subtly hint towards.
It sounded like a plan, or at least a place to start, so it would have to do for the night. Although it was impossible to know what time it was, Jonathan knew that he had been in the dark for a bit now so it was better to go to bed now. A mind needs rest to function properly, and Jonathan had no intention of harming his mind more than it may have already been.
~~~~~
Jonathan woke up to hands around his neck. Large, black, and metallic hands clenched around his thin throat with so much force that Jonathan could not even let out a whimper. Death was nothing to fear, yet the pain of not being able to breath caused the Scarecrow’s hands to reach up feebly towards his throat to try and peel them off his skin, but to no avail. It was so dark in the room though that Jonathan could not see his attacker, he could only abandon his neck in favor of reaching forward to find the source of his agony. The only thing that Jonathan felt though was metal, metal over his throat and everywhere his wandering hands explored. That is, at least until Jonathan reached up higher and found two metal-like horns poking from the attackers head.
There was no air in Jonathan’s lungs, but as the fingers dug in deeper and deeper into his neck, Jonathan was still somehow able to whisper out one word. “Batman.”
As soon as the words left his lips, Jonathan found his eyes opening once again but instead of seeing a pit black room like before, he saw light streaming through a tinted barred window and the familiar cracks of his cell. A dream, no that was a nightmare of the best, glorious, pulse racing, quality.
Sitting up in bed, Jonathan reached his hand to his throat. It still hurt, and if he really focused, he could feel where each finger crushed his windpipe. His mind was tricking his body into thinking that the pain was real, and as such, every hesitant, ragged breath was euphoric but fleeting. Jonathan had only been awake for a collective twenty seconds, but already his heart rate was starting to slow down and the hazy feeling in his head was dissipating. If there was anything Jonathan could have done to continue this sensation, he would do it, but this rare moment of fear was gone just as quickly as it had come. After over a month of nothing even coming close to that feeling, it was nice to have it but far more upsetting when it left. After all, there was nothing that could replace the feeling of a nightmare… or at least nothing that Jonathan had access to or would have a reaction to anymore.
Grumbling, Jonathan crawled out of bed to stretch. He was sadly awake now so he may as well actually get up instead of just sitting in bed hoping to have another bad dream; it was unlikely to happen since they were freakishly rare nowadays.
Apparently though, Jonathan would not have to wait long because before he was even fully mentally ready to start the day, the light was on and breakfast was served not long after. More importantly though was the sound of a high pitch voice dripping in a Jersey accent that was certainly not real or at least not as heavy as she was acting like it was; even her accent becoming thicker and more annoying was likely an attempt to ‘better suit’ the Joker’s unique, eccentric tastes.
Frankly, Jonathan despised her now, and he disliked her back when she used to work here. She was dumb, a bit too bubbily and naive, but now all of these flaws were more extreme just like her appearance; her only skills remaining were gymnastics and taking orders from those better than her. It didn't help matters that she was also a hothead which naturally clashed against Jonathan’s calm, actually controlled persona. She was not too brave though, or at least she had one clear, major fear that kept her amusing to watch from a great distance. One sign of Joker being hurt or captured caused her entire being to become frantic, either resulting in an unthought out rescue attempts or just a tearful breakdown that could not end until she cried herself to sleep. It would be fascinating to see what she would do if he were actually killed, although Jonathan dared not have a hand in his death. At that point, Jonathan would be risking his life and data cannot be collected after his heart stopped beating.
Most interesting though was the voice that followed hers. Dr. Mayflower, once again. It was a surprise to be honest considering that Harley Quinn, who Jonathan once knew as Dr. Harleen Quinzel, was far from the intelligent criminal profile that he had thought Mayflower was basing his patients on. It was odd, and a bit disappointing that he was speaking with her. Sure, she was an interesting case when it came to obsessiveness among other things, but she definitely was not smart past or present. Her title was a doctor though, so maybe that was enough for Mayflower. Hopefully not, but that was certainly how it looked.
Jonathan was no in mood for Harley today; his rush from the nightmare should have made today magnificent, but considering how quickly he lost the feelings before being able to fully relish it put a damper on everything. Some said that something was better than nothing, but ask a starving man if a single cracker made him feel better and he’s surely say no; just a taste of the thing you desire most merely makes your gut burn and roar for more.
Stepping away from the door in the hopes that she would pass by soon and her voice would be absorbed within the pale tiles, Jonathan was content to just wait until his therapy session later. Hopefully, by then his mind would relax. He did not want to go to work perturbed or distracted. It was bad for research, after all.
And so, that was exactly what he did. He waited, and waited, and waited for the hours to pass like he did every day, but just like he hoped his frustration and annoyance from the morning eventually passed. However, instead of neutrality returning to him, Jonathan instead found himself overcome with an emotion he would describe as ennui. Or perhaps just empty was the right word? Oh, he had never been too emotional, nothing besides his work bringing him much emotional stimuli positively or negatively, but today was one of the days that the glass was not half full or half empty, there was just a missing glass and a quickly evaporating puddle.
When the knock was heard through the cell door, Jonathan let out a sigh but moved in place so that he could await the cold handcuffs that used to chafe his wrists but no longer did so thanks to the jumpsuit sleeves and his thinner wrists. While the metal was attached to his body, Jonathan wondered if Dr. Mayflower would be outside waiting for him. He had met with Harley, someone far more dangerous and unpredictable than Jonathan, so surely Mayflower would be here as well. It made logical sense at least.
Jonathan had not been the type of doctor to walk patients back and forth. It was a waste of time in his mind, however, he would be the type to visit his patients in their cells should they prove to be unable to unwilling to come to the office; plus, sometimes non-scheduled or night visits were something Jonathan liked to do. But walking back and forth? Jonathan was too busy for such an act and never saw too much use for it besides observing their interactions with the guards and how their eyes examined the facility. What did they pay attention to verus what aspects of the asylum didn't matter to them at all? Those kinds of questions.
And sure enough, when the ex-psychologist was lead out of the room by a familiar guard, there was Dr. Mayflower standing there waiting. And once again, Jonathan found himself shocked and amused by the man's height. He was nearly as short as Jervis! In fact, due to Jervis slouching a lot, they have been exactly the same height! Mayflower was just a bit more fit as one would expect of an adult man.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Mayflower. How are you feeling today?” Jonathan started, his formal greeting not revealing any signs of his slightly subpar mood that day. “I’m flattered you came to pick me up. May I ask why? You are likely aware that escorting patients is an uncommon job for a doctor of your standing.” Surely he was aware that traveling with patients was dangerous. Most escape attempts happened after the patient was taken out of his cell. It was far easier to kill two or three escorts with their guard down rather than break down a large metal door built to keep people locked in. People were far more fragile than doors, after all.
Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
•●•
Matthias watched the girl pull a few more small tricks on the guards; stopping sharply while the guard behind her pushed her forward, laughing sharply at one of the guards when he tried to get a key to one of the doors from his pocket and drop it in front of her, and a brief couple of seconds where she just flatly refused to walk with them, causing them to give her a sharp tug and force her to move with them. Despite Matthias' own surprise at these minor tantrums, the guards seemed mostly unperturbed. He considered questioning if this was a common occurrence for a moment before he resolved to keep quiet and avoid the possibility for another small tantrum. Well, mostly quiet.
Due to her cell being the furthest walk so far, he eventually resolved to try and strike a conversation with the woman. At the least, it would distract her a little bit and hopefully make it easier on the guards currently trying to drag her through another corner of the halls.
"Ms. Quinzel," He began, considering the possibilities for a conversation as he was already navigating the discussion.
"-It's Harley," She snapped back. Her tone was a little sharp, seeming to have a tinge of annoyance but mostly lingering on the matter-of-fact side of tones.
"My apologies, Ms. Harley," He corrected. "I've been very curious about this ever since I heard the first news coverage of your story, where did you learn your acrobatics skill from? I have not seen many acrobats before, but you're honestly one of the most talented of those I have seen." He watched her as he spoke, a flicker of genuine interest in his eyes.
He was never the type to do many sports. Jogging and a little bit of high school swimming was about all that he had as far as that range. However, that did not mean he was completely clueless when it came to sports and sports-esque activities. Still, that was not his main interest in bringing up this small line of chat, neither was distracting her from irritating the guards further. It was merely a means to create an opening for further discussion. While he could not pinpoint the source of her talents, whether it was learned from childhood lessons or through her effort to become the ideal jester-in-waiting to the clown prince of crime, he could use it to go a little further into some topics they had not yet delved into.
Harley gave a slight laugh. "What, 'cha lookin' for a skill so you can join the circus?" She shouted, giving another ripple of giggles as they began to near the office. "I don't see why a wet sock like you would wanna join but I can talk 'ta my puddin' about it."
Matthias gave a faintly forced but mostly unnoticed small laugh at the woman's comment. One of the guards seemed less than impressed by the joke and gave her a sharp push forward while mumbling to 'keep it moving'.
He was straying a careful line. She seemed jovial now, but he knew her moods could change at the drop of a pen. If he could keep on the pleasant side, then maybe he could get a little closer to an answer from the woman. "While I appreciate the offer, I was inquiring about how you learned to do all those neat air-flips and turns." He gave another pleasant smile to the woman as he walked ahead a couple of steps and pulled his ID badge from where it was tucked under his sweater, scanning it over the pad for his door and keeping it in place as he waited for Ms. Harley to enter.
"What about the circus do 'ya not understand, 'doc?" She shouted, seeming bewildered by his lack of understanding of the phrase. There was no statement in her papers that she had ever belonged to an official circus. Despite his brief surprise as the shrouded sentence, faintly recalling how he had needed to decipher Mr. Tetch's words the day prior and some of Mr. Nygma's riddles. It seemed that was a common trait here? Nonetheless, once the small surprise wore off, he was able to quickly resolve that her words were likely referencing Joker's 'circus'. "What's it matter for?" She asked, narrowing her eyes a little as she asked.
He was getting close to losing the spider-thread of a line, in turn, forcing him to change the topic. "Ah, just curious." He hummed, giving her another bright smile as she gave a small 'hmph' and turned her chin up like a small child as she waltzed into the office, the guards waiting just outside the door. He offered them a polite nod of thanks and closed the door, ready to begin the next session as he took a mental note of Ms. Quinzel's - Harley's - sour mood. It seemed not much would be gained from this session. No matter, bad days happen.
-------------
The session was rather similar to the previous day's interview. She was bubbly, loud, and jovial for most of the time, opening up just a little to rant about the Asylum and various details of it. The lunches, the cells, among other parts of the facility. Something had been odd though, particularly her lack of talking about her 'pudding'. He did not dare to pose any questions about the man during the current phase in interviewing the woman, doing so would just be begging for something to go wrong. However, unlike the previous day, she did not even once mention him.
It was uncanny and set off a few warning signals in Matthias' mind. He had been informed beforehand of the woman's tendency to always reference the Joker, as well as the experience from the interview yesterday. With not a single mention? Well, it felt out of character for Ms. Harley.
He made a small note on one of his pages, it resting in his lap and out of her line of sight.
-------------
At the end of the interview, Matthias walked politely with the guards and the woman as she continued to chat and crack jokes about those accompanying them. While he would acknowledge any comments or questions she asked, his mind was elsewhere as he considered if it was appropriate to report the behavior or not. After a bit of internal debate, he would eventually reach a conclusion as she was placed back out of sight and into her cell. Gently, as Harley's back was turned away from him and two of the guards near the side of the door, Matthias would tap the shoulder of one of the guards he remembered from the day prior to be a usual for walking her around the facility and beckoned the guard to follow him wordlessly.
The guard seemed a little surprised by the action but soon followed, the one beside him giving a silent nod to indicate he'd wait there.
They did not walk far, just enough to be out of sight and earshot of the woman. Matthias stopped and calmly began to explain the situation. "She seemed odd during today's session, as if she was preoccupied. I am not sure if this is a proper course of action, but I figured it would be best to alert you since I have seen you around this cell before. I'll be making a report on it once I get the chance, but please make a note to keep an eye on her." He explained, hoping to not come off as rude for asking so much of the man.
The large guard gave a nod, glancing back towards the cell briefly and then acknowledging him. "Look, I get your concern, 'doc, but you've got to understand she's always like this. It's probably nothing."
It did not ease his nerves to be dismissed so easily and was a small but quick action to diminish some of the confidence he had in his position of vague authority. Of course, the guard seemed to be around her often and likely knew her better than he did. Maybe he was just worrying too much?
After a brief hesitation, he would give a small sigh and nod. "Right, well just keep a little bit of a closer eye on her, please?" He asked.
The guard glanced back at his friend across the hall, the two sharing a brief exchange of amusement flickering through their gaze. Despite the guard's eyes being turned away from Matthias, he still caught it and felt a faint bubble of irritation forming.
"Please?" He repeated, his voice lacking some of its usual softness.
"Yeah, yeah, sure. I'll keep watch over it, but I'm telling you, it's nothing."
It wasn't much, but it was at least a confirmation. Matthias gave the guard a small smile and thanked him before departing to begin heading to his next session, casting a final glance back at the woman's cell as the two guards joined back up and began to take a different direction down one of the many halls. His smile faltered slightly as he watched them disappear down the corridor, recognizing that it had likely been an empty promise just to get Dr. Mayflower out of the guard's hair. Even if nothing was actually odd about the woman's behavior, something just felt - well - wrong.
It's probably nothing.
-------------
Jervis Tetch's session was as pleasant as it had been the day prior. Dr. Mayflower had intended to start the electronic kettle before heading to the interview but had not found a reasonable amount of time to head back to his office in the short fifteen-minute break between Harley's and Tetch's sessions. So, instead, he flicked it on upon them arriving and was quick to make them each a cup of Peppermint tea in two of the styrofoam cups he had taken from the staff breakroom earlier that morning. Keeping Mr. Crane's warning about the former tea time in mind, Matthias made sure to keep the temperature a little lower than the day before. It caused the tea to need a little more time to steep but did not hinder the taste or outcome of the beverage.
Nothing notable came from their session, just the two chatting about wherever their conversations took them, their discussions being rather flexible due to the Hatter's tendency to never stick to one thread of a conversation for too long. It would occasionally catch Matthias off guard a little as he had to decipher what the other man was talking about, and it endlessly reminded Dr. Mayflower that it would be best to brush up on his Lewis Carroll stories, but he was able to slowly get the hang of it and navigate the other man's wild train of thought near the end of the session.
By the end, he even offered Mr. Tetch another cup of tea to take with him back to the cell. After all, a single styrofoam cup of just faintly warmed leaf water isn't exactly a weapon so while the guards seemed hesitant, they let it pass when Matthias explained that it wasn't hot enough to do any damage.
-------------
After the Hatter's interview, Matthias decided to hold off on lunch and instead take a few minutes to fill out the report on Harley, including the mentions of her strange behavior, and take a quick trip to the secretary's office to drop it off in the free hour. As he was standing at one of the desks to the office area, he noticed the sickly sweet secretary from the night prior and was quick to divert his attention away from her, resolving that he would rather avoid any more strange discussions for now. After all, it seemed such discussions were plentiful here.
With the paperwork filed, he began back to his office with his hands tucked over the strap of his messenger bag slung across his chest. He kept his gaze on the ground as he walked, considering how to proceed with the next couple of hours. Almost a full hour time to himself and then a final hour to dedicate to the Mr. Crane session.
The session with Mr. Crane. Mr. Crane's session.
The interview with Mr. Crane.
It was a quiet walk across the facility back towards his office. With his gaze down and his hands tucked under the strap of his messenger bag slung around his chest, the only noise that seemed to make its way through the pristine halls was the soft tapping of the soles of his shoes on the tiles, the occasional soft murmur of patients or staff talking amongst themselves, and the small pitter-patter of a light storm starting as he passed by some of the few and far-between windows. A surprisingly calming mixture.
Of course, that did not serve to ease his concerns about the upcoming interview.
The word session was simply not appropriate for the exchange they had the day prior. A session implies a doctor speaking with and attempting to help a patient. If you were to observe that from the appropriate view of Dr. Mayflower conducting a session with Mr. Crane, one could point out the many flaws of Matthias' part that had resulted in the professional boundaries being crossed. It was normal for patients to become curious about parts of their doctor's lives, but clearly not to the extent that it had reached the day prior -- not to mention a second major fact that could break the second perception. If one were to flip the view and perceive it as a session conducted by Mr. Crane towards Matthias, one could easily draw the conclusion that Mr. Crane's interest was not fueled by wanting to 'help' Matthias, rather focussed instead on the personal goal of furthering his own research into fear. No matter how one was to look at their exchange; it was not, by any means, a session.
So, with his choices weighed, Dr. Mayflower resolved to settle with the simple descriptor; interview.
Most would consider such word choices to be trivial. Session, interview, discussion, chat, they're all the same, aren't they? Each implied two parties talking to each other, which that's exactly what it was, right?
Matthias did not follow the belief that words were as simplistic. Add a single period to the end of a simple 'okay' in a text message directed towards someone with social anxiety and they can believe you hate them and are only begrudgingly tolerating their existence. Forget to warn a person with OCD that you'll be a few minutes late to a meeting and you could find yourself in the middle of someone else's breakdown the moment you arrive. Words were everything in the area of psychology. Certain ones made people happy, others did not. The perfect string of them could send even the most powerful men turning tail. Get a single word wrong, though, and you could lose everything you've ever had in the blink of an eye. The fact of the matter was, if you could carefully choose your words and how to form them, they were everything.
Matthias had learned how to form his words from a young age. From dad, he recalled. Debates. Arguments. Talking. Convincing. Choosing what words to say. Which ones to never say. Which ones were proper. Which ones were not. From dad. His dad taught him how to navigate conversations. Just dad.
He still navigated words. Here, for these interviews, words were merely for venturing into certain types of discussions while refraining from entering others. Against Crane, who seemed to be just as skilled at navigating such conversations, he just had to choose his words a little more carefully.
Matthias glanced out a window as he passed it, recognizing his office to be just another turning hallway away. Glancing briefly at his phone, he noticed the time; fifteen minutes before the interview and then brought his gaze back up and away from the little clock. As he kept his gaze ahead, it briefly flickered to the corner of the end of the hall in front of him, focussing itself on the single stark contrast to the white tiles and walls; a little bit of greyish-silver duck tape wrapped around something that was giving a tiny little red flashing light.
For a moment, as he recalled some of the stories of bombs and devices being common in this place, he was weary. As he neared it, however, he quickly came to realize it seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. His mind flickered back to the previous day, recalling the ladder, old janitor, and the familiar face he had encountered at the bend in the hall. For just a second, it even gave him faint amusement as he turned around the corner. It was a sloppy job, barely held together by the worn adhesive tape. So typical of his old college roommate.
His gaze drifted back down to the phone he was still loosely holding while he turned the corner. Part of him had wondered if the whole interaction was just a strange dream he had the night prior. Surely nobody could stay exactly the same as they had been nearly a decade prior? Of course, as he switched his phone back on and to the contacts page, he found himself strolling down only a couple of swipes to the old contact. Sure enough, it was exactly the same as it had been all that time ago. 'Van Man.'
Flipping to their recent chat as he reached his office door, he used the other hand to pull his badge from under his sweater and scan it over the pad, shutting the door behind him as he looked over the most recent messages.
It was like a capsule to the past. Half a year ago was their last exchange, a picture of an ad posted on a bulletin board for an Italian Festival in Gotham that had long passed. Only four messages had been exchanged between them and Matthias felt a little pang of guilt as he noticed the last message had been from Tiedrich asking where they should meet, Matthias just now noticing that he had completely forgotten the meeting had even been mentioned. A few messages above that, a couple of months before their final messages, Tiedrich had mentioned having some extra tickets for a concert before Matthias had quickly responded he was busy during that time. Busy, always busy.
Tiedrich hadn't deserved it. He'd always been friendly to him.
'When would you like to get pizza? - M.' He swiftly texted before setting the small device aside on his desk while retrieving the report papers from the filing cabinet. He skimmed over them for a couple of seconds before hearing a faint buzz of the phone on the hard desk. Finishing looking over to ensure they were the right papers, he returned to the desk and dropped the papers off before taking the phone and glancing at it as he approached the door.
'Tonight sound good? I get off around seven. - V.'
'Yep. Make sure to send me the address. - M.' He swiftly responded as he closed the door back behind him and began towards Mr. Crane's cell.
'Can do. Gimme a bit some intern fucked up some of the hardware on one of the cameras - V.'
Again, Matthias found himself faintly amused as he considered that likely implied there would be some poorly taped together camera lingering in the facility somewhere. While it faintly concerned him, he also recalled the fact that this was also the man that had used a toothpick, butterknife, belt sander and shoelace to fix a Roomba that had been unintentionally stomped on back in freshman year.
He tucked his phone back away as he neared the cell and offered a cheerful smile to the guard as he approached, his hands tucked back over the strap of his messenger bag where they often rested. The door to the cell was already in the process of being opened, the former doctor not yet outside of it. It seemed Matthias had come at the perfect time. Still, with a few seconds to spare, he patiently waited outside the cell for Mr. Crane and smiled again as the man was brought out by the guard.
With the two no longer sitting or the two working through the newness of their interview, Matthias caught another briefly notice of Mr. Crane's form. He looked unwell, to say the least. Particularly in the area of his weight, or rather, the lack of it. Just above six feet, as the notes yesterday had read. Rather tall, but not abnormally so. As far as his weight, Matthias recalling it to be in the early hundred and thirties range on the paper, it certainly was not ideal for Mr. Crane's height and suggested malnourishment. He'd need to try and look into that and see if any changes could be made. For now, Matthias recalled the faint weight in his pocket of the apple he'd tossed in their earlier and promptly forgot about. He began to fish through his pocket for it, moving aside a small handful of pens and a couple of folded notes he had taken during the interviews prior.
"I am doing rather well, how about yourself?" He politely asked, reflecting the question back to the other man as he searched through the large pocket, glancing down briefly as he spoke. "I figured that the few extra minutes of walking would be a way to see how my charges are doing prior to the interviews beginning so that I can properly tailor to their behavior." He calmly explained before finally retrieving the rather small bright red apple from the bright white pocket of his jacket. As much as he disliked how difficult it was to come upon a well-fitting lab coat for himself, he had to admit that he rather enjoyed the spacious pockets. "Would you like an apple?"
It was not much and was somewhat spontaneous for their prior exchange just a second or two beforehand, but with the fact that Mr. Crane looked like he could be knocked over by a particularly strong gust of wind, Matthias figured it could at least be a start to healthier eating habits.
"Besides, I'm an unarmed doctor -- only slightly larger than an average thirteen-year-old; I believe I'd be a rather unsatisfying target for anyone." He was well aware of the danger that came with walking between the cell and his office with his patients. Just as with everything else, he had encountered plenty of stories about escape attempts during those times. The fact of the matter was that there was no point worrying about such events and camping out inside his office for the entire day. That was one of the first tips Dr. Mayson had given him when he had arrived here, a tip often forgotten by the newer doctors in the faculty once they became too worried about situations arising during the transfers. He had been hesitant to follow it the first day, but after the original sessions with each of his charges, it had been a quick decision.
Go with your charges. See what's going on with them before you even enter that room. Once you know their current moods and tones, you're always able to request a separate interview with a nice thick pane of glass between the both of you. As soon as you're in your office with them and the guards are on the opposite side of a heavy metal door, anything can happen.
While transfers could sometimes go awry, there was still a better chance when in the company of others. While it was less common for issues to arise during sessions, those were what almost always ended in tragedy. Still, as Dr. Mayson had warned him, many people chose to ignore the tip and be completely blind-sighted by their patient's daily moods and behaviors.
"For today's interview, I would like to go over some of the highlighted topics you mentioned, if that would be alright with you?" Matthias stated, glancing back at Mr. Crane as they began walking towards the direction of Dr. Mayflower's office.
•●•
Viper
One Thousand Club
“Well enough,” Jonathan responded to Dr. Mayflower’s first question. There was no reason to lie and say that he was well, but at the same time, revealing his sour mood was unproductive, so the response was more neutral although hinted towards negative.
At the explanation for why he was here, Jonathan nodded his head in understanding. “That’s fair. It is never wise to go into a private session uninformed.” A pause, but not a long one. “Additionally, an hour is not much time for in-depth discussion or discovery, so trying to squeeze as much time as possible is a popular reason for escorting patients.” Once again, not a practice or habit that Jonathan enjoyed too much though. He’d rather they stay in one place and just come and go as desired; having every patient just ready and waiting made his current research set up outside of Arkham perfect for his needs.
“Ah, there it is. I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to address my eating habits.” Jonathan made this declaration as if he discovered something, but in reality, he was just acknowledging that the inevitable happened… although a bit sooner than expected and less direct than most doctors tried to be. “Considering that you didn't copy over my weight the last time we met, I figured it was not something you were interested in at the moment. Still, I appreciate the subtle attempt to make me eat more. It’s highly preferred in comparison to pulling out a food pyramid or trying to count calories for me.” And in appreciation of that, Jonathan slowly raised and open his hands. He did not reach for the apple and instead was openly waiting for Dr. Mayflower to place the fruit into his hands instead. “Thank you,” Jonathan said either as gratitude for being given the apple or to prompt Mayflower further. It didn't look like Arkham fruit based on the fact that there was not a bruise in sight, so it was better than what he was used to.
As the conversation continued, Mayflower prompted a light chuckle from the tall man. It was a rather macabre way to joke, but from a criminal of Jonathan’s nature, it should be no surprise that he finds humor in dark and deadly hypotheticals. “Oh, Dr. Mayflower, you truly are new here. You think that your size and inability to defend yourself makes you less of a target? As long as you are dressed in a white lab coat, you are perhaps more of a target than the guards here. At the very least you make a fine hostage, but at the very most you will become the center of a killing frenzy for the more pack minded of patients. Truly, in the event of a breakout, being a patient is the safest role to have.” This was not a threat, it was a fact. What was also a fact was that Jonathan would have traded in his orange jumpsuit for a white lab coat without a second thought even with the danger. Death did not concern him, and all it took was one body and a handful of chemicals to arm himself with the most dangerous weapon in Gotham. “I’d advise you to steal a patients jumpsuit just in case that day ever comes... for your own sake.”
The advice was offered casually and without much thought of the pair of guards listening in. It was a safety tactic he had considered a number of times before and after his own arrest, but it seemed wise and unheard of up until this point. Patients dressing as doctors during lockdowns was not uncommon since it was an easy way off the island, but the other way around was abnormal. Patients trying to break out rarely hurt other patients unless they got in the way. In fact, it was common for breakouts to involve intentionally freeing and maybe even recruiting fellow patients. It was better to hold the gun than to have the gun aimed at you, after all.
The four men started towards the office at a relaxed pace. Jonathan may have been distrusted, but at least he was not a hassle to move around. Besides, with the doctor here, there was no chance of being late to the session. Jonathan kept his head facing forward as they walked, but his eyes were locked on Dr. Mayflower who was leading the pack. It didn't matter that the doctor was up there though since Jonathan would have been staring either way. He was working, after all.
“Of course, Dr. Mayflower, happily. I imagine you have plenty of questions and comments.” Jonathan said this honestly, but he was not done there. “I hope you will indulge my questions as well, just like you did yesterday. I’ll admit, with so little to do in my cell during the days and nights, I found myself thinking about today’s session a fair bit. There are some queries I have that are positively itching to be asked.” Jonathan was blatantly taking some control of the session into his own hands, a session that he did still consider a session and not an interview. This was his study, and as such, calling this an interview felt a bit too informal and unimportant. Still, at least he was not trying to override the entire session with his own inquiries. He was leaving Dr. Mayflower plenty of room to pursue his own interests. And who knew, if Mayflower asked interesting enough questions Jonathan may put off his own topics for another day.
It turned out though that another day was not a choice but a demand. Arkham had plans today, and it wasn't to let Jonathan and Mayflower enjoy their little social call.
The quiet halls that once echoed only with the sound of their feet against the tile and the occasional distant door was suddenly a loud flashing scene. Every handful of yards was an alarm that let out a constant, blaring siren that rose and fell at regular increments. It was loud too, so much so that the sudden change in volume caused Jonathan to flinch in a mix of shock and pain; elsewhere in the asylum, some patients became so startled and panicked that their flight, fight, or pass out reactions were triggered. As if that was not enough, the same alarms were also flashing a bright red light that hurt to look directly at.
After about ten seconds of this, an automated message interrupted the alarm siren. In a robotic female voice with no emotion, the alarm said, “PATIENT ESCAPE ATTEMPT IN PROGRESS. ARKHAM ASYLUM IS NOW ON LEVEL 4 LOCKDOWN. THIS IS A CODE RED ALERT. ALL DOCTORS AND NON-COMBATIVE STAFF MEMBERS SHOULD IMMEDIATELY TAKE COVER IN A SECURE AREA AND REMAIN QUIET. ALL PATIENTS SHOULD IMMEDIATELY SIT ON THE GROUND WITH THEIR HANDS BEHIND THEIR HEAD. FOLLOW ALL DOCTOR OR GUARD INSTRUCTIONS. LETHAL FORCE IS AUTHORIZED. PATIENT ESCAPE ATTEMPT IN PROG--” The alarms voice droned on and on with the same message on repeat without signs of stopping. Most likely it would keep going until the situation was resolved.
Jonathan was familiar with the old security codes, but he was not foolish enough to think that things still meant what they used to. However, thankfully for him, he had been in the asylum long enough to get practical experience in lockdowns and the like; he knew what the speaker’s messages meant because he had taken part in or even had been the cause of them being triggered before. Hopefully, Dr. Mayflower was also aware of what Code Red and Level 4 Lockdown meant because he was supposed to.
Code Red was a common term in all fields that basically was meant to tell everyone that this was an active, high danger situation. Lives were at risk and everyone should be on high alert for their own safety. Level 4 Lockdown was meant to inform the guards and doctors about which doors were still open, which were locked but would open with a key, and which would not open even if you normally had clearance. The lockdown scale was 1-5 with 1 meaning that most automatic doors would be shut but they all could be opened if you normally had clearance to the area, and 5 meaning that wherever you were that was where you were going to stay; even the front doors locked when this happened. Level 4 was somewhere in the middle where it was going to be a pain to get around and any attempt to leave or enter high security wings was going to be impossible. The front doors could likely still be unlocked if you had access, but the bridge to leave the island would be raised within the next 20 minutes.
The jobs of the guards were to keep the patients trying to escape occupied for those 20 minutes, and in the meantime, keep any other patients from taking advantage of the situation.
The guards, who had both been taught this information and had practical experience, immediately jumped into action. And by action, that meant, one of the men pulling Dr. Mayflower away from Jonathan while the other one took Jonathan by the shoulders and shoved his thin frame against the nearest wall with as much force as possible.
“Stand back, Doctor,” the guard nearest to Mayflower said, pulling out his gun and turning off the safety, but thankfully not pointing it at Jonathan just yet.
Jonathan hit the wall with a large thump, but he did not verbally make a single sound, not even a grunt of pain. In fact, Jonathan looked perfectly casual as his body was forced against the wall with the majority of the larger guard's weight. The weight was uncomfortable, as was the large hand roughly patting him down just like he had a few minutes ago, but it was not painful yet. In fact, Jonathan paid the guard no attention and instead had his brown eyes fixed on the blinding red light as if it’s flashing lights would tell him what was going on.
There was no expression on Jonathan’s face as he was patted down, the routine nothing more than a distraction. “I wonder whose breaking out this time?” Jonathan wondered aloud, face still against the wall. He wasn’t worried, not in the least bit. It was as he said earlier, being a patient here was the safest role to have during a break out. And even better was being a super criminal because very few average patients with enough sanity to be picky would target someone who worked in the same circuits of the Joker.
“He’s clear,” the guard said to the other before yanking Jonathan off the wall, not letting go. “We’ve got to get him to a cell while we still can. I’m not dealing with a lockdown with this psycho on my ass.”
The other guard nodded and opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the echo of a gun. And then another echo, but louder this time. In fact, just as quickly as the gunshots were heard followed the sound of shouting and pounding feet.
“Sounds like they are coming this way,” Jonathan stated, trying to glance over his shoulder despite the guard’s attempt to keep him immobile.
“Shit,” said the guard holding Jonathan as he quickly glanced down the hall for someplace secure to go. The problem was, there was nowhere to go. They were in the older portion of the building, the area with the lowest security and doors that were still more wood than metal. The next donation from Wayne would likely be put towards building this place up like a modern fortress similar to the rest of this place, but for now, it was no safer than an average hotel room.
Still, it was better than being in a hallway with one unarmed man and a man who was just waiting for a chance to be armed. “Get in there and keep quiet” the guard hissed, using his badge to open the level 2 door. The first guard quickly checked inside of the room before shuffling Mayflower inside. Only once the doctor was secure did the second guard push Jonathan into the room and follow. Jonathan managed to keep on his feet, but he stumbled hard directly into a table and the metal bar sticking out of it.
Jonathan made a quick hissing sound when he hit the metal. Neither of the guards were looking at Jonathan in that single second, but he sent a glare over his shoulder at the pushy guard. It was a cold glare, one that would be accompanied by a silent single slit to the throat if Jonathan had access to a blade. Sadly, he did not, although one quick look around the room made it clear that it would be easy for him to find something similar.
They were in a janitorial closet, which mainly meant that there was a large range of equipment. There were rolling buckets of liquid, each stained and smelly, and nearby were mops and brooms of various degrees of filth. On the desk was a small collection of scrapers, sharp ones fit for paint, tiles, or glue; hammers and the like sat nearby although it was clear that this was more for janitors than repairmen. But to Jonathan’s pleasure, there was also a collection of chemicals ranging from bleach to Awesome to window cleaner. Considering that no one knew exactly what Jonathan needed to create his toxin, this was the exact kind of place that he was not supposed to be.
The door had barely been shut for five seconds before the rabble of a half dozen men sounded through the door. There was a lot of laughter, loud and cackling, but the most concerning sound was the random gunshots that they could only hope were not being aimed at people too slow to hide.
Jonathan did not flinch at the sounds, he didn't even look at the door; his eyes were locked on the shelf of cleaning supplies, darting his eyes over each bottle or canister. He was looking for something, although he never hesitated on a single item long enough to make it clear if he found it or not.
Eventually Jonathan peeled his eyes from the materials before him and glanced at the doctor. Despite the tense vibe that surely everyone else was feeling as they relied purely on their ears to signal if the coast was clear, Jonathan gave Mayflower a small smile. It was the same small, polite smile he almost always had when interacting with Mayflower up until this point. There was not a single twitch different.
Slowly, Jonathan raised his cuffed hands, miraculously not making them jingle in the process. The guards were unaware of his movements, yet lucky for all involved, all he did was carefully scratch his nose before returning his hands slowly and silently to his waist where they were expected to be. There was no reason to do this in this moment besides just to prove that if he wanted to be silent, he could be. If he wanted to take advantage of this chaos, he could. Jonathan himself didn't even know for sure why he decided to reveal one of the many trump cards in his possession; it just seemed like an appropriate time to share.
The hallway was silent now. Glancing at each other, the two guards nodded and one went to open the door. He cracked it open, and when there were no signs of bullets or shouting, he pulled it open more and glanced outside. “It’s clear,” he said but made no signs of putting his gun away, “Chain the freak to something, I’m going to go out there, get some big guns, and come back for you.”
“Woah, woah, woah! I’m not staying here to get shot by those animals. You stay here; I’ll get the guns.”
The first guard groaned, “Yeah, sure as hell you will!” Glancing back at Mayflower and Jonathan, the guard rolled his eyes. What was there to do besides give in? If he didn't, they both would just argue all day and neither would get the guns. “Fuck it, whatever, but if you don’t come back with a bazooka you better fucking hope that they kill me. Get out of here.”
Without waiting for permission or even the opinion of Dr. Mayflower, the nameless guard left, shutting the door behind him. Suddenly four was three, and the odds of survival looked a lot less likely especially since the chance of that man returning was slim.
After muttering a few curses to himself, the guard spun on his heels and grabbed Jonathan by the arms. “Sit on the ground,” he ordered, which Jonathan followed at a relaxed pace unfit for the situation. Once he was on the dirty floor, which was damp in a few places, the guard reached over and undid the handcuffs just long enough for him to lock Jonathan to the metal table. Either the guard was an idiot or he was distracted by what was going on outside of the room, but he didn't even check to see if Jonathan had anything dangerous still in range.
“Alright you two, keep the volume down. Until this is all over, if I hear more than a whisper from either of you, I will shoot you. I’m not dying for this job.” The threat was clear, and more than that, it was clear that it was directed at both the patient and the doctor in the room. “That’s especially true for you, Crane--”
The guard’s threats quickly came to an end when the room turned black. One second there was a dim, white a light above them and then there was darkness. The chaos from outside, the siren and the automated voice, came to an abrupt end as well. If they had been in a room with windows, this may have not been so bad, but this was a closet and that meant that there wasn't even a speck of light in the small space. It took a good 30-60 seconds, but the room slowly became lighter thanks to the emergency backup generator kicking in. Now, instead of white, the closet was a dim red and the hallways were likely the same red.
And what the lights revealed was the guard pressing his loaded gun to Jonathan’s forehead, as if he was the one who caused the blackout. The safety was off and his finger was on the trigger, yet Jonathan stared into the eyes of his guard with slow blinks. His breathing was even and his pulse, if they were to check it in that moment, was steady. His life could have ended then and there, but the Scarecrow failed to even flinch at the reality.
“Your paranoia is causing you to act rash,” Jonathan commented almost gently. If it were not for his cold, neutral eyes, it may have seemed like he was trying to reason or calm the larger man down. “Any shots from that gun will cause an echo effect, leading any armed patients directly to the hall. If you do not fear death, then go ahead and pull that trigger. My death will surely be less painful than what the escapees have planned out for you.” But Jonathan was betting that he was right, and when the guard lowered his gun, he was proved correct.
It was always a safe bet that the guards feared death and their patients, and death caused by their patients most of all. There was so much pain here, so many sadistic souls, that guards were taught more about how to kill and avoid getting killed than they were about actual protocols and how to protect. Hell, in Gotham, everyone learned knew about death than safety. It was a city of dangerous egoists.
“Why don’t you watch the door? You and I both know that the backup generators don’t prioritize electricity to level 2 doors, and I’d personally rather have a few seconds of warning before someone lets themselves in.” Without full power, such low-level areas were not high on the list for the backup generators. These back-up, red lights may work across the building, but AC and simple door locks were turned off. No badges were needed anymore, just a hand to turn the handle.
The guard glared and adjusted his grip on his gun, but he did not raise it again. Instead he muttered a quick “Don’t boss me around, freak” before doing exactly as Jonathan suggested. Good ideas are good ideas, after all; keeping watch was not as good an idea as attempting to barricade the door, but it was certainly more interesting in Jonathan's opinion. He wanted these to a constant risk of death and danger. To be honest, Jonathan was hoping that someone came around peeking in these rooms on the way to the exit. How else would Jonathan watch the men before him squirm? There was certainly enough bloody lightning here to set the mood.
Speaking of, Jonathan had been so busy dealing with the guard that he had not given the truly interesting subject his full attention just yet. Although, to be fair, the reason Jonathan sent the guard to the door was so that he could speak to Dr. Mayflower with a bit more privacy.
In this lighting, Jonathan’s brown eyes were practically red and his hollow cheeks were even more defined. If it were not for his hands being stuck at the level of his eyes, he may have appeared demonic. “Who do you suppose is causing this chaos?” Jonathan quietly asked Dr. Mayflower, speaking as if it was yesterday in their office. “They failed to turn off the backup generators, so I doubt this is being staged by someone of intelligence. Edward Nygma certainly is not involved since we would be hearing his voice over the speakers by now, and Victor Fries is likely innocent as well.” Since this was a code red incident, it was safe to say that the culprit was a high ranking individual and not just a group of nobodies, and each passing second Jonathan logiced out another name from his list of possibilities.
“Are you faring well?” He asked, cocking his head to the side a bit. Just as he did so, a gunshot was heard from the hallway far in the distance. “It’s a shame they did not wait a few more minutes to start the breakout; I would much rather spend my afternoon in your office than here. Our clothes are going to stain.” This was early in Mayflower’s career so this was likely his first break out attempt, and it was a shame that it was in a smelly closet. Better to be out in the open as a hostage; at least there you often got some information about what was going on. In here they were ignorant of anything going on; not even the gunshots truly communicated if people were dying or not.
At the explanation for why he was here, Jonathan nodded his head in understanding. “That’s fair. It is never wise to go into a private session uninformed.” A pause, but not a long one. “Additionally, an hour is not much time for in-depth discussion or discovery, so trying to squeeze as much time as possible is a popular reason for escorting patients.” Once again, not a practice or habit that Jonathan enjoyed too much though. He’d rather they stay in one place and just come and go as desired; having every patient just ready and waiting made his current research set up outside of Arkham perfect for his needs.
“Ah, there it is. I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to address my eating habits.” Jonathan made this declaration as if he discovered something, but in reality, he was just acknowledging that the inevitable happened… although a bit sooner than expected and less direct than most doctors tried to be. “Considering that you didn't copy over my weight the last time we met, I figured it was not something you were interested in at the moment. Still, I appreciate the subtle attempt to make me eat more. It’s highly preferred in comparison to pulling out a food pyramid or trying to count calories for me.” And in appreciation of that, Jonathan slowly raised and open his hands. He did not reach for the apple and instead was openly waiting for Dr. Mayflower to place the fruit into his hands instead. “Thank you,” Jonathan said either as gratitude for being given the apple or to prompt Mayflower further. It didn't look like Arkham fruit based on the fact that there was not a bruise in sight, so it was better than what he was used to.
As the conversation continued, Mayflower prompted a light chuckle from the tall man. It was a rather macabre way to joke, but from a criminal of Jonathan’s nature, it should be no surprise that he finds humor in dark and deadly hypotheticals. “Oh, Dr. Mayflower, you truly are new here. You think that your size and inability to defend yourself makes you less of a target? As long as you are dressed in a white lab coat, you are perhaps more of a target than the guards here. At the very least you make a fine hostage, but at the very most you will become the center of a killing frenzy for the more pack minded of patients. Truly, in the event of a breakout, being a patient is the safest role to have.” This was not a threat, it was a fact. What was also a fact was that Jonathan would have traded in his orange jumpsuit for a white lab coat without a second thought even with the danger. Death did not concern him, and all it took was one body and a handful of chemicals to arm himself with the most dangerous weapon in Gotham. “I’d advise you to steal a patients jumpsuit just in case that day ever comes... for your own sake.”
The advice was offered casually and without much thought of the pair of guards listening in. It was a safety tactic he had considered a number of times before and after his own arrest, but it seemed wise and unheard of up until this point. Patients dressing as doctors during lockdowns was not uncommon since it was an easy way off the island, but the other way around was abnormal. Patients trying to break out rarely hurt other patients unless they got in the way. In fact, it was common for breakouts to involve intentionally freeing and maybe even recruiting fellow patients. It was better to hold the gun than to have the gun aimed at you, after all.
The four men started towards the office at a relaxed pace. Jonathan may have been distrusted, but at least he was not a hassle to move around. Besides, with the doctor here, there was no chance of being late to the session. Jonathan kept his head facing forward as they walked, but his eyes were locked on Dr. Mayflower who was leading the pack. It didn't matter that the doctor was up there though since Jonathan would have been staring either way. He was working, after all.
“Of course, Dr. Mayflower, happily. I imagine you have plenty of questions and comments.” Jonathan said this honestly, but he was not done there. “I hope you will indulge my questions as well, just like you did yesterday. I’ll admit, with so little to do in my cell during the days and nights, I found myself thinking about today’s session a fair bit. There are some queries I have that are positively itching to be asked.” Jonathan was blatantly taking some control of the session into his own hands, a session that he did still consider a session and not an interview. This was his study, and as such, calling this an interview felt a bit too informal and unimportant. Still, at least he was not trying to override the entire session with his own inquiries. He was leaving Dr. Mayflower plenty of room to pursue his own interests. And who knew, if Mayflower asked interesting enough questions Jonathan may put off his own topics for another day.
It turned out though that another day was not a choice but a demand. Arkham had plans today, and it wasn't to let Jonathan and Mayflower enjoy their little social call.
The quiet halls that once echoed only with the sound of their feet against the tile and the occasional distant door was suddenly a loud flashing scene. Every handful of yards was an alarm that let out a constant, blaring siren that rose and fell at regular increments. It was loud too, so much so that the sudden change in volume caused Jonathan to flinch in a mix of shock and pain; elsewhere in the asylum, some patients became so startled and panicked that their flight, fight, or pass out reactions were triggered. As if that was not enough, the same alarms were also flashing a bright red light that hurt to look directly at.
After about ten seconds of this, an automated message interrupted the alarm siren. In a robotic female voice with no emotion, the alarm said, “PATIENT ESCAPE ATTEMPT IN PROGRESS. ARKHAM ASYLUM IS NOW ON LEVEL 4 LOCKDOWN. THIS IS A CODE RED ALERT. ALL DOCTORS AND NON-COMBATIVE STAFF MEMBERS SHOULD IMMEDIATELY TAKE COVER IN A SECURE AREA AND REMAIN QUIET. ALL PATIENTS SHOULD IMMEDIATELY SIT ON THE GROUND WITH THEIR HANDS BEHIND THEIR HEAD. FOLLOW ALL DOCTOR OR GUARD INSTRUCTIONS. LETHAL FORCE IS AUTHORIZED. PATIENT ESCAPE ATTEMPT IN PROG--” The alarms voice droned on and on with the same message on repeat without signs of stopping. Most likely it would keep going until the situation was resolved.
Jonathan was familiar with the old security codes, but he was not foolish enough to think that things still meant what they used to. However, thankfully for him, he had been in the asylum long enough to get practical experience in lockdowns and the like; he knew what the speaker’s messages meant because he had taken part in or even had been the cause of them being triggered before. Hopefully, Dr. Mayflower was also aware of what Code Red and Level 4 Lockdown meant because he was supposed to.
Code Red was a common term in all fields that basically was meant to tell everyone that this was an active, high danger situation. Lives were at risk and everyone should be on high alert for their own safety. Level 4 Lockdown was meant to inform the guards and doctors about which doors were still open, which were locked but would open with a key, and which would not open even if you normally had clearance. The lockdown scale was 1-5 with 1 meaning that most automatic doors would be shut but they all could be opened if you normally had clearance to the area, and 5 meaning that wherever you were that was where you were going to stay; even the front doors locked when this happened. Level 4 was somewhere in the middle where it was going to be a pain to get around and any attempt to leave or enter high security wings was going to be impossible. The front doors could likely still be unlocked if you had access, but the bridge to leave the island would be raised within the next 20 minutes.
The jobs of the guards were to keep the patients trying to escape occupied for those 20 minutes, and in the meantime, keep any other patients from taking advantage of the situation.
The guards, who had both been taught this information and had practical experience, immediately jumped into action. And by action, that meant, one of the men pulling Dr. Mayflower away from Jonathan while the other one took Jonathan by the shoulders and shoved his thin frame against the nearest wall with as much force as possible.
“Stand back, Doctor,” the guard nearest to Mayflower said, pulling out his gun and turning off the safety, but thankfully not pointing it at Jonathan just yet.
Jonathan hit the wall with a large thump, but he did not verbally make a single sound, not even a grunt of pain. In fact, Jonathan looked perfectly casual as his body was forced against the wall with the majority of the larger guard's weight. The weight was uncomfortable, as was the large hand roughly patting him down just like he had a few minutes ago, but it was not painful yet. In fact, Jonathan paid the guard no attention and instead had his brown eyes fixed on the blinding red light as if it’s flashing lights would tell him what was going on.
There was no expression on Jonathan’s face as he was patted down, the routine nothing more than a distraction. “I wonder whose breaking out this time?” Jonathan wondered aloud, face still against the wall. He wasn’t worried, not in the least bit. It was as he said earlier, being a patient here was the safest role to have during a break out. And even better was being a super criminal because very few average patients with enough sanity to be picky would target someone who worked in the same circuits of the Joker.
“He’s clear,” the guard said to the other before yanking Jonathan off the wall, not letting go. “We’ve got to get him to a cell while we still can. I’m not dealing with a lockdown with this psycho on my ass.”
The other guard nodded and opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the echo of a gun. And then another echo, but louder this time. In fact, just as quickly as the gunshots were heard followed the sound of shouting and pounding feet.
“Sounds like they are coming this way,” Jonathan stated, trying to glance over his shoulder despite the guard’s attempt to keep him immobile.
“Shit,” said the guard holding Jonathan as he quickly glanced down the hall for someplace secure to go. The problem was, there was nowhere to go. They were in the older portion of the building, the area with the lowest security and doors that were still more wood than metal. The next donation from Wayne would likely be put towards building this place up like a modern fortress similar to the rest of this place, but for now, it was no safer than an average hotel room.
Still, it was better than being in a hallway with one unarmed man and a man who was just waiting for a chance to be armed. “Get in there and keep quiet” the guard hissed, using his badge to open the level 2 door. The first guard quickly checked inside of the room before shuffling Mayflower inside. Only once the doctor was secure did the second guard push Jonathan into the room and follow. Jonathan managed to keep on his feet, but he stumbled hard directly into a table and the metal bar sticking out of it.
Jonathan made a quick hissing sound when he hit the metal. Neither of the guards were looking at Jonathan in that single second, but he sent a glare over his shoulder at the pushy guard. It was a cold glare, one that would be accompanied by a silent single slit to the throat if Jonathan had access to a blade. Sadly, he did not, although one quick look around the room made it clear that it would be easy for him to find something similar.
They were in a janitorial closet, which mainly meant that there was a large range of equipment. There were rolling buckets of liquid, each stained and smelly, and nearby were mops and brooms of various degrees of filth. On the desk was a small collection of scrapers, sharp ones fit for paint, tiles, or glue; hammers and the like sat nearby although it was clear that this was more for janitors than repairmen. But to Jonathan’s pleasure, there was also a collection of chemicals ranging from bleach to Awesome to window cleaner. Considering that no one knew exactly what Jonathan needed to create his toxin, this was the exact kind of place that he was not supposed to be.
The door had barely been shut for five seconds before the rabble of a half dozen men sounded through the door. There was a lot of laughter, loud and cackling, but the most concerning sound was the random gunshots that they could only hope were not being aimed at people too slow to hide.
Jonathan did not flinch at the sounds, he didn't even look at the door; his eyes were locked on the shelf of cleaning supplies, darting his eyes over each bottle or canister. He was looking for something, although he never hesitated on a single item long enough to make it clear if he found it or not.
Eventually Jonathan peeled his eyes from the materials before him and glanced at the doctor. Despite the tense vibe that surely everyone else was feeling as they relied purely on their ears to signal if the coast was clear, Jonathan gave Mayflower a small smile. It was the same small, polite smile he almost always had when interacting with Mayflower up until this point. There was not a single twitch different.
Slowly, Jonathan raised his cuffed hands, miraculously not making them jingle in the process. The guards were unaware of his movements, yet lucky for all involved, all he did was carefully scratch his nose before returning his hands slowly and silently to his waist where they were expected to be. There was no reason to do this in this moment besides just to prove that if he wanted to be silent, he could be. If he wanted to take advantage of this chaos, he could. Jonathan himself didn't even know for sure why he decided to reveal one of the many trump cards in his possession; it just seemed like an appropriate time to share.
The hallway was silent now. Glancing at each other, the two guards nodded and one went to open the door. He cracked it open, and when there were no signs of bullets or shouting, he pulled it open more and glanced outside. “It’s clear,” he said but made no signs of putting his gun away, “Chain the freak to something, I’m going to go out there, get some big guns, and come back for you.”
“Woah, woah, woah! I’m not staying here to get shot by those animals. You stay here; I’ll get the guns.”
The first guard groaned, “Yeah, sure as hell you will!” Glancing back at Mayflower and Jonathan, the guard rolled his eyes. What was there to do besides give in? If he didn't, they both would just argue all day and neither would get the guns. “Fuck it, whatever, but if you don’t come back with a bazooka you better fucking hope that they kill me. Get out of here.”
Without waiting for permission or even the opinion of Dr. Mayflower, the nameless guard left, shutting the door behind him. Suddenly four was three, and the odds of survival looked a lot less likely especially since the chance of that man returning was slim.
After muttering a few curses to himself, the guard spun on his heels and grabbed Jonathan by the arms. “Sit on the ground,” he ordered, which Jonathan followed at a relaxed pace unfit for the situation. Once he was on the dirty floor, which was damp in a few places, the guard reached over and undid the handcuffs just long enough for him to lock Jonathan to the metal table. Either the guard was an idiot or he was distracted by what was going on outside of the room, but he didn't even check to see if Jonathan had anything dangerous still in range.
“Alright you two, keep the volume down. Until this is all over, if I hear more than a whisper from either of you, I will shoot you. I’m not dying for this job.” The threat was clear, and more than that, it was clear that it was directed at both the patient and the doctor in the room. “That’s especially true for you, Crane--”
The guard’s threats quickly came to an end when the room turned black. One second there was a dim, white a light above them and then there was darkness. The chaos from outside, the siren and the automated voice, came to an abrupt end as well. If they had been in a room with windows, this may have not been so bad, but this was a closet and that meant that there wasn't even a speck of light in the small space. It took a good 30-60 seconds, but the room slowly became lighter thanks to the emergency backup generator kicking in. Now, instead of white, the closet was a dim red and the hallways were likely the same red.
And what the lights revealed was the guard pressing his loaded gun to Jonathan’s forehead, as if he was the one who caused the blackout. The safety was off and his finger was on the trigger, yet Jonathan stared into the eyes of his guard with slow blinks. His breathing was even and his pulse, if they were to check it in that moment, was steady. His life could have ended then and there, but the Scarecrow failed to even flinch at the reality.
“Your paranoia is causing you to act rash,” Jonathan commented almost gently. If it were not for his cold, neutral eyes, it may have seemed like he was trying to reason or calm the larger man down. “Any shots from that gun will cause an echo effect, leading any armed patients directly to the hall. If you do not fear death, then go ahead and pull that trigger. My death will surely be less painful than what the escapees have planned out for you.” But Jonathan was betting that he was right, and when the guard lowered his gun, he was proved correct.
It was always a safe bet that the guards feared death and their patients, and death caused by their patients most of all. There was so much pain here, so many sadistic souls, that guards were taught more about how to kill and avoid getting killed than they were about actual protocols and how to protect. Hell, in Gotham, everyone learned knew about death than safety. It was a city of dangerous egoists.
“Why don’t you watch the door? You and I both know that the backup generators don’t prioritize electricity to level 2 doors, and I’d personally rather have a few seconds of warning before someone lets themselves in.” Without full power, such low-level areas were not high on the list for the backup generators. These back-up, red lights may work across the building, but AC and simple door locks were turned off. No badges were needed anymore, just a hand to turn the handle.
The guard glared and adjusted his grip on his gun, but he did not raise it again. Instead he muttered a quick “Don’t boss me around, freak” before doing exactly as Jonathan suggested. Good ideas are good ideas, after all; keeping watch was not as good an idea as attempting to barricade the door, but it was certainly more interesting in Jonathan's opinion. He wanted these to a constant risk of death and danger. To be honest, Jonathan was hoping that someone came around peeking in these rooms on the way to the exit. How else would Jonathan watch the men before him squirm? There was certainly enough bloody lightning here to set the mood.
Speaking of, Jonathan had been so busy dealing with the guard that he had not given the truly interesting subject his full attention just yet. Although, to be fair, the reason Jonathan sent the guard to the door was so that he could speak to Dr. Mayflower with a bit more privacy.
In this lighting, Jonathan’s brown eyes were practically red and his hollow cheeks were even more defined. If it were not for his hands being stuck at the level of his eyes, he may have appeared demonic. “Who do you suppose is causing this chaos?” Jonathan quietly asked Dr. Mayflower, speaking as if it was yesterday in their office. “They failed to turn off the backup generators, so I doubt this is being staged by someone of intelligence. Edward Nygma certainly is not involved since we would be hearing his voice over the speakers by now, and Victor Fries is likely innocent as well.” Since this was a code red incident, it was safe to say that the culprit was a high ranking individual and not just a group of nobodies, and each passing second Jonathan logiced out another name from his list of possibilities.
“Are you faring well?” He asked, cocking his head to the side a bit. Just as he did so, a gunshot was heard from the hallway far in the distance. “It’s a shame they did not wait a few more minutes to start the breakout; I would much rather spend my afternoon in your office than here. Our clothes are going to stain.” This was early in Mayflower’s career so this was likely his first break out attempt, and it was a shame that it was in a smelly closet. Better to be out in the open as a hostage; at least there you often got some information about what was going on. In here they were ignorant of anything going on; not even the gunshots truly communicated if people were dying or not.
Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
•●•
Matthias glanced up briefly as Mr. Crane spoke, making a brief mental note of the phrasing that seemed to fare on the sour side. Unpleasant days happened to everyone, as Matthias had clearly seen from Ms. Quinzel previously. He made little regard to the detail, recognizing it to simply be an indication that he would need to be a bit more careful today.
Upon pulling the apple from his pocket and the small exchange between the two, he noticed the second strange detail in how the other accepted it. Dr. Mayflower had held it not very far away, only about a foot away from Dr. Crane's hands, giving him enough distance in the case the offer was turned down and also an attempt to not force it on him. His curiosity did not rest in that, but rather the manner in which Dr. Crane merely raised his hands and waited.
It reminded him somewhat of the time during his early-schooling, back when people would repeatedly push the pens of others off their desks just to see how many times they would pick them up. Of course, it was not anything like that at face value; a pen is a pen and an apple is an apple. Still, both occurrences had the same general feel. Small, silly, and insignificant; though inexplicably unpleasant.
While Matthias made no comment on this, he found it somewhat strange and hesitated for a brief second as he stored away the odd detail in his memory and obliged to the peculiar behavior a moment later, setting the bright red apple into Jonathon's palms and offering him a polite smile. "I'd like to assume that you are already aware of how to watch your nutrition intake. We can talk about it briefly during our session if you would like, but I see no need to go too far into the subject. I did not copy your weight onto the form because of the tendency of weight to be a fluctuating matter; I would like to get an accurate measurement at another time." He explained.
While Matthias had used this tactic many times before when working with professional patients; lawyers, engineers, and of course, doctors, it always required a little extra care. Formal, and explained in a way that would appeal to the intelligence of whoever he spoke to. Having the background of the former doctor recorded was an advantage to Matthias, helping him understand a few key details. Firstly, Jonathon had likely seen tens of hundreds of those sheets before and was likely well aware of how often weight could change for patients. For some, it was just a few pounds shed from under-eating in the facility. For others, it could reach the tens or even near a hundred pounds if they deteriorated quickly. While Jonathon clearly did not fall into the second category, it would be a somewhat silly idea to think that his weight had not changed at all in the last few years since the previous sheet was recorded.
Secondly, Matthias had chosen his phrasing on purpose. As Jonathon had indicated by his mention of the past doctors and their attempts, Mr. Crane was well aware of how to monitor his health. Whether he followed them or not was an entirely different story -- one that Matthias did not plan to try and press during this current interview.
The way Matthias saw it, he was merely opening the area to be a possible place for discussion at a later session.
Dr. Mayflower was somewhat surprised to have earned a chuckle from the man, the doctor having already begun to walk in the direction of his office, leading the small group and glancing back as Jonathon spoke. It was an unpleasant thought to consider, that the very people who treated the patients were the ones highest on their list. However, it said a lot about the facility. While Matthias had not directly encountered it yet, he had already been made well aware of the quiet corruption of the facility thanks to Mr. Crane's mention of the doctor in the medical ward the day prior. Maybe, someday, that could be changed?
"Ah, thank you for the input. That is a very clever idea," Matthias said, putting very little true consideration to Jonathon's statement about the jumpsuit. As amusing as the thought was, he figured that it would only raise more questions than actually help him. He could just as easily be stopped by some guards and be potentially shot as he could be recognized by one of the many patients and be bludgeoned to death. A clever idea, but with too much room for failure.
Upon the mention of the session and Mr. Crane's inquiries, Matthias gave him another smile while glancing back again, this one being somewhat more sincere than the prior ones. "Certainly, I'll try to keep a better watch on the time as well to ensure that the interview is balan-" He began, reclaiming a small amount of the power over the interview and evening it once more, only finding himself to be cut off and to be stopped abruptly in place by the blaring noise and bright red lights.
His heart skipped a beat at the sound and he sharply looked to the side, his amber eyes flickering across the hallway he was looking down, wincing as his gaze fell on the blinding red light and quickly averting to look down the other hall as he tried to piece together his thoughts and recover from the initial shock.
It seemed this reaction was unnecessary, as only a few moments after regaining his composure, the woman's voice would come over the speakers. Matthias looked up instinctively as he listened to the warning and analyzed it with what he already knew. Judging by the code and the level -- being just over his own clearance level -- it indicated that this was not a warning to be taken lightly.
As the warning began to repeat itself, Matthias continued to listen with his eyebrows knit in concern, only tearing his gaze away from the nothing-in-particular he was staring at as he felt an arm pull him to the side and away from Mr. Crane. Dr. Mayflower looked to the guard briefly, the doctor's mind racing as he tried to recall the procedures for these events. His gaze fell back on Jonathon briefly as the other guard searched the man before turning to look back down both directions of the halls. It seemed their group was not the only one to have been caught in the crossfire of this event, as Matthias witnessed with a brief glimpse of two doctors many doors down darting into one of the offices and assumingly slamming the door shut behind themselves. For just a second, the three -- the man, woman, and Dr. Mayflower -- caught each others gazes before the two vanished, Matthias and his group being too far of a distance away to hold the door. In just that single split second, the male doctor gave a small nod to them before vanishing just after the woman, it was almost as if they had been given a wordless wish of 'good luck'.
Matthias' attention snapped back away from the two that were now hidden and back to his own group as he heard one of the guards speak. Dr. Mayflower's eyes flickered with concern as he looked to the first guard and began to follow his gaze to the second, noticing them beginning to speak, though his eyes would flutter away again and back down the opposite hall as he heard the shots.
He paled slightly and did not speak, opting to follow the orders of the guards and quickly enter the room, quickly stepping to the side of the large room and looking around his surroundings with his hands tightly curled around the strap of the messenger bag slung across his chest and resting at his side. A janitorial closet, judging by the appearance. There was a table, metal, but slightly weathered and rusted in places. Past the table were a couple of rows of shelves, each with assorted cleaners and a few tools littered across them as well. Past those, near the back of the room and a couple around the side of the table that Dr. Mayflower found himself standing by, were a few buckets filled with unknown but putrid liquids that Matthias was sure he'd rather keep a mystery. Needless to say, the room was very unpleasant.
His sight was pulled away from the details of the room as he watched the guard push Jonathon sharply through the doorway, Dr. Mayflower wincing as he saw Jonathon collide with the table, certain that it would leave a nasty bruise on the man. He spent little time on this concern; however, as the guards quickly entered the room and closed the door behind themselves.
At the sounds coming from the crowd just outside the door, Dr. Mayflower's grip on the strap of his bag tightened and his posture went just faintly more rigid, gaze focused carefully on the door as he silently prayed that the guards had not been spotted just before entering. Only as he heard the clamor grow distant did he recognize how tightly he was digging his nails into the fabric of his bag, as well as the fact that he had practically been holding his breath for the entire duration that the group had taken to pass the room. While it had, of course, only been a few small seconds, the tension had made it might as well be minutes.
His amber eyes fell briefly back onto Mr. Crane, perhaps out of instinct as he took another short survey of his surroundings, and he recalled the presence of the former doctor. Upon watching the brief smile and the small but chilling gesture, Dr. Mayflower did not return the smile and quickly diverted his gaze. Something about the smile added another edge to the danger of the situation, or perhaps it merely lead the reality of the situation to sink in a little more. This was a dangerous facility, with many dangerous people currently roaming free. Matthias had been so confident, so sure about his claims earlier. There was no reason for him to be attacked, Matthias was careful and polite to everyone. Now, in the middle of what he was so sure would not be too much of a bother or at least wouldn't happen for a few months, he was not as certain. The fact of the matter was that, as Mr. Crane had stated previously, there did not need to be a reason for him to be killed other than the fact that he was a doctor. Politeness and care would not get him far here.
While the thought disturbed him, Matthias did not let it show and turned his focus back to the guards as he watched them argue back and forth quickly before one departed. After a few more moments passed, and the guard began to lock Jonathon to the table, Dr. Mayflower taking a couple of steps away to give the two a little distance, he turned his gaze back to the door, watching it carefully while the guard worked on getting Mr. Crane secured. While he was not sure if he would be of much help, he could at least call attention the door if anyone began to enter.
He was a little surprised to receive the threat but had no intention of speaking much anyways, still recovering from the initial shock of the situation. It was when the lights went off that his breath caught in his throat again.
For a few seconds, he was immobile. Frozen from the shock of the room suddenly going black and the silence more deafening than the alarms. As those first few initial seconds passed, and the room remained in its inky darkness, he recognized that nothing had struck him. There were no gunshots, no sounds of movement -- even if Mr. Crane was silent, it was a pitch-black room and most people are inclined to bump into things -- nothing.
So, recalling his position, he silently placed his hand to the wall he had been beside and traced his steps across the edge of the room, moving around the buckets towards the door until he felt the small line of the door frame. After finding it in only a few drawn-out seconds, he placed his hand firmly on the door beside the metal bulge of the handle. He was not sure what prompted the action. Perhaps it was merely a consideration of the fact that remaining in place would be a foolish act when the memory of placement is the only thing that could guide someone to you in the pitch-black room? Perhaps it was to be able to either open the door and escape if needed? Maybe the inverse, to slam the door shut into an intruder if they took the blackout as a chance to try and get inside? Regardless, the action was done, and by the time the lights flickered back in, Matthias had blindly crossed the room to stand beside the door and be given a full sight of the scene that must have occurred in a matter of seconds following the blackout.
Matthias was wordless at the sight, it almost looked as if the two men before him were were frozen in place with the guard's gun against Mr. Crane's head.
As the tension fell, and the guard returned to the door, Matthias hesitated, glancing briefly back to Jonathon before trailing his sight back to the guard as he reached the door. Matthias still had a tight grip on his bag but had regained some of his composure. Panicking was not the way to go. It would not improve the situation, only worsen it. "It's alright," He said softly, addressing the guard with a gentle and sincere tone. "We will be fine -- there are many offices only a short distance from here, somebody will find us." He said hopefully.
Perhaps it was naive and overly optimistic but it was better than the tension that had been practically leaking from this situation previously. To combat fear and the rash decisions that come with it, is it not proper to provide hope and support?
"You'll be okay." He said, giving a final emphasis with his words as he chose exactly what he knew the guard was likely looking to hear.
With a final meek and uncertain smile, he moved away from the door, recognizing that if someone were to try and enter, he would be more of a hindrance than a help. Due to the smallness of the closet, stepping away from the door happened to place him back by the buckets, only a couple of steps away from the desk.
Despite the support and hope that he attempted to provide to the guard, it was clear in the tight grip he still had on his bag and the concern in his gaze, he was not all that much a believer of his own words. As with so many things prior, he had heard the stories of inmates breaking out and the fatalities that came with them. Though his back was mostly turned away from Jonathon, Dr. Mayflower's gaze primarily focused on the door, the grip on the strap of his bag was still very much visible and the faint creasing of his eyebrows could be seen if he were to look close enough. While Matthias' knuckles had not gone exactly pure white from his grip, they had taken on a faint paleness to them.
Upon Jonathon's question, Dr. Mayflower briefly turned his gaze back to Mr. Crane. He considered it but was reasonably lacking knowledge of how most of the inmates of the asylum's individual breakout attempts often looked like. He knew a little bit about them. Certain people would often have planned breakouts, Two-Face was a name that came to mind judging by the man stories he had heard of his careful and almost-always successful attempts. Of course, he could be ruled out due to his tendency to be mostly solo or quiet in his escapes. Dr. Mayflower also recalled a mention of a Pyg breakout that Dr. Mayson had been caught in, it sounding as if it had been very chaotic with many inmates being released. If he had to place a bet on anyone, it would possibly fall there, but Pyg was hardly the only person he would consider. Mr. Tetch would potentially make the list, likely Harley as well, but his ideas were rather thin.
"I'm not sure," He finally stated honestly, lacking enough recognition of these events and their sources.
It was the second question that he had dreaded would be asked. Truthfully? No, he was not fairing well. Most people in this situation would not be fairing well. Considering this was his first time experiencing an Arkham breakout, he was a little less fine than he would like to admit. Almost as if to taunt his lack of an immediate response to the question, the gunshot would send a small chill down his spine, causing him to tense ever-so-slightly, and Jonathon's question would go unanswered. His amber eyes drifted back to the guard and the door, watching it for a few moments as he listened for more shots. It seemed slow this time. Not as rapidly fired as the past shots. Punctuated even. These were not just shots being fired just to be fired. These were being aimed at people -- possibly even hitting them.
Briefly, he found himself considering the two doctors he had witnessed a distance down the hall, as well as the guard that had slipped from the room earlier.
His eyes were focused on the door, though not exactly looking at it. He was considering what he knew so far. Counting the seconds between each shot. If he listened closely, he could hear the faint sound of other shots in the facility -- though clearly much further away. It was the one most recently that had caused him concern, sounding as if it had only been a hall or two away. He was waiting for another shot like that. If Jonathon watched Dr. Mayflower's fingers, still wrapped tightly around the strap of his messenger bag, he would notice that Matthias shifted his fingers just barely a fraction of an inch with each passing second as he listened for another shot.
As another shot, distant and faint but closer than the others of the facility, rang nearby, Dr. Mayflower reset his count.
It was clear, someone was going room to room, picking off those that had hidden in the area. Unfortunately, that included the three currently tucked away inside the janitor's room. However, he was able to use this little bit of information to his advantage. It was distant enough that if they were to leave the room at this exact moment, they could potentially make an escape. Though, he was not willing to wager that they would have time to unshackle Jonathon from the table beforehand. Another issue arose from the fact that it sounded like it was coming from the direction opposite to where the cluster of inmates had ran previously, meaning it was likely that if they went to fast or turned a corner without enough caution, they'd just catch up to that group and be abruptly killed by them instead. The time, on the other hand, told Matthias a few other details. One, the shooter was likely taking a lot of care in making sure they checked each room. Room to room, shot to shot. While this tactic was a disturbing one, it also meant that if this shooter was taking as much care as he was currently, then there was a strong chance that someone would either find them before they could reach them or that someone within one of the rooms could potentially overthrow the shooter. The more rooms the shooter went to, the more likely they were to be overthrown by a particularly brave doctor or guard -- as to how most active shooters fall in these circumstances. Or, if all else failed, they could hope that the shooter ran out of bullets before reaching them.
While it was an unpleasant circumstance, any information was greatly helpful. The conclusion of the information he had collected, stay in place. Running will just result in you revealing your place. Waiting will give you the benefit of chance. Always keep track of where they are; whether they are approaching, leaving, far, close, or even just outside, always know where they are. You cannot afford to assume that any gap of silence is just them leaving.
He stopped counting once the gap between the second and next shot reached a minute, now keeping a loose focus on the time that had passed, the grip on the strap of his messenger bag loosening a little but his eyebrows still remained knit in concern. As uneasy as he was currently, he knew that composure was the key to making it out of here. Listen for noises that could indicate a change in what is occurring outside, talk the guard down if he begins to make any more sharp decisions, as well as one final key part of the current situation that he recognized he had been somewhat neglecting. Mr. Crane. The biggest wildcard of the current circumstance.
It was a mistake that he was lucky to catch before it carried too far.
Quietly, Matthias directed his attention back to the former doctor and approached him till he was only a couple of feet away from Mr. Crane before crouching beside him in a somewhat awkward partially-sitting, partially-squatting position. As he did this, his white coat would dip down to touch the floor, likely to come back up stained once he moved. His bag would avoid a similar fate, as he would have taken it off and set it gently on top of the table before sitting.
Despite the faint flicker of worry that Matthias had a few moments earlier, he seemed to have regained most, if not, all of his composure. He wore a mostly calm expression, though seemed to still have a faint tinge of concern to his gaze that no amount of covering with indifference could hide. Matthias was silent for a moment, glancing briefly back to the door and guard before looking back to Jonathon.
His expression, while carrying a hint of worry and concern, was mostly unreadable, even at the close distance between the two. There was something else behind the concern; something more careful and thoughtful. "You asked how I was fairing." He stated, recalling the last question and considering it for a moment. "Truthfully, I am somewhat shaken by this experience. However, you seem unbothered by this. Does this occur often?" He asked in a quiet tone.
A fool could claim that Dr. Mayflower was seeking comfort in Jonathon with his words. Anyone with half a wit could recognize that such an action was a potentially fatal accident. This was deliberate.
Jonathon Crane was possibly the one factor that should be the least ignored currently. As he had stated previously, inmates were often not a target for other inmates; particularly not ones of Mr. Crane's level of threat. With hardly more than shouting, he could give away their position and escape with little difficulty other than taking down the guard and potentially Dr. Mayflower as well. After all, he had already proven himself capable of moving silently. If he were to be disregarded and ignored, the likelihood of this threat could increase.
Dr. Mayflower was not seeking comfort, but rather an exchange.
I found myself thinking about today’s session a fair bit. There are some queries I have that are positively itching to be asked.
"You claimed you had some queries for me. While I cannot offer you a proper office to discuss them in, I can offer you my input." Matthias claimed in the same gentle and soft tone as he had used previously. It was an unsaid exchange explained through the subtext of their circumstance. Let's talk, Matthias implied. In exchange, I ask only for your cooperation. Mr. Crane thrived on conversation, eliciting fear from those he spoke to. In such a situation, fear was a bountiful commodity. Denying the Scarecrow of it would only irritate and provoke him. Acknowledging its presence and carefully granting him the smallest window into it was a powerful offer to barter.
Even if Dr. Mayflower tried to hide the scraps of fear filtering through the concern and composure he was wearing, doing so would only deny himself of the most valuable tool he had currently.
•●•
Viper
One Thousand Club
“No, I have no great interest in discussing my diet unless you prompt it,” Jonathan said, as he gripped the apple. He made no signs of eating it at that moment and instead was just rubbing it in his hands idily. Jonathan was not an antsy person so this action was not born out of the need to fidget, no, instead he was just enjoying the feeling of an apple without abnormal soft patches.
“It’s a dull topic,” Jonathan concluded. And if the topic was not interesting then he had no desire to bring it up. He was alive, and as far as he was concerned, that was what mattered. Strength was something he never cared about even before he became the Scarecrow. Why would he start caring now when he likely would not survive another decade?
~~~
Jonathan had noticed the other group of doctors down the hall, but he had barely spared them a glance. They had nothing to do with him, and more than that, they were not Dr. Mayflower and therefore not as high on the list for testing. This day was going to a prime research opportunity.
It was hard to stay focused on Mayflower during the chaos involving the guards and being pushed around, so the most Jonathan got were flashes of comprehension. Mayflower’s face looking a few subtle shades paler before he entered the janitor’s closet. The way he was gripping his bag and dug his nails into the fabric. How still his body looked, as if not breathing or relaxing a single muscle.
God, how much he wished he could walk over there and take hold of his arm to count his heartbeats and breaths. This desire was so strong in fact that Jonathan felt himself shift his weight towards the doctor, but thankfully he stopped himself. That action was suicide; pointless suicide to be more specific. Jonathan may not have cared much about his life in the long run, but he wasn't actively seeking death. He had reasons to live, and so would continue to attempt to do so.
Perhaps that was the true reason Jonathan smiled at Mayflower. Sure, it was just the polite thing to do and he was excited to be witnessing fear in person, but he was also reflecting his lack of fear even in this kind of situation. Jonathan couldn't help but wonder how he would be reacting had he not been infected with his own toxin for so long. Would he be scared of dying? Or perhaps he would still be calm, naturally desensitized to this kind of thing thanks to his criminal activities and run-ins with Batman.
Eventually after the blackout, activation of the backup lights, and then the whole gun at his head fiasco, Jonathan had the ability to look around the room. Surprisingly, Mayflower had moved to the door when the room was dark. But why though? Was he attempting to flee, or at least give himself the option to do so? Or perhaps he instead intended to go on the defensive? Dr. Mayflower certainly didn't look like the physically violent sort, but perhaps he was willing to fight should someone have entered during the blackout? It was a fight or flight debate that Jonathan had no way of answering just yet.
Just as interesting as his physical reactions to the situation was his verbal. Up until now, Mayflower had not said a word, but now that he did, he spoke to comfort another. How sweet… and fascinating. Even when scared he was looking out for others. This was the type of man not normally found in Gotham… and Jonathan loved that about him.
There were positive and negative sides of psychology; good and evil ways to use it. Naturally, Jonathan favored the negative side of it; words and mannerisms that caused fear, anxiety, and heightened emotions were his bread and butter; Mayflower was taking the opposite approach, using his words and almost convincing calm demeanor to relax, comfort, and offer hope to others. It was almost nice to watch someone show such skill and dedication to their job even in these kinds of situations.
Although Jonathan had asked two questions, he was honestly not looking for two answers… at least not verbal ones. He got his answers through other means. The first was a simple I don’t know, but the second gave Jonathan a reaction. A sharp gunshot caused Mayflower to tense and ignore the question completely. So easily his focus was stolen away from the conversation. He must have been feeling more paranoid than he was showing, which was an impressive feat.
How would Mayflower act if one of the attackers actually came into the room?
That was such an appealing question that images of how to draw attention to this room flashed before his eyes. He could scream, he could knock something over, or perhaps he could simply talk the guard into leaving the room entirely? A brute like him would get caught easily, especially if there were others just down the hall like the gunshots suggested. That could be fun. Mayflower likely had never seen a recently dead body before.
Considering where Jonathan’s thoughts were heading, it was for the best that Mayflower interrupted him when he did. A few more minutes of ignoring and Jonathan may have actually gone through with one of his musings.
As was commonly the case, Jonathan’s eyes were locked on Dr. Mayflower as soon as the man got his attention.
While the doctor seemed to be contemplating what he was going to say, Jonathan shifted his weight slightly in the attempt to get out of the puddle he unfortunately found himself sitting half in. It was certainly uncomfortable, not to mention cold and likely dirty. Moving, sadly, made no difference since his long limbs took up a lot of space in this small area and his arms being locked in place reduced most of his options.
A further downside to this situation was that Jonathan had lost the apple. Well, not lost, more like was forced to drop it when the guards pushed him against the wall in the hallway. It wasn't exactly easy to keep your grip on something when the air from your body is almost knocked out of you. Such a shame too; he was looking forward to eating something with someone level of freshness to it. At this very moment, the apple was probably sitting a few feet away from the janitor's door.
Now that they were this close, Jonathan was intrigued to see that Mayflower had mostly composed himself. To be honest, just by looks alone, it was nearly impossible to tell that he was worried at all. Either he had gotten used to the situation or he was just hiding it well; once again, Jonathan really wanted to get a hold of Mayflower’s wrist so that he could count his heart rate.
Considering how composed his face was, Jonathan had not expected Dr. Mayflower to go back to his past question or to answer it honestly. Still, just hearing someone admit that they were “shaken” aka scared was nice. He didn't hear those words often enough from the staff here. They refused to use that word around him because they didnt want to trigger a reaction... which was sadly understandable. Sometimes his passion for his study overrides logic. The honesty prompted an instinctual twitch at the corner of Jonathan’s lips and a minor exhale of air that could be considered relief.
“Thank you for your honesty,” Jonathan started, also being honest about his appreciation. Mayflower likely assumed that Jonathan would appreciate his words, but there was no reason not to admit that even if it may have been intentional. “And yes and no. Break out attempts are often, but they only rarely get this serious. Very few inmates have enough pull to cause the entire island to shut down.” Most of the time it was one or two people attacking one guard successfully then getting caught literally in the next room. At most, a single wing of the asylum got locked down; rarely an entire building went on lockdown and even more rare was the entire island.
“But that’s not why I’m unbothered. Surely you know why?” There was no way he didn't. The doctors here knew that Jonathan’s brain and nervous system had been altered in ways that made him unresponsive to fear. He had no adrenaline or any of the emotions connected to it; it could not be triggered in any natural circumstances. Only fear toxin in large doses or directly injected into his blood could cause his body to react to fear as it was supposed to.
Like a bird, Jonathan cocked his head to the side as he listened to Dr. Mayflower's proposal. It was curious that he would be making this offer now considering that just moments ago he seems to be worried about the situation. It made sense though. Tthe semi-steady gunshots were getting louder and louder by the minute; someone was coming this way with a purpose. Perhaps Mayflower realized the threat hanging over them just by Jonathan being there and possibly having different motivations than the rest.
And instead of a gag, Dr. Mayflower was attempting to bribe Jonathan into silence.
“You are rather amusing, Dr. Mayflower,” Jonathan said simply, once again offering a smile unfit for the situation. “Let’s talk then, quietly.”
“Let’s see then… what do I wish to talk about….” Jonathan mused aloud as he glanced around the room as if to find inspiration, not being coy but truly not exactly sure. “I had plans for discussion, but in comparison to what is going on right now they seem rather dull. It would be foolish of me not to talk more about our current situation and topics related to it, don’t you think?” This was a rhetorical question, but an answer was not necessarily unwelcome either. "Therapy is nothing without improvisation."
Light a lightbulb, Jonathan’s brown eyes swiveled towards Mayflower and locked on as they tended to do. “Have you ever seen a dead body?” There was no tact in this question. Was it related to what was going on right now? Most definitely. Was it meant to distract Mayflower from the war going on across the asylum? Most definitely not. Jonathan was serious when he said that he would be a fool not to ask questions too morbid or off-topic for normal sessions. He was taking advantage of the situation.
Notably though, Jonathan was not asking about fear. Oh, he was talking about things that could evoke fear, but he did not say the word nor a synonym of fear. He was showing restraint or respect, although it was most likely the former. Fear would come into the conversation in time, but for now, he was not pushing his luck too far. He was pushing it just enough to add some pressure.
And why should he not? He was in a very bad situation and deserved compensation for that and his continued compliance.
There was a pause in between Jonathan’s first question and his follow up, so Dr. Mayflower may have had a chance to answer. Either way, there was some clarification that needed to be made. “I don’t mean those you would find at a funeral either. I mean a corpse, newly dead and untampered with.”
Jonathan was not specifically asking about a murder victim, but he wasn't not asking about that either. He was open to hearing about any corpse whether they died from a car crash or a heart attack. Still, murder was obviously the leading implication of his question. After all, there was a high chance that Mayflower would see someone dead today and not dead in the pretty way. They would be in odd positions; they would have defecated on themselves; their faces would still have the shock or pain they felt frozen on their faces; they would be bloody and wetting the floor.
The first corpse Jonathan ever saw was a murder victim, or more specifically, a murder-suicide. His poor mother was murdered by his father who then, in his grief, purposely overdosed. Jonathan found them about an hour after his mother died, but his father was still twitching on the ground among his own vomit. Jonathan stood in the doorway and watched until his father stilled before slowly walking into the other room and calling the cops. He was only 10 when this happened; Jonathan saw his first normal corpse, one often found at a funeral service, seven years later when his grandmother died due to a gas leak. He had to drive home from college to be there for her cremation. He remembers that day clearly; it was a pain to get his professors to push his exams back despite the circumstances and that he was already at the top of their classes.
“I’ve found that people react very differently depending on the circumstances that they encounter a body no matter how pretty or clean the body appears.” In his case, they were very different because some of the bodies he has seen were caused by his own hands while others he simply walked in on. Jonathan could not remember ever feeling shocked at the sight of a body he put there. Even when he was first developing his fear toxin and someone killed themselves for the first time by bashing their head against the wall, Jonathan could not remember reacting very much at the bloody sight. It was just fascinating to know that he caused this just through a minor but prolonged hallucination.
Fear could override the human’s nature self-preservation desire. It was such a lovely thing.
Apparently though, as Jonathan had learned, self-preservation could also be overridden by things like love and “Justice” whatever that meant. Batman never really stuck around long enough to describe how his psyche worked. All Jonathan knew was that the man was suicidal to an idealistic degree. If it meant making a statement, he would light himself on fire. Just like Jonathan, his purpose was his life and without it, life meant nothing.
Mentally shaking these thoughts out of his head, Jonathan refocused fully on the topic at hand. Now was not the time to be thinking about that, no, the fearless man. Mayflower was here, and no matter how well he was hiding it, he was afraid.
“And I have a follow-up question,” Jonathan started, once again shifting his weight to try and get comfy in the cramped area. “Are you willing to kill if it means your survival or the survival of those around you?” There were three implications in Jonathan’s statement. One, Mayflower had never killed anyone in the past and would be taking his first life. Two, Jonathan noticed the range of weaponry in the room and had decided that there were murder weapons in here. And three, he knew that he was helpless and now at risk to anyone who wanted to cause him harm, guard or patient; Mayflower may have to make a choice between protecting his charge and keeping his hands clean.
Rather than just dance around the topic, Jonathan chose to be blunt. Lowering his voice, he made a claim that he didn't know was true; it was an educated guess, but his tone implied certainty. “That guard over there will kill me if any goes even slightly awry. I’d rather not die today, so if something happens, I’m curious to know what you will do. Will you stand to the side while he points a gun in my face again or will you move to protect your charge?”
Although he was talking about his own death, Jonathan did not actually seem too concerned. Oh, he was telling the truth when he said that he did not want to die, but he failed to display any urgency over the matter. After all, he was talking about a hypothetical. Additionally, this was a discussion and it would be unproductive to get emotional over any topic, let alone something as common as death.
There was a further problem with Jonathan’s last question too. He was, indirectly, criticizing Mayflower’s actions previously. Jonathan’s life had been at risk yet his doctor did nothing to try and protect him. The prisoner had to convince the gunman to relax. Truly though, Jonathan did not mind; he did not expect doctors to care about his survival, but if they were going to pretend to care like Mayflower had been doing, then there were some motions he expected them to go through. Standing up for their charges was one such move. To do anything less than that implied dishonesty about how much they cared about their patients or, more interestingly, that their fear overrode their normally sincere desire to help their patients.
Jonathan certainly tried to stop outsiders from killing his patients, but at the same time, he never would risk his life for them. In his case, there was always a body to fill in his demographic. Humans in his studies could be replaced, but no human being could replace the Scarecrow... not yet anyway. And no human could replace Batman either, so until Jonathan broke his mind, he would rather Batman not die under his watch.
“It’s a dull topic,” Jonathan concluded. And if the topic was not interesting then he had no desire to bring it up. He was alive, and as far as he was concerned, that was what mattered. Strength was something he never cared about even before he became the Scarecrow. Why would he start caring now when he likely would not survive another decade?
~~~
Jonathan had noticed the other group of doctors down the hall, but he had barely spared them a glance. They had nothing to do with him, and more than that, they were not Dr. Mayflower and therefore not as high on the list for testing. This day was going to a prime research opportunity.
It was hard to stay focused on Mayflower during the chaos involving the guards and being pushed around, so the most Jonathan got were flashes of comprehension. Mayflower’s face looking a few subtle shades paler before he entered the janitor’s closet. The way he was gripping his bag and dug his nails into the fabric. How still his body looked, as if not breathing or relaxing a single muscle.
God, how much he wished he could walk over there and take hold of his arm to count his heartbeats and breaths. This desire was so strong in fact that Jonathan felt himself shift his weight towards the doctor, but thankfully he stopped himself. That action was suicide; pointless suicide to be more specific. Jonathan may not have cared much about his life in the long run, but he wasn't actively seeking death. He had reasons to live, and so would continue to attempt to do so.
Perhaps that was the true reason Jonathan smiled at Mayflower. Sure, it was just the polite thing to do and he was excited to be witnessing fear in person, but he was also reflecting his lack of fear even in this kind of situation. Jonathan couldn't help but wonder how he would be reacting had he not been infected with his own toxin for so long. Would he be scared of dying? Or perhaps he would still be calm, naturally desensitized to this kind of thing thanks to his criminal activities and run-ins with Batman.
Eventually after the blackout, activation of the backup lights, and then the whole gun at his head fiasco, Jonathan had the ability to look around the room. Surprisingly, Mayflower had moved to the door when the room was dark. But why though? Was he attempting to flee, or at least give himself the option to do so? Or perhaps he instead intended to go on the defensive? Dr. Mayflower certainly didn't look like the physically violent sort, but perhaps he was willing to fight should someone have entered during the blackout? It was a fight or flight debate that Jonathan had no way of answering just yet.
Just as interesting as his physical reactions to the situation was his verbal. Up until now, Mayflower had not said a word, but now that he did, he spoke to comfort another. How sweet… and fascinating. Even when scared he was looking out for others. This was the type of man not normally found in Gotham… and Jonathan loved that about him.
There were positive and negative sides of psychology; good and evil ways to use it. Naturally, Jonathan favored the negative side of it; words and mannerisms that caused fear, anxiety, and heightened emotions were his bread and butter; Mayflower was taking the opposite approach, using his words and almost convincing calm demeanor to relax, comfort, and offer hope to others. It was almost nice to watch someone show such skill and dedication to their job even in these kinds of situations.
Although Jonathan had asked two questions, he was honestly not looking for two answers… at least not verbal ones. He got his answers through other means. The first was a simple I don’t know, but the second gave Jonathan a reaction. A sharp gunshot caused Mayflower to tense and ignore the question completely. So easily his focus was stolen away from the conversation. He must have been feeling more paranoid than he was showing, which was an impressive feat.
How would Mayflower act if one of the attackers actually came into the room?
That was such an appealing question that images of how to draw attention to this room flashed before his eyes. He could scream, he could knock something over, or perhaps he could simply talk the guard into leaving the room entirely? A brute like him would get caught easily, especially if there were others just down the hall like the gunshots suggested. That could be fun. Mayflower likely had never seen a recently dead body before.
Considering where Jonathan’s thoughts were heading, it was for the best that Mayflower interrupted him when he did. A few more minutes of ignoring and Jonathan may have actually gone through with one of his musings.
As was commonly the case, Jonathan’s eyes were locked on Dr. Mayflower as soon as the man got his attention.
While the doctor seemed to be contemplating what he was going to say, Jonathan shifted his weight slightly in the attempt to get out of the puddle he unfortunately found himself sitting half in. It was certainly uncomfortable, not to mention cold and likely dirty. Moving, sadly, made no difference since his long limbs took up a lot of space in this small area and his arms being locked in place reduced most of his options.
A further downside to this situation was that Jonathan had lost the apple. Well, not lost, more like was forced to drop it when the guards pushed him against the wall in the hallway. It wasn't exactly easy to keep your grip on something when the air from your body is almost knocked out of you. Such a shame too; he was looking forward to eating something with someone level of freshness to it. At this very moment, the apple was probably sitting a few feet away from the janitor's door.
Now that they were this close, Jonathan was intrigued to see that Mayflower had mostly composed himself. To be honest, just by looks alone, it was nearly impossible to tell that he was worried at all. Either he had gotten used to the situation or he was just hiding it well; once again, Jonathan really wanted to get a hold of Mayflower’s wrist so that he could count his heart rate.
Considering how composed his face was, Jonathan had not expected Dr. Mayflower to go back to his past question or to answer it honestly. Still, just hearing someone admit that they were “shaken” aka scared was nice. He didn't hear those words often enough from the staff here. They refused to use that word around him because they didnt want to trigger a reaction... which was sadly understandable. Sometimes his passion for his study overrides logic. The honesty prompted an instinctual twitch at the corner of Jonathan’s lips and a minor exhale of air that could be considered relief.
“Thank you for your honesty,” Jonathan started, also being honest about his appreciation. Mayflower likely assumed that Jonathan would appreciate his words, but there was no reason not to admit that even if it may have been intentional. “And yes and no. Break out attempts are often, but they only rarely get this serious. Very few inmates have enough pull to cause the entire island to shut down.” Most of the time it was one or two people attacking one guard successfully then getting caught literally in the next room. At most, a single wing of the asylum got locked down; rarely an entire building went on lockdown and even more rare was the entire island.
“But that’s not why I’m unbothered. Surely you know why?” There was no way he didn't. The doctors here knew that Jonathan’s brain and nervous system had been altered in ways that made him unresponsive to fear. He had no adrenaline or any of the emotions connected to it; it could not be triggered in any natural circumstances. Only fear toxin in large doses or directly injected into his blood could cause his body to react to fear as it was supposed to.
Like a bird, Jonathan cocked his head to the side as he listened to Dr. Mayflower's proposal. It was curious that he would be making this offer now considering that just moments ago he seems to be worried about the situation. It made sense though. Tthe semi-steady gunshots were getting louder and louder by the minute; someone was coming this way with a purpose. Perhaps Mayflower realized the threat hanging over them just by Jonathan being there and possibly having different motivations than the rest.
And instead of a gag, Dr. Mayflower was attempting to bribe Jonathan into silence.
“You are rather amusing, Dr. Mayflower,” Jonathan said simply, once again offering a smile unfit for the situation. “Let’s talk then, quietly.”
“Let’s see then… what do I wish to talk about….” Jonathan mused aloud as he glanced around the room as if to find inspiration, not being coy but truly not exactly sure. “I had plans for discussion, but in comparison to what is going on right now they seem rather dull. It would be foolish of me not to talk more about our current situation and topics related to it, don’t you think?” This was a rhetorical question, but an answer was not necessarily unwelcome either. "Therapy is nothing without improvisation."
Light a lightbulb, Jonathan’s brown eyes swiveled towards Mayflower and locked on as they tended to do. “Have you ever seen a dead body?” There was no tact in this question. Was it related to what was going on right now? Most definitely. Was it meant to distract Mayflower from the war going on across the asylum? Most definitely not. Jonathan was serious when he said that he would be a fool not to ask questions too morbid or off-topic for normal sessions. He was taking advantage of the situation.
Notably though, Jonathan was not asking about fear. Oh, he was talking about things that could evoke fear, but he did not say the word nor a synonym of fear. He was showing restraint or respect, although it was most likely the former. Fear would come into the conversation in time, but for now, he was not pushing his luck too far. He was pushing it just enough to add some pressure.
And why should he not? He was in a very bad situation and deserved compensation for that and his continued compliance.
There was a pause in between Jonathan’s first question and his follow up, so Dr. Mayflower may have had a chance to answer. Either way, there was some clarification that needed to be made. “I don’t mean those you would find at a funeral either. I mean a corpse, newly dead and untampered with.”
Jonathan was not specifically asking about a murder victim, but he wasn't not asking about that either. He was open to hearing about any corpse whether they died from a car crash or a heart attack. Still, murder was obviously the leading implication of his question. After all, there was a high chance that Mayflower would see someone dead today and not dead in the pretty way. They would be in odd positions; they would have defecated on themselves; their faces would still have the shock or pain they felt frozen on their faces; they would be bloody and wetting the floor.
The first corpse Jonathan ever saw was a murder victim, or more specifically, a murder-suicide. His poor mother was murdered by his father who then, in his grief, purposely overdosed. Jonathan found them about an hour after his mother died, but his father was still twitching on the ground among his own vomit. Jonathan stood in the doorway and watched until his father stilled before slowly walking into the other room and calling the cops. He was only 10 when this happened; Jonathan saw his first normal corpse, one often found at a funeral service, seven years later when his grandmother died due to a gas leak. He had to drive home from college to be there for her cremation. He remembers that day clearly; it was a pain to get his professors to push his exams back despite the circumstances and that he was already at the top of their classes.
“I’ve found that people react very differently depending on the circumstances that they encounter a body no matter how pretty or clean the body appears.” In his case, they were very different because some of the bodies he has seen were caused by his own hands while others he simply walked in on. Jonathan could not remember ever feeling shocked at the sight of a body he put there. Even when he was first developing his fear toxin and someone killed themselves for the first time by bashing their head against the wall, Jonathan could not remember reacting very much at the bloody sight. It was just fascinating to know that he caused this just through a minor but prolonged hallucination.
Fear could override the human’s nature self-preservation desire. It was such a lovely thing.
Apparently though, as Jonathan had learned, self-preservation could also be overridden by things like love and “Justice” whatever that meant. Batman never really stuck around long enough to describe how his psyche worked. All Jonathan knew was that the man was suicidal to an idealistic degree. If it meant making a statement, he would light himself on fire. Just like Jonathan, his purpose was his life and without it, life meant nothing.
Mentally shaking these thoughts out of his head, Jonathan refocused fully on the topic at hand. Now was not the time to be thinking about that, no, the fearless man. Mayflower was here, and no matter how well he was hiding it, he was afraid.
“And I have a follow-up question,” Jonathan started, once again shifting his weight to try and get comfy in the cramped area. “Are you willing to kill if it means your survival or the survival of those around you?” There were three implications in Jonathan’s statement. One, Mayflower had never killed anyone in the past and would be taking his first life. Two, Jonathan noticed the range of weaponry in the room and had decided that there were murder weapons in here. And three, he knew that he was helpless and now at risk to anyone who wanted to cause him harm, guard or patient; Mayflower may have to make a choice between protecting his charge and keeping his hands clean.
Rather than just dance around the topic, Jonathan chose to be blunt. Lowering his voice, he made a claim that he didn't know was true; it was an educated guess, but his tone implied certainty. “That guard over there will kill me if any goes even slightly awry. I’d rather not die today, so if something happens, I’m curious to know what you will do. Will you stand to the side while he points a gun in my face again or will you move to protect your charge?”
Although he was talking about his own death, Jonathan did not actually seem too concerned. Oh, he was telling the truth when he said that he did not want to die, but he failed to display any urgency over the matter. After all, he was talking about a hypothetical. Additionally, this was a discussion and it would be unproductive to get emotional over any topic, let alone something as common as death.
There was a further problem with Jonathan’s last question too. He was, indirectly, criticizing Mayflower’s actions previously. Jonathan’s life had been at risk yet his doctor did nothing to try and protect him. The prisoner had to convince the gunman to relax. Truly though, Jonathan did not mind; he did not expect doctors to care about his survival, but if they were going to pretend to care like Mayflower had been doing, then there were some motions he expected them to go through. Standing up for their charges was one such move. To do anything less than that implied dishonesty about how much they cared about their patients or, more interestingly, that their fear overrode their normally sincere desire to help their patients.
Jonathan certainly tried to stop outsiders from killing his patients, but at the same time, he never would risk his life for them. In his case, there was always a body to fill in his demographic. Humans in his studies could be replaced, but no human being could replace the Scarecrow... not yet anyway. And no human could replace Batman either, so until Jonathan broke his mind, he would rather Batman not die under his watch.
Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
•●•
Matthias noticed the flicker of something behind Mr. Crane's expression the moment he uttered his words. Whether it was curiosity, intrigue, or plain interest, Matthias knew better than to let himself be caught off guard by it. Even as he was thanked for his honesty, he held his composure despite the faintly unsettling nature of the bit of gratitude. He was not sure what exactly about it was the strange part and he quickly decided to not think too much about it.
As Jonathon explained his own lack of regard for the current situation, Matthias recalled the many documents he had read on the former doctor. The common classification of being a psychopath that Jonathon had earned from many of the doctors prior to Dr. Mayflower as well as the fact that he was unable to feel fear anymore without any aids. Even despite those facts, Matthias was still admittedly surprised that even this current situation was not enough to even start to shock Mr. Crane. Perhaps that fact, that Matthias was able to see a bit further into the extent of Mr. Crane's mental state, could be a silver lining to this entire situation? Even if only a thin one.
"Right," Dr. Mayflower murmured as he considered the information again, glancing briefly at the ground and his eyebrows knitting faintly as he stored the mental note.
This faintly confused expression held as Jonathon seemed to catch the unsaid agreement, Dr. Mayflower not returning a smile to Mr. Crane for the second time that afternoon. Despite the less-than-excited expression that Matthias wore, he was faintly relieved to hear his assumption be confirmed.
He listened to Jonathon ponder what to talk about, the gap of silence causing Matthias to briefly glance back to the door, still keeping a vague focus split between both Mr. Crane and the current situation. He had not heard a shot in a little while, meaning that either the shooter had likely encountered some resistance or ran into some obstacle keeping them from continuing their spree. Regardless, Matthias was still aware of the hazard that could accompany trying to leave the room even if it seemed like the hall was clear.
Dr. Mayflower's gaze returned to Mr. Crane when he continued talking. He did not respond to the rhetoric question, his eyebrows creasing faintly more as he waited for Jonathon to find a satisfactory topic. Matthias felt another bit of unease rise in the back of his throat, the wait for the question almost as bad as waiting for the next shot to ring through the hall, almost as if the world had collectively decided to take each tense second by the minute.
When the question finally did come, Matthias was caught off-guard by it yet again -- finding that Mr. Crane really had been sincere in his statement to not shy away from grim topics. Have you ever seen a dead body?
"No," Dr. Mayflower was quick to respond before Mr. Crane could even elaborate, his eyebrows still furrowed in confusion. "No, I haven't." He repeated after Jonathon had added the mention of funeral bodies not counting.
Even despite his years working in trauma care hospitals, he had never encountered a single body; not a visible one, at least.
Back when he worked in the trauma care hospital, like a veil, pristine white sheets could cover the carts and their contents from the entire world as they passed Dr. Mayflower in the halls, never as much as a toe or finger resting past the metal. While he had always known what was beneath those sheets -- it was not exactly a secret to anyone -- it had become so easy to let it slip his mind and become just another part of the scenery among the hospital. It was elegant, formal, and clean; like the books and movies. There were no harsh red splatters across the white sheets, nothing dripping down across the floor, just a squeaky cart and a pure white sheet that could so easily assumed to be covering anything -- from blankets and pillows to what everyone actually knew what was under it.
Even then, those sightings had been rare.
Dr. Mayflower had always been lucky in those areas. He had the mid-day shifts, too late to walk in on those that passed in the night, and to early to find any that would pass later in the day. It's not like many of those in critical condition were ever in his division of work either, the ones that could pass seemingly without any warning. He had only ever talked to the people that were stable. A young woman that had been mugged a few weeks prior and was now in recovery. An elderly man caught in a home invasion a month ago who had escaped with a few broken ribs but lost his wife in the process. There was never the real threat of Mayflower witnessing a body. It just was not his area.
As far as the so-called tampered ones? Well, that was a no as well.
His grandfather from his mother's side, the last of his grandparents, had passed away many years ago before Matthias was able to speak -- let alone even comprehend the meaning of passing away -- leading him to be left at home with a sitter and not disrupt the processions. Years later, when his aunt had passed away from a sudden heart attack, he had been caught in between schooling and work and was unable to find a way to get home in time for the funeral.
He had never, as far as he could remember, seen a body. Neither tampered or untampered. Whether hidden behind the pristine while sheets, or thousands of miles across the Earth from him, he had always found himself always lucky enough to never bear witness to such things. Perhaps that was why he had always found himself so detached from the situations he had found himself in as a trauma psychologist? Empathetic and caring, but still detached. He could sit with a patient and guide them through their problems -- whether the death of a loved one or a near death experience themselves -- and rarely take it home past the occasional consideration while writing. He truly did care for his patients and wanted to help them, but something had always been between each of them.
Dr. Mayflower was a sympathetic man, and would be there for a patient until the moment that they decided his assistance was no longer needed. For some, it was not only his assistance, but the world's assistance, that was no longer needed. When these situations arose, and Dr. Mayflower found a name removed from his roster and a quiet explanation where the name should be, he would feel upset -- of course. He would regret not finding a way to be better at his job. Not finding some way to make their progress go faster. But at the end of the day, these cases were just what his coworkers would always tell him they were -- lost causes.
Lost causes happen, and they are ugly when they do occur, and they cannot always be avoided. It is nobody's fault when they do occur.
Dr. Mayflower was empathetic to his patients, but at the end of the day, when there was only a sheet and a simple phrase separating the grim reality from a resolved case, Matthias would never seek to rid of the veil separating reality from the possibility that things had gone different.
Matthias' confused amber eyes took on a small glint of concern to its former expression as Mr. Crane elaborated on the circumstances of finding bodies. He was well-aware that Mr. Crane had witnessed plenty of bodies before, many of which had been killed by his own hands. While is was a concerning topic for Jonathon to bring up, Matthias made no comment on it, clearly somewhat uncomfortable with the topic they were on. If the mention of fear the day prior had been a bad place to stray, this was a worse one.
Of course, it begged one major question that formed in the back of Dr. Mayflower's mind; how many lives had Mr. Crane taken? How many bodies have stacked up because of him? How many times had he killed in the pursuit of making his toxins? He wondered if Jonathon would even have an answer for him if he did ask the question, or if he would fall silent in consideration before coming up with no definite answer. How many lives had he snuffed out while trying to selfishly regain something his own faults had caused him to lose? After all, was Jonathon's pursuit of fear not a childish self-inflicted cycle? He had been the one to lose the ability to fear while pursuing it, only leading him to take more lives and work harder to try and sate his addiction.
That was noticeable flaw of Jonathon's entire being. He was like a snake devouring its own tail, annihilating itself bite by bite. The more fear Jonathon could get, the more he would need to sate the next craving. While Matthias would normally pity the person to have this unfortunate circumstance -- there was one thing that caused Jonathon to be spared Dr. Mayflower's pity. It was his disregard for those that died in the process of Mr. Crane's pursuit. Those caught and killed in the crossfire. Matthias could not bring himself to accept that as a mere flaw. He could put it aside, work to try and rid of the root cause of the destructive tendencies, but it would always be a thought in the back of Matthias' mind -- perhaps even if Mr. Crane were to change.
Dr. Mayflower seemed relieved for the topic to be changed, but as Jonathon asked the question, the relief would be gone in a moment. Matthias' eyebrows creased again in the same look of confusion, but this time, his nose wrinkled just slightly for a moment as if offended by the question. The micro-expression would be gone in a moment, however, replaced with the same look of confusion he had worn before. Contrary to the previous question, he did not immediately respond to this one.
He was not, and never would be, the type of person to take the life of another. There was no justifiable situation that he could imagine would be a big enough reason for Matthias to take someone's life. Too many deaths in this world happened because someone had either been too quick and brutal in their attack, were the type to derive pleasure from harming others, or were simply unwilling to reason. Matthias could not see himself falling into any of these categories. Matthias was physically unskilled in any form of attack, and did not carry a weapon due to his opposition of them. He was not a sadist -- preferring even to help others rather than hinder them -- and could not see that being a trait he would ever change. As for reasoning? That would always be his first tactic.
He remained silent, even as Jonathon mentioned the guard, Dr. Mayflower briefly glancing in that direction as he was lost in thought, the guard luckily having his focus on the door at the time.
Bringing his gaze back forward and to the ground as he thought for a few more moments, he tried to collect his thoughts. Finally, making up his mind, he would give a small but resolute shake of his head. "No," He said firmly but still in a soft tone. "I'm not going to abandon my morals to protect you or anyone else. I would do anything in my power to talk him out of it, or fight someone tooth and nail to try and ensure the survival of anyone, but I will never rise to murder." It was not his place to put more value to one person's life over another.
Matthias looked like he was about to continue speaking for a moment, but abruptly fell silent, looking back off to the side as he considered his next words. Even more, the question still remained. How many people had Mr. Crane killed? What did their deaths actually achieve to him? Dead people cannot experience fear, so why go through the trouble of scaring someone before killing them? Were the ones that died just 'mistakes'? Flukes? Trials that went wrong?
In the end, Dr. Mayflower was only able to only settle with a single question. Perhaps it was for his research into Mr. Crane, or possibly just for his own understanding. Regardless, it was the question he resolved to ask. "Why are you okay with killing?"
It was not a question like the one of why Mr. Crane was undisturbed by the lock down, rather, a more general question. Any psychopath from the streets could kill a man and find it exhilarating, and any person of sound mind could kill in self-defense and still lose sleep over it. Dr. Mayflower had a feeling neither of these applied to Mr. Crane. Perhaps the feeling was wrong. Maybe he really did enjoy murder? Or maybe he was just a master at hiding his guilt? The fact was, at the end of the day, Mr. Crane had killed before -- more than once -- and still lived with himself. Dr. Mayflower wanted to know why.
•●•
Viper
One Thousand Club
“That’s surprising. Do you have a small family then? Most people your age would have lost at least a grandparent by now.” It wasn't Jonathan’s true intention to figure out Mayflower’s family life, so the question was more rhetorical than anything. Of course, as always, he would welcome answers if given them.
Jonathan’s point of his question was to focus on the now and the future. “That will make today worse for you then, I imagine. Even if the three of us manage to stay safe until the situation is resolved, based on those gunshots, it is likely that we will find that that the hallways have become a graveyard.”
Jonathan was being cruel and insensitive, but even though he could identify that, he could not bring himself to care. In moments like these, things like manners or emotional sensitivity were thrown out without a second thought. He didn't care if the topic of conversation made people uncomfortable because that was exactly where he wanted them to be. And even if he didn't, Jonathan wasn't sure that he would have the self-control necessary to control his mouth that kept wanting to push and push until the humans before him shattered like a snowglobe on pavement.
Unfortunately, Mayflower was just another snow globe on the shelf that Jonathan couldn't help but shake. So onward he went, talking about the death awaiting them in the halls in the hopes that Mayflower would become too rattled to hide behind false composure. Every cell in his body demanded that he break Mayflower.
“For your sake, you best not be too squeamish,” but for Jonathan’s sake, it would be better if he was. As unpleasant as vomit was, it was a wonderful way the body physically reacted to mental issues. “Although, honestly speaking, finding a corpse littered with gunshots is one of the more pleasant sights to see for those new to death. As long as it is not the face, the wounds tend to just be black and red holes. A gun wound is less gruesome than death by blunt trauma, I’ve always found. It’s quicker for the victim too.”
When the topic shifted, Jonathan did catch the moment of disgust- or perhaps offense- before it faded back into Mayflower’s default expression; he was watching too closely not to notice those kinds of things. Jonathan wished he knew for a fact whether that was disgust or offense though because that would say something very different. Did Mayflower find the idea of killing disgusting, the idea of saving Jonathan disgusting, or was he offended that Jonathan called him out on his momentary uselessness?
“Ah,” Jonathan said simply in response to Mayflower's firm response about killing in defence. It was a simple expression, nothing more than just an exhale of air, but to Jonathan it represented a moment of clarity and connection. Mayflower shared the same philosophy as Batman. The details did not matter nor did how they go about their means, but it seemed that Batman and Mayflower both held the flawed belife that murder was always wrong and something to be avoided even if it meant that there would be a cost to pay in the future. In this case, the price was often human lives. If Batman had killed Joker or Scarecrow, many people would still be alive.
“You will come to regret that declaration,” Jonathan stated as if it were fact. “And if not you, then someone else will come to hate you for that choice. Mercy is a wonderful concept in theory, but Gotham knows better than most cities that unless you kill someone, they are going to come back to hurt again.” And sometimes, in rare cases, even if you kill them, they may come back to do some damage anyway; Jonathan didn't fully understand the situation in those cases nor did they apply enough to him to really look into, so who knew the reason why and how those people came back from the dead. “Morals are a luxury that can be opted into if you are in a good enough situation, nothing more.” And those without choice or power often did not have that luxury.
Although many would disagree, Jonathan had morals deep, deep down. It is where his manners and tendency to be be honest came from, but just like everyone else, he had to choose to be moralistic, and he only had that choice in certain circumstances. It was not immoral for someone with a bomb strapped to their neck to rob a bank, nor was it wrong for someone to shoot an ax-wielding intruder in their home; it is survival and necessity. Are military men and cops immoral for ‘protecting’ their home even with violence?
Of course, this was not Jonathan trying to justify his crimes. He knew that he was hurting people unjustly. He could not use morals to justify his actions, but he could use logic. It just made more sense to kill when necessary. If someone threatened his work or was necessary for him to take the next step in his research, then he had no reason not to kill them. His work mattered more to him than their lives. He had a right to protect his property, his work, and those foolish enough to try and stop him. Frankly, anyone who stood in his way at his point deserved what happened to them because they knew the risks attached to doing so. Besides, the handful of lives he took with his own hands were small in number in comparison to most of the other super-criminals.
Still, Mayflower’s question caused Jonathan to pause. It is true that he was just justifying his actions to himself, but that was not the only reason he was okay with killing, not by a long shot. “I’ve never understood why I should not be okay with killing,” Jonathan started, “If it helps my progress or protects my work, then it would be foolish not to use every tool at my disposal. If i put limitations on myself, my work would suffer and be progressing at a slower rate than it is now. ”
“What I do is nothing more than animal testing; as far as I’m concerned, humans are better suited for my experiments and it would be illogical to use rats instead simply because of some ‘moral’ debate. Doing anything that would slow down my progress, whether that be use rats or abstain from killing when necessary, would be the real tragedy here.”
“Besides, I’ve never found life to be precious as a rule. Oh, humans are fascinating in the mind, but bodies are easily replaced. If a doctor dies, Arkham just hires a new one; if a patient of mine kills themselves, then I can simply grab the next person I see on the street. It’s rare that I meet someone that is truly an individual and irreplaceable, which in those cases, I would protect that person rather than sacrifice them.” Permanence is a lie, and people were weaker when they fought to keep their worlds static and unchanging.
Perhaps that's why suicide was not always something that Jonathan advised against. It was a rarity, but sometimes Jonathan would go to popular suicide places and talk to them. Sometimes he would encourage them not to do it, but there were times where he said everything he could to get them to take the final leap. He had caused a few people in the asylum to kill themselves too, although that was more out of a desire for revenge and to make a point about his skills than just see what would happen if he verbally pushed a bit.
Jonathan shrugged his thin, boney shoulders, and said, “My priorities have always been crystal clear to me. It’s not about pleasure or sending a message. Murder is nothing more to me than a means to an end.”
And that end was always fear. He wanted terror to spread across Gotham until it could never return to the way that it was now. The only way to do that though was through death. Oh, not the death of his test subjects, but the deaths of the people Jonathan used as ingredients. The human body produces chemicals that triggered fear, and so naturally Jonathan needed that chemical to do his work. In fact, it was the key secret ingredient to his entire fear toxin. It was his greatest secret and therefore the one thing he would always lie to protect. So now, even though he was justifying his killings, he was completely avoiding the fact that he needed to kill to make his precious fear toxin.
Well, he didn't need to kill; he had actually managed to keep someone alive while at the same time slowly draining the chemical from their organs. So far his current setup had kept that person alive and in terror for a month at most; at that point, their hearts tended to give out or they ‘short-circuited’ just like Jonathan had; they could no longer produce the fear chemical which left Jonathan no reason to keep them alive anymore. At that point, he only killed them because they were useless and he could not let them go without risking his own safety and secrets.
The simple truth was that Jonathan felt no guilt whatsoever; He never regretted taking a life simply because it was a life. Even a child’s death caused no emotions to stir inside of Jonathan before or after he became the Scarecrow. The fear toxin may have stolen Jonathan’s ability to feel fear, but birth had numbed Jonathan’s compassion for his fellow man.
Furthermore, depending on the day, Jonathan didn't even count the victims of fear toxin as his kills. Unless he pulled the trigger, held the knife, or purposefully injected someone with too many chemicals, he did not see their deaths as his own. It was their fear or the fear within others that killed them. It was true that he was the one who triggered that fear, but nothing was stopping them from overcoming that terror and holding themselves back from causing real harm. Batman had done it, he had more or less done it, and so had a handful of other Gotham citizens over the year. Fear controlled you only when you let it… although Jonathan would be lying if he said he was not trying to create a toxin so strong that not even the great Batman could overcome it.
“But what about you?” Jonathan said, turning his attention back to Mayflower. “You speak of death and killing like it is always the wrong thing to do like it is automatically immoral. Why? Why is life, even the life of mass murders and corrupt cops, so valuable to you?” This was a question Jonathan would have posed to Batman, but since that was not and never had been available, this would have to do.
“The greater good sometimes demands bloodshed. Or do you disagree with that?” Perhaps Mayflower was simply someone too cowardly to pull the trigger himself but had no problem was death as a whole. Plenty of people would never kill or let someone be killed in front of them but still supported the death penalty. As long as they could not see it and were not inconvenienced by it, then death could be justified easily.
Jonathan paused and cocked his head to the side. “I wonder what it would take to push you to kill.” This was not a question, just something Jonathan was wondering and felt like saying aloud. It was no accident that he did so, but there was not a purpose behind his words either.
Based only on the last fifteen minutes, Mayflower did not strike Jonathan as the type of kill for survival. Perhaps then it would take hate or a moment of maddened panic to make Mayflower kill. Just like Batman, it would be fascinating to break the morals of someone so obsessed with keeping their hands un-stained.
At this point, Jonathan had not pushed Batman to kill no matter how much fear was pumped into him. Oh, Jonathan had gotten the Bat to punch harder, be rougher, and almost kill plenty of people… but death never happened. No matter how heavy the hallucination, Batman always held his fist back just enough to keep his victims breathing. It was a shame and a disappointment, but the day would come that Jonathan would make him kill. And only after that day would Jonathan actually kill Batman. His death would be a waste without properly breaking the hero first.
Jonathan’s point of his question was to focus on the now and the future. “That will make today worse for you then, I imagine. Even if the three of us manage to stay safe until the situation is resolved, based on those gunshots, it is likely that we will find that that the hallways have become a graveyard.”
Jonathan was being cruel and insensitive, but even though he could identify that, he could not bring himself to care. In moments like these, things like manners or emotional sensitivity were thrown out without a second thought. He didn't care if the topic of conversation made people uncomfortable because that was exactly where he wanted them to be. And even if he didn't, Jonathan wasn't sure that he would have the self-control necessary to control his mouth that kept wanting to push and push until the humans before him shattered like a snowglobe on pavement.
Unfortunately, Mayflower was just another snow globe on the shelf that Jonathan couldn't help but shake. So onward he went, talking about the death awaiting them in the halls in the hopes that Mayflower would become too rattled to hide behind false composure. Every cell in his body demanded that he break Mayflower.
“For your sake, you best not be too squeamish,” but for Jonathan’s sake, it would be better if he was. As unpleasant as vomit was, it was a wonderful way the body physically reacted to mental issues. “Although, honestly speaking, finding a corpse littered with gunshots is one of the more pleasant sights to see for those new to death. As long as it is not the face, the wounds tend to just be black and red holes. A gun wound is less gruesome than death by blunt trauma, I’ve always found. It’s quicker for the victim too.”
When the topic shifted, Jonathan did catch the moment of disgust- or perhaps offense- before it faded back into Mayflower’s default expression; he was watching too closely not to notice those kinds of things. Jonathan wished he knew for a fact whether that was disgust or offense though because that would say something very different. Did Mayflower find the idea of killing disgusting, the idea of saving Jonathan disgusting, or was he offended that Jonathan called him out on his momentary uselessness?
“Ah,” Jonathan said simply in response to Mayflower's firm response about killing in defence. It was a simple expression, nothing more than just an exhale of air, but to Jonathan it represented a moment of clarity and connection. Mayflower shared the same philosophy as Batman. The details did not matter nor did how they go about their means, but it seemed that Batman and Mayflower both held the flawed belife that murder was always wrong and something to be avoided even if it meant that there would be a cost to pay in the future. In this case, the price was often human lives. If Batman had killed Joker or Scarecrow, many people would still be alive.
“You will come to regret that declaration,” Jonathan stated as if it were fact. “And if not you, then someone else will come to hate you for that choice. Mercy is a wonderful concept in theory, but Gotham knows better than most cities that unless you kill someone, they are going to come back to hurt again.” And sometimes, in rare cases, even if you kill them, they may come back to do some damage anyway; Jonathan didn't fully understand the situation in those cases nor did they apply enough to him to really look into, so who knew the reason why and how those people came back from the dead. “Morals are a luxury that can be opted into if you are in a good enough situation, nothing more.” And those without choice or power often did not have that luxury.
Although many would disagree, Jonathan had morals deep, deep down. It is where his manners and tendency to be be honest came from, but just like everyone else, he had to choose to be moralistic, and he only had that choice in certain circumstances. It was not immoral for someone with a bomb strapped to their neck to rob a bank, nor was it wrong for someone to shoot an ax-wielding intruder in their home; it is survival and necessity. Are military men and cops immoral for ‘protecting’ their home even with violence?
Of course, this was not Jonathan trying to justify his crimes. He knew that he was hurting people unjustly. He could not use morals to justify his actions, but he could use logic. It just made more sense to kill when necessary. If someone threatened his work or was necessary for him to take the next step in his research, then he had no reason not to kill them. His work mattered more to him than their lives. He had a right to protect his property, his work, and those foolish enough to try and stop him. Frankly, anyone who stood in his way at his point deserved what happened to them because they knew the risks attached to doing so. Besides, the handful of lives he took with his own hands were small in number in comparison to most of the other super-criminals.
Still, Mayflower’s question caused Jonathan to pause. It is true that he was just justifying his actions to himself, but that was not the only reason he was okay with killing, not by a long shot. “I’ve never understood why I should not be okay with killing,” Jonathan started, “If it helps my progress or protects my work, then it would be foolish not to use every tool at my disposal. If i put limitations on myself, my work would suffer and be progressing at a slower rate than it is now. ”
“What I do is nothing more than animal testing; as far as I’m concerned, humans are better suited for my experiments and it would be illogical to use rats instead simply because of some ‘moral’ debate. Doing anything that would slow down my progress, whether that be use rats or abstain from killing when necessary, would be the real tragedy here.”
“Besides, I’ve never found life to be precious as a rule. Oh, humans are fascinating in the mind, but bodies are easily replaced. If a doctor dies, Arkham just hires a new one; if a patient of mine kills themselves, then I can simply grab the next person I see on the street. It’s rare that I meet someone that is truly an individual and irreplaceable, which in those cases, I would protect that person rather than sacrifice them.” Permanence is a lie, and people were weaker when they fought to keep their worlds static and unchanging.
Perhaps that's why suicide was not always something that Jonathan advised against. It was a rarity, but sometimes Jonathan would go to popular suicide places and talk to them. Sometimes he would encourage them not to do it, but there were times where he said everything he could to get them to take the final leap. He had caused a few people in the asylum to kill themselves too, although that was more out of a desire for revenge and to make a point about his skills than just see what would happen if he verbally pushed a bit.
Jonathan shrugged his thin, boney shoulders, and said, “My priorities have always been crystal clear to me. It’s not about pleasure or sending a message. Murder is nothing more to me than a means to an end.”
And that end was always fear. He wanted terror to spread across Gotham until it could never return to the way that it was now. The only way to do that though was through death. Oh, not the death of his test subjects, but the deaths of the people Jonathan used as ingredients. The human body produces chemicals that triggered fear, and so naturally Jonathan needed that chemical to do his work. In fact, it was the key secret ingredient to his entire fear toxin. It was his greatest secret and therefore the one thing he would always lie to protect. So now, even though he was justifying his killings, he was completely avoiding the fact that he needed to kill to make his precious fear toxin.
Well, he didn't need to kill; he had actually managed to keep someone alive while at the same time slowly draining the chemical from their organs. So far his current setup had kept that person alive and in terror for a month at most; at that point, their hearts tended to give out or they ‘short-circuited’ just like Jonathan had; they could no longer produce the fear chemical which left Jonathan no reason to keep them alive anymore. At that point, he only killed them because they were useless and he could not let them go without risking his own safety and secrets.
The simple truth was that Jonathan felt no guilt whatsoever; He never regretted taking a life simply because it was a life. Even a child’s death caused no emotions to stir inside of Jonathan before or after he became the Scarecrow. The fear toxin may have stolen Jonathan’s ability to feel fear, but birth had numbed Jonathan’s compassion for his fellow man.
Furthermore, depending on the day, Jonathan didn't even count the victims of fear toxin as his kills. Unless he pulled the trigger, held the knife, or purposefully injected someone with too many chemicals, he did not see their deaths as his own. It was their fear or the fear within others that killed them. It was true that he was the one who triggered that fear, but nothing was stopping them from overcoming that terror and holding themselves back from causing real harm. Batman had done it, he had more or less done it, and so had a handful of other Gotham citizens over the year. Fear controlled you only when you let it… although Jonathan would be lying if he said he was not trying to create a toxin so strong that not even the great Batman could overcome it.
“But what about you?” Jonathan said, turning his attention back to Mayflower. “You speak of death and killing like it is always the wrong thing to do like it is automatically immoral. Why? Why is life, even the life of mass murders and corrupt cops, so valuable to you?” This was a question Jonathan would have posed to Batman, but since that was not and never had been available, this would have to do.
“The greater good sometimes demands bloodshed. Or do you disagree with that?” Perhaps Mayflower was simply someone too cowardly to pull the trigger himself but had no problem was death as a whole. Plenty of people would never kill or let someone be killed in front of them but still supported the death penalty. As long as they could not see it and were not inconvenienced by it, then death could be justified easily.
Jonathan paused and cocked his head to the side. “I wonder what it would take to push you to kill.” This was not a question, just something Jonathan was wondering and felt like saying aloud. It was no accident that he did so, but there was not a purpose behind his words either.
Based only on the last fifteen minutes, Mayflower did not strike Jonathan as the type of kill for survival. Perhaps then it would take hate or a moment of maddened panic to make Mayflower kill. Just like Batman, it would be fascinating to break the morals of someone so obsessed with keeping their hands un-stained.
At this point, Jonathan had not pushed Batman to kill no matter how much fear was pumped into him. Oh, Jonathan had gotten the Bat to punch harder, be rougher, and almost kill plenty of people… but death never happened. No matter how heavy the hallucination, Batman always held his fist back just enough to keep his victims breathing. It was a shame and a disappointment, but the day would come that Jonathan would make him kill. And only after that day would Jonathan actually kill Batman. His death would be a waste without properly breaking the hero first.
Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
•●•
He had no comment when the topic of 'family' was briefly brought up, even if in passing. It is not like there was much to mention anyways. As he had briefly considered earlier, his grandparents had passed a couple of decades ago, his aunt -- his only other form of an extended relative -- had passed a few years back without him bearing witness. He did not have a large family by any means. A mother, a father, and a lone sister. The closest he ever come to see death, outside of the hospitals, were when he visited his family. Even then, they were still -- very much -- alive.
The next words from the former doctor was even more surprising, listening to him transition from his previously macabre and somewhat questionable questions to abruptly raving about the gore they would have to cross to escape. For a moment, it even sent a chill down Dr. Mayflower's spine as he considered the shots from earlier, ringing across the halls of the facility for a few minutes but seemingly having started to settle down with only the occasional distant shot. There was no doubt that there would be bodies in the corridor. Bloodied, gruesome, and just as horrifically as Jonathon had described them as.
Maybe not though.
The chill slowly dispersed as Matthias considered the words for a few moments, looking back at the door briefly again.
It was an attempt to frighten Dr. Mayflower. Perhaps one with actual merit, considering Mr. Crane had witnessed -- and caused -- many escape attempts before and was likely familiar with the scenery before and after these attempts. However, that was assuming that everyone who was hit with a bullet would immediately pass away. People, as Matthias had come to recognize over his many years of helping those that had endured trauma, were much more durable than most assumed. A bullet was rarely an immediate death sentence if the person shot could receive treatment soon after.
Just because they're dying -- doesn't mean they're dead.
The facility could be understaffed, due to the amount of people currently caught in rooms or unable to properly reach the medical bay, meaning that anyone that could lend a hand was all the more useful. Despite the fact that they were currently stuck as sitting ducks in this dingy and dirty closet, the medical bay was not that far, right? It certainly wasn't close, past the cafeteria and a few cell blocks, but it was not an impossible distance. That would undoubtedly be one of the first places to have order restored considering the necessity of the area. They would likely be sweeping outwards, first to the offices, then likely towards this area and the cells. They would undoubtedly have to pass through at least a couple of the cell blocks during their effort, meaning that if they could travel only a short distance past the closest blocks, then they would likely encounter some guards.
It was not a sound plan by any means, as Dr. Mayflower was still rather unfamiliar with the area, but he was familiar with the major areas of the facility. He could locate the medical bay, the cafeteria, some of the offices, and even a small handful of cell blocks that his patients resided in. By tracing their steps back through this hall, Mr. Crane's cell block, and the unfamiliar one behind it, they'd have to end up close to the medical bay. Of course, he had not traveled through the block behind Mr. Crane's own cell block, so he would have a little trouble if he were to travel on his lonesome in the area. The guard would be a helpful resource for that once he could break away from the current conversation and mention his developing plan to the man.
As his eyes focused on the door, he noticed the guard watching them, his eyes glued to the two of them. For a moment, Matthias wondered if the guard had mistaken his action -- talking to Jonathon -- as a sign of betrayal. A sign that Matthias was going to screw up and make a mistake that would cost them their lives. They were currently, as the guard had requested, speaking softly enough that Matthias doubted the guard had picked up more than a couple of syllables the entire conversation. Regardless, Matthias could see the concern in the guard's eyes. Ready to leave as soon as he got the chance and keep his own life.
There was nothing that Dr. Mayflower could do but keep his gaze connected with him for a second. He was caught in the conversation with Jonathon, knowing that this was not an ideal time to break the conversation and could easily offset the delicate arrangement. Matthias could not divide his attention like that, simultaneously trying to encourage the guard and provide him hope while also indulging in the grim and frightening topics consistently brought up by man he was currently listening to.
If Matthias continued to indulge in Jonathon's words -- no matter how carefully he was straying to recognize that it was all a mind game -- they would eventually get at him. He would have that tiny fraction of a moment of panic, and in the end, there would be no way to come back that time. A moment of panic could cost him his life in this current situation. However, if he stopped listening, and went to tend to the guard and ensure his assistance in the plan he was slowly beginning to form, then there was a likely chance that the fragile deal would be broken -- a scenario that would also cost them their lives. The guard was needed as a guide, after all, he was the only one currently armed out of the three of them. Not to mention he likely knew the facility better. Of course, there was always the chance that the guard was not familiar with this area.
It all felt like a gamble, and eventually, Matthias broke the quiet gaze with the guard to continue listening to Mr. Crane. He just needed to talk to him until the former doctor was satisfied. The moment he felt secure enough that Crane would not call out for one of the many hall-dwellers, that would be the moment Matthias tried to get them all to safety.
--------------------
Matthias was briefly stumped as the question was turned on him.
Well, there were many reasons why life was valuable, right? Every living person was capable of many great things. Corrupt people could turn to good, good people could become even better. He had always been taught, since he was a young child and before he could even speak, that life was important and that it was wrong to take it away -- whether the life was as small as a mouse's or as large as another human being's. Even later in life, when these words died down to a mere 'be wary of the lives you take', and it became more acceptable to take the small bug lives and even the lives of mice -- something Matthias still cringed away from doing -- there had never been a justification in taking the life of another person. "Because all lives are important. Everyone has the potential for change, even mass murderers and corrupt policemen." Matthias finally answered.
"What makes your work more valuable than the lives of others?" Dr. Mayflower asked next, turning the question back on Jonathon. Matthias did not believe that what Mr. Crane was doing could really be classified as 'work', more comparable to a child stamping on a mouse to try and learn why the creature stops moving afterwards. It was emotionless, shocking, unethical -- many things -- but ultimately, it was only research. Still, Matthias chose to continue to indulge.
However, he quickly seemed to change his mind about the question. Matthias' nose wrinkled slightly as he gave a small shake of his head, brushing away his own question as he answered it soon after. "I understand that you are trying to make your fear toxin, but I suppose that fact is what confuses me." He said.
"No two minds are identical, something that scares another person may delight another. Plenty of people attend haunted houses just for fun while others will shy away from even mildly frightening movies. It must be difficult -- perhaps even impossible -- to create it when considering these details. From the few scraps of information about your toxin and your obsession, you seem to use the same type for anyone? Or at least variations that can have a degree of effectiveness no matter the individual's preferences." Dr. Mayflower said, looking back at the floor and to the side slightly as he spoke his thoughts. Still, despite the many thoughts he was currently stating, a couple of them would remain unsaid. The primary one would be the very topic that had so briefly come up the previous day; what the toxins were made of or how they functioned.
While the ingredients were mostly a mystery to him, he could hazard a guess to how they functioned. Whatever the ingredients were, they could likely be linked to a variety of neurotransmitters; Dr. Mayflower's best guess being they stimulated the production or over-production of dopamine, serotonin, or even potentially epinephrine. This would likely explain how common varying degrees of schizophrenia, anxiety and depression had been common among the few patients he had seen and treated that had been victims of Mr. Crane's toxin. Still, this was only a fickle assumption, an ends with no means to prove it.
For a moment, Matthias would hesitate as he spoke, briefly reflecting on his past knowledge and the new theory. However, he would catch his own pause and would be swift to continue after only missing a couple beats. There was no need to dwell on things like this. There were probably more qualified people around Gotham to analyze and debate the toxin. Ones who would be better and faster at analyzing both the means and the ends. It was not his job to try and pick it apart. He was just a doctor, a therapist, currently working on not getting killed in an escape attempt.
"Most people would assume that your toxin is completely impossible to perfect. That all human minds are too widely different to make something correctly tailored to all of them. It's been proven countless times through nearly every form of therapy and medication that nothing can be perfect for anyone." He said, taking another small pause. This time, however, he was considering what was the point of these statements. Eventually, he settled with drawing it back to both his own previous questions as well as the former doctor's own words. "You said the greater good demands bloodshed. You're not the first person to think that your work is for the greater good, so putting aside the deaths of many people, what does the 'greater good' mean to you?"
Matthias posed the question just as sincerely as if speaking to a friend. He aimed to not patronize the other with his words, that was never an intention for any discussion, but rather to simply explain that he did not understand their circumstances. Matthias was not like Jonathon, that is why he was asking these questions; to understand him.
However, it would seem that he would not be able to linger for an explanation.
He had taken his eyes off the door for a moment too long, and by the time he saw the thin crack of white light hitting the wall and shelves beside Jonathon's head, it would be too late.
His eyes turned quickly to the door and he shot up, for a brief moment, thinking that one of the gunmen had entered and this would be his final action; standing up just to get shot. However, the thought would be gone almost immediately, replaced by a cold dread as the guard threw the door open and ran out, bathing the room in the bright white light from the hallways. The guard did not even say a word, already turning the corner out of the doorway and sprinting away before Matthias could even properly register what had occurred.
Matthias stood there dumbly for a second, frozen in shock as he looked at the open doorway casting light across the entire contents of the room. The guard had abandoned them just now while the sounds of bullets were the most distant and the hallway was empty. With the guard gone, and Matthias alone to manage Mr. Crane in this dreadful situation, his facade of confidence would falter, showing the true shock and fear of the situation he was faced with.
Still, refusing to let the guard's betrayal get between his thought process of what needed to be done next and how to adjust his plan, while still tied with the uneasiness, he breathlessly approached the door and closed it once more.
Despite the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, he waited by the door for a couple of moments. Regretting his next action and feeling almost sickened by it, he began to listen closely as he watched the ground while trying desperately to focus.
The guard had not betrayed them. He was just trying to get out alive, right? Matthias had said it himself a few moments ago, everyone does what they believe is the best for them, right? So the guard was just doing what would keep him alive. It was nothing personal. Surely the guard was smart too and would be able to avoid any of the inmates still here. Which direction had he gone? Matthias was almost certain he had seen him go left. That's the same direction as where Matthias was planning to go. Maybe the guard had a similar idea to get over there were other guards will be? Maybe that meant that him and Mr. Crane could just stay here and wait for the guards to come retrieve them since they knew they were right there and-
Bang!
Not even a full minute passed before the shot rang out across the halls, sounding as if it was very nearby.
Matthias remained silent as the loud shot sounded, but after a couple of seconds, began to move away from the door and look around the room. It would be difficult to pick apart the different features on his face in the darkness, but two emotions were very clear; distress and deep thought. He had seemed to become even slightly more pale than he had gone before, his eyebrows knit together as he looked around the room to try and locate something, anything, that could help their situation.
After a few moments, he would approach the desk, but would disregard Jonathon in exchange for beginning to sort through the few tools resting on the top of the desk. There was not much to work with. A few scrapers, one of which he would briefly consider before setting it and the others aside. They were surprisingly dull, the rust and multiple chips at the sides making them much more worthless than first glance.
There were also some rusted hammers, one of which Matthias would actually hold for a couple of seconds as he thought of it. He was not exactly strong enough to do much more damage than a bruise or maybe a mild concussion if he could get to someone's head, but that was not why he was considering the hammer. He settled with it thought, holding it as he walked to the other side of the desk, standing beside Jonathon's kneeling form as he opened the drawers and began to look through them, keeping the rather small and rusted hammer tucked in the coat pocket opposite to Mr. Crane as he sorted through the desk.
Finally, on the third drawer, he would find something satisfactory; a long pair of scissors designed for cutting plastic, likely having been used numerous times for slicing packaging. For now, they were the most desirable option and after he briefly opened the fourth and final drawer, finding nothing of more value and deciding that they were running out of time, he chose to settle with this and crammed the scissors into his pocket while retrieving the hammer and turning to Mr. Crane.
Matthias did not say a word as he walked to the other side of Mr. Crane to get a better angle, still tightly holding the hammer and looking down. His gaze flickered briefly, for the first time since the guard had departed, to Mr. Crane, but quickly flitted back down to Jonathon's hands. Silently, he gave a final glance to the door before making up his mind and bringing his attention back to the inmate in front of him.
"You're familiar with the layout of the facility, correct?" Matthias asked after the long silence, his tone even softer than before. Contradictory to the small tremor in his fingers as he pulled the hammer down to the metal Mr. Crane's chain was linked through, his words held no such waver to them. It seemed the unease of the situation had reached everywhere except his words and his eyes -- his amber gaze holding a sort of stern determination. "Do you know how to get to the medical facilities?" He asked just as softly.
It took a couple nudges to get the edge of the hammer wedged in the crack between the metal table. He then used one hand to pry the metal off while using the other to hold the chain links connecting Jonathon's wrists.
Finally, the metal broke at one side with a soft snap, Matthias then set the hammer back on the desk and using one hand to hold the thin metal strip back while using the other to work the chain out from the small opening. This would not take long, and soon enough, Jonathon would be freed from his position kneeling by the desk. Gently but quickly, Matthias even helped pull him up off the filthy floor, still not meeting eye contact. Dr. Mayflower's expression still read determination, but no longer halfway across the room, or fussing over getting the chain out, there was clear nervousness in the way his gaze seemed to shift every couple of seconds, or how his jaw was clenched a little tighter than usual. Regardless, Matthias had not said a single word.
Another shot rang across the hall, much closer, followed by another, and another. Three distinctive shots, all clearly from within this hall. For a second, it would appear as if Matthias flinched, though as he continued working, it would likely be difficult to tell if that had been a mere coincidence in timing or a genuine reaction to the nearby noises. All that was notable was his continued quietness as he finished preparing.
Matthias pulled the scissors from his coat, set them on the desk and slid his lab coat off. He then gently took hold of the chain connecting Mr. Crane's hands and pulled him out from behind the desk, letting go of the chain as they reached the center of the room and Matthias walking behind him briefly as he adjusted him to be slightly off to the side. Positioning him. "Don't move." Matthias said as he walked behind him briefly and then returned on the other side, his tone just as soft as it had been before with not a single hint of suggestion as to how he was fairing. The tremor in his hands as he walked towards the door was enough of an indicator of that.
His lab coat was missing as well, discarded somewhere against the wall. It was not exactly like he would blend in with his current middle-class-typical attire, but it was better than parading around with a bright white coat. He could replace it anyways or come get it later.
Silently, he positioned himself by the door on the opposite side to where it would open, his hazel eyes looking briefly back at Jonathon before turning to the door again as he waited silently. The scissors were held firmly at about stomach height, positioned carefully and ready, even if held somewhat awkwardly by the inexperienced man. He did not say a word as he waited by the door, not even as much as informing Mr. Crane of the plan. Though considering his question earlier, and his positioning of Mr. Crane by the opening of the door, one thing was clear; he was ready to get out of here. With, or without Mr. Crane and his guidance through the halls.
Considering the fact that the bridges were almost guaranteed to be raised by now, taking away any escape attempts as well and meaning that the breach would be likely to wrap up rather soon -- though potentially not before the gunman reached this closet -- there were few options left. Currently, for Matthias, it was flee or die. If he could reach the other guards, and eventually, the medical ward, then he could offer a hand and potentially help out anyone who had been injured during the breach.
Perhaps it was from the shock of hearing the gunshots so nearby and in such a quick succession, or maybe just the desire to emphasize his distaste in Jonathon's perspective of life and death, but if Mr. Crane happened to be there to witness Dr. Mayflower in the process of helping people, then Matthias would certainly have no complaints. There is no use in preaching the value of life if you're not going to act on it.
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Viper
One Thousand Club
Just like Mayflower, Jonathan had taken notice of the guard. He was watching them talk, and the poor thing must not have liked what he saw. Why would he? He said that they could talk, but he had already shown where he stood with Jonathan; he wanted him dead, not chatting quietly in the corner. Paranoia born from the situation was influencing his paranoia in all things. He was concerned, not for the group but for his own survival.
Good. The sooner he left and died the better this conversation would go.
For a moment, it seemed like Dr. Mayflower was going to go attend to the guard. He had been staring at the paranoid man, after all. That would have been a shame considering the wonderful grounds the pair had been covering over their conversation. Seeing such a chat end would be unfavorable. That being said, if Mayflower abandoned the conversation Jonathan would likely not do anything too horrible. The price had been paid enough to keep him quiet, but not enough to keep him from trying to steal some ingredients. If Mayflower left Jonathan alone, he would surely try to steal some of the sanitary products scattered across the closet.
When Mayflower turned away from the guard though, Jonathan knew that he would not have a chance to steal. He had the doctor's attention, although not all of it. Thankfully, Jonathan did not want full attention at this moment; let Mayflower be distracted by gunshots and the risk of death, that would only make this conversation all the sweeter.
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It was almost amusing to hear his answer. To him, the reason life was valuable was that it was life; yes, he also mentioned the ability to change, but that claim seemed to rely heavily on the idea that life and people are moral by default. If it were not, Mayflower would not be using the ability of murders to change as his argument for why life matters. Still, life for the sake of life seemed pointless, especially to someone who had killed many times without shedding a single tear.
Jonathan snickered quietly for a second. “Even mass murderers, huh? I certainly don’t agree with that.” Some people were hopeless… or at least hopeless if your goal was to help them become more average and stable. Joker was a lost cause, even Jonathan would not be able to help that man. And Jonathan himself? Well, he saw that as a lost cause as well. Unless the doctor was willing to use illegal practices, Jonathan would not change no matter how much therapy he underwent. He did not want to change, and that fact alone would keep him from doing so. After all, therapy without consent was a far greater challenge, and no one had Jonathan’s consent to distract him from his self-imposed mission.
Opening his mouth to answer, Jonathan quickly shut it again when the question was dismissed by the very one who posed it in the first place. That was probably for the best though considering that his answer would have been unsatisfying. His work was more valuable simply because he cared about it more. The lives of others meant nothing to him, so everything was more valuable than human life. And considering the hierarchy, his personal hierarchy, it only made sense that human life would be immaterial. As long as the deaths helped him or his work, then it was a significant enough net gain.
It was strange to hear someone explain fear to him. Normally it was the other way around, and Jonathan found that dynamic far more preferable. After all, he was the one who had written several theses’ on this topic that were highly praised. He of all people knew that people reacted to fear differently and with different triggers, that no two minds responded the same way to the same stimuli. Just look at the men in this room right now and that was more than clear; Jonathan didn't care, the guard was paranoid enough to be moved to violence, and Mayflower was scared but feigning control by paying attention to others. Of course people reacted differently… but not everyone reacted differently enough to matter.
Two people that are scared of spiders will do the same thing when it crawls on their skin. They will brush it off as quickly as possible and try to move away from the crawling creatures. One my scream while the other may not, but their overall reaction is the same. Their fear levels are the same. Should they swipe away the spider and then not be able to find it again, one can guarantee that their senses will be heightened from there on out. So when it came down to it, when Jonathan needed materials or to sacrifice someone for his own gain, it only made sense to kill one of those two people. The loss would be minimal in the grand scheme of things. Now, multiply these two sets of data by several hundred, and Jonathan certainly had no reason to prioritize life.
“My fear toxin is not magic, Dr. Mayflower,” Jonathan said, feeling the need to clarify this man's misunderstanding of his toxin. “The human mind may be different, but humans possess the same physical and chemical makeup. I agree that therapy and medication do not work on everyone, but my toxin does. I would recommend that you remember that. I simply inject them with fear toxin and then the body does the rest of the work for me. I don’t need to tailor the toxin to individuals because their minds are the things creating the hallucinations; the mind turns against itself to create a ‘reality’ to explain the fear they are feeling.” If Jonathan was more involved in the hallucination process, the illusions would be far more limited. But if their minds are in control of the illusions, which they are, then anything that the person fears are up for grabs.
“Besides the length and potency, I have no control over what the gas does once it enters a body… and I don’t need to. As long as I can estimate how long the toxin will exist in their bloodstream and how severe the hallucinations will be, I am more than content with my toxin. But you're partially right; I have yet to perfect my fear toxin… but I will.” Jonathan paused, his mind getting away with him as he imagined what his perfect toxin would be. Airborn, but does not need to be breathed to be infected; it would seep through clothing and enter through the skin. Those infected would experience eternal hallucinations of the greatest caliber, their minds never able to turn off the terror; nor would their bodies be able to simply ‘short circuit’ and stop feeling fear or adrenaline similar to what happened to Jonathan. They would twitch and scream until they died of natural causes. It was a beautiful image. “One day I will cover Gotham with my fear gas, and those that survive will never be able to free themselves from its grasp. Until then, I will do whatever it takes to master my craft.”
Jonatan was still more in his mind than in reality as he finished his statement, but the comment about the greater good caused him to refocus. Unfortunately, he was still talking in a fairly cryptic, morbid way. Only this time, he also took the time to let out a singe 'ha' before speaking. “You misunderstand me, Dr. Mayflower. The greater good often does demand bloodshed, that I still know as a fact… but when did I ever say that my work is aimed towards the greater good?” Jonathan was not actually asking a question, but more so trying to highlight the core issue of Mayflower's question. Jonathan had never claimed that his fear toxin was for the greater good, and he never would. He had been talking about the greater good in the eyes of Batman or Jim Gordon.
If Jonathan had more to say on this topic, he would not get the chance. It was a shame though because Jonathan definitely had more to say about even the concept of good and if humans really should concern themselves with good or the majority, let alone both. That time would not come though, because right after Jonathan said posed his own question he saw something moving from the corner of his eye.
There he goes, Jonathan thought, not surprised in the least bit that the guard had fled. Nor was he surprised when he heard a bang not too long after. The sound even caused Jonathan’s lips to twitch up for a second. His fear and paranoia must have caused him to rush, and in turn, the guard got himself killed. It also helped that Jonathan never liked that guard in the first place, and that was before the man had pointed a gun in his face just 15-20 minutes ago.
Good riddance.
And more importantly, it was good emotional fodder for Mayflower. If he was not upset and terrified before, he certainly had to be now. The moment of shock on Mayflower’s face was enough to show Jonathan that the guard leaving had an effect.
Now it was time to watch. Jonathan’s patient was on the move and far be it for him to interfere with whatever the man had planned. From the way Mayflower’s suddenly paler face was looking around, he was planning something… or at least trying to plan something. He was staying logical even as terror was on his face, which was a skill few men had. Often times it was frozen terror, illogical rage and rebellion, or hysterics. Not many people new to these kinds of life-threatening situations handled it was any semblance of thought.
It would have been impressive if Jonathan were not so much more interested in Mayflowers’s fearful expression.
Jonathan said nothing, only watched, even as Mayflower maneuvered around him to search the drawers. It would have been so easy to trip Mayflower in this situation; Jonathan could lock his legs around Mayflower’s, sending the doctor to the ground and most likely causing his head to bash into something deadly on the way down. It would be easy, yet Jonathan did not do it. In fact, he curled his legs inward further so that the other man would have plenty of free space.
By the time that Mayflower was done searching the room, Jonathan was positively intrigued. Why would he need a hammer if he was so unwilling to kill people? If he was looking for a defensive weapon, then there were better options. “Intimately,” Jonathan responded, fairly certain that he could get through this place blindfolded or infected with fear. “I do. It’s a ten-minute walk from here, but with the current issue, I estimate it to take fifteen minutes. It will take longer if we actually run into any groups from either side while on the way.” Prisoners, guards, or doctors would slow them down plenty.
How interesting. All alone with a mass murderer and ‘delusional’ extremist and Mayflower decided that the best course of action was to free him from the table. Mayflower didn't even have a gun or physical training! It was almost suicidal, or perhaps he was simply too confident that Jonathan had no ill wills at this moment. Well, in this case, he was right, but on an average day Jonathan would be trying to escape right now. Why not take advantage of the situation and escape while the focus was on the larger breakout? Or, at the very least, why not use the opportunity to collect processed ingredients?
The latter option was still up for bids. Considering the situation, Mayflower would turn away soon enough and then Jonathan was going to be trying to swipe some goodies. It was only logical that he would at least try. He had the opportunity and very strong motivations. Sure, he would not be able to make his fear toxin right now, but one day he would get an opening to unleash it into the asylum; he wanted to be ready for that day.
Jonathan was plotting which bottle or capsule he was going to swipe when the table snapped just enough to free Jonathan from it.
When Mayflower offered his hand, Jonathan took it, although not exactly the way one normally would. Jonathan’s long bony fingers held onto Mayflower’s hand as if they were shaking hands, but his middle finger remained straight. The tip of his finger was pressed on top of Mayflower’s wrist, right between the bone and the tendon over Mayflower’s radial artery, and it was not moving.
The kind doctor had been trying to help Jonathan to his feet; he was being considerate. Unfortunately, Jonathan saw an opportunity more important to him than manners. So even though Mayflower attempted to make the moment of physical contact quick, Jonathan held on. There was no real force in his grip, but there was a touch more pressure and strength than he normally bothered to show. For a mere fifteen seconds, Jonathan held onto Mayflower's hand in his odd way, before letting the man go.
That was 25 beats, which meant that Mayflower’s heart was at a rough 110 beats per minute. Mayflower’s heart was beating 41% more than the average man's relaxed heart rate. A relaxed heartbeat at about 77 per minute, which matched fairly well with Jonathan’s personal experience. It was rare that his heart rate ever went above 81, and today was the same.
The entire time he had been counting the other man’s heart rate, he had been watching Mayflower’s breathing, eyes, and expressions.
“You hide your concern well, doctor,” Jonathan couldn't help but comment, but based on his soft volume it was hard to tell if he was talking to himself or if he was intentionally mimicking Mayflower’s volume.
Jonathan was intrigued, and he was not trying to hide it. His eyes and head turned to keep the doctor in his sight. It didn't matter how many or how close the shots, Jonathan kept his gaze steady on his target. His brown eyes had a level of focus not often found in Arkham residents or just people in general; his gaze, slightly narrow and unblinking, was the same look that made many of his past doctors uncomfortable. It was the look a scientist gave a lab rat.
Part of his focus, thankfully, also involved Jonathan being agreeable. That too was a fact his past doctors had noticed. An interested and mentally stimulated Jonathan was far more agreeable and easy to work with than the opposite. Agreeable, but still resistant to treatment. So Jonathan did not move when he was told not to.
It took Mayflower standing by the door for Jonathan to realize what was going on, and what the exact plan was. Mayflower had more or less openly stated earlier that his plan involved getting to the medical bay, but other than that he had been silent. Well, apparently the plan all resided on Jonathan. He would take them there and, in this case, he was also going to be the distraction so that Mayflower would get a chance to stab the intruder… or at least wound him enough for them to get away.
But there was one problem. Jonathan did not look like a threat. Yes, he was the Scarecrow, but nothing about his appearance implied that. There was no time to make a mask, and due to his hands being tied as well as their size difference, there was no chance of Jonathan putting on Mayflower’s discarded coat. Apparently the doctor was taking Jonathan's advice; after all, he was the one who said that doctors were the first targets in this place. And, obviously, Jonathan did not have his toxin or syringe glove to make himself a real threat.
Slowly, Jonathan peeled his eyes away from Mayflower to once again look at the stock of products. If he was going to be a distraction, he was going to be a good one. And a good distraction was one that sent men running in fear. All Jonathan needed was an orangish liquid and a semi-clear container for it.
Although he was told to not move and fully intended to follow instructions, when Jonathan laid his eyes on a bottle of Totally Awesome All-Purpose Cleaner he moved towards it. It was a sprayer too, which was perfect. Everyone knew that Jonathan’s fear toxin came in three forms, a gas, spore-like, or a liquid. In this case, the Awesome looked very similar to the toxin’s liquid form. Picking it up, Jonathan momentarily raised the bottle to the reddish light illuminating the room. “This will do,” Jonathan muttered to himself. This would make him seem far more threatening and therefore make the attackers hesitate much more easily. And if he was lucky, he would be able to stash the bottle somewhere during their escape.
With his “fear toxin” in hand, Jonathan returned to where Mayflower posed him before. The killer offered the doctor a small nod to signal that he was ready. Ready for what? Well, Jonatan was ready for anything. If someone walked through the door, he was prepared to react to that. If Mayflower told Jonathan to lead the way, then he was ready to do that. In the name of research, Jonathan was acting the willing puppet.
Good. The sooner he left and died the better this conversation would go.
For a moment, it seemed like Dr. Mayflower was going to go attend to the guard. He had been staring at the paranoid man, after all. That would have been a shame considering the wonderful grounds the pair had been covering over their conversation. Seeing such a chat end would be unfavorable. That being said, if Mayflower abandoned the conversation Jonathan would likely not do anything too horrible. The price had been paid enough to keep him quiet, but not enough to keep him from trying to steal some ingredients. If Mayflower left Jonathan alone, he would surely try to steal some of the sanitary products scattered across the closet.
When Mayflower turned away from the guard though, Jonathan knew that he would not have a chance to steal. He had the doctor's attention, although not all of it. Thankfully, Jonathan did not want full attention at this moment; let Mayflower be distracted by gunshots and the risk of death, that would only make this conversation all the sweeter.
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It was almost amusing to hear his answer. To him, the reason life was valuable was that it was life; yes, he also mentioned the ability to change, but that claim seemed to rely heavily on the idea that life and people are moral by default. If it were not, Mayflower would not be using the ability of murders to change as his argument for why life matters. Still, life for the sake of life seemed pointless, especially to someone who had killed many times without shedding a single tear.
Jonathan snickered quietly for a second. “Even mass murderers, huh? I certainly don’t agree with that.” Some people were hopeless… or at least hopeless if your goal was to help them become more average and stable. Joker was a lost cause, even Jonathan would not be able to help that man. And Jonathan himself? Well, he saw that as a lost cause as well. Unless the doctor was willing to use illegal practices, Jonathan would not change no matter how much therapy he underwent. He did not want to change, and that fact alone would keep him from doing so. After all, therapy without consent was a far greater challenge, and no one had Jonathan’s consent to distract him from his self-imposed mission.
Opening his mouth to answer, Jonathan quickly shut it again when the question was dismissed by the very one who posed it in the first place. That was probably for the best though considering that his answer would have been unsatisfying. His work was more valuable simply because he cared about it more. The lives of others meant nothing to him, so everything was more valuable than human life. And considering the hierarchy, his personal hierarchy, it only made sense that human life would be immaterial. As long as the deaths helped him or his work, then it was a significant enough net gain.
It was strange to hear someone explain fear to him. Normally it was the other way around, and Jonathan found that dynamic far more preferable. After all, he was the one who had written several theses’ on this topic that were highly praised. He of all people knew that people reacted to fear differently and with different triggers, that no two minds responded the same way to the same stimuli. Just look at the men in this room right now and that was more than clear; Jonathan didn't care, the guard was paranoid enough to be moved to violence, and Mayflower was scared but feigning control by paying attention to others. Of course people reacted differently… but not everyone reacted differently enough to matter.
Two people that are scared of spiders will do the same thing when it crawls on their skin. They will brush it off as quickly as possible and try to move away from the crawling creatures. One my scream while the other may not, but their overall reaction is the same. Their fear levels are the same. Should they swipe away the spider and then not be able to find it again, one can guarantee that their senses will be heightened from there on out. So when it came down to it, when Jonathan needed materials or to sacrifice someone for his own gain, it only made sense to kill one of those two people. The loss would be minimal in the grand scheme of things. Now, multiply these two sets of data by several hundred, and Jonathan certainly had no reason to prioritize life.
“My fear toxin is not magic, Dr. Mayflower,” Jonathan said, feeling the need to clarify this man's misunderstanding of his toxin. “The human mind may be different, but humans possess the same physical and chemical makeup. I agree that therapy and medication do not work on everyone, but my toxin does. I would recommend that you remember that. I simply inject them with fear toxin and then the body does the rest of the work for me. I don’t need to tailor the toxin to individuals because their minds are the things creating the hallucinations; the mind turns against itself to create a ‘reality’ to explain the fear they are feeling.” If Jonathan was more involved in the hallucination process, the illusions would be far more limited. But if their minds are in control of the illusions, which they are, then anything that the person fears are up for grabs.
“Besides the length and potency, I have no control over what the gas does once it enters a body… and I don’t need to. As long as I can estimate how long the toxin will exist in their bloodstream and how severe the hallucinations will be, I am more than content with my toxin. But you're partially right; I have yet to perfect my fear toxin… but I will.” Jonathan paused, his mind getting away with him as he imagined what his perfect toxin would be. Airborn, but does not need to be breathed to be infected; it would seep through clothing and enter through the skin. Those infected would experience eternal hallucinations of the greatest caliber, their minds never able to turn off the terror; nor would their bodies be able to simply ‘short circuit’ and stop feeling fear or adrenaline similar to what happened to Jonathan. They would twitch and scream until they died of natural causes. It was a beautiful image. “One day I will cover Gotham with my fear gas, and those that survive will never be able to free themselves from its grasp. Until then, I will do whatever it takes to master my craft.”
Jonatan was still more in his mind than in reality as he finished his statement, but the comment about the greater good caused him to refocus. Unfortunately, he was still talking in a fairly cryptic, morbid way. Only this time, he also took the time to let out a singe 'ha' before speaking. “You misunderstand me, Dr. Mayflower. The greater good often does demand bloodshed, that I still know as a fact… but when did I ever say that my work is aimed towards the greater good?” Jonathan was not actually asking a question, but more so trying to highlight the core issue of Mayflower's question. Jonathan had never claimed that his fear toxin was for the greater good, and he never would. He had been talking about the greater good in the eyes of Batman or Jim Gordon.
If Jonathan had more to say on this topic, he would not get the chance. It was a shame though because Jonathan definitely had more to say about even the concept of good and if humans really should concern themselves with good or the majority, let alone both. That time would not come though, because right after Jonathan said posed his own question he saw something moving from the corner of his eye.
There he goes, Jonathan thought, not surprised in the least bit that the guard had fled. Nor was he surprised when he heard a bang not too long after. The sound even caused Jonathan’s lips to twitch up for a second. His fear and paranoia must have caused him to rush, and in turn, the guard got himself killed. It also helped that Jonathan never liked that guard in the first place, and that was before the man had pointed a gun in his face just 15-20 minutes ago.
Good riddance.
And more importantly, it was good emotional fodder for Mayflower. If he was not upset and terrified before, he certainly had to be now. The moment of shock on Mayflower’s face was enough to show Jonathan that the guard leaving had an effect.
Now it was time to watch. Jonathan’s patient was on the move and far be it for him to interfere with whatever the man had planned. From the way Mayflower’s suddenly paler face was looking around, he was planning something… or at least trying to plan something. He was staying logical even as terror was on his face, which was a skill few men had. Often times it was frozen terror, illogical rage and rebellion, or hysterics. Not many people new to these kinds of life-threatening situations handled it was any semblance of thought.
It would have been impressive if Jonathan were not so much more interested in Mayflowers’s fearful expression.
Jonathan said nothing, only watched, even as Mayflower maneuvered around him to search the drawers. It would have been so easy to trip Mayflower in this situation; Jonathan could lock his legs around Mayflower’s, sending the doctor to the ground and most likely causing his head to bash into something deadly on the way down. It would be easy, yet Jonathan did not do it. In fact, he curled his legs inward further so that the other man would have plenty of free space.
By the time that Mayflower was done searching the room, Jonathan was positively intrigued. Why would he need a hammer if he was so unwilling to kill people? If he was looking for a defensive weapon, then there were better options. “Intimately,” Jonathan responded, fairly certain that he could get through this place blindfolded or infected with fear. “I do. It’s a ten-minute walk from here, but with the current issue, I estimate it to take fifteen minutes. It will take longer if we actually run into any groups from either side while on the way.” Prisoners, guards, or doctors would slow them down plenty.
How interesting. All alone with a mass murderer and ‘delusional’ extremist and Mayflower decided that the best course of action was to free him from the table. Mayflower didn't even have a gun or physical training! It was almost suicidal, or perhaps he was simply too confident that Jonathan had no ill wills at this moment. Well, in this case, he was right, but on an average day Jonathan would be trying to escape right now. Why not take advantage of the situation and escape while the focus was on the larger breakout? Or, at the very least, why not use the opportunity to collect processed ingredients?
The latter option was still up for bids. Considering the situation, Mayflower would turn away soon enough and then Jonathan was going to be trying to swipe some goodies. It was only logical that he would at least try. He had the opportunity and very strong motivations. Sure, he would not be able to make his fear toxin right now, but one day he would get an opening to unleash it into the asylum; he wanted to be ready for that day.
Jonathan was plotting which bottle or capsule he was going to swipe when the table snapped just enough to free Jonathan from it.
When Mayflower offered his hand, Jonathan took it, although not exactly the way one normally would. Jonathan’s long bony fingers held onto Mayflower’s hand as if they were shaking hands, but his middle finger remained straight. The tip of his finger was pressed on top of Mayflower’s wrist, right between the bone and the tendon over Mayflower’s radial artery, and it was not moving.
The kind doctor had been trying to help Jonathan to his feet; he was being considerate. Unfortunately, Jonathan saw an opportunity more important to him than manners. So even though Mayflower attempted to make the moment of physical contact quick, Jonathan held on. There was no real force in his grip, but there was a touch more pressure and strength than he normally bothered to show. For a mere fifteen seconds, Jonathan held onto Mayflower's hand in his odd way, before letting the man go.
That was 25 beats, which meant that Mayflower’s heart was at a rough 110 beats per minute. Mayflower’s heart was beating 41% more than the average man's relaxed heart rate. A relaxed heartbeat at about 77 per minute, which matched fairly well with Jonathan’s personal experience. It was rare that his heart rate ever went above 81, and today was the same.
The entire time he had been counting the other man’s heart rate, he had been watching Mayflower’s breathing, eyes, and expressions.
“You hide your concern well, doctor,” Jonathan couldn't help but comment, but based on his soft volume it was hard to tell if he was talking to himself or if he was intentionally mimicking Mayflower’s volume.
Jonathan was intrigued, and he was not trying to hide it. His eyes and head turned to keep the doctor in his sight. It didn't matter how many or how close the shots, Jonathan kept his gaze steady on his target. His brown eyes had a level of focus not often found in Arkham residents or just people in general; his gaze, slightly narrow and unblinking, was the same look that made many of his past doctors uncomfortable. It was the look a scientist gave a lab rat.
Part of his focus, thankfully, also involved Jonathan being agreeable. That too was a fact his past doctors had noticed. An interested and mentally stimulated Jonathan was far more agreeable and easy to work with than the opposite. Agreeable, but still resistant to treatment. So Jonathan did not move when he was told not to.
It took Mayflower standing by the door for Jonathan to realize what was going on, and what the exact plan was. Mayflower had more or less openly stated earlier that his plan involved getting to the medical bay, but other than that he had been silent. Well, apparently the plan all resided on Jonathan. He would take them there and, in this case, he was also going to be the distraction so that Mayflower would get a chance to stab the intruder… or at least wound him enough for them to get away.
But there was one problem. Jonathan did not look like a threat. Yes, he was the Scarecrow, but nothing about his appearance implied that. There was no time to make a mask, and due to his hands being tied as well as their size difference, there was no chance of Jonathan putting on Mayflower’s discarded coat. Apparently the doctor was taking Jonathan's advice; after all, he was the one who said that doctors were the first targets in this place. And, obviously, Jonathan did not have his toxin or syringe glove to make himself a real threat.
Slowly, Jonathan peeled his eyes away from Mayflower to once again look at the stock of products. If he was going to be a distraction, he was going to be a good one. And a good distraction was one that sent men running in fear. All Jonathan needed was an orangish liquid and a semi-clear container for it.
Although he was told to not move and fully intended to follow instructions, when Jonathan laid his eyes on a bottle of Totally Awesome All-Purpose Cleaner he moved towards it. It was a sprayer too, which was perfect. Everyone knew that Jonathan’s fear toxin came in three forms, a gas, spore-like, or a liquid. In this case, the Awesome looked very similar to the toxin’s liquid form. Picking it up, Jonathan momentarily raised the bottle to the reddish light illuminating the room. “This will do,” Jonathan muttered to himself. This would make him seem far more threatening and therefore make the attackers hesitate much more easily. And if he was lucky, he would be able to stash the bottle somewhere during their escape.
With his “fear toxin” in hand, Jonathan returned to where Mayflower posed him before. The killer offered the doctor a small nod to signal that he was ready. Ready for what? Well, Jonatan was ready for anything. If someone walked through the door, he was prepared to react to that. If Mayflower told Jonathan to lead the way, then he was ready to do that. In the name of research, Jonathan was acting the willing puppet.
Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
•●•
Dr. Mayflower's mouth tightened slightly into a thin frown as Mr. Crane pointed out the fallacy of his belief that change was always possible; no matter the individual. Besides the small micro expression, he did not respond. He knew that it was a thin and delicate belief from the very first time his parents had introduced him to the concept. Anyone had the potential to change, but not everyone was willing to. Under these circumstances; however, with Mr. Crane's curt comment on the belief, it felt dirty, as if Dr. Mayflower was the one defending the criminals.
Wasn't he though?
That was a thought best left for a different time.
---------------
The frown returned a few moments later as Mr. Crane began to correct him on his misunderstood perception of fear. Dr. Mayflower's eyebrows creased, head faintly tilted with a somewhat blank expression as if he did not quite 'get' the concept. Mr. Crane claimed that his toxin worked on everyone, but Dr. Mayflower could recall numerous reports and news articles that had offhand mentions of it 'appearing as if the Scarecrow had used his toxin on Batman', at least that's what many of the reports said. Despite the contradictory fact practically sitting right on the edge of his tongue, he did not mention it, believing that it would be a topic better fitting to a situation with less stakes. Not to mention bringing up a major failure of Mr. Crane's creation could lead to some distrust in future sessions.
But, that also begged a different question. Why was Mr. Crane sharing this?
He had been asked to not inquire about the process and the materials that were used during the toxin's production, and Dr. Mayflower had held true to his word and not asked about it, barely even grazing the topic in his question of Mr. Crane's motivations. However, in his own misunderstanding of the process, Mr. Crane was openly sharing details about it with him. Of course, it was nothing truly substantial, Dr. Mayflower would not be surprised if these details had already been assumed by former doctors, but it did serve as a confirmation of the idea that the toxins had no 'special tailoring' to them like Dr. Mayflower had mistakenly assumed. Mr. Crane could have just as easily dismissed his misunderstanding, or even could have just agreed with it to lead anyone researching how to cure it on a goose chase.
But he hadn't. Instead, Mr. Crane had chosen to correct Dr. Mayflower and, in turn, open up the line of dialogue on the toxin's creation. Why?
Dr. Mayflower was confused, that much was clear, though not out of mere confusion of what Mr. Crane was talking about. Rather, he was trying to connect the dots to why?
--------------
The next few moments had passed in a near blur to Dr. Mayflower. The guard fleeing, him closing the door behind him, looking around the room for something to arm himself and eventually making up his mind to try and utilize the frightful reputation of Mr. Crane to his advantage and free him from the table. He had trouble processing the exact thoughts going through his head, just recognizing each one by one as he began acting on his former plan, bending it to the new circumstances. Close the door. Find something to use in a pinch. Something sharp would be best. You'll get lost outside if you try to navigate alone. Get help. Use the hammer, pry the metal off the table, trying to snap anything will be too loud. Get back up and return to the door.
It would only be a moment after that thought occurred, Dr. Mayflower trying to gently pull Mr. Crane back to his feet to make the process faster, that he would be brought back sharply out of his thoughts as he felt a hand tighten on his wrist -- bony and cold as if Death himself had decided to join them in the bleak room and personally drag Matthias down to hell before the gunmen even had a chance to drop in. Instinctively, his other hand dipped into the pocket of his coat, wrapping tightly around the smooth metal handle and just barely inched back out in the split second that he felt the grip tighten on his wrist, the blades of the scissors glinting in the bloody red light.
For a second, something crossed the amber eyes, something that Matthias had not been wearing previously. Sure, it was part fear, also partially a flicker of purely feral survival instinct, but more than anything, there was a look of familiarity. The same kind that soldiers wear when being brought back into a war they thought they had escaped, the same kind that a child wears when being reunited with a family member they had ran away from for a reason. A sort of look that people only took on when they became deathly aware that they were about to return to something awful.
However, there would be no sudden stinging pain as the blades were thrust into the other man's side during the moment of panic. Dr. Mayflower had not even fully brought the scissors out from his coat, instead, hesitating as the shocked daze was gone just as soon as it had appeared. Dr. Mayflower did not even make an attempt to strike Mr. Crane for the sudden action, but let go of the handle of the scissors -- letting them sink back into his pocket -- and instead placed a hand on Mr. Crane's own and tried to lightly push him off. There was not much room for a struggle in the cramped room, and after a second or two of carefully and silently trying to pry Mr. Crane's grip off his wrist, he reluctantly gave in.
He was not stupid. It was easy to recognize the action from where Mr. Crane had placed his finger over his pulse. While it had initially struck some sort of nerve inside Dr. Mayflower, it now only served to irritate him as he waited for Mr. Crane to finish the action, while Matthias' jaw tightened and he glared right back at him. Matthias knew there was no use in trying to fight back or unnecessarily shove Mr. Crane away -- it would only serve to make a ruckus and quickly alert anyone nearby of their location. It also was not like Matthias could just stop his own heart from giving away the fact that he was frankly petrified about the current situation. In the end, it was best to just wait it out.
As soon as Mr. Crane let go, Matthias was back onto executing his plan. There was no time to waste. He couldn't afford to let the action get to him, even after a small chill was sent down his spine from the gentle but unsettling comment that followed.
---------------
His gaze turned away from the door briefly as he saw Mr. Crane move from the spot he had positioned in him. He made no comment though, watching Mr. Crane as he inspected one of the many bottles from the shelf, quickly realizing that Mr. Crane was only amplifying his role in Matthias' plan. Dr. Mayflower was not exactly comfortable with the idea of Mr. Crane being armed with chemicals considering the many reports that he was not permitted any access to cleaners of any type, but there was also not exactly room for comfort in this situation either. He would deal with the consequences later, after all, he doubted that anyone would let him keep the cleaner as soon as they were in a safe position.
Dr. Mayflower turned his focus back to the door, listening for any sign of movement outside.
A few seconds passed by and Matthias began to hear light chatter. There was someone out there, he could barely hear the sound of footsteps very close. It sounded like there was more than one pair, and judging by the conversation muffled by the door, it was also very likely that there was at least two -- unless it was just one person talking to themselves. He tried to listen closer, but did not take a chance in moving and bumping into something in the dim room. Instead, he focused on the ground as he tried to pick apart how many voices there were and what was being said.
It was hard to tell, the door was thick enough to keep the words muffled no matter how hard he listened and-
He moved away sharply as the door handle jiggled, making no noise as he brought the pair of scissors up slightly higher from his waistline and prepared for the worst. This was it. Fight or die.
"Jesus, you're still goin' at it? The gate's about to go up, give it a rest. Seven's pretty good for one day, anyways." Someone grunted from behind the door, close enough to be understood.
"Paul got five last time, the bastard'll be just like before if I don't get at least an even eight." A voice snapped back, the door knob still slightly turned but not opening.
There were two people. Matthias held his breath, waiting for the moment he would need to strike whichever stepped in first.
"Oh get over yourself, you've already bested him. Let's get a move on." The other man snapped, voice dripping with irritation.
There was a pause, the man seeming to be considering the idea for a few moments. "If he has anything to say about it, I'm raising my count to ten, starting with you." He said with a grumble, the doorknob flicking back into it's usual spot as it was let go, heavy footsteps beginning to lead away from the door.
Dr. Mayflower couldn't believe his luck, but was not about to waste it all now. He waited until he heard the footsteps vanish into the distance, then waited about an extra thirty seconds before turning his attention back to Mr. Crane. There was no longer that threat on the horizon, but that did not mean that Matthias could just wait in here, as there was still a strong potential for anyone left over to pick up where the previous two left off.
Dr. Mayflower did not beckon him over or even make the first move to leave, instead just looking to Mr. Crane after the little bit of extra time had passed. A small hint of concern resting in Dr. Mayflower's gaze, as if he was silently asking if it was safe to go now or if it would be better to wait more time or just stay put in general. It was a rather sheepish action, but Dr. Mayflower was still quite new to the prospect of hiding in janitorial closets with numerous gunmen wandering the halls ready to murder any non-inmate they see, he couldn't exactly be blamed for that.
•●•
Viper
One Thousand Club
Did Jonathan feel Mayflower try and pry his hands off of his wrist? Yes, but also no. The contact was there and Jonathan knew what Mayflower was trying to do, but it was through a haze. At that moment Jonathan could only feel the pulse clearly, overtaking his sense to the point that he could have sworn that he could hear Mayflower’s pulse as well. It was tunnel vision that broke only when Jonathan felt enough beats to make a clear diagnosis.
This level of focus on his work could easily be seen as a flaw since it occasionally went overboard, but Jonathan had never seen his devotion or willingness to push boundaries that way. He probably never would.
~~~~~
Standing in the middle of a room without any real weapons to speak of, Jonathan should have been afraid for his life… yet he wasn't. Not only was he incapable, but he was also confident that his very being would startle most of the grunts hunting through this place. Jonathan’s tall, skeletal form had a way of making people nervous even without the mask on; perhaps it was because his natural appearance was looking more undead-like each passing day?
Thinking on his own natural ability to cause terror, Jonathan’s thoughts were interrupted by the door handle jiggling. He couldn't help it, his mouth twitched up for a second. This would be a defining moment in Mayflower’s life either way. It would be a beautiful moment of face to face conflict, or it would be a tense moment full of anticipation and near-threat. Mayflower raising the scissors in the air was enough to prompt Jonathan’s heart to beat faster. What would happen? He couldn't wait to see.
It seemed like the pair on the other side of the door were talking though, although it was hard to tell what they were saying. Jonathan was further from the door than Mayflower, after all. All Jonathan managed to understand was bastard, bridge, and count to ten. Perhaps there was ten more minutes until the bridge was up? That was an option, and based on the fact that the pair walked away with a fair bit of speed, it made sense. It would be terrible if they did all this work and killing only to miss their ticket out of here.
Now that the voices were gone, Jonathan kept his gaze on Mayflower to see what the doctor would do next. It actually was a bit surprising when Mayflower turned to look at Jonathan instead of proceeding with his plan. This amount of trust was unprecedented. Oh, Jonathan knew that the good doctor did not trust him completely, but this entire event highlighted the fact that when push comes to shove, Mayflower trusted Jonathan enough not to get them killed. He would come to regret that one day.
Thankfully, for today at least, Mayflower was right to put his trust in Jonathan. He didn't want either of them dead today, so he would do what he could to make that not happen.
Giving a small nod to acknowledge Mayflower’s gaze, Jonathan left his spot in the center of the room and approached the door. He paused for a single moment, frozen with his hand on the handle before he pulled it open and stepped out. There was no hesitation, but at the same time, there was no rush either. It was like he was walking into a cafe on a casual Tuesday morning before work where he knew the baristas and they knew him.
Without glancing back into the storage room, Jonathan revealed himself in the hallway openly. When nothing happened, he swiveled his head back and forth to see if someone was just keeping quiet. They weren’t. No one was around… or at least visible. However, he did see something a few feet from where he stood. It was the apple Jonathan dropped when shoved against the wall.
Without calling out to Mayflower, Jonathan picked up the apple and tossed it underhand down the hallway in the direction of the medical bay. The apple made a soft thud and bounced a few times before it rolled the rest of the way down the hallway until it was stopped by the far wall. Once again, Jonathan stood calmly and silently as he waited to see if anyone around the corner would react to the random apple. Once again, nothing; it was a good sign.
“You may come out doctor; we are in the clear for now but I doubt the peace will last long,” Jonathan said, patiently waiting for the smaller man to join him in the dim hallway. Without lifting his arms or letting go of the spray bottle, Jonathan raised one of his long fingers to point towards where he just threw the apple. “The fastest route to the medical bay is this way.”
With that, Jonathan started down the hall. As he walked, his tall stature was lessened by his nearly ever-constant hunch. Although some people thought this posture was because of a Batman injury, the truth was that he just spent too much time at a desk throughout his entire life. And now that he was the Scarecrow, his abnormal posture only added to his skeletal appearance that put many people off. He certainly didn't mind it, although he did occasionally get flashes of pain in his back.
As they made their way through the many maze-like halls, it became apparent that thanks to his long legs, Jonathan should have been able to out walk Mayflower with ease. However, except for a handful of moments where Jonathan sped up for no clear reason, the pair were in close proximity. Jonathan's limp was cause behind his slower pace. On an average day his limp was not too noticeable since normally he was moved through these halls at a normal pace. Today though, when they were trying to be a bit speeder, his limp came out to play. It was so noticeable, in fact, that Jonathan surely would fall to the ground if he were to try to run.
They had made it a fair distance when Jonathan raised his hand in the air to haul his temporary companion. There were sounds around the corner; small, subtle noises very unlike those you would expect from escapees. Besides, they were far enough from the exit that anyone trying to escape would be far from their goal.
That meant that these were either doctors, guards, or some non-violent variation. Or well, there was the fourth option… a violent patient who had no real interest in escape.
Just as this thought passed through Jonathan’s mind, the mysterious voice from around the corner started talking. His words were mumbled, but easy enough to understand once you got a handle on it.
“Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut…” the voice muttered on repeat, his tone breathy and rapid. It was like he was so busy repeating this word that he didn't even need to breath.
Jonathan smirked for a moment, before his face fell into something more akin to a frown. It was Victor Zsasz, a truly insane murderer who cut a tally mark into his own skin every time he made a kill. He was a highly depressed man who had a compulsive need to kill; if he was muttering like this, then that meant that the compulsion was overriding all of his brain functions. If he saw them, he would surely kill them both without a thought.
This realization was not what prompted Jonathan to frown though. His problem with Zsasz was that he was unstable to the point that fear was weak. He was borderline suicidal, and when he wasn't suicidal, he was too overcome with blood lust to feel fear. Unfortunately, the desire to live was often necessary to induce terror onto someone. Oh, Jonathan suspected that the fear toxin would affect Zsasz but likely the result would be more crying than screaming, which was less interesting.
Turning to Mayflower, Jonathan slowly raised a finger to his lips to command him to be silent. Once that message was clear, Jonathan took that finger and ran it down his arm a few times, as if he were making tally marks. Hopefully, Mayflower knew enough about the dangerous patents in this place to understand what that meant, if Mayflower had not already figured it out.
The plus side was that they did not have to walk down Zsasz’s hall to get where they were going, although the downside was that the hall they did need to go down was in his line of sight. Around the left corner was Zsasz and around the right was the path forward. What to do?
A loud bang cut through the silence of the halls and caused even Zsasz to stop his muttering. Jonathan did not jump or even blink in reaction to the noise. Then, nearly seconds after that, came an echoing female scream either caused by shock or horror. For now, it didn't matter… although it hurt Jonathan not to investigate the cause of her screams more. He could guess though; she turned the corner, saw Zsasz, dropped something, and then screamed when the killer started rushing towards her.
Without warning, Jonathan reached down and grabbed Mayflower’s wrist once again. This time though it was not for his heart beat but to pull him into the hallway where Zsasz still was. If Mayflower pulled away, Jonathan let him; his intention was to silently communicate, not to force, after all.
Jonathan did not need to look behind him to know what he would see, the woman’s screams were enough to paint that picture, but Jonathan still took a second to glance over his shoulder. Far down the hall Zsasz was struggling to open a door. From said door came the screams. The woman had locked herself in the room when she saw Zsasz coming for her. It wasn't the best distraction though, which meant that they had a very small window to sneak down this hall.
There was nothing to be done for the girl that would not result in Zsasz turning his attention on them instead, so Jonathan returned his gaze to the hall before him and left the psycho killer have his fun.
Only five careful minutes after this close call, Jonathan once again stopped at a corner and raised a palm in the air. There was a lot of sound in this hall but not gunshots. There was shouting, countless people calling out orders, screaming in pain, or grunting as they struggled to keep patient’s in line despite the chaos. They had made it.
“You better go first. If I round this corner alone they may shoot me on sight.” Jonathan said, pleased that he had gotten them this far… as well as one other thing he managed to accomplish on the way. “It would not be ideal if I lead you all this way just to get killed now.”
After waiting for a good minute or two of patiently waiting, Jonathan rounded the corner. And, although Jonathan had sent Mayflower into the medical bay first for this very purpose, when he rounded the corner a fair number of people instead still panicked; guns were drawn and pointed by a fair number of those who had them, and those who did not have a gun took steps back. No one liked Jonathan on a normal day, but this was no normal day, so seeing him walk around free instead of chained in a cell was not appealing.
It certainly didn't help that Jonathan had a history of taking advantage of Arkham riots; even if he was not apart of the plan, he always managed to drug at least six people before Batman came rushing in to deal with the island threats… although sometimes he would manage to get to a few dozen. He would make a great ally if it were not for the fact that he was willing to test on villains or their henchmen when guards/cops were not around.
Still standing outside of the medical bay, Jonathan slowly raised his hands in the air to show that he was surrendering and that he was not a threat. Notably, Jonathan’s hands were empty when he raised them up. He had been carrying it since they left the janitor’s closet, although it was unclear when he got rid of it. There were so many corners and moments where Jonathan walked just a bit too fast flashed out of sight for a few seconds during their travel here. He could have dumped the bottle or stashed it someplace in any of those moments. Or perhaps it was during the Zsasz chaos? That also would have been an easy time to hide something since Mayflower would surely be very distracted then.
As he had not done something wrong, Jonathan stood there in complete surrender. His only movement’s as he waited to be chained up again were his shaking arms, small breaths, and the occasional twitch in his fingers.
This level of focus on his work could easily be seen as a flaw since it occasionally went overboard, but Jonathan had never seen his devotion or willingness to push boundaries that way. He probably never would.
~~~~~
Standing in the middle of a room without any real weapons to speak of, Jonathan should have been afraid for his life… yet he wasn't. Not only was he incapable, but he was also confident that his very being would startle most of the grunts hunting through this place. Jonathan’s tall, skeletal form had a way of making people nervous even without the mask on; perhaps it was because his natural appearance was looking more undead-like each passing day?
Thinking on his own natural ability to cause terror, Jonathan’s thoughts were interrupted by the door handle jiggling. He couldn't help it, his mouth twitched up for a second. This would be a defining moment in Mayflower’s life either way. It would be a beautiful moment of face to face conflict, or it would be a tense moment full of anticipation and near-threat. Mayflower raising the scissors in the air was enough to prompt Jonathan’s heart to beat faster. What would happen? He couldn't wait to see.
It seemed like the pair on the other side of the door were talking though, although it was hard to tell what they were saying. Jonathan was further from the door than Mayflower, after all. All Jonathan managed to understand was bastard, bridge, and count to ten. Perhaps there was ten more minutes until the bridge was up? That was an option, and based on the fact that the pair walked away with a fair bit of speed, it made sense. It would be terrible if they did all this work and killing only to miss their ticket out of here.
Now that the voices were gone, Jonathan kept his gaze on Mayflower to see what the doctor would do next. It actually was a bit surprising when Mayflower turned to look at Jonathan instead of proceeding with his plan. This amount of trust was unprecedented. Oh, Jonathan knew that the good doctor did not trust him completely, but this entire event highlighted the fact that when push comes to shove, Mayflower trusted Jonathan enough not to get them killed. He would come to regret that one day.
Thankfully, for today at least, Mayflower was right to put his trust in Jonathan. He didn't want either of them dead today, so he would do what he could to make that not happen.
Giving a small nod to acknowledge Mayflower’s gaze, Jonathan left his spot in the center of the room and approached the door. He paused for a single moment, frozen with his hand on the handle before he pulled it open and stepped out. There was no hesitation, but at the same time, there was no rush either. It was like he was walking into a cafe on a casual Tuesday morning before work where he knew the baristas and they knew him.
Without glancing back into the storage room, Jonathan revealed himself in the hallway openly. When nothing happened, he swiveled his head back and forth to see if someone was just keeping quiet. They weren’t. No one was around… or at least visible. However, he did see something a few feet from where he stood. It was the apple Jonathan dropped when shoved against the wall.
Without calling out to Mayflower, Jonathan picked up the apple and tossed it underhand down the hallway in the direction of the medical bay. The apple made a soft thud and bounced a few times before it rolled the rest of the way down the hallway until it was stopped by the far wall. Once again, Jonathan stood calmly and silently as he waited to see if anyone around the corner would react to the random apple. Once again, nothing; it was a good sign.
“You may come out doctor; we are in the clear for now but I doubt the peace will last long,” Jonathan said, patiently waiting for the smaller man to join him in the dim hallway. Without lifting his arms or letting go of the spray bottle, Jonathan raised one of his long fingers to point towards where he just threw the apple. “The fastest route to the medical bay is this way.”
With that, Jonathan started down the hall. As he walked, his tall stature was lessened by his nearly ever-constant hunch. Although some people thought this posture was because of a Batman injury, the truth was that he just spent too much time at a desk throughout his entire life. And now that he was the Scarecrow, his abnormal posture only added to his skeletal appearance that put many people off. He certainly didn't mind it, although he did occasionally get flashes of pain in his back.
As they made their way through the many maze-like halls, it became apparent that thanks to his long legs, Jonathan should have been able to out walk Mayflower with ease. However, except for a handful of moments where Jonathan sped up for no clear reason, the pair were in close proximity. Jonathan's limp was cause behind his slower pace. On an average day his limp was not too noticeable since normally he was moved through these halls at a normal pace. Today though, when they were trying to be a bit speeder, his limp came out to play. It was so noticeable, in fact, that Jonathan surely would fall to the ground if he were to try to run.
They had made it a fair distance when Jonathan raised his hand in the air to haul his temporary companion. There were sounds around the corner; small, subtle noises very unlike those you would expect from escapees. Besides, they were far enough from the exit that anyone trying to escape would be far from their goal.
That meant that these were either doctors, guards, or some non-violent variation. Or well, there was the fourth option… a violent patient who had no real interest in escape.
Just as this thought passed through Jonathan’s mind, the mysterious voice from around the corner started talking. His words were mumbled, but easy enough to understand once you got a handle on it.
“Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut…” the voice muttered on repeat, his tone breathy and rapid. It was like he was so busy repeating this word that he didn't even need to breath.
Jonathan smirked for a moment, before his face fell into something more akin to a frown. It was Victor Zsasz, a truly insane murderer who cut a tally mark into his own skin every time he made a kill. He was a highly depressed man who had a compulsive need to kill; if he was muttering like this, then that meant that the compulsion was overriding all of his brain functions. If he saw them, he would surely kill them both without a thought.
This realization was not what prompted Jonathan to frown though. His problem with Zsasz was that he was unstable to the point that fear was weak. He was borderline suicidal, and when he wasn't suicidal, he was too overcome with blood lust to feel fear. Unfortunately, the desire to live was often necessary to induce terror onto someone. Oh, Jonathan suspected that the fear toxin would affect Zsasz but likely the result would be more crying than screaming, which was less interesting.
Turning to Mayflower, Jonathan slowly raised a finger to his lips to command him to be silent. Once that message was clear, Jonathan took that finger and ran it down his arm a few times, as if he were making tally marks. Hopefully, Mayflower knew enough about the dangerous patents in this place to understand what that meant, if Mayflower had not already figured it out.
The plus side was that they did not have to walk down Zsasz’s hall to get where they were going, although the downside was that the hall they did need to go down was in his line of sight. Around the left corner was Zsasz and around the right was the path forward. What to do?
A loud bang cut through the silence of the halls and caused even Zsasz to stop his muttering. Jonathan did not jump or even blink in reaction to the noise. Then, nearly seconds after that, came an echoing female scream either caused by shock or horror. For now, it didn't matter… although it hurt Jonathan not to investigate the cause of her screams more. He could guess though; she turned the corner, saw Zsasz, dropped something, and then screamed when the killer started rushing towards her.
Without warning, Jonathan reached down and grabbed Mayflower’s wrist once again. This time though it was not for his heart beat but to pull him into the hallway where Zsasz still was. If Mayflower pulled away, Jonathan let him; his intention was to silently communicate, not to force, after all.
Jonathan did not need to look behind him to know what he would see, the woman’s screams were enough to paint that picture, but Jonathan still took a second to glance over his shoulder. Far down the hall Zsasz was struggling to open a door. From said door came the screams. The woman had locked herself in the room when she saw Zsasz coming for her. It wasn't the best distraction though, which meant that they had a very small window to sneak down this hall.
There was nothing to be done for the girl that would not result in Zsasz turning his attention on them instead, so Jonathan returned his gaze to the hall before him and left the psycho killer have his fun.
Only five careful minutes after this close call, Jonathan once again stopped at a corner and raised a palm in the air. There was a lot of sound in this hall but not gunshots. There was shouting, countless people calling out orders, screaming in pain, or grunting as they struggled to keep patient’s in line despite the chaos. They had made it.
“You better go first. If I round this corner alone they may shoot me on sight.” Jonathan said, pleased that he had gotten them this far… as well as one other thing he managed to accomplish on the way. “It would not be ideal if I lead you all this way just to get killed now.”
After waiting for a good minute or two of patiently waiting, Jonathan rounded the corner. And, although Jonathan had sent Mayflower into the medical bay first for this very purpose, when he rounded the corner a fair number of people instead still panicked; guns were drawn and pointed by a fair number of those who had them, and those who did not have a gun took steps back. No one liked Jonathan on a normal day, but this was no normal day, so seeing him walk around free instead of chained in a cell was not appealing.
It certainly didn't help that Jonathan had a history of taking advantage of Arkham riots; even if he was not apart of the plan, he always managed to drug at least six people before Batman came rushing in to deal with the island threats… although sometimes he would manage to get to a few dozen. He would make a great ally if it were not for the fact that he was willing to test on villains or their henchmen when guards/cops were not around.
Still standing outside of the medical bay, Jonathan slowly raised his hands in the air to show that he was surrendering and that he was not a threat. Notably, Jonathan’s hands were empty when he raised them up. He had been carrying it since they left the janitor’s closet, although it was unclear when he got rid of it. There were so many corners and moments where Jonathan walked just a bit too fast flashed out of sight for a few seconds during their travel here. He could have dumped the bottle or stashed it someplace in any of those moments. Or perhaps it was during the Zsasz chaos? That also would have been an easy time to hide something since Mayflower would surely be very distracted then.
As he had not done something wrong, Jonathan stood there in complete surrender. His only movement’s as he waited to be chained up again were his shaking arms, small breaths, and the occasional twitch in his fingers.
Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
•●•
Dr. Mayflower remained by the door as Mr. Crane stepped out, the doctor still tucked just slightly behind the door and out of sight from the hallway in case there was still trouble lingering nearby. As Mr. Crane passed the doorway into the open hall, the wall cutting Matthias off from his sight line, Dr. Mayflower briefly reconsidered his line of thought and if this truly was a good idea. Jonathon had already proven he could move quietly. He could just as easily ditch Matthias as help him.
As Matthias heard a soft thud outside the doorway, breaking the eerie silence, Matthias' gaze drifted back to the door, falling on the doorknob as he tried to listen for any other source of noise. As he was greeted with only silence, he began to wonder if Mr. Crane truly had changed his mind.
Of course, surprises tend to come in doubles.
After the brief reassurance that there was no trouble -- at least immediate trouble -- Dr. Mayflower left the dimness of the room. He looked briefly at Mr. Crane as he exited the room, his gaze quickly flickering down each of the halls before following back to the hallway Mr. Crane had indicated, finally the gaze falling onto the apple sitting at the end of the hallway. By the time Matthias had completed his brief self-conducted reconfirmation of Jonathon's statement, the former doctor had already started a few steps down the path towards the medical bay, leading Matthias to briefly rush to keep up with him.
Throughout the walk, Matthias remained silent, trying to keep a steady pace with Mr. Crane but occasionally falling a few paces short during the brief intervals where Mr. Crane would seemingly randomly quicken his pace. Matthias had admittedly been caught slightly off guard by it the first time, but after quickly catching up the first few instances it occurred, it seemed that it was not an attempt to shake Matthias off in the long winding halls and was simply -- well -- Matthias was actually not sure about the reasoning behind it. As it happened a few more times, however, Matthias let the odd occurrence slip from his mind and would merely pick up his pace each time it occurred, figuring that it must just be some strange way for Mr. Crane to play on Dr. Mayflower's clear unease of the situation. After settling on that explanation, each brief interval of having to take a few quick paces to catch up with the former doctor became a mere annoyance.
He did, however, notice the limp, first noticing it about the second or third time he has fallen behind Jonathon's stride. It seemed to have worsened, likely due to how fast they were going. It wasn't quite a run, but it definitely wasn't a leisurely pace. In turn, Matthias could only assume that it was likely cause a degree of discomfort to Jonathon.
Matthias made no comment on it, but chose to remember the detail, perhaps to make a short note somewhere in the documents, or maybe even to provide a small mention of thanks at some point in the future. Regardless, now was not the time.
Dr. Mayflower stopped sharply as Jonathon held his hand up, the doctor's amber eyes falling back onto Mr. Crane as his eyebrows furrowed at the sudden stop. In the quiet pause, however, he quickly caught onto the noise and his gaze turned to the hall it was coming from, brow still slightly furrowed as he tried to pick apart the quiet noise. Looking to the hallway signs, he could vaguely recognize the general area of the facility that that they were in. They were getting close to the medical bay, there was no reason for anyone dangerous to be in this area. Right? Anyone who had broken out would be aiming to reach the bridge by now. This likely wasn't a guard, judging by the quiet -- whispering? It was difficult for Matthias to pick apart the words, but it sounded like someone was talking. Possibly a doctor whispering to someone and just trying to escape?
As he began to open his mouth to try and talk it through briefly with Jonathon, he caught sight of the disturbing smirk just as it fell into a frown, leading a chill to cross Matthias' spine and his words to vanish before he could even start. Likely for the best, it seemed. As much as Matthias was here at Arkham to help Jonathon become a better person; anything that the former doctor smiled about was something that Matthias was very content with avoiding.
As the words became a little clearer, he could pick out the small muttering of the man. Combined with the short signs from Jonathon, Matthias was able to quickly piece it together after a couple of seconds. Victor Zsasz, obsessive compulsive disorder and severe depression. Relatively intelligent, but prone to episodes of violence. He had heard his name a few times, mostly from doctors warning him to immediately turn tail and run for the hills if he ever got a folder with that name on it -- though had also heard of it a fair amount of times in the news.
Matthias briefly nodded to acknowledge that he understood, unsure of how else to respond.
Matthias cringed at the initial bang, looking in the direction of the source and soon hearing the scream, leading his heart to sink more for the unfortunate woman. A few ideas immediately circled through his mind in the split moment, none of which would be able to help the woman due to their own unfortunate flaws. If he tried to lure Zsasz away from her, it was likely that the experienced killer would catch up and make quick work of him. If he tried to simply run into the situation, then it would likely have similar circumstances.
Caught in the initial surprise of the bang, eyes turned away from Jonathon, he gave a small jolt and yanked his hand away upon feeling the cold bony fingers wrap around his wrist. Curiously, as he tugged his hand away, he would first notice the split second where it seemed something had -- caught -- on something else? Like a zipper catching on fabric right before the material gave away. No. More like if someone's finger nail were to snag on a piece of tissue -- brief and barely noticeable. In fact, if not for the second curious detail -- a warm wetness -- Matthias likely would not have recognized the moderate jagged cut that the blade of his scissors had created on Jonathon's hand, starting at the edge of his palm just under his pinky finger and slicing down about halfway across the palm.
Scissors, he could have sworn he had discarded those at some point? Or even left them in the closet right before leaving? Surely he hadn't carried them in his tight grip throughout all these halls and turns?
Dr. Mayflower tensed at the brief mistake, but quickly pulled himself out of his hesitation as he recognized -- or at least hoped -- it to have been an attempt to get him to move along with Jonathon. Matthias had merely mistaken the action and reacted on an impulse. It was an instinct, to pull his hand away, the fact that he had the scissors still tucked in his grip -- which he could have sworn he had left them behind -- had merely been an accident. Still, as he took the hint and quickly began moving after the brief hesitation, following Jonathon quickly through the hallway as he felt a pang of guilt for injuring a patient. Like all things, however, now was not the time to fuss over such things.
Matthias' gaze followed the the other side of the hallway as he watched Zsasz struggle with the door and listened to the woman's shrieks, sending a chill down Matthias' spine. The only way that he could possibly hope to help her is by reaching the guards and alerting them of the situation -- hopefully before Zsasz can even get into the same room as her.
As they traveled down the few remaining hallways, Matthias made no comment on the girl, Mr. Zsasz, or even the wound. He did, however, after reaching a short distance away from the former hallway, tuck away the scissors. At least it was inferred he had, as he would fall briefly behind Jonathon for a couple of paces, and upon returning to his side a few seconds later, the scissors would be missing and the faint splotch of Jonathon's blood that had smeared itself across Matthias' wrist during the initial wounding was now smudged -- a faint bit of red on the edge of Matthias' leather messenger bag. Other than this brief moment, Matthias kept his gaze in front of him, or briefly flickering across the hallways they had passed. His amber eyes did not -- however -- fall back on Jonathon for the remainder of the trip until they had reached their final destination.
Matthias looked up as he heard Jonathon speak, the doctor then giving a nod. He opened his mouth briefly, but, after another pause of hesitation, he only offered a short and curt apology. "Sorry," he said, indicating to the injury, before he continued forward and around the corner.
Matthias gave a small raise of his hands and still cautiously approached. Due to the lack of his jacket, it was not immediately apparent that he was a staff member -- but anyone who gave an actual glance to him would be able to easily tell that he was also not a patient.
A few guards would exchange glances with each other. After all, it seemed rare that doctors would travel around during these sorts of breakouts. Much less travel alone. After the initial surprise, one of the guards standing lookout would give a sharp jerk of his head to direct Dr. Mayflower over and through the makeshift checkpoint. "Do you have your ID?" The guard asked.
Matthias gave a node and retrieved it from his bag, showing the guard as he spoke. "Dr. Matthias Mayflower, Patient Therapist, I walked here with one of my patients who is waiting around that corner." He clarified, his naturally quiet voice, the loudness of the hall and bay and the distance between the end of the long hallway and the corner muffling most of the words from anyone other than the guards directly in front of him. "There is a woman in hall 9B, Victor Zsasz was trying to get into the room she was in."
The guard nodded and beckoned to a few guards standing nearby, passing the information on and then handing the badge back. "We'll send a team to settle it, who is your patient?"
Almost as if on cue, the guards that had just been instructed to pursue Mr. Zsasz and were slightly further down the hall would raise their guns sharply as Jonathon came around from the corner. Matthias followed his gaze back to the other side of the hallway and, after his eyes briefly crossed over Jonathon's bloodied palm, then flashing to the other empty hand, he took note of the missing object. The spray.
The events afterwards were rather fast-paced. Jonathon was secured. Dr. Mayflower was assigned to help the few understaffed doctors rushing around the medical bay. It was messy, but Matthias was more accustomed to this type of work. Most of the people here were stable already, even despite some of the more gory wounds people had endured. One man had his lower arm shattered from a door that had closed on him while he tried to rush into a room in the initial lock down. The most that could be done for him for now was to give him a large amount of heavy painkillers and to clean off part of the arm where the bone had breached the skin. Another man was a guard who had been punched pretty hard by an unarmed patient, leading to a severe concussion. The man had babbled on about how his daughter was going to be in a play where she would be playing the role of a mime or ringmaster or something and that he'd be damned if he missed a play over a stupid 'slap fight'.
It reminded Matthias faintly of Tiedrich, and, while sitting with the man and encouraging him to continue talking in order to keep him from drifting off until he could get better help, Matthias looked around the room to try and locate the man. It would not exactly be hard, considering the size of the other man. However, after a few seconds of searching, he could not locate him. 'He's fine,' Matthias reassured himself. Tiedrich was, despite his actions, intelligent. He would avoid any dangerous situations. If not, well, hopefully Tiedrich would just barrel straight through any trouble.
"Hey, I'll take over. Could you go replace her bandages?" Another doctor said as they approached, setting a hand on Matthias' shoulder and pointing a sharp thumb back to a woman on the other side of the room.
"Of course," Matthias said, beginning to stand as the man who was still rambling about his family took on a faintly disappointed look about losing his one-sided conversational partner. "I hope you get to see her tonight," Matthias added briefly before leaving, recognizing that the head injury was severe enough that the man would likely not even be able to recall the conversation.
For some time -- possibly an hour, possibly a few hours -- Matthias would be stuck in this job, constantly darting between patients to aid with wherever he was directed to. Eventually, there came a time where he would look around and notice that some of the previous patients were missing, it seeming to be primarily the severe cases. Initially surprised by this fact, he was able to quickly figure out that the lockdown was wrapping up and the patients were being taken out for emergency care.
He found the time to pull his phone from his bag, the bridge of his nose creasing slightly as he found a few dried reddish smudges across his phone screen. Using his already dirtied sleeve, he wiped them away to the best of his ability and turned on his screen to the time of 4:52 PM and six notifications. All from Tiedrich.
'In the cafe, bunch of us hunkered down soon as alarm went off. Where are you? -V.'
'You good? - V.'
'Dead doc says what - V.'
'thats a joke - V.'
'Went with a group to your office where are you? - V.'
'heard from some guards that the lockdown is wrapping up but still advised to stay inside rooms until they make an announcement so just stay put there could be some psychos still roaming the halls -V.'
The last text had been from half an hour ago.
Matthias quietly swore to himself, taking the first break in the last few hours to respond, just thankful to have an indication that Tiedrich had made it. 'I'm in the medical bay, if the guards are telling you to stay, then just stay. We can meet up somewhere whenever this is settled down. - M.'
'You hurt? - V.'
'I'm fine. Stay put.' - M.'
Matthias responded before depositing his phone back into his bag and looking around again. Nobody was in critical condition, and those that were seemed to be in the process of being evacuated from the facility. All that remained were those that were completely stable or were being currently treated.
As his eyes scanned the room, they eventually fell onto the other side of the large room where Jonathon had been chained up near a few other patients who had either been found by guards along the way or had simply stumbled into the guards and been promptly secured to a line of chairs at the edge of the room for the lack of a better place to store them. As his eyes trailed to his hand, he noticed that it also seemed basic medical care had been a luxury denied to Mr. Crane. In turn, Matthias grabbed some bandages from one of the nearby tables. They appeared to be scraps left behind by other doctors in a rush to help other patients, but luckily, these happened to be almost the exact size he predicted he would need. He also grabbed a small mostly-depleted tube of antibacterial paste and a few anti-bacterial wipes before he began making his way towards the former doctor.
He made no comment as he approached Jonathon, unsure of what he even would say, but after a brief pause when he neared and held up the bandages briefly to show his intentions, he approached. After getting nearby and considering his words for another second or two, he finally settled with a bit of small talk. "I did not think that these sorts of things would last this long." After remaining silent for a few moments following his words, his eyes would drift back to the cut across Jonathon's hand, seeing the reality of it for the first time since he had caught the brief glance at the initial injury.
It looked a bit rough, but was luckily not as deep as Matthias had assumed it to be. It also was much more clear that nobody had attempted to treat it yet and -- as Matthias noticed a small band aid sitting on the ground a few feet from Jonathon, it seemed someone had even added insult to injury by tauntingly dropping the useless bandage for Jonathon out of his reach. Despite Dr. Mayflower clearly noticing the tool of mockery on the floor, he made no comment on it. "Have you been keeping it off the handle of the chair and other surfaces?" Dr. Mayflower asked as he held out his hand own hand, waiting for Jonathon to offer the injured hand so that Dr. Mayflower could clean it.
•●•
Viper
One Thousand Club
To tell the truth, the limp was never much of an issue on the average day. Even on the non-average day, the limp was more of a minor annoyance than an actual hindrance. Running for Jonathan was a rare action no matter what he was doing. Even before his leg was nearly shattered by Batman, Jonathan never ran during his crimes anyway. Either Jonathan would walk to safety, or he would surrender with some kind of attempt to poison his foes; apparently, the great Scarecrow was more of a fight or freeze person, never the type to flee.
Today though, it was not his life on the line but the life of a subject he had yet to fully study. Mayflower’s death was not a real option, so Jonathan sped up more than he normally would… and that was when his leg started to throb. At first the occasional rushed speed just caused a bit of a wobble, as shown by his limp, but as they moved about the asylum, the wobble turned into throbbing. It got to the point that every step sent a shock of pain throughout his body.
It wasn't that Jonathan did not feel the pain, he just didn't care. So many things were immaterial when compared to his studies that even his own pain was something he could ignore. He would likely regret ignoring the pain later though, once he sat down and was able to focus on something other than Mayflower. In this asylum, physical therapy was non-existent… and even if it was, it certainly would not be offered to Jonathan considering that no one wanted to be anywhere within arms reach of him.
Similarly to Jonathan’s ability to ignore his leg pain in favor of his goals, which arguably was an unhealthy ability, Joanthan could also seemed to be able to ignore cuts. It wasn't that Jonathan or his body did not respond to it, because they did. When the scissors were dragged against his hand, Jonathan inhaled for a second in an almost hiss like manner and his hand twitched open more aggressive than normal. The problem was, Jonathan responded to the pain for only a second. He glanced at his hand, saw red, and then that was it; his attention was on matters far more important than his personal health. In fact, after that single moment, the stinging pain even faded into the background; it was something to be dealt with later.
The only thing important to note was that Mayflower still had his scissors in his hands, and he had used them against Jonathan. Was it intentional or an instinctive by-product of someone dangerous grabbing onto him in a dangerous circumstance. This would be brought up later, that was for sure.
As they walked, Jonathan noticeably did not attend to his wound at all. He didn't even close his hand. Due to that, his blood was dripping down his fingers and leaving a very small trail behind him. It wasn't like he was bleeding out though, so at most the so called trail was a few drops every few feet.
It was only when Mayflower apologized that Jonathan decided that now was the time to address his wound. There was no time to respond to the apology, but now that he was alone, Jonathan had a chance to look at it… and to feel the sting. When he poked at the injury to see how sensitive it was and if that would increase or decrease the bleeding, Jonathan hissed a bit but not much. The wound also didn't respond very much to the light pressure. It was a thin cut then but deep enough that it would bleed for a while if pressure was not put on it. It burned a bit, but overall seemed fine. The only real problem was if those scissors were clean or not… probably not considering that they were in a janitor's closet where everything else was filth.
It would be a real shame if Jonathan got an infection; his hands were already in a bad state due to the injuries Batman had inflicted.
Once again though, that would be a problem for later. Leaving to get a disinfectant for himself would risk not only his life but, more importantly, the trust of Mayflower. So, instead of treating his wound, Jonathan rounded the corner with his hands up. The blood slowly started dripping down his arm now, going so far as to soak into the cuffs of his long-sleeved jumpsuit or slipping past the jumpsuit to just trail down his skin. Thankfully, Jonathan was comfortable with both blood on his clothing and skin; this, just like everything else apparently, was acceptable.
It didn't take long for Jonathan to be cuffed once again to a random corner with all the other mostly non-injured patients. What else were the staff to do? The cells were not really an option right now, and even the medical bay cells were already full of the normal patients. They were not prepared to handle such a large increase, so into the corner they went.
It was far from ideal to be here, surrounded by violent criminals and loons, but truly, better here than around the non-patient sort. After all, most of these men had fun quirks that made them a bit more interesting to listen to…especially since most of the people stuffed into this corner were trying their best to give Jonathan space. Just like the staff, a lot of the patients were smart enough not to get in arms reach of Jonathan. It was just a bonus that this time Jonathan got a chair to sit in instead of a puddle.
For about two hours, give or take, Jonathan found himself people watching. There was a lot going on, but the chaos made it all the sweeter. There was so much pain, so much fear going on that Jonathan found himself smiling slightly to himself. This was nice entertainment after so many weeks of dull monotony.
Jonathan even saw that perverted dark-haired doctor here, working hard to keep injured patients breathing, especially when their heads looked a bit hurt. From here, the man simply seemed like a diligent worker with a passion for his craft, but Jonathan was confident that if he approached he would see the man sweating, hear his heart pounding, and be able to witness the way the man’s eyes wandered when confronted with an unconscious or near unconscious female patient.
And then, of course, there was Mayflower, who Jonathan did his best to watch. The sweet dear was helping treat some of the injured. This was not surprising considering that Mayflower had shown to be a helpful, borderline altruist sort, but that didn't make it less interesting to watch. Mayflower could have been reading a book and Jonathan would have been watching just as closely; one never knew when a subject was going to do something notable.
And sure enough, Mayflower pulled out a cell phone and stared at it for half a minute. A casual action, but one that that implications after Mayflower could be seen responding to it. A text then? From who? Perhaps it was family, but family would have no reason to text because they would not have known that there was a breakout; this did not go on long enough for reporters to get wind of it, after all. Perhaps a coworker then? That either meant that Mayflower had friends on the site before he arrived here or that he had made friends fairly quickly.
Perhaps Jonathan needed to try and convince a few more people to spy on Mayflower for him? It would be very nice to know who Mayflower called friend.
In response to the growing calm and exhaustion that was taking over the hospital room now that the threat was over, Jonathan found himself speaking aloud, not even fully aware that he was doing so. “I wonder if Batman came and saved the day?” Jonathan said.
Unfortunately, Jonathan got a response from one of the criminals who was merely here to deal with his anger that was so strong it was was deemed a mental issue; there were a lot of his type around here unfortunately. “Damn it, I wish. If I saw that costumed freak I’d rip his fucking spine out with my bare hands. The bastard has it coming after sending me to the hospital twice now. ” The man was two seats next to Jonathan, so he was unable to see Jonathan roll his eyes; these words were so unoriginal that it bored Jonathan near to tears. “Bet if I kill some more of these docs though, he’ll show up. As soon as they take me off this chair maybe I’ll-”
“If you lay a single hand on one of these doctors, you will be dead by the end of the week,” Jonathan interrupted, his threat abnormally out in the open but still delivered in his normal calm tone that was just slightly below average in volume.
The faceless criminal paused before snapping a response, “The fuck you say to me?”
“If you make an attempt at the lives of any of the doctors here, at least today, I will personally make sure that your life ends with you screaming.”
“Psh, as if. We all know that you don’t have any of that freaky fear toxin on you, why else would you be chained to these chairs? Don’t act so tough.”
Slowly, Jonathan leaned forward so that he could actually look at the man he was talking to. He was buff, tattooed, and very clearly a gang member. Based on his apparent sanity, he was probably loyal to Two-Face or Penguin. When Jonathan locked eyes with this man, he visibly flinched. It was always so easy to talk big when you were not looking into the fact of a truly criminally insane man. “Is it your relationship with your father that causes you to act out with such rage?” Jonathan asked, almost as if he actually cared. “Tell me, when you raise your fist against another, do you see yourself assaulting your father or your father assaulting you?”
The man visibly paled, “How the fuck did you know about that?” That being his father and their relationship. “You don’t know me, there is no way you could have known about him.”
Jonathan chose to ignore this question, and instead drive his own point home. “A few breaths of my toxin and you can see him again, perhaps even for the rest of your life. You are right to say that I do not have any at the moment, but you are wrong to think that I can not make some whenever I want. So, let me repeat myself more clearly, if you hurt any of the doctors in this room today, visions of your father will be the last thing you need to worry about.”
With that, Jonathan leaned back in his chair and, thankfully, the criminal was silent and docile. Even when guards came to get him, the man kept his mouth quiet; he had a sneer on his face, but he did not look at Jonathan again.
Jonathan cracked his neck, satisfied with how that went. He was lucky that the man actually had father issues, although of what kind, Jonathan did not know. He used the word abuse because he was unaware if it was sexual or physical. It was no secret that a troubled home life often led to crime, and troubled homes sometimes included abuse; Jonathan had gambled that this man was one of those cases, and apparently, he was right. Hopefully that man’s therapist also knew about his father issues, because that kind of information did not always make it into the official records if no one reported it.
This high was slightly ruined when one of the staff walked by and gave a disgusted look at Jonathan. It was a female doctor, medical and not mental, and as such, Jonathan was not personally familiar with them. Now that the chaos had died down, apparently it was time to mock. “I can’t believe you haven't gotten shot yet. Whoever cut you should have aimed a bit higher and taken you out for good. God knows that we lost enough good men today that killing you would have justified it.”
Jonathan did not immediately respond, but the smile was off his lips. He was trying to get a better read of this person, but all the stranger was showing was disgust. Normally Jonathan would just be civil when he didn't know who he was dealing with, and then he would pull his tricks once he got a decent read on them, but this person was not interested in being civil.
“My superiors are idiots if they think that I’m going to waste a single scrap of bandages to heal someone like you. Can you believe it? They say that we have to treat all patients equally, as if monsters like you even deserve to be breathing still.... But I don’t want to lose my job, so here, you can have a bandaid. Oops, I dropped it.” The stranger said, her voice almost monotone as she very deliberately let it fall to the ground.
Slowly Jonathan watched it sway to the ground and silently land, very obviously out of his reach. Even if it was in reach, he still would not have been able to reach down and get it considering his chained circumstances. Despite all that, Jonathan glanced up at the stranger and gave a small nod. “Thank you very much for your service. I’ll put it on myself in a moment.” Jonathan was being civil, but in such a way that it was condescending.
Apparently the doctor could pick up on the condescending tone. Her face turned red as she took in some air but she deflated and just walked away to care for an actual patient. Still, she was muttering and cursing something inaudible, but it likely was not kind. Jonathan, on the other hand, gave one more look at the useless bandaid before returning his attention to Mayflower.
This event happened about twenty minutes before Jonathan saw Mayflower approaching with bandages in hand. There was a very small red puddle around his chair, something noticeable enough to draw in that female doctor and apparently Mayflower as well. The wound though had stopped bleeding. It only dripped a bit when he moved it too much or put some pressure on it.
Jonathan was letting Mayflower take the lead in this conversation, so he waited and watched until Mayflower spoke. “This is actually fairly short for a breakout attempt,” Jonathan said, content to reciprocate Mayflower’s attempt at small talk. “Normally attempts like this last all night; the head of this escape attempt must not be very good at this if their only plan was to rush the bridge.” Not to mention kill the power but ignore the backup generators. This was either their first escape attempt, or they were fools.
Jonathan followed Mayflower’s gaze to the bandaid, but also did not mention it. Perhaps he would in a moment? No, there was no reason to do so. It was such a small, meaningless interaction that it was not even worth discussing. After all, mocking from those who thought that they were in control was a normal event at this asylum. Power balances, even ones that were subject to change daily, gave people the confidence they needed to say what they really thought, as if there would be no repercussions. Luckily for her, Jonathan had no intention of seeking vengeance on the forgettable woman.
Considering his chained up position, Jonathan did his best to slowly offer his hand to Mayflower. If the man wanted to make sure Jonathan did not get infected, then so be it. Besides, physical closeness was known to bring two people mentally closer as well. So why not?
“I believe so,” Jonathan said in response to Mayflower’s question about his hand. His answer was clearly uncertain though. “To be honest, Doctor, if it weren't for other people bringing it up, I may have forgotten about it entirely. There was so much going on that this little cut was immaterial.”
Jonathan paused, but not for long. “Thank you for coming to take care of it. I was briefly concerned that those scissors would cause some sort of infection; they were not in the most sanitary of places, after all.” Although he was bringing up the fact that Mayflower was the one who caused the injury, Jonathan's tone only reflected his graciousness. For the most part, that was because Jonathan mainly cared about Mayflower’s current kindness. Perhaps later he would care a bit more about how the injury happened later, after Mayflower appeared to be more willing to talk about it.
It was only fair as long as Mayflower continued to ignore that Jonathan no longer had that spray bottle.
“The people here should also be grateful that you insisted on coming here. It looked like you were helping them out a fair bit.” It was unintentional, but these words heavily implied that Jonathan had been watching Mayflower over the past two hours.
Of course, Jonathan was not the type to linger on his own odd, unhealthy habits. “Did the Zsasz woman get rescued in time?” This question was partially to sate Jonathan’s curiosity, but also to prod at Mayflower’s mind just a bit. Considering his calmness, either the woman was fine or Mayflower did not know. And if Mayflower did not know, then all the more reason to bring it up. The other man should be just as curious as Jonathan was. “The doors are strong, so as long as Zsasz did not get lucky, the guards should have gotten there in time… assuming they went at all.” It was indeed possible that they just rounded the corner and stayed there a bit; leaving the medical bay was just as dangerous for them as it was for the patients or stray doctor.
Now that Jonathan was thinking about it… wasn't it strange that they did not encounter any bodies? There were gunshots, and based on what that rude doctor had said, people were lost. Perhaps they were just lucky not to run into any corpses all that time. Or, alternatively, most of the deaths that occurred where inside of rooms instead of in the halls; like those other people hiding a few doors down from Jonathan and Mayflower. They were likely killed inside of their hiding spot before they could flee. It was a shame to tell the truth, Jonathan wanted Mayflower to see a corpse and to be there to witness his reaction.
“You did well today, you know. You should be proud of how composed you managed to stay despite all of the dangers you faced,” Jonathan complimented semi out of the blue, his mind and speech jumping back and forth a bit. It’s not that he was distracted, but he there were simply too many thoughts going on. “In fact, you handled yourself better than any other doctor I’ve had up until this point. I’ll admit, I’m impressed… I’m can't wait to see what it will take to break that composure of yours.” As usual, Jonathan’s sincere compliments and interactions were ruined at the end. His fascination was fear, and Mayflower, was too strong not to allude to at least once. Jonathan's focus on fear was called an obsession for a reason, after all.
Today though, it was not his life on the line but the life of a subject he had yet to fully study. Mayflower’s death was not a real option, so Jonathan sped up more than he normally would… and that was when his leg started to throb. At first the occasional rushed speed just caused a bit of a wobble, as shown by his limp, but as they moved about the asylum, the wobble turned into throbbing. It got to the point that every step sent a shock of pain throughout his body.
It wasn't that Jonathan did not feel the pain, he just didn't care. So many things were immaterial when compared to his studies that even his own pain was something he could ignore. He would likely regret ignoring the pain later though, once he sat down and was able to focus on something other than Mayflower. In this asylum, physical therapy was non-existent… and even if it was, it certainly would not be offered to Jonathan considering that no one wanted to be anywhere within arms reach of him.
Similarly to Jonathan’s ability to ignore his leg pain in favor of his goals, which arguably was an unhealthy ability, Joanthan could also seemed to be able to ignore cuts. It wasn't that Jonathan or his body did not respond to it, because they did. When the scissors were dragged against his hand, Jonathan inhaled for a second in an almost hiss like manner and his hand twitched open more aggressive than normal. The problem was, Jonathan responded to the pain for only a second. He glanced at his hand, saw red, and then that was it; his attention was on matters far more important than his personal health. In fact, after that single moment, the stinging pain even faded into the background; it was something to be dealt with later.
The only thing important to note was that Mayflower still had his scissors in his hands, and he had used them against Jonathan. Was it intentional or an instinctive by-product of someone dangerous grabbing onto him in a dangerous circumstance. This would be brought up later, that was for sure.
As they walked, Jonathan noticeably did not attend to his wound at all. He didn't even close his hand. Due to that, his blood was dripping down his fingers and leaving a very small trail behind him. It wasn't like he was bleeding out though, so at most the so called trail was a few drops every few feet.
It was only when Mayflower apologized that Jonathan decided that now was the time to address his wound. There was no time to respond to the apology, but now that he was alone, Jonathan had a chance to look at it… and to feel the sting. When he poked at the injury to see how sensitive it was and if that would increase or decrease the bleeding, Jonathan hissed a bit but not much. The wound also didn't respond very much to the light pressure. It was a thin cut then but deep enough that it would bleed for a while if pressure was not put on it. It burned a bit, but overall seemed fine. The only real problem was if those scissors were clean or not… probably not considering that they were in a janitor's closet where everything else was filth.
It would be a real shame if Jonathan got an infection; his hands were already in a bad state due to the injuries Batman had inflicted.
Once again though, that would be a problem for later. Leaving to get a disinfectant for himself would risk not only his life but, more importantly, the trust of Mayflower. So, instead of treating his wound, Jonathan rounded the corner with his hands up. The blood slowly started dripping down his arm now, going so far as to soak into the cuffs of his long-sleeved jumpsuit or slipping past the jumpsuit to just trail down his skin. Thankfully, Jonathan was comfortable with both blood on his clothing and skin; this, just like everything else apparently, was acceptable.
~ ~ ~
It didn't take long for Jonathan to be cuffed once again to a random corner with all the other mostly non-injured patients. What else were the staff to do? The cells were not really an option right now, and even the medical bay cells were already full of the normal patients. They were not prepared to handle such a large increase, so into the corner they went.
It was far from ideal to be here, surrounded by violent criminals and loons, but truly, better here than around the non-patient sort. After all, most of these men had fun quirks that made them a bit more interesting to listen to…especially since most of the people stuffed into this corner were trying their best to give Jonathan space. Just like the staff, a lot of the patients were smart enough not to get in arms reach of Jonathan. It was just a bonus that this time Jonathan got a chair to sit in instead of a puddle.
For about two hours, give or take, Jonathan found himself people watching. There was a lot going on, but the chaos made it all the sweeter. There was so much pain, so much fear going on that Jonathan found himself smiling slightly to himself. This was nice entertainment after so many weeks of dull monotony.
Jonathan even saw that perverted dark-haired doctor here, working hard to keep injured patients breathing, especially when their heads looked a bit hurt. From here, the man simply seemed like a diligent worker with a passion for his craft, but Jonathan was confident that if he approached he would see the man sweating, hear his heart pounding, and be able to witness the way the man’s eyes wandered when confronted with an unconscious or near unconscious female patient.
And then, of course, there was Mayflower, who Jonathan did his best to watch. The sweet dear was helping treat some of the injured. This was not surprising considering that Mayflower had shown to be a helpful, borderline altruist sort, but that didn't make it less interesting to watch. Mayflower could have been reading a book and Jonathan would have been watching just as closely; one never knew when a subject was going to do something notable.
And sure enough, Mayflower pulled out a cell phone and stared at it for half a minute. A casual action, but one that that implications after Mayflower could be seen responding to it. A text then? From who? Perhaps it was family, but family would have no reason to text because they would not have known that there was a breakout; this did not go on long enough for reporters to get wind of it, after all. Perhaps a coworker then? That either meant that Mayflower had friends on the site before he arrived here or that he had made friends fairly quickly.
Perhaps Jonathan needed to try and convince a few more people to spy on Mayflower for him? It would be very nice to know who Mayflower called friend.
In response to the growing calm and exhaustion that was taking over the hospital room now that the threat was over, Jonathan found himself speaking aloud, not even fully aware that he was doing so. “I wonder if Batman came and saved the day?” Jonathan said.
Unfortunately, Jonathan got a response from one of the criminals who was merely here to deal with his anger that was so strong it was was deemed a mental issue; there were a lot of his type around here unfortunately. “Damn it, I wish. If I saw that costumed freak I’d rip his fucking spine out with my bare hands. The bastard has it coming after sending me to the hospital twice now. ” The man was two seats next to Jonathan, so he was unable to see Jonathan roll his eyes; these words were so unoriginal that it bored Jonathan near to tears. “Bet if I kill some more of these docs though, he’ll show up. As soon as they take me off this chair maybe I’ll-”
“If you lay a single hand on one of these doctors, you will be dead by the end of the week,” Jonathan interrupted, his threat abnormally out in the open but still delivered in his normal calm tone that was just slightly below average in volume.
The faceless criminal paused before snapping a response, “The fuck you say to me?”
“If you make an attempt at the lives of any of the doctors here, at least today, I will personally make sure that your life ends with you screaming.”
“Psh, as if. We all know that you don’t have any of that freaky fear toxin on you, why else would you be chained to these chairs? Don’t act so tough.”
Slowly, Jonathan leaned forward so that he could actually look at the man he was talking to. He was buff, tattooed, and very clearly a gang member. Based on his apparent sanity, he was probably loyal to Two-Face or Penguin. When Jonathan locked eyes with this man, he visibly flinched. It was always so easy to talk big when you were not looking into the fact of a truly criminally insane man. “Is it your relationship with your father that causes you to act out with such rage?” Jonathan asked, almost as if he actually cared. “Tell me, when you raise your fist against another, do you see yourself assaulting your father or your father assaulting you?”
The man visibly paled, “How the fuck did you know about that?” That being his father and their relationship. “You don’t know me, there is no way you could have known about him.”
Jonathan chose to ignore this question, and instead drive his own point home. “A few breaths of my toxin and you can see him again, perhaps even for the rest of your life. You are right to say that I do not have any at the moment, but you are wrong to think that I can not make some whenever I want. So, let me repeat myself more clearly, if you hurt any of the doctors in this room today, visions of your father will be the last thing you need to worry about.”
With that, Jonathan leaned back in his chair and, thankfully, the criminal was silent and docile. Even when guards came to get him, the man kept his mouth quiet; he had a sneer on his face, but he did not look at Jonathan again.
Jonathan cracked his neck, satisfied with how that went. He was lucky that the man actually had father issues, although of what kind, Jonathan did not know. He used the word abuse because he was unaware if it was sexual or physical. It was no secret that a troubled home life often led to crime, and troubled homes sometimes included abuse; Jonathan had gambled that this man was one of those cases, and apparently, he was right. Hopefully that man’s therapist also knew about his father issues, because that kind of information did not always make it into the official records if no one reported it.
This high was slightly ruined when one of the staff walked by and gave a disgusted look at Jonathan. It was a female doctor, medical and not mental, and as such, Jonathan was not personally familiar with them. Now that the chaos had died down, apparently it was time to mock. “I can’t believe you haven't gotten shot yet. Whoever cut you should have aimed a bit higher and taken you out for good. God knows that we lost enough good men today that killing you would have justified it.”
Jonathan did not immediately respond, but the smile was off his lips. He was trying to get a better read of this person, but all the stranger was showing was disgust. Normally Jonathan would just be civil when he didn't know who he was dealing with, and then he would pull his tricks once he got a decent read on them, but this person was not interested in being civil.
“My superiors are idiots if they think that I’m going to waste a single scrap of bandages to heal someone like you. Can you believe it? They say that we have to treat all patients equally, as if monsters like you even deserve to be breathing still.... But I don’t want to lose my job, so here, you can have a bandaid. Oops, I dropped it.” The stranger said, her voice almost monotone as she very deliberately let it fall to the ground.
Slowly Jonathan watched it sway to the ground and silently land, very obviously out of his reach. Even if it was in reach, he still would not have been able to reach down and get it considering his chained circumstances. Despite all that, Jonathan glanced up at the stranger and gave a small nod. “Thank you very much for your service. I’ll put it on myself in a moment.” Jonathan was being civil, but in such a way that it was condescending.
Apparently the doctor could pick up on the condescending tone. Her face turned red as she took in some air but she deflated and just walked away to care for an actual patient. Still, she was muttering and cursing something inaudible, but it likely was not kind. Jonathan, on the other hand, gave one more look at the useless bandaid before returning his attention to Mayflower.
This event happened about twenty minutes before Jonathan saw Mayflower approaching with bandages in hand. There was a very small red puddle around his chair, something noticeable enough to draw in that female doctor and apparently Mayflower as well. The wound though had stopped bleeding. It only dripped a bit when he moved it too much or put some pressure on it.
Jonathan was letting Mayflower take the lead in this conversation, so he waited and watched until Mayflower spoke. “This is actually fairly short for a breakout attempt,” Jonathan said, content to reciprocate Mayflower’s attempt at small talk. “Normally attempts like this last all night; the head of this escape attempt must not be very good at this if their only plan was to rush the bridge.” Not to mention kill the power but ignore the backup generators. This was either their first escape attempt, or they were fools.
Jonathan followed Mayflower’s gaze to the bandaid, but also did not mention it. Perhaps he would in a moment? No, there was no reason to do so. It was such a small, meaningless interaction that it was not even worth discussing. After all, mocking from those who thought that they were in control was a normal event at this asylum. Power balances, even ones that were subject to change daily, gave people the confidence they needed to say what they really thought, as if there would be no repercussions. Luckily for her, Jonathan had no intention of seeking vengeance on the forgettable woman.
Considering his chained up position, Jonathan did his best to slowly offer his hand to Mayflower. If the man wanted to make sure Jonathan did not get infected, then so be it. Besides, physical closeness was known to bring two people mentally closer as well. So why not?
“I believe so,” Jonathan said in response to Mayflower’s question about his hand. His answer was clearly uncertain though. “To be honest, Doctor, if it weren't for other people bringing it up, I may have forgotten about it entirely. There was so much going on that this little cut was immaterial.”
Jonathan paused, but not for long. “Thank you for coming to take care of it. I was briefly concerned that those scissors would cause some sort of infection; they were not in the most sanitary of places, after all.” Although he was bringing up the fact that Mayflower was the one who caused the injury, Jonathan's tone only reflected his graciousness. For the most part, that was because Jonathan mainly cared about Mayflower’s current kindness. Perhaps later he would care a bit more about how the injury happened later, after Mayflower appeared to be more willing to talk about it.
It was only fair as long as Mayflower continued to ignore that Jonathan no longer had that spray bottle.
“The people here should also be grateful that you insisted on coming here. It looked like you were helping them out a fair bit.” It was unintentional, but these words heavily implied that Jonathan had been watching Mayflower over the past two hours.
Of course, Jonathan was not the type to linger on his own odd, unhealthy habits. “Did the Zsasz woman get rescued in time?” This question was partially to sate Jonathan’s curiosity, but also to prod at Mayflower’s mind just a bit. Considering his calmness, either the woman was fine or Mayflower did not know. And if Mayflower did not know, then all the more reason to bring it up. The other man should be just as curious as Jonathan was. “The doors are strong, so as long as Zsasz did not get lucky, the guards should have gotten there in time… assuming they went at all.” It was indeed possible that they just rounded the corner and stayed there a bit; leaving the medical bay was just as dangerous for them as it was for the patients or stray doctor.
Now that Jonathan was thinking about it… wasn't it strange that they did not encounter any bodies? There were gunshots, and based on what that rude doctor had said, people were lost. Perhaps they were just lucky not to run into any corpses all that time. Or, alternatively, most of the deaths that occurred where inside of rooms instead of in the halls; like those other people hiding a few doors down from Jonathan and Mayflower. They were likely killed inside of their hiding spot before they could flee. It was a shame to tell the truth, Jonathan wanted Mayflower to see a corpse and to be there to witness his reaction.
“You did well today, you know. You should be proud of how composed you managed to stay despite all of the dangers you faced,” Jonathan complimented semi out of the blue, his mind and speech jumping back and forth a bit. It’s not that he was distracted, but he there were simply too many thoughts going on. “In fact, you handled yourself better than any other doctor I’ve had up until this point. I’ll admit, I’m impressed… I’m can't wait to see what it will take to break that composure of yours.” As usual, Jonathan’s sincere compliments and interactions were ruined at the end. His fascination was fear, and Mayflower, was too strong not to allude to at least once. Jonathan's focus on fear was called an obsession for a reason, after all.
Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
•●•
"Perhaps they were just focused on getting out of here, I doubt that their intention was to stick around to watch the outcome." Matthias briefly mused in response to Jonathon's comment on the inexperienced approach of the escapee. As the time had progressed, and he had heard quiet mentions from the doctors around him as they chatted about the recent events, it became very clear who had initiated the breakout. One doctor had noticed some paint around the edges of one of the currently unconscious patient's clothes where their wrist had been snapped before they were thrown at a wall. Another doctor had gotten caught up in the staff room with a few others and heard a cheery Southern drawl singing as light steps tapped quickly across the hall outside. Another -- a guard this time -- had even mentioned that some cameras had been having issues for a few weeks now in the far wing.
It was not an attempt to defend Ms. Quinzel's actions, it was merely acknowledging that it had occurred and a statement of a mere fact. She was a woman who was obsessed with a man that had tortured her. Stockholm Syndrome at it's most crystal clear point. While chaos was undoubtedly something she enjoyed -- even flourished -- in, her primary goal was to leave the facility and rejoice with Joker. It explained the lack of much focus on other details, she was completely hyper-focused on the idea of getting out. It was a desperate attempt, not a careful one.
He regretted not prying slightly further into her current mental state during their previous session. Of course, he also recognized that this seemed to be an effort weeks in planning. By the time he had walked in the door this morning, it had already been much too late.
While Dr. Mayflower had briefly humored Mr. Crane's mention of the escape attempt, he did not discuss it much more, or let slip what he already knew. It was not to purposely withhold information, but rather for the purpose that it would likely be against regulation as well as that his assumption was only based on rumors -- no matter how factual they seemed to be.
As Jonathon held his hand out for him, Dr. Mayflower walked beside him and sat down in the seat beside Jonathon. It was a slightly odd angle to work from considering that the chairs seemed to be bolted down to the floor -- hence why they had been declared safe enough to chain dangerous inmates to -- but it was better than the similarly awkward angle of Matthias standing while he mended it. Some of the inmates had already been moved to other areas or their cells it seemed. He was just lucky enough to have a gap of a few seats between the chairs.
He set his own hand just above the side-by-side handles of the chair before taking Jonathon's and getting to work.
Dr. Mayflower took one of the antibacterial wipes and used it to hold Jonathon's hand steady while he used a second one to wipe the edges of Jonathon's hand, cleaning off the excess blood before setting the red-soaked one aside, taking another from the small pouch, and continuing. It was a job best done with gloves and a towel, but it was also quite apparent that none of these commodities were left. It was a little strange to work without these common tools, but after running out only about half an hour after he got here, it became less of a necessity than he had originally assumed it to be.
As Jonathon mentioned that he had almost forgotten about the cut, Dr. Mayflower briefly glanced up, looking Jonathon in the eyes for a second or two before directing his attention back down to Mr. Crane's hand, as silent as can be. His usually gentle, somewhat dazed, and doe-like expression seemed to have gotten lost somewhere in the halls. That is not to say that he looked stern either. There was no scowl, but also no hint of softness either. It was completely blank. Perhaps it was just the focused stare of a professional at work? Perhaps it was something slightly different.
He did not look up the next time that Jonathon spoke, busy wiping off the last bit of blood on the edge and surface of the cut -- careful to not disturb it too much. He set the wipe to the side and then gently pulled his hand out from under Jonathon's, leaving it to rest on the wipe sitting across the two handles. He reached back to the package and retrieved another wipe, putting a generous amount of the antibacterial paste on it and then putting his hand back under Jonathon's. "I'll have to thank that janitor for leaving them out." Dr. Mayflower stated in a tone almost just as blank as the previous stare. He waited for a moment, holding the wipe above Jonathon's hand, allowing the other man to take a moment to brace himself. Anyone who has held a doctoral degree knows that cleaning a wound hurts more than getting the initial scrape.
"I'll have to return them to the closet sometime." Matthias finished his thought as he started gently rubbing the paste into the wound. If Mr. Crane winced, gasped, or twitched in any manner like many of the recent patients that Dr. Mayflower had treated in the last couple of hours, he would merely wait for him to settle before resuming with the same gentle touch. If not, he merely continued doing his job. After a few moments of silence though, he calmly continued. "If you tell me where it is, I will return it and that will be the end of this story. If not, I will have no other choice than to alert the guards about the missing item." Nothing about his voice indicated this was a warning, merely a statement. Dr. Mayflower is, and always has been, one to follow standard procedure. This circumstance was nothing to cause him to deviate from that line of conduct.
As the topic drifted away from the items stolen from the closet, Matthias seemed to soften again, even if only slightly. "I try my best, it seems that any help is welcome. Even if it's just retrieving bandages or gloves." He said, letting a small amount of humor slip into the tense tone, though it being dry enough to not warrant much more than barely a slight hint of a smile at his own bland joke.
The statement and similarly dry macabre joke from Mr. Crane was enough to let the smile drift away rather quick as he returned to his professional exterior while continuing to dab at the wound. He was worried for the woman. Had been for a little bit before it had eventually drifted into the completely blank thoughts that he had carried while performing his tasks of running around and fetching things for more experienced doctors or helping with minimal first aid. It was also not something that he was eager to be reminded of.
Briefly, he glanced up and let his eyes flicker across the room. He had not seen her since they had ran. Then again, he had not exactly been looking before. He turned his gaze back down to his work. "I have more faith in people; if she had not been brought into this room by now, then she has not warranted any medical attention. I would wager a guess that she is waiting inside the cafeteria for a statement that it is safe for her to return to her office." He stated absentmindedly as he set the wipe aside and then got to work at wrapping the scraps of bandages around Jonathon's hand. As he wrapped the first layer of cloth, a small amount of red was already peeking through the white of the cloth.
He believed that even despite the danger in it, the guards would not just ignore his statement and leave her, right?
He began to rotate the last strip around Jonathon's palm, the small dot of red having been long hidden under the strips of white, as he glanced up at Jonathon's final words. He could have swore he saw a fleck of familiar watery cobalt in his eyes, even if they still held their same old stony brown tint by the time his thoughts caught up with him. He kept his own eyes focused on Jonathon's, even as the threat was made, almost like a direct challenge to the threat itself.
After a second or two had passed following the threat, Matthias let his gaze break and fall back down to his handiwork, gently using his thumb to smooth out the crease of the final strip of the bandage. Then, letting go of Jonathon's hand, he collected the bloodied wipes, the few remaining scrapes of bandages, and the tube of antibacterial paste and stood to make his leave. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Crane." He said finally before making his departure, tossing away the wipes and leaving the remaining supplies on the counter top as he made his way towards the other side of the room to resume his duties until the lock down was over, returning back into the monotony of the thoughtless work that came with finding supplies for the few remaining people still awaiting aid.
Still, try as he may, he could not shake off the dark gaze and threatening statement. Even despite the silent self-reassuring that it was a typical part of the job, thoughts that it was silly to fret over such minuscule and ordinary things, he could not just let it seep to the back of his mind as it seemed so many other things could. Still. There was no option to linger on it. Move on.
--------------------------------
The lock down concluded approximately an hour later, Matthias periodically checking his phone between assisting people -- both to watch the time and to see for any updates on the situation. While he would receive no messages during this time, his suspicions of who initiated the breakout was confirmed. It was reassuring information, in an odd sort of way, but he had chosen to remain silent at the mention of this, figuring that it was best to just remain another set of hands rather than mark himself as the person who is apparently supposed to telepathically know and understand what his patients are about to do at all times. That would be a problem for another time.
By the time it ended, he was one of the first out the door following the 'all clear' announcement. He had briefly asked a guard about his duties -- his actual ones -- and the guard had told him that nobody ever really expects the doctors to stay for their sessions if a lock down happens during one. Although Matthias was not exactly keen on abusing the norm of circumstances to skip out a little early, he certainly was not going to argue with the status quo. So, after a brief thanks, he had already left the medical bay long behind as he traced his steps back towards the general region of the cafeteria, swiftly pulling out his phone to discover that Tiedrich was already a couple of steps ahead of him, his phone practically blown up with text messages already.
After a small exchange, the two agreed that Matthias would meet him out near the cafeteria, just a hall or two down so they would steer clear of the inmates that had unfortunately become stranded in the cafe during the breakout alongside Tiedrich as they were transported back to their cells.
It was a long walk and while the halls were now packed full of people -- doctors returning to their offices, janitors rushing between rooms, and the guards rushing the patients between locations -- the halls still had a strange sort of emptiness to them. Matthias could not quite put his finger on it; even as he let his eyes flicker briefly around the hall as if to reconfirm that there were, in fact, others around him; there was still an odd sort of something about the walk though. Of course, everything had changed about the halls since he had darted through them just slightly behind Mr. Crane a few hours ago. They were now full of people. There was now chatter. There was now no looming feeling of immediate death lingering in the back of his mind. It was -- by all means and conditions -- a perfectly ordinary hallway full of bustling people. Now.
It was as if a quiet shift had occurred in these walls, something so subtle that you couldn't even stub your toe on the minute change. It is also this shift that caused Matthias to quicken his pace just slightly. Whatever the cause of this change, whether the missing bottle, the hours that had seemingly flew by with little more memory than the most recent chat -- still having taken place an hour prior -- or the very present and clear threat that had carried such a familiar severity to the words that it had shaken Matthias back out of the daze of forgetfulness; it had quietly and subtly disturbed Matthias' carefully crafted composure.
Maybe there really wasn't any sort of change? Perhaps it was just another offhanded threat made by a psychopath -- a common occurrence for many in his field -- maybe it was just his own uncertainty of the matter that planted the unease in his mind? Nothing more than his own thoughts tearing away artistically crafted denials? Maybe there really was no need for this quickened pace of one foot in front of the other as he aimed to quietly out-pace whatever was looming behind him and that by simply keeping up the pace -- eyes forward -- then there would be no reason to fear anything that could creep up just out of his line of sight -- curving in at the edge of his view as something clearly sour began to make its way towards interrupting his perfectly sweet and gentle life of a comfortable -- neither luxurious, but not quite dodgy either -- apartment with a simplistic routine of breakfast for one -- either at a cafe or at home -- and then riding the train to work -- home from work -- then to return home for Christmas' at the gentle countryside where it always felt so quiet with his mother cooking -- father working on -- occasionally spending time -- to see it slowly catching up to him and lingering just out of view tauntingly there would certainly be a reason to find it and maybe he had caught a glance of it that was source enough to raise the concern that was still needlessly pushing him at the hurried pace while first reading over the folder file somewhere in one of the margins of his document countless warnings of people who were gone or dead or both maybe there had been no such warnings but clearly the unsaid ones that would never dare to be scribbled somewhere where any fool could read them and make excuses to take their leave someone had to be in this place and this role it only happened that he had been the one to pick up the job application that one time and under current circumstances there was plenty of cookies that she would make and when he would sit at the couch beside dad they'd always have the same gentle laugh and he would always pack up just a little early to go and the thing was still paralyzingly behind him but he still found himself hurrying he couldn't even tell if there was any point to it anymore it was exactly behind him no matter how fast his legs could carry him no matter how many countries away he could leave it behind and bury it under his success and reason and he would always leave on a sour note because they always knew it was right behind him and he always knew it was waiting for him to get there no matter where he arrived it was always waiting and it was just behind him ready to tighten the snare or maybe to clamp down its jaws or even to just bring a sudden swipe down and tug him out of existence on a single whim for its own amusement or interest and--
Tiedrich was standing there, leaning against the wall with a piece of black electrical across his forehead and a blank expression before his gaze drifted to him and Matthias watched as his eyes lit up, a grin spreading across his features and his hand shooting up in a short single-motioned wave. While such a meaningless action, it was enough for Matthias to slow his pace for a moment, finally noticing how quick his breaths were coming out, before hurrying towards him. "Damn, did you run here or something?" Tiedrich hummed, eyebrows raised as Matthias came to a sharp stop in front of him and panted softly, the smaller man still faintly pale from his episode. "You alright? Ya' look kind of pasty." He mentioned as he tilted his head down slightly to try and peer at Matthias' face. This would be unnecessary though, Matthias quickly pulling his gaze back up shortly after.
"Yeah," He started, taking another second or two to catch his breath. "I'm," He waited again, not quite having regained it yet. "I'm fine. Sorry I didn't respond to your messages earlier. I got caught up in one of the closets."
"Seriously?" Tiedrich deadpanned.
Matthias nodded.
"Well damn. That happened just now?"
"No," Matthias breathed again, "No, a few hours ago. I've been in the medical bay helping out."
"Hey, bet they appreciated that." Tiedrich beamed. "I was helping out too, keeping the mood light in the cafeteria, making a few jokes with some of the lads, getting a tray thrown at me and making an engineer's bandaid outta' some tape and tissue paper."
Matthias couldn't help but smile a little at his words. It was always about jokes with him. "It sounds like they really enjoyed that."
"Oh yeah, should've seen the far corner of the room after what I did with the ketchup packet and salt." Tiedrich finished, still wearing the same old bold grin.
After a few moments of furrowing his brow as he briefly considered what could have possibly been done, he finally shook his head and settled with the idea that perhaps it was better not to know. Briefly, he let his gaze focus back on the ground, taking in the reality of the hallway. The artificial light casting a flickering outline of Tiedrich and his shadow on the ground. A quite murmur of patients, doctors, and guards in the distance. Tiedrich's tattered tennis shoes and Matthias' simplistic and cleanly ones. Nothing out of the corner of his sight but white walls as far as his gaze could turn.
"It's kind of scary the first time," Tiedrich said, breaking the silence and causing Matthias to look back up. Tiedrich's wide grin was gone, instead replaced by a sympathetic half curve. "You'll get used to it. Just be smart. These sorts of breakouts happen all the time." He said, looking down at the smaller man.
Finally, feeling a small amount of his composure build itself back up, he gave a nod and took a final breath before straightening his posture. "So," He said after taking another small hesitant pause, Tiedrich waiting in place without a comment. "I'm off work for the night. I take it you still want to do dinner?"
"What, you think I'd turn it down?" Tiedrich asked, another grin cracking across his lips.
Matthias gave a small weary smile. "Right, I forgot nothing phases you."
"-And you'd be a fool to assume otherwise." Tiedrich chirped sharply.
------------------------------------
The night was just as blurred as the events of the day had been, maybe slightly less. It had been a nice chance for the two to catch up, but of course, Tiedrich had dominated the conversation. At the end of the night, Tiedrich's stories was about all he could actually remember well enough from the dinner.
One story about how he got a cheap broken down boat house parked out near the docks under the bridge where the city water drained out across a gravel beach. The roof constantly leaked but he was handy enough to repair it on his own. He had gotten it from an old woman who lost her husband shortly after he had bought it, leading her to abandon it and it to eventually break down. It'd never move another inch, and that was just perfect for Tiedrich to park himself and settle down.
His second story was of the dog he had picked up a few months after moving in. Some giant dog that Matthias couldn't remember the name of the breed, but could easily recall Tiedrich's vivid descriptions of how it was about the side of a small horse and the breed was often used back in the older days for hunting large game. Tiedrich mentioned it had been probably used during some villain's grand scheme, or maybe just belonged to some thug with a wild imagination. Regardless of what it did before, now'a'days it always came to his little houseboat crashed against the side of the docks and would dig into his garbage while he was sleeping, causing him to wake up and storm outside threatening to 'tackle the crackhead that keeps fishing through his garbage and leaving it everywhere' -- his own words. Course, this dog got all defensive and snaps at him, taking a bite of his arm -- which Tiedrich had proudly flashed the scar of right as the pizza was being set down, giving their poor waitress a small fright at the sight of the brutal but long-healed wound.
Anyways, he had eventually befriended that dog -- or at least made peace with it so that neither were going to take the other's head off. Gave it a little food one night. It came back a few nights later. Gave it more. Ever since then, the dog seemed to show up at his house often -- both while he was home and out. 'On the bright side,' he had mentioned with a grin, 'Bastard stopped fishing through my garbage.'
The final story was more recent from a few months ago and had begun with the interesting opening of it being the story of how a few hookers tried to set his house on fire. As the story progressed, Matthias enthralled in the details, it had turned out to merely be a mistake. A couple of girls had assumed the dodgy boat-house to be abandoned and had thrown some bottles at it. He had come outside just in time to watch one of the girls -- 'a cute brunette with ripped fishnets', according to Tiedrich -- trying and failing to light a bottle with a piece of cloth in it. He mentioned that if not for it being freezing and everything being soaked in rain, he'd probably be short a house right now. Turns out the girls were just having a rough night on the town and had gotten blackout drunk before stumbling around the city before getting lost, seeing the ruined boat, and wanting to cause a little chaos. He gave them both a little money and directed them to a train station before slipping his phone number into the cute brunette girl's purse right before they left. She never called or texted back. He said he was really disappointed about that.
Through his vivid hand movements, and amusing storytelling, Matthias had to admit that the stories were completely captivating. He almost forgot about his pizza, his surroundings, and the events that had happened only a few short hours ago. Even if the stories' validity seemed a little questionable. But at the very least, it was enough to lift his spirits back up a little.
They departed from each other afterwards, Tiedrich a little drunken and Matthias quietly sober minus a small sip of what Tiedrich had insisted was one of the 'best crafts of his life'. Matthias paid the majority of the bill. Tiedrich flirted with the waitress and -- almost to mock his own story -- slipped a small piece of paper with his number sloppily scrawled across it between the two twenties he used to tip her. Then then left each other with a mention that it was fun and that they should do it again sometime. Sometime.
"Congrats on your first breakout!" Tiedrich had howled as they departed, Matthias giving a weary smile and nodding at the man, slightly regretting stopping him after his second drink.
"Have a safe trip home." Matthias responded with a small wave, Tiedrich excitedly waving back as he stayed back by the restaurant, fishing a small box of cigarettes from his jacket.
The rest of the trip was forgotten, all the way up until Matthias found himself sitting back at his desk and plunging himself back into the thoughtful and mindless process of working on his separate studies that he knew would never be finished.
----------------------------
Work seemed to be much more relaxed following the incident. There were no sessions with Ms. Quinzel for a while. She had been caught by the gates and had never even made it out the door. Ever since that day, for about a week, she was in a state of complete lockdown in solitary confinement. Not even Dr. Mayflower was allowed to visit her. Of course, he had also been briefly questioned about how she had been during their session and he had explained all that he knew. At the end of the day, all that he was given was a brief reminder to be a little more careful. Less than a slap on the wrist.
Other than that, he was careful to keep all his sessions steady.
Tiedrich occasionally dropped by at the end of the day just to chat a little bit before they went their separate ways. He caught Matthias during his lunch break a couple of times, and while Matthias appreciated the casual conversation, he had mentioned to announce it next time since he used those breaks for preparing for other sessions. Along with these lunch break visits, Tiedrich had adopted a bad habit of shouting at Matthias upon seeing him -- something that Matthias knew would be a reoccurring situation after their time in college.
Usually, it was pointless things. Dropping in at the end of the day and shouting that he missed Matthias' hideous Christmas sweaters he used to wear every December back in college. Texting that he was going to stop by during lunch and abruptly shouting through the door that he just sent a text a mere five seconds after Matthias' phone had buzzed. Of course, there was also the time when Tiedrich had shouted something along the lines of "Look at Matty and his new shoes!" while he happened to be working down the hall on a light fixture as Matthias passed him while walking Mr. Jervis Tetch back to his cell following their session. Needless to say, that was pushing the boundaries a little bit.
He felt bad, telling Tiedrich off for just being friendly, but had explained how his entire job banks on the idea of being professional and that while he appreciated Tiedrich's warmness, it was not appropriate. Tiedrich eventually seemed to get it through his head, after some initial confusion at why he was being told off in the first place of course. Thankfully, once he got it down, he would just give a small wave when he saw Matthias in the hall, also luckily sparing anything more than a brief glance if he noticed that Matthias was walking with a patient.
As the weeks passed, and things seemed to settle down a little bit more, he became more familiar with the layout of the facility. Dr. Mayson had become more distant; someone mentioned she rarely stayed warm with new people long. He finally got used to the format for each session and had even brought in a few things for some of the patients. Tea was usual for Jervis. He often let Jervis pick which tea they would both have. He had brought in a few puzzles for Nygma, primarily to test some of the statements made in his records. Unsurprisingly, he was just as excellent at the simplistic wooden puzzles and the generic Rubik's cube as the files claimed. Dr. Mayflower just hoped he wasn't boring Mr. Nygma to tears with them. He had a minor success with Ms. Isley as well, having let her pick from a small page of plants to choose which one would replace one of the empty slots in the greenhouse. While she would not be permitted to go there, she seemed at least slightly pleased to be able to select one to be planted there. Matthias promised he would take pictures of it for her so that she could see how it was doing. Admittedly, he was not the one to come up with this idea. The gardener just needed suggestions.
Overall, it was just little things that contributed to everything from the few weeks. No major achievements. No major differences. No major anything. Just the quiet settling phase. All in all, Matthias much rather preferred it this way.
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Viper
One Thousand Club
“I suppose that’s possible. I still argue that it was shortsighted, but not everyone has the skill sets suited toward escape. It’s wrong to judge,” Jonathan said, talking about himself. He did not consider his skills, his fear toxin, to be the best tool for escape attempts.
He was not stealthy nor did he try to be. His escape methods were simply to infect as many people as possible and walk out the front door while the chaos inside distracted everyone. Or, perhaps more accurately, he walked out the front door because there was no one around sane enough to stop him. He did not hack into the systems, he simply would walk into the control room, gas those inside, and unlock the doors with his own hands. It was a direct method, but effective as many had seen in the past. The most complex his plans tended to be was using the vents or a bomb to spread his toxin.
Perhaps Jonathan sensed that Mayflower knew the cause behind this or maybe he was just curious, but he pushed the escape topic a bit further. “Do you have any idea who was trying to escape? I must say, I’m very curious,” Jonathan asked directly, looking for either an honest answer of what Mayflower had heard or an open refusal. As he had discussed in the past, he hated liars and if he was lied to, he may give up on social interactions in the session. Well, maybe not give up, the more likely option would be that he would become resistant and not reciprocate; lying to him gives him permission to start lying to you, after all.
It was not a secret to Jonathan that telling patients this kind of information was against the rules, but he didn't care and Mayflower didn't seem to care about protocol either. After all, letting Jonathan read his own files was against the rules too, yet Mayflower had let him do so… with consequences yet unrealized. There would be consequences for letting Jonathan learn who thought what about him, but he had been holding back for the perfect time to use that information. Perhaps the next time he met with Dr. Caster?
Jonathan was very still as his hand was treated, his heart beat strong but slower than the average heart rate. Due to that, his skin was cold… or perhaps he was cold to the touch because of his weight. Maybe both. As Mayflower worked, Jonathan was unconcerned with the lack of gloves, he was more concerned with Mayflower’s behavior and expression.
It was boring, no, that was the wrong word for it. Mayflower looked…stoic? Apathetic? Whatever the word, Mayflower’s gaze was steeled. Odd that this was his expression in this moment. There were no dangers, no true reason to feel the need to hide or focus since them talking like this was not abnormal, yet here Mayflower was, acting far less animated than Jonathan had seen him thus far. Why?
Mayflower’s tone while speaking only solidified in Jonathan that there was something off here… and it was maddening that he wouldn't know. Oh, Jonathan could have tried to figure it out, but he could feel that pushing Mayflower now would not result in anything positive or educational. Call it a practitioner's instinct.
Jonathan was so focused on Mayflower’s face and tone actually that he barely noticed what he was doing with his hands. Due to that, the wipe shocked Jonathan more than hurt him. He made no sound, but his hand tensed to the point that his fingers curved upward and shook a bit. Almost immediately after that happened though, Jonathan willed his hand to relax, and it did so. Considering how many injections he had over the years, he knew how to make his muscles relax even when under pain.
The next words Mayflower said were surprisingly although not unpleasant. Jonathan chuckled, one single audible laugh followed by several silent exhales of air. Everyone knew Jonathan was not the type for loud, audible laughter, so this was the most reaction he tended to give when he found something funny or interesting.
“I suppose it was too much to hope that you would allow me to keep the bottle even after helping you out so much today,” Jonathan stated, more shocked then offended. Mayflower knew that Jonathan was open to and willing to participate in tit-for-tat deals, and although Jonathan helped Mayflower get to the medical bay without asking for anything or without any intent on giving himself a reward, that didn't mean that he was going to ignore an opportunity to get one. In this case, he had given himself payment for his services, one that Mayflower now wanted to take away.
Jonathan became silent as he thought, and the fact that he didn't immediately relent and fess up on where he put the bottle was a bad sign. He was debating with himself, weighing the positives and negatives of both outcomes.
If Jonathan were to return the bottle, then he would be restoring trust with Mayflower. The fact that he hid it in the first place was a step back, and returning the bottle would restore at least a part of that trust. Of course, if he returned it, then Jonathan would be down one ingredient. The bottle was already a near unusable product that would need to be played with a lot in order to separate and isolate the chemical that he actually need, but still, it was hard to get hands on any ingredients in this place let alone a bottle that he could actually use to spray people at range with. Of course, there was always the chance that the bottle was found before he was able to make use of it which meant that it may be better not to waste his time trying to keep its existence hidden in the first place.
Then there was the keeping it option. As mentioned, hiding it in the first place likely meant that Mayflower trusted Jonathan less even after Jonathan had helped him out. Refusing to return the bottle would not help regain that trust, if anything, it may make the situation worse. Furthermore, there would be asylum consequences for not returning it. His freedoms would be lessened even more than they already were, if not removed entirely. That meant no mental stimulus during free time and it would be near impossible to speak with Hatter except for when he was being shuffled by his cell. Considering that Jervis was acting as Jonathan’s spy, it would be a real shame not to talk to him in privacy. Once again though, ingredients were hard to get in this place and ways to infect people without being in arms reach were even harder.
In the end, the need to create and spread fear won out, even if it meant real sacrifice for Jonathan. It always did. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I’m afraid to say that I will not be sharing the bottle’s location. Do what you must to make yourself comfortable; I will not take it personally.” Just as the silence was a bad sign, so was the fact that Jonathan sounded confident in his choice; it was as if he was sure the bottle would not be found even if the guards were told. And to tell the truth, he was fairly certain although not 100%. At the very least Jonathan was not lying about the location just to waste Mayflower’s time.
“When I am interrogated…” when, not if, “shall I tell the guards that you freed me from the table and then allowed me to take the bottle without protest, or would you like me to lie and say that I was never chained down at all and I stole the bottle without you noticing?” This was an honest question, not truly an attempt to blackmail Mayflower. “I don’t enjoy lying, but in this case and for you, I am willing to make an exception.”
After all, during a breakout attempt Mayflower had freed a super-criminal from a place where he was secure. And then, to make it worse, he allowed Jonathan to hold something that he was expressly forbidden to even be near. Neither of these actions was acceptable even in an emergency. Dr. Caster, and all senior staff, made it very clear that during emergencies super-criminals were to be thought of as active threats at all times; they were to be kept locked up even if it meant that they were at risk of being harmed or even killed. There was no guarantee that Dr. Caster would not punish Mayflower for his choice, his gamble. Imagine how terrible it could have been if Jonathan had chosen not to behave and managed to get away from Mayflower. How many would have ended up dead?
~~~~~
“You truly should not have so much faith, not everyone cares about others as much as you have proven to,” Jonathan said, a touch of nihilism in his tone and his perception of people. After all, he was one of those people who appeared to care for most of his life but truly never granted anyone a second thought. “Still, I do hope that you are right. I would rather Mr. Zsasz not succeed in his perversions.” And more so than that, Jonathan did not want Mayflower breaking on him because he had left someone to die today. It was not time for that… not yet.
It was sometimes troublesome to be used to violence, it made words that were meant to be taken as a compliment come out as hostile because what he now considered hostile was not necessarily what the common man thought of as hostile. Jonathan lived for his work, his deadly work, and so he often made passing comments that implied more violence and pain than he truly was thinking in that moment. Of course pain and fear was apart of Jonathan’s plan for Mayflower, but that did not mean that they were in his immediate plans.
For that reason, Jonathan only realized the impact of his words after he said them and Maybe made a quick exit. Still, he had time to make one more passing comment. “Of course. Thank you very much. Dr. Mayflower. I look forward to seeing you,” assuming that Mayflower’s report did not result in him being in isolation, not considered safe enough to even have therapy.
Once alone, Jonathan tested out his hand a bit and found that the pain was a bit more than before but only because of the stress the bandages put on his hand. His hands were fragile without the cut, so with the cut things just became worse. Hopefully his hand spasms did not and would not open up the wound. If it did, there was nothing he could do.
There was also nothing he could do but wait until someone of power came to get him, and in this case, it meant three guards. It was a nice little escort to be honest; they must not have wanted to deal with another breakout attempt today and so were being extra cautious. Wise.
~~~
For the days after the breakout attempt, security was boosted yet Jonathan found the increase in security to be rather minimal in comparison to what he expected. He was just waiting for Mayflower to go through with his threat, for the consequences of his theft to come down over his head, but it never came. Jonathan’s schedule remained unchanged, to his surprise. He had his lunches with Jervis, he met with his single weekly guest, and he had his freetime… all like normal. Eventually, he simply had to accept that Mayflower wasn't going to report him. It was odd, but preferable.
For one, it made Mayflower an interesting subject. He broke rules often, although always with good reasons whether that was to establish trust with his patients, to save his physical life, and to guarantee the safety of his professional standing. A person that puts their own gain over others was selfish, although selfishness was often just another world for self-preservation and self-interest, which really was nothing to be ashamed of. However, it did make people more easily manipulated when they had something that they couldn't stand to lose, whether that was their life or their job. It also meant that, at some level, they had fear… but of course, Jonathan knew that Mayflower had fear. The breakout attempt gave him a decent look into what Mayflower looked like paranoid and on edge, although true horror was still a mystery.
Secondly, Jonathan really didn't want to be punished, especially considering that most of his time in the asylum was boring enough already. He only had a few hours a day of stimulation, considering that Jonathan did not count his time with his other doctors as stimulating and free time was only sometimes interesting. The only thing he could rely on to keep himself sane was himself, Jervis, and sessions with Mayflower… although that too started to dull as meeting with him became routine.
For weeks, nothing happened. No outbursts from any patients or major steps forward in Mayflower’s treatment. In fact, the only thing of note was that during these weeks Jervis reported that Mayflower’s first name was Matty, short for Matthias. That was nice to know, but it was nothing in comparison to real knowledge about his past and outside life. Still, It was impressive that Jervis remembered agreeing to be Jonathan’s spy, so that have Jonathan plenty to praise him for on its own.
It wasn't enough though. With nothing happening for weeks, the smallest things started to catch Jonathan’s thoughts, he became more irritated, and eventually, he became desperate. So much time with his own thoughts lead Jonathan to start thinking about fear, his work, and just how much time he was wasting here. As long as he was making progress with Mayflower, with Matthias, he could justify his time here as a part of his study… but if he wasn't making progress, then what was the point of it all? He didn't even have his fear toxin or Batman to give him a rush, the rush that once he started thinking about made his skin itch and his mind hyperactive; he wanted stimulation, even if he had to cause it himself.
This desperation to free himself from his boredom and monotony hit a breaking point when Jonathan learned the date. He had been in the asylum for two months now, and that meant that his endeavors outside of the asylum had come to a halt. Nothing was happening, he was at a stand still, and he needed to break that standstill somehow.
So one night, so late that only the graveyard shift were present, Jonathan got up from bed on impulse. He had not slept this night anyway, and his mind was wandering in far too many directions. It was distracting, especially became all of those directions were unpleasant. They were horrifying, painful, gory, yet none stirred anything within Jonathan. They got close, but not close enough to actually cause him to feel anything besides more ennui. Not even a spark of fear.
Standing up, Jonathan slowly took off the shirt of his asylum patient uniform and began twisting it until the once loose shirt was more of a knotted rope. He no longer had a blanket in his room after making masks out of it, so the shirt would have to be sacrificed. He was in the pitch black, but it didn't make a difference; as the Scarecrow he had made many nooses to act as a necklace and enhance his “work uniform” to cause greater fear. So even in the dark, this was all instinct.
Tugging on it a few times to make sure it was strong and secure, Jonathan wound it around his neck until it was tight enough to cause pressure but not hurt. Still nothing, not even anticipation for what was coming. Still sitting on his bed, Jonathan took a few deep breaths before grabbing the end of the rope and yanking before even his mind could comprehend what he was about to do to himself.
Immediately the rope-like shirt around his neck tightened, cutting off his airway and causing the blood in his body to face a serious flow obstacle. Now, normally in this circumstance, the human body would immediately react. The pulse would become stronger but slower as it faced the obstacle and tried to correct it, except in Jonathan’s case, he was not letting his pulse correct the issue because of what came after. Eventually in the strangulation process, the body would get a shot of adrenaline, or fear, and a form of panic would set in as a final attempt to stop the cause of the strangulation. Only after this final fight would the body become weak and lose all strength… but once again, that was a normal human.
For nearly two minutes, Jonathan used his own strength to stop himself from breathing. He could feel his pulse slow and strengthen, but even has he held it like that long past the point of pain, all he could feel was the pain. No second wave of fighting. It got to the point that Jonathan released his hold so that he would not actually die.
“Pointless… I’m too in control,” Jonathan whispered to himself, his voice a bit horse now. Perhaps that was the real problem? As long as he was holding his own noose, he would have full control of his life and easily be able to stop and start the strangling whenever it became too much. He was causing physical pain but no mental pain, and so much of his life was mental that he should have known that physical pain without mental torment would not cause a reaction in him. “Time for a new strategy then…”
And that new strategy was to take the noose out of his hands literally. So much of his room was bolted down or low to the ground, which made strangling that way near impossible. However, he did one option… the sink. It was not a good height for suicide, or even near suicides like he was trying to do now, but it would have to do.
Wrapping the end of the noose around the sink, Jonathan slowly crouched down into a kneeling position. Already the shirt tightened, which meant that if he actually sat down he would surely not be able to breath… good. Turning so that his back was against the wall, Jonathan slowly lowered himself to the ground; the shock of sudden pressure would have possibly been useful to achieve his ends, but he really did not want to risk snapping his neck.
So onto the ground Jonathan went, and soon the lack of air in his brain was causing pain across his neck, lungs, and head. Immediately, Jonathan could feel a difference between strangling himself and this. Not only was the pressure stronger, but his hands being free with nothing to do made the whole experience far more stimulating. Out of instinct, Jonathan found his hands around his own neck, grabbing the cloth. That was a good sign, as was the fact that his vision was starting to be clouded by black dots.
Taking that as a sign that he was getting to dangerous territory, Jonathan allowed his hands to trail up the noose towards the sink where it was latched. One pull and he would be freed, however, as Jonathan placed his hands on the rope his hand aggressively twitched, causing him to miss the rope and instead grab onto nothing. With his own strength weakening, Jonathan slipped back to the ground. That time, the rope tightened further and he could hear his neck pop from the force.
The sound and the unexpected force gave Jonathan a shock so close to what he wanted; it was enough to make his eyes jolt wide but not anything more than that. Still, that wonderful feeling of shock was enough to make Jonathan take his time freeing himself. Perhaps he would get it again.
How long had it been now? Two minutes? Maybe three? He could die if he didn't stop himself soon. Reaching up a second time, Jonathan found his hand successfully on the rope just as the door leading from the hallway burst open.
Apparently he had been making far more sounds than he had realized, so much that the guards passing by outside could hear.
Once again, the sudden appearance of strangers, light, and the screeching sound was enough to give Jonathan a good shock, and this time, it was more than just his eyes that jumped. Jonathan’s entire body twitched in a way that it so rarely did, although it was quick to calm down. Still, as the pair of guards rushed into the room to undo the rope he was fully able to undo himself, Jonathan found himself smiling. It worked. His heart was racing, there was a slight pit in his stomach that was fading faster than the dots across his vision were, and he had jumped. God, that rush… it had been a while since something surprised him enough to feel like that.
To the guard’s dismay, when they freed Jonathan’s throat they only received a soft but harsh laugh from the patient who was apparently finding his failed suicide hilarious.
~~~
To Jonathan’s surprise, he could speak the next day. He honestly didn't expect that. There was a bit of hoarseness to his voice and there were deep bruises across his throat that hurt to the touch, but these were small inconveniences in comparison to the golden reward that was the stroke of fear last night. Such a small jumpscare was what pushed his little near-death experience over the hurdle… and it was wonderful. He would not need to do anything so extreme for a while.
Unfortunately, Mayflower was not working the morning this all occurred, which meant that one of the other doctors who was ‘treating’ Jonathan took charge. Mayflower would be informed to the suicide attempt and his new prescription, but that would wait until tomorrow. For now, this other doctor was in charge and she did not believe Jonathan when he assured her it was not going to occur again nor did she trust him that his intent was just to give himself a shock. She honestly thought that he had tried to kill himself. She decided that he would be spending the night in the medical bay and that he would be getting a new prescription that would at least reduce the likelihood of this happening again. They were simple antidepressants.
It was all a bit too melodramatic, but nothing too extreme Jonathan even got to listen in to what his doctor was recommending he takes, and the dosage was pathetically small for someone with resistance to drugs. Her dosage was nothing he had not had before and nothing that would impact his mind or body, so he willingly took the pills. Why not when it would have so little an effect?
The problem came the following morning. Jonathan was strapped to the bed all night, both to keep him from hurting himself and to keep him from hurting others, and to his surprise he awoke not to breakfast but to whispers. A pair of medical staff were there, talking to each other near him, although just quiet enough that he would not make out any of their words. What he did see though was the needle in their hand. That immediately seemed odd. Medication before a meal was abnormal, and so was the fact that he was getting an injection at all. The nurse and the other psychologist made it clear that his medication would only be oral.
This situation, strapped to a bed and completely unable to move, was not ideal. Just to test the restraints, Jonathan attempted to sit up twice but with no luck. “This is not ideal at all,” Jonathan said to himself, submitting to the situation and relaxing into the bed. Why bother resisting when it was futile? And more than that, he was oddly confident that this was not a murder attempt; if it were, they likely would have done it in the night when no one would be coming for him soon.
Jonathan, once again, was back to feeling no fear even in the face of possible death and unknown drugs.
One injection later, and Jonathan passed out for hours. He was so knocked out that he missed breakfast and he only woke up a bit before lunch when the nurse shook him awake. She was confused about why it was such a challenge to do so, and even more so when she found that Jonathan was having a hard time keeping his head up or making eye contact.
“God, what happened to you?” the nurse asked, once again, more confused about the Scarecrow’s behavior than concerned.
Jonathan did not immediately answer, instead he just rolled his head in her direction and tried to make eye contact. That was not working out though, so Jonathan just relaxed into his bed and started chuckling. He left so light and hazy at the moment, everything, even his thoughts, were coated in a thick mist. His tongue felt heavy and his throat, which burned last night, was now painless although it sounded as bad as it should have. “Drugs… I bet based on…. All this,” this vague response was met with a raise of her eyebrows, but Jonathan only chuckled again, “Do your job, look at the charts… I don’t really remember...”
His suggestion, rudely put, did successfully prompt the girl to look at the charts at the end of his bed detailing his medical condition and treatment profile. The problem was, she looked at the papers and then just kept looking. Jonathan was drugged, not completely dumb, so with unrefined tsks, Jonathan berated the girl. “Noshing there, huh? The security really is horrish-horrid here. No wonder people get killed here weekly.”
“Shame I don’t remember nothing… I’d love to give them and injection too.” Once again, Jonathan was laughing, although a bit louder than before. How could he not when he was imagining injecting his fear toxin into his faceless offenders. It really was a shame that remembered little to nothing from last night. We know that he woke up to the sight of two, maybe three, people; he felt a pinch on his arm that he now identified as an injection… and now he was here feeling light and a bit dizzy. How annoying. In fact, this entire situation was annoying.
The motivations here didn't even make sense. He had his medical dosage, one that was likely approved by at least one other person, so it was strange that he got something at least three times as strong as intended. That was not approved, and for good reason. Jonathan was a mess, like he had been shot up with a tranquilizer… “Oh, maybe that’s what it was…” Jonathan said aloud but did not repeat when prompted. His only guess was that this was either his doctor purposely overstepping her place by giving him this much, or it was a doctor taking the opportunity to sneak in a surprise that would admittedly make everyone safer since he could probably not even walk right now. Or maybe this was just a failed murder attempt?
Whatever their intent, time was wonky right now. Because as far as Jonathan was concerned, he had been talking to the nurse and then all of a sudden he wasn't. In fact, he refocused and found hands on him lifting him into place on a stand-up wheeled contraption that allowed Jonathan to be strapped into place while standing. This was normally how Joker was escorted around, so it was odd to receive the same treatment.
“Would you stop saying that?” One of the guards asked was a mixed tone, glaring at Jonathan who then realized that he had been speaking. What had he been saying? Hard to say, but it probably wasn't pleasant. And based on his throat which now burned on the inside and outside, he had been talking for a while.
“I can do that. Where am I going?” Jonathan asked, to which the guard once again gave him a mixed tone answer.
“I literally just told you- oh never mind, I’m taking you to see your doc. Until we get official word to change up your schedule due to this whole “suicide” or “drug” whatever fiasco, we are keeping you on schedule.”
Jonathan nodded his head, or at least tried to. It once again just rolled; they were not using the head restraints, and for once, it may have been useful to do so. At the very least he could stand though, which was surprising considering how weak most of his other limbs were rather floppy and weak. “Good good good. Can’t have you getting fired before you wind up with your eyes gouged out,” Jonathan said sincerely, which was the problem. Normally he could filter these kinds of comments, the dark and violent ones, but apparently Jonathan’s mental filter was having some trouble today.
Luckily, the guard was one of the better temperamented ones here. So, instead of punching a man while he was down, the guard merely responded with a simple “Uh huh” before pushing Jonathan to his destination.
Trying to focus but with little luck, Jonathan managed to stay conscious during the trip. So when they arrived at Mayflower’s office, Jonathan was loopy but more or less alert and aware of his situation.
If the drug was still affecting him this bad after so many hours, it must have been strong and dosed far above recommended. Who knew? Perhaps if Jonathan were not so resistant and used to near poisonous chemicals, maybe he would have died or at least had a more severe reaction.
The guard knocked on the door as usual as the other one slowly started undoing the straps. “Hey Doctor, we got Crane for you. He’s out of it though… some accidents with the drugs or whatever, I don’t know the details. I don’t think the official report has been made yet,” the guard said, throwing his thumb back at Jonathan who was trying to look at the door. “We can take him back to the medical bay if you don’t wanna deal with him.”
He was not stealthy nor did he try to be. His escape methods were simply to infect as many people as possible and walk out the front door while the chaos inside distracted everyone. Or, perhaps more accurately, he walked out the front door because there was no one around sane enough to stop him. He did not hack into the systems, he simply would walk into the control room, gas those inside, and unlock the doors with his own hands. It was a direct method, but effective as many had seen in the past. The most complex his plans tended to be was using the vents or a bomb to spread his toxin.
Perhaps Jonathan sensed that Mayflower knew the cause behind this or maybe he was just curious, but he pushed the escape topic a bit further. “Do you have any idea who was trying to escape? I must say, I’m very curious,” Jonathan asked directly, looking for either an honest answer of what Mayflower had heard or an open refusal. As he had discussed in the past, he hated liars and if he was lied to, he may give up on social interactions in the session. Well, maybe not give up, the more likely option would be that he would become resistant and not reciprocate; lying to him gives him permission to start lying to you, after all.
It was not a secret to Jonathan that telling patients this kind of information was against the rules, but he didn't care and Mayflower didn't seem to care about protocol either. After all, letting Jonathan read his own files was against the rules too, yet Mayflower had let him do so… with consequences yet unrealized. There would be consequences for letting Jonathan learn who thought what about him, but he had been holding back for the perfect time to use that information. Perhaps the next time he met with Dr. Caster?
Jonathan was very still as his hand was treated, his heart beat strong but slower than the average heart rate. Due to that, his skin was cold… or perhaps he was cold to the touch because of his weight. Maybe both. As Mayflower worked, Jonathan was unconcerned with the lack of gloves, he was more concerned with Mayflower’s behavior and expression.
It was boring, no, that was the wrong word for it. Mayflower looked…stoic? Apathetic? Whatever the word, Mayflower’s gaze was steeled. Odd that this was his expression in this moment. There were no dangers, no true reason to feel the need to hide or focus since them talking like this was not abnormal, yet here Mayflower was, acting far less animated than Jonathan had seen him thus far. Why?
Mayflower’s tone while speaking only solidified in Jonathan that there was something off here… and it was maddening that he wouldn't know. Oh, Jonathan could have tried to figure it out, but he could feel that pushing Mayflower now would not result in anything positive or educational. Call it a practitioner's instinct.
Jonathan was so focused on Mayflower’s face and tone actually that he barely noticed what he was doing with his hands. Due to that, the wipe shocked Jonathan more than hurt him. He made no sound, but his hand tensed to the point that his fingers curved upward and shook a bit. Almost immediately after that happened though, Jonathan willed his hand to relax, and it did so. Considering how many injections he had over the years, he knew how to make his muscles relax even when under pain.
The next words Mayflower said were surprisingly although not unpleasant. Jonathan chuckled, one single audible laugh followed by several silent exhales of air. Everyone knew Jonathan was not the type for loud, audible laughter, so this was the most reaction he tended to give when he found something funny or interesting.
“I suppose it was too much to hope that you would allow me to keep the bottle even after helping you out so much today,” Jonathan stated, more shocked then offended. Mayflower knew that Jonathan was open to and willing to participate in tit-for-tat deals, and although Jonathan helped Mayflower get to the medical bay without asking for anything or without any intent on giving himself a reward, that didn't mean that he was going to ignore an opportunity to get one. In this case, he had given himself payment for his services, one that Mayflower now wanted to take away.
Jonathan became silent as he thought, and the fact that he didn't immediately relent and fess up on where he put the bottle was a bad sign. He was debating with himself, weighing the positives and negatives of both outcomes.
If Jonathan were to return the bottle, then he would be restoring trust with Mayflower. The fact that he hid it in the first place was a step back, and returning the bottle would restore at least a part of that trust. Of course, if he returned it, then Jonathan would be down one ingredient. The bottle was already a near unusable product that would need to be played with a lot in order to separate and isolate the chemical that he actually need, but still, it was hard to get hands on any ingredients in this place let alone a bottle that he could actually use to spray people at range with. Of course, there was always the chance that the bottle was found before he was able to make use of it which meant that it may be better not to waste his time trying to keep its existence hidden in the first place.
Then there was the keeping it option. As mentioned, hiding it in the first place likely meant that Mayflower trusted Jonathan less even after Jonathan had helped him out. Refusing to return the bottle would not help regain that trust, if anything, it may make the situation worse. Furthermore, there would be asylum consequences for not returning it. His freedoms would be lessened even more than they already were, if not removed entirely. That meant no mental stimulus during free time and it would be near impossible to speak with Hatter except for when he was being shuffled by his cell. Considering that Jervis was acting as Jonathan’s spy, it would be a real shame not to talk to him in privacy. Once again though, ingredients were hard to get in this place and ways to infect people without being in arms reach were even harder.
In the end, the need to create and spread fear won out, even if it meant real sacrifice for Jonathan. It always did. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I’m afraid to say that I will not be sharing the bottle’s location. Do what you must to make yourself comfortable; I will not take it personally.” Just as the silence was a bad sign, so was the fact that Jonathan sounded confident in his choice; it was as if he was sure the bottle would not be found even if the guards were told. And to tell the truth, he was fairly certain although not 100%. At the very least Jonathan was not lying about the location just to waste Mayflower’s time.
“When I am interrogated…” when, not if, “shall I tell the guards that you freed me from the table and then allowed me to take the bottle without protest, or would you like me to lie and say that I was never chained down at all and I stole the bottle without you noticing?” This was an honest question, not truly an attempt to blackmail Mayflower. “I don’t enjoy lying, but in this case and for you, I am willing to make an exception.”
After all, during a breakout attempt Mayflower had freed a super-criminal from a place where he was secure. And then, to make it worse, he allowed Jonathan to hold something that he was expressly forbidden to even be near. Neither of these actions was acceptable even in an emergency. Dr. Caster, and all senior staff, made it very clear that during emergencies super-criminals were to be thought of as active threats at all times; they were to be kept locked up even if it meant that they were at risk of being harmed or even killed. There was no guarantee that Dr. Caster would not punish Mayflower for his choice, his gamble. Imagine how terrible it could have been if Jonathan had chosen not to behave and managed to get away from Mayflower. How many would have ended up dead?
~~~~~
“You truly should not have so much faith, not everyone cares about others as much as you have proven to,” Jonathan said, a touch of nihilism in his tone and his perception of people. After all, he was one of those people who appeared to care for most of his life but truly never granted anyone a second thought. “Still, I do hope that you are right. I would rather Mr. Zsasz not succeed in his perversions.” And more so than that, Jonathan did not want Mayflower breaking on him because he had left someone to die today. It was not time for that… not yet.
It was sometimes troublesome to be used to violence, it made words that were meant to be taken as a compliment come out as hostile because what he now considered hostile was not necessarily what the common man thought of as hostile. Jonathan lived for his work, his deadly work, and so he often made passing comments that implied more violence and pain than he truly was thinking in that moment. Of course pain and fear was apart of Jonathan’s plan for Mayflower, but that did not mean that they were in his immediate plans.
For that reason, Jonathan only realized the impact of his words after he said them and Maybe made a quick exit. Still, he had time to make one more passing comment. “Of course. Thank you very much. Dr. Mayflower. I look forward to seeing you,” assuming that Mayflower’s report did not result in him being in isolation, not considered safe enough to even have therapy.
Once alone, Jonathan tested out his hand a bit and found that the pain was a bit more than before but only because of the stress the bandages put on his hand. His hands were fragile without the cut, so with the cut things just became worse. Hopefully his hand spasms did not and would not open up the wound. If it did, there was nothing he could do.
There was also nothing he could do but wait until someone of power came to get him, and in this case, it meant three guards. It was a nice little escort to be honest; they must not have wanted to deal with another breakout attempt today and so were being extra cautious. Wise.
~~~
For the days after the breakout attempt, security was boosted yet Jonathan found the increase in security to be rather minimal in comparison to what he expected. He was just waiting for Mayflower to go through with his threat, for the consequences of his theft to come down over his head, but it never came. Jonathan’s schedule remained unchanged, to his surprise. He had his lunches with Jervis, he met with his single weekly guest, and he had his freetime… all like normal. Eventually, he simply had to accept that Mayflower wasn't going to report him. It was odd, but preferable.
For one, it made Mayflower an interesting subject. He broke rules often, although always with good reasons whether that was to establish trust with his patients, to save his physical life, and to guarantee the safety of his professional standing. A person that puts their own gain over others was selfish, although selfishness was often just another world for self-preservation and self-interest, which really was nothing to be ashamed of. However, it did make people more easily manipulated when they had something that they couldn't stand to lose, whether that was their life or their job. It also meant that, at some level, they had fear… but of course, Jonathan knew that Mayflower had fear. The breakout attempt gave him a decent look into what Mayflower looked like paranoid and on edge, although true horror was still a mystery.
Secondly, Jonathan really didn't want to be punished, especially considering that most of his time in the asylum was boring enough already. He only had a few hours a day of stimulation, considering that Jonathan did not count his time with his other doctors as stimulating and free time was only sometimes interesting. The only thing he could rely on to keep himself sane was himself, Jervis, and sessions with Mayflower… although that too started to dull as meeting with him became routine.
For weeks, nothing happened. No outbursts from any patients or major steps forward in Mayflower’s treatment. In fact, the only thing of note was that during these weeks Jervis reported that Mayflower’s first name was Matty, short for Matthias. That was nice to know, but it was nothing in comparison to real knowledge about his past and outside life. Still, It was impressive that Jervis remembered agreeing to be Jonathan’s spy, so that have Jonathan plenty to praise him for on its own.
It wasn't enough though. With nothing happening for weeks, the smallest things started to catch Jonathan’s thoughts, he became more irritated, and eventually, he became desperate. So much time with his own thoughts lead Jonathan to start thinking about fear, his work, and just how much time he was wasting here. As long as he was making progress with Mayflower, with Matthias, he could justify his time here as a part of his study… but if he wasn't making progress, then what was the point of it all? He didn't even have his fear toxin or Batman to give him a rush, the rush that once he started thinking about made his skin itch and his mind hyperactive; he wanted stimulation, even if he had to cause it himself.
This desperation to free himself from his boredom and monotony hit a breaking point when Jonathan learned the date. He had been in the asylum for two months now, and that meant that his endeavors outside of the asylum had come to a halt. Nothing was happening, he was at a stand still, and he needed to break that standstill somehow.
So one night, so late that only the graveyard shift were present, Jonathan got up from bed on impulse. He had not slept this night anyway, and his mind was wandering in far too many directions. It was distracting, especially became all of those directions were unpleasant. They were horrifying, painful, gory, yet none stirred anything within Jonathan. They got close, but not close enough to actually cause him to feel anything besides more ennui. Not even a spark of fear.
Standing up, Jonathan slowly took off the shirt of his asylum patient uniform and began twisting it until the once loose shirt was more of a knotted rope. He no longer had a blanket in his room after making masks out of it, so the shirt would have to be sacrificed. He was in the pitch black, but it didn't make a difference; as the Scarecrow he had made many nooses to act as a necklace and enhance his “work uniform” to cause greater fear. So even in the dark, this was all instinct.
Tugging on it a few times to make sure it was strong and secure, Jonathan wound it around his neck until it was tight enough to cause pressure but not hurt. Still nothing, not even anticipation for what was coming. Still sitting on his bed, Jonathan took a few deep breaths before grabbing the end of the rope and yanking before even his mind could comprehend what he was about to do to himself.
Immediately the rope-like shirt around his neck tightened, cutting off his airway and causing the blood in his body to face a serious flow obstacle. Now, normally in this circumstance, the human body would immediately react. The pulse would become stronger but slower as it faced the obstacle and tried to correct it, except in Jonathan’s case, he was not letting his pulse correct the issue because of what came after. Eventually in the strangulation process, the body would get a shot of adrenaline, or fear, and a form of panic would set in as a final attempt to stop the cause of the strangulation. Only after this final fight would the body become weak and lose all strength… but once again, that was a normal human.
For nearly two minutes, Jonathan used his own strength to stop himself from breathing. He could feel his pulse slow and strengthen, but even has he held it like that long past the point of pain, all he could feel was the pain. No second wave of fighting. It got to the point that Jonathan released his hold so that he would not actually die.
“Pointless… I’m too in control,” Jonathan whispered to himself, his voice a bit horse now. Perhaps that was the real problem? As long as he was holding his own noose, he would have full control of his life and easily be able to stop and start the strangling whenever it became too much. He was causing physical pain but no mental pain, and so much of his life was mental that he should have known that physical pain without mental torment would not cause a reaction in him. “Time for a new strategy then…”
And that new strategy was to take the noose out of his hands literally. So much of his room was bolted down or low to the ground, which made strangling that way near impossible. However, he did one option… the sink. It was not a good height for suicide, or even near suicides like he was trying to do now, but it would have to do.
Wrapping the end of the noose around the sink, Jonathan slowly crouched down into a kneeling position. Already the shirt tightened, which meant that if he actually sat down he would surely not be able to breath… good. Turning so that his back was against the wall, Jonathan slowly lowered himself to the ground; the shock of sudden pressure would have possibly been useful to achieve his ends, but he really did not want to risk snapping his neck.
So onto the ground Jonathan went, and soon the lack of air in his brain was causing pain across his neck, lungs, and head. Immediately, Jonathan could feel a difference between strangling himself and this. Not only was the pressure stronger, but his hands being free with nothing to do made the whole experience far more stimulating. Out of instinct, Jonathan found his hands around his own neck, grabbing the cloth. That was a good sign, as was the fact that his vision was starting to be clouded by black dots.
Taking that as a sign that he was getting to dangerous territory, Jonathan allowed his hands to trail up the noose towards the sink where it was latched. One pull and he would be freed, however, as Jonathan placed his hands on the rope his hand aggressively twitched, causing him to miss the rope and instead grab onto nothing. With his own strength weakening, Jonathan slipped back to the ground. That time, the rope tightened further and he could hear his neck pop from the force.
The sound and the unexpected force gave Jonathan a shock so close to what he wanted; it was enough to make his eyes jolt wide but not anything more than that. Still, that wonderful feeling of shock was enough to make Jonathan take his time freeing himself. Perhaps he would get it again.
How long had it been now? Two minutes? Maybe three? He could die if he didn't stop himself soon. Reaching up a second time, Jonathan found his hand successfully on the rope just as the door leading from the hallway burst open.
Apparently he had been making far more sounds than he had realized, so much that the guards passing by outside could hear.
Once again, the sudden appearance of strangers, light, and the screeching sound was enough to give Jonathan a good shock, and this time, it was more than just his eyes that jumped. Jonathan’s entire body twitched in a way that it so rarely did, although it was quick to calm down. Still, as the pair of guards rushed into the room to undo the rope he was fully able to undo himself, Jonathan found himself smiling. It worked. His heart was racing, there was a slight pit in his stomach that was fading faster than the dots across his vision were, and he had jumped. God, that rush… it had been a while since something surprised him enough to feel like that.
To the guard’s dismay, when they freed Jonathan’s throat they only received a soft but harsh laugh from the patient who was apparently finding his failed suicide hilarious.
~~~
To Jonathan’s surprise, he could speak the next day. He honestly didn't expect that. There was a bit of hoarseness to his voice and there were deep bruises across his throat that hurt to the touch, but these were small inconveniences in comparison to the golden reward that was the stroke of fear last night. Such a small jumpscare was what pushed his little near-death experience over the hurdle… and it was wonderful. He would not need to do anything so extreme for a while.
Unfortunately, Mayflower was not working the morning this all occurred, which meant that one of the other doctors who was ‘treating’ Jonathan took charge. Mayflower would be informed to the suicide attempt and his new prescription, but that would wait until tomorrow. For now, this other doctor was in charge and she did not believe Jonathan when he assured her it was not going to occur again nor did she trust him that his intent was just to give himself a shock. She honestly thought that he had tried to kill himself. She decided that he would be spending the night in the medical bay and that he would be getting a new prescription that would at least reduce the likelihood of this happening again. They were simple antidepressants.
It was all a bit too melodramatic, but nothing too extreme Jonathan even got to listen in to what his doctor was recommending he takes, and the dosage was pathetically small for someone with resistance to drugs. Her dosage was nothing he had not had before and nothing that would impact his mind or body, so he willingly took the pills. Why not when it would have so little an effect?
The problem came the following morning. Jonathan was strapped to the bed all night, both to keep him from hurting himself and to keep him from hurting others, and to his surprise he awoke not to breakfast but to whispers. A pair of medical staff were there, talking to each other near him, although just quiet enough that he would not make out any of their words. What he did see though was the needle in their hand. That immediately seemed odd. Medication before a meal was abnormal, and so was the fact that he was getting an injection at all. The nurse and the other psychologist made it clear that his medication would only be oral.
This situation, strapped to a bed and completely unable to move, was not ideal. Just to test the restraints, Jonathan attempted to sit up twice but with no luck. “This is not ideal at all,” Jonathan said to himself, submitting to the situation and relaxing into the bed. Why bother resisting when it was futile? And more than that, he was oddly confident that this was not a murder attempt; if it were, they likely would have done it in the night when no one would be coming for him soon.
Jonathan, once again, was back to feeling no fear even in the face of possible death and unknown drugs.
One injection later, and Jonathan passed out for hours. He was so knocked out that he missed breakfast and he only woke up a bit before lunch when the nurse shook him awake. She was confused about why it was such a challenge to do so, and even more so when she found that Jonathan was having a hard time keeping his head up or making eye contact.
“God, what happened to you?” the nurse asked, once again, more confused about the Scarecrow’s behavior than concerned.
Jonathan did not immediately answer, instead he just rolled his head in her direction and tried to make eye contact. That was not working out though, so Jonathan just relaxed into his bed and started chuckling. He left so light and hazy at the moment, everything, even his thoughts, were coated in a thick mist. His tongue felt heavy and his throat, which burned last night, was now painless although it sounded as bad as it should have. “Drugs… I bet based on…. All this,” this vague response was met with a raise of her eyebrows, but Jonathan only chuckled again, “Do your job, look at the charts… I don’t really remember...”
His suggestion, rudely put, did successfully prompt the girl to look at the charts at the end of his bed detailing his medical condition and treatment profile. The problem was, she looked at the papers and then just kept looking. Jonathan was drugged, not completely dumb, so with unrefined tsks, Jonathan berated the girl. “Noshing there, huh? The security really is horrish-horrid here. No wonder people get killed here weekly.”
“Shame I don’t remember nothing… I’d love to give them and injection too.” Once again, Jonathan was laughing, although a bit louder than before. How could he not when he was imagining injecting his fear toxin into his faceless offenders. It really was a shame that remembered little to nothing from last night. We know that he woke up to the sight of two, maybe three, people; he felt a pinch on his arm that he now identified as an injection… and now he was here feeling light and a bit dizzy. How annoying. In fact, this entire situation was annoying.
The motivations here didn't even make sense. He had his medical dosage, one that was likely approved by at least one other person, so it was strange that he got something at least three times as strong as intended. That was not approved, and for good reason. Jonathan was a mess, like he had been shot up with a tranquilizer… “Oh, maybe that’s what it was…” Jonathan said aloud but did not repeat when prompted. His only guess was that this was either his doctor purposely overstepping her place by giving him this much, or it was a doctor taking the opportunity to sneak in a surprise that would admittedly make everyone safer since he could probably not even walk right now. Or maybe this was just a failed murder attempt?
Whatever their intent, time was wonky right now. Because as far as Jonathan was concerned, he had been talking to the nurse and then all of a sudden he wasn't. In fact, he refocused and found hands on him lifting him into place on a stand-up wheeled contraption that allowed Jonathan to be strapped into place while standing. This was normally how Joker was escorted around, so it was odd to receive the same treatment.
“Would you stop saying that?” One of the guards asked was a mixed tone, glaring at Jonathan who then realized that he had been speaking. What had he been saying? Hard to say, but it probably wasn't pleasant. And based on his throat which now burned on the inside and outside, he had been talking for a while.
“I can do that. Where am I going?” Jonathan asked, to which the guard once again gave him a mixed tone answer.
“I literally just told you- oh never mind, I’m taking you to see your doc. Until we get official word to change up your schedule due to this whole “suicide” or “drug” whatever fiasco, we are keeping you on schedule.”
Jonathan nodded his head, or at least tried to. It once again just rolled; they were not using the head restraints, and for once, it may have been useful to do so. At the very least he could stand though, which was surprising considering how weak most of his other limbs were rather floppy and weak. “Good good good. Can’t have you getting fired before you wind up with your eyes gouged out,” Jonathan said sincerely, which was the problem. Normally he could filter these kinds of comments, the dark and violent ones, but apparently Jonathan’s mental filter was having some trouble today.
Luckily, the guard was one of the better temperamented ones here. So, instead of punching a man while he was down, the guard merely responded with a simple “Uh huh” before pushing Jonathan to his destination.
Trying to focus but with little luck, Jonathan managed to stay conscious during the trip. So when they arrived at Mayflower’s office, Jonathan was loopy but more or less alert and aware of his situation.
If the drug was still affecting him this bad after so many hours, it must have been strong and dosed far above recommended. Who knew? Perhaps if Jonathan were not so resistant and used to near poisonous chemicals, maybe he would have died or at least had a more severe reaction.
The guard knocked on the door as usual as the other one slowly started undoing the straps. “Hey Doctor, we got Crane for you. He’s out of it though… some accidents with the drugs or whatever, I don’t know the details. I don’t think the official report has been made yet,” the guard said, throwing his thumb back at Jonathan who was trying to look at the door. “We can take him back to the medical bay if you don’t wanna deal with him.”
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