Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Well, Mr. Grange, I have to say, out of the 20 applicants I listened to during the last few days, you seem to have the best credentials. You actually own a legit psychology degree, have experience in therapy with patients and no criminal background…”
The Doctor, who sat across from me, looked up from my documents and looked straight into my eyes.
“Why did you apply for a position in the Arkham Asylum? Why apply in Gotham? With your credentials you could have easily got a job in Central City or Metropolis.”
He was right of course. Normally there was no reason to ever apply to any job in Gotham, especially with my paperwork, but sadly reasons outside of my control forced me to move back into this dark and dirty city.
“My mother has become rather sick over the last year, probably from the side effects of Joker Gas and Scarecrow Toxins. She never had the money to leave the East End, so I moved back here to support her.”
An honest answer was the best I could give at that moment.
“I see, I’m sorry to hear that.”, the doctor replied, keeping the cold expressions he was holding during the entire interview, so I wasn’t sure how serious he was or if he just tried to be nice.
“To be honest, Mr. Grange.”
He said my name like it was made up, and I couldn’t even be angry about it. We were in Gotham after all.
“I will need to run it by the board, but as far as I’m concerned, you are in. We would be glad to have you.”, the doctor said and reached out his hand, which I quickly took and shook.
“Thank you so much, Dr. Rourke”.
With a tight handshake, and some paperwork, he led me back outside.
“We will stay in contact. If you don’t hear from us, then just come here on Monday. A nurse will show you around then and you will probably have your first therapy sessions. We will send you the patient’s files till then.”
With those parting words, the heavy steel door of the asylum closed, leaving me standing in the light rain of Gotham city.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The last stop of my bus back home wasn’t even in the East End, but a whole city block before it.
It had been years since I had been in Gotham. During my University and College Time I mostly stayed in New York, where I studied at Hudson University.
Of course my mom kept sending me News Articles about the Bat, Superman or the Flash, but those were all far away from my campus.
But now I was back, slowly making my way to the streets of the East End, walking past alleys with still fresh chalk outlines, doors covered by GCPD tape and burnt out cars. Only every third street lantern was actually working and I was silently cursing to not have brought a flashlight.
After a while I finally arrived at the door I was looking for. A pretty run down wooden door, covered by graffiti which showed the long time line of gangs who once ruled the East End, now a public warning message was hammered onto it, warning all East End Citizens to not leave their homes past 8 pm.
“What a joke…”, I mumbled to myself and after 3 tries the key finally hit the right position and let me open the door.
The stairway towards the second floor was squeaky and loud enough to give any potential homeless man the sign to hide now and avoid potential contact with the police, while I headed towards my mother’s apartment. Once again it was a brutal fight with the door until I was finally able to open it and enter what once was my childhood home. Now it was something shameful. Trash littered the floor, the kitchen was dirty, heavy dust rested on every flat surface.
If such an apartment would be shown on TV, I would heavily judge the person for losing all control over their life.
But this was my mother’s apartment. A woman who had raised me by herself, a single mother in this big and corrupted town. And now Gotham did to my mother, what it did to every citizen too dumb or too poor to not leave this city…it killed her.
I head around the corner, following the sound of a cheaply produced mid-day Scripted Reality show, just to see my mom laying on the couch, a blanket weakly thrown over her.
She turned her head and smiled at me as I entered. It was a smile, no son ever wants to see from his mother. A weak but forced smile that said something like “Don’t worry about me, just tell me how it went!”.
I sat down next to her and grabbed her hand. Ever since she got affected by the Joker Gas and had a horrible Laughing seizure, her vocal cords had been heavily affected, making her practically mute, but her eyes told me that she was fine to just listen.
“The interview went well. They want me. I will start on Monday if nothing gets in the way.”, I say and can’t hide my proud smile. With a kiss on my cheek she showed me how proud she was too.
“How about you rest and I will make us something to eat, hm?” I ask, and stand back up, letting her rest on the couch some more.
I headed into the kitchen and looked at the mountains of trash and dirty dishes I would have to clean before I could start cooking, and sighed softly, before grabbing some gloves and getting to work.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The days passed and I was able to turn my mother’s apartment into something livable again, and while I sat in the kitchen, listening to my mom’s scripted reality show running in the living room and looked at my laptop I thought: How much simpler Gotham could be if the worst crime in this town was littering…
I focused from my day dreaming back to my laptop screen, where I had opened multiple files.
Arkham Asylum had now officially accepted me as their new psychotherapist, after the last few people either died during sessions or were turned into accomplices.
I hoped and promised to myself and mom that no such thing would happen to me. And the first step to avoiding such a fate would be to carefully study my patient’s file.
My first case would be a man by the name of Edward Nygma, or Edward Nashton, Eddie Nash or apparently on some documents even Patrick Parker.
I made a mental note to neither fully trust the documents, nor whatever my patients would tell me.
Scrolling further through his file I found cases of an abusive father, bad childhood, absent or dead mother and multiple failed businesses.
According to a previous Doctor called “Hugo Strange”, Edward “always believes he is the smartest in the room, and if he isn’t he will do everything to expose you as a fraud”.
“That sounds like fun…”, I mumbled to myself, but what did I expect? I am in Gotham after all. Each one of my patients has the potential to kill me, ruin my life or both. And Edward Nigma, or also called “The Riddler” might be the safest start to test out some therapy strategies I had prepared.

The days kept flying by till I found myself once again in front of the steel gate of the ominous Arkham Asylum. Just getting here was a struggle in itself. From Gotham there was only one bridge leading to Arkham Island, on which the Asylum had been built ages ago. And good luck finding a Taxi or Bus that takes you till the front gate. The best I was able to find was an ex-cop, now taxi driver, who was willing to drive me to the bridge, but not a single meter further.
It was raining, because of course it was, as I pressed a small button on the intercom at the gate, and after some static an annoyed and bored voice answered my call.
“Yes?”
“Uhm, sorry. I’m Elliot Grange, the new psychotherapist. I start today.”, I reply to the voice of probably some overweight security guard.
“Hm, fine.”, and with that very short answer, the metal gate loudly opened itself, allowing me entrance to this “serious house on serious earth”.
I stepped up to the big metal door that I had left through about a week ago and used a gargoyle-like shaped door knocker to… announce my presence?
It felt a bit surreal, the very gothic-like infrastructure, combined with modern elements like an intercom and multiple cameras that overlooked the forecourt of the property.
The door was quickly opened by, going by his rather chubby and bored look, the security guard who answered my intercom call.
“Documents.” He said cold, apparently assuming that it would be a waste of time to say “please” and “thank you” as I handed him my ID.
After a quick look at it, followed by a quick look at me, he fully opened the door and let me inside, where I was greeted by a young nurse.
“Hello Sir, we are so glad to have you here!”, she said, eagerly grabbing my hand and shaking it, while the security guard behind me, headed back to his share and dedicated his time to his donut and “Grey Ghost” Comic book again.
“Thank you, just call me Elliot.”, I say, just to be surprised by her rather shocked expression. She must have noticed my confused look, because she quickly composed herself again and tried to explain her reaction.
“Sorry for that. We used to have a doctor with a similar name, Thomas Elliot. He was notorious for… Well, let’s not start this day with bad stories! If you will follow me please!”
A bit confused about this weird reaction from the nurse, I followed her into the staff’s locker room, where she showed me my locker, where the janitor apparently had done his best job to scrap off the name of the previous own, and handed me my uniform and Asylum specific ID card, before leaving so I could change, with the parting words of “I will be waiting in front of the therapy room!”

In my mind I complimented the work of the janitor. The whole locker room was quite clean, almost sterile. Each locker had a name and job title on it, and after I stored my backpack in my little locker and put on my almost cartoonishly white doctor’s coat I headed back into the entrance hall to check the building plan.
Apparently there were two floors above the entrance hall and an entire floor beneath it.
I took some time to actually find where the therapy room would be located, but I quickly found it as Room #140 on the second floor.
I walked to a nearby elevator, activated it with my Arkham ID-Card and headed upwards.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The elevator stopped at the second floor as intended. To be honest, I would have not been surprised if that had already been the end of my adventure in Gotham and a Joker Bomb would have detonated or Killer Croc would have jumped through the air vent. But instead the doors slid open and revealed a long hallway with seemingly an endless amount of rooms.
As I walked along, comparing the room numbers, I walked past offices, medical storages and some rooms only labeled “STAFF”.
It didn’t take long until I spotted the young nurse, standing in front of a door, holding a notepad and a file in her hands.
As I got closer I could finally read her name tag: Rachel Dawes.
“Here you go, Elliot. Riddler’s file and a notepad”, she said with a smile.
I smiled back, happy that she dropped the ‘Sir’ and used my first name instead.
Down the hallway I could see some heavy armed guards coming closer and heading straight towards us.
“Will that be necessary?”, I ask Rachel and nod towards the Guards.
“Yes, that belongs to our protocol. Riddler counts as one of our Tier 3 Criminals, which means every contact with him has to be accompanied by armed guards. If everything happens, just shout and the guards will be there immediately!”, Rachel explained, like it was the most casual thing to explain. Well, for her it probably was.
“Good Luck!”, she said and opened the door for me. I nod towards her and the guards and head inside.
It was a small room, less a therapy room and more a slightly decorated interrogation room.
A big, solid metal desk stood in the middle, with a chair on the left and right side.
One single potted plant stood in a corner, already dying.
I made a note to myself that if I ever would talk with Pamela Isley I would have to change that plant.

One chair was already occupied by a rather tall but skinny man. His brown hair was well kept and he wore a bright orange prisoner uniform.
That was one of the most obvious things: While all the other Asylums I was able to work in made sure to treat their patients as human as possible, Arkham didn’t hide that it saw its patients also as prisoners and treated them as such.
Edward’s brown eyes only looked at me shortly as I entered the room, before he focused his eyes back on the table, his fingers tapping along the metallic surface, like he was writing something on a typewriter.

I tried to silently sit down across from him, carefully place down my notepad and his file, and carefully turn on the Dictaphon, a big, bulky device that is being used to record patient interviews on audio tape.
Just another scenario of the chaotic mix of modern and old school technology meeting in the Arkham Asylum.
I just sat there, watching silently as the Riddler typed things on his invisible typewriter, the only sounds being the humming of the Dictaphon and Edward’s typing on the metal table, on which his hands were chained to with chains that connected to metal band around his wrists, highly likely for my protection and to limit his mobility.

After about 10 minutes he finally looked at me again.
“So, Doc. When are you starting to ask questions?”, he asked, his eyes focusing on me deeply, like he tried to analyse everything about me. Well, not really tried. I’m pretty sure he did that without a problem.
“I read that you are the expert with questions, so I wanted to wait till you would start first.”, I replied, just to see a smile on his face. Difficult to see if it was a smug grin, because I just petted his ego, or an arrogant grin, because I’m highly likely not the first therapist who said something like this.
“I can fill a room, or just one heart. Others may have me, but I can not be shared. What am I?”, he said, in his typical Riddler voice I had heard in so many audio recordings and archive material.
"Loneliness. So, can I call you Edward, or do you prefer Riddler?”, I asked. Obviously I had bought a few riddle magazines to prepare myself for his little mind games, hoping to impress him a little.
His smug grin disappeared rather quickly, and turned into an almost offended frown. He leaned back into his chair, crossed his arms and went full on defensive.
“Well then, Doctor. What do you want to hear first? How Daddy beat me up? How he always claimed I was cheating? Or how I am the arch enemy of Batman?”
I looked at him rather calmly, interested that he would start with his own little analysis of his own psyche, only to switch right back to obsession. But then again, he probably had such talks a hundred times, and some of my colleagues even said that he was sane enough and sent him back out into the public.
“Well, why the riddles?”, I asked. In my mind that was a rather easy question with hopefully an easy answer, but apparently that was exactly the question I shouldn’t have asked as he started his majestic monologue about how riddles are a form of art, of how they could immediately show if somebody was his equal (which of course nobody was) and how people “dumber then me, shouldn’t have the right to own even an inch of power in this town!”.
I nodded, when I thought that he awaited some kind of reaction, and mostly just let him talk, while taking notes.
After more than 15 min of Monologue, he seemed to calm down again and eagerly watched me scribble down notes.
“What are you writing? Show me!”, he demanded, so I put my pen back into my breast pocket and started reading my notes to him.
“Edward is narcissistic, loves to hear himself talk, Riddles as part of IQ Test, problem with authorities and…”
I stopped reading as I saw his weird expression of… I couldn’t really tell. Was it pride, because he loved those things about himself? Was it anger because I broke down his “mighty monologue” into these basic facts?
“I think we are done here, Doc.”, he mumbled, almost threatening.
I just nodded, unsure how to deal with an angry narcissist and got up to open the door and tell the guards to bring Nygma back to his cell.
They just nodded, grabbed their walkie-talkie, saying something about "Nygma coming back down now”, and then escorted him out of the room. I only stood there, forced to watch as they dragged him into a separate elevator, Edward’s eyes constantly on me.
“Well, Elliot? Any results?”Rachel asked. I hadn’t even noticed that she stood beside me again.
“No. No, I don’t think so.”, I said, still unsure how to process this session.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I couldn’t sleep the entire night. The scene in the therapy room constantly playing before my eyes. Riddler’s undefineable look as I read my notes to him…
But apparently at some point I had fallen asleep anyway, because in the morning I had been woken up by loud and heavy knocking on my door.
“GCPD, open the door!”, a loud and deep voice shouted from outside.
I quickly got up, and ran past my shocked mother towards the door.
“Elliot Granger?”, a big bulky man, with a fedora and trenchcoat, that he probably wouldn’t be able to close, asked.
“Yes?”I answered, still confused and tired.
“Detective Harvey Bullock, GCPD. You are coming with us!”, he said rather aggressively.
I saw a young woman standing behind him, her black hair turned into a bun. On her hip was also the GCPD badge. Just as Bullock was about to grab my arm and force me out of my apartment, the woman stopped him.
“Easy there, Bullock. That man still has rights. Let him at least grab some stuff!”, she said and Detective Bullock stopped in his tracks, but not without looking even more pissed.
“Fine, but when he runs away, it’s your fault, Montoya!”, he cursed angry. I quickly got dressed and got my backpack, before telling my mother that everything will be alright and that I will be back quickly, before following the two detectives.
They put me in the back of their police car and drove me to the massive central building of the GCPD. Truly one of the tourist stops of Gotham, with its shining example of Gotham architecture. Pillars, long stairs and of course two gargoyles. Just everything you would expect from Gotham.
The two detectives didn’t waste much time and led me inside, past a few office desks, the holding cells and directly into the integration room.

A big metal desk in the middle, two chairs on opposite sides and a dead potted plant in a corner.

A real Deja-Vu.

I sat there alone for a few minutes, only now clear enough in the head to realise I had no clue why I was here.
Then the female Detective, Montoya, entered again and sat down across from me.
“Elliot Granger, born 20th of November, currently living in the East End. Is that correct?”, she asked as she read the information from a file, probably from the city’s archive.
“That’s correct. Why exactly am I here, Detective?”, I asked, not even hiding my confusion.
“Please let me ask the question first.”, Montoya replied, quickly establishing the hierarchy in this room. I was clearly a suspect for something and this was my interrogation.
“You have recently started working for the Arkham Asylum, is that correct?”, she continued with her questions.
I nod.
“Yes, yesterday was my first day.”, I answered truthfully. Slowly a weird feeling started sneaking up on me.
She placed a few pictures in front of me. They showed question mark graffiti on different landmarks of the city: The Mayor’s Office, the orphanage and the Gotham City Central bank.
“What can you tell me about these?”, she asked, and deep inside me I knew what she wanted.
“That is Riddler’s symbol, and I had a therapy session with him yesterday…”, I said, slowly connecting the puzzle pieces.
“And you were also the last one to talk to him. At exactly 12 am, the Riddler disappeared from his cell. No explosion, no big theater…just gone. And like you said, you were the last one to talk to him.”, she said and crossed her arms.
It got silent in the room, as I tried to come up with a solution to this puzzle.
“I-I…this was our first therapy session yesterday. I did pretty basic stuff, like asking why he uses riddles as his gimmick and confronted him with the small analysis I made about him…”, I tried to explain, only becoming more nervous. Was that it? Is that the way all those therapists had ended before me? Framed for a breakout they had nothing to do with?

Suddenly somebody knocked, but not from the door, but from behind me. In my nervousness I hadn’t noticed the big one way mirror behind me.
“Excuse me for a moment…”, the detective said and left me alone in the room again.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An older man entered the room, a wide light brown trenchcoat on. His hair had started to become gray and the circles under his eyes would indicate that he barely got sleep. He smelled like gunpowder and coffee, but then again that was the smell of every cop in Gotham.
He smiled at me, at least he tried to, as he sat down on the now free chair.
“You are Commissioner Gordon…”, I heard myself say surprised. I hadn’t expected to meet THE police commissioner of Gotham, but I also didn’t expect to be arrested this morning so anything could happen today.
“Yes, that I am.”, he said with the soft smile of an elderly man who has seen a lot.
“Listen, can you give us any hints about what the Riddler could have planned? It would certainly help us…and it would take the suspicion off of you.”
He made it very clear that I wasn’t high on the list, but still on it. I was a nobody, with no criminal record, and one day after I started working at Arkham Asylum an inmate broke out. Even I could see that the cards dealt to me were rather awful.

I looked at the pictures in front of me again and tried to remember our session.
“He had asked me if I wanted to hear how his father had beaten him, maybe that explains the orphanage? Although I have not seen any mention of him being in anyone. And at my conclusion I had confronted him about his problem with authority…but the mayor's office? I don’t know if that would fit as a target for him. And I can’t really help you with the bank, Commissioner. We didn’t talk about money or finances at all.”
Gordon nodded and made notes himself on a little notepad, before looking at the mirror behind me and nodded.
I couldn’t really imagine who he must be nodding too…and even if I could that would have been absurd.
“Thanks, kid. That might help us a bit. Do you want us to drive you back home?”, he asked as he stood back up.
I looked at my phone. It was still early, but a commute to work, especially by a cop, could maybe earn me some respect points from the chubby security guard.
“A drive to work would be great actually.”, I said. He nodded, called Detective Montoya over and she drove me to Arkham Asylum. No small talk. Just a silent drive.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As I pressed the button on the intercom, I heard exactly what I had hoped for, the excited voice of the guard.
“Damn, man. Second day and already coming with the police!”. came out of the intercom followed by a short buzz and the iron Gate of Arkham Asylum opened up before me, while I heard Detective Montoya drive away behind me.
I went up to the massive steel door of the asylum and wasn’t greeted by the now excited security guard, but instead by my boss, Dr. Rourke.
“Granger, follow me into my office.”, he said coldly, probably a sentence he said a hundred times in exactly this situation.
So, I walked behind him, through the corridors and into the office. It was still early, so no colleagues were seeing that, but I was pretty sure the security guard would tell anyone who entered what had happened.

Dr. Rourke's office was small and heavily occupied by shelves filled to the brim with files of the patients. Only a small office desk offered space to actually work with said files and only offered one chair, which Rourke himself sat down on, leaving me to stay.
I felt like in one of those movies where the godfather of some mafia organisation was sitting on a massive chair and all his supplicants quivering before him.
Well, I wasn’t quivering. At least not yet. But maybe only because my brain didn’t realize yet, that I could lose my job any second.
“I assume the police interrogated you about the disappearance of Edward Nigmar.”, he said.
“Yes, they have.”, I replied.
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them parts of our session talk. Nothing new, really. His narcissistic personality, problem with authorities…stuff that is already written down in his files.”
Short Silent Break.

“Good. If you want to keep your job, Grange, you better keep it that way. I don’t like it when Gordon and his men interfere with my system. If they ask you, you say what's already written down. Nothing more, nothing less. Do you understand?”
He was basically asking me to lie to the police, that no matter what I would be confronted by, I would always have to stick to official facts.
But I needed the money.
So I had no choice, at least for now.
“Yes, Sir. I understand.”, I replied.
“Very well, you can go then. There is still some time before your shift starts.”

I nodded and left his office, heading towards the changing room.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Text

I sat in the changing room, listening to a radio someone had turned on. Gotham City Radio was tuned in and Jack Ryder was once again complaining about Gotham, a show that repeated itself every day and really made me wonder how this man became a Pulitzer Prize Winner.
“Dear Gothamites, tomorrow is the big day of the Gotham Gaslights versus the Metropolis Monarchs! The battle of the giants! Rumors say that the mighty sons of each city will be present during the match: Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor! Although bets on the teams itself are at an all time high, the bets on how many women Bruce Wayne will bring along are even higher!”
I couldn’t help but smile at that comment. Bruce Wayne was truly THE Son of Gotham.
Not only was he the richest man in Gotham, he was also its Nr. 1 Celebrity, Nr. 1 Philanthropist and Nr. 1 Businessman.
After I had moved back to my mom, I quickly changed my Insurance to a Wayne Enterprise one and made sure my mom’s health insurance was from Wayne Enterprise too.
It was one of the rare bonus points for living in Gotham.

While I listened to Jack Ryder ramble about the newest rumors about Dick Grayson, one of Wayne’s many adoptive children, becoming the Vice CEO of Wayne Enterprise, I was already looking through the file of my next patient: Arnold Wesker, also known as the Ventriloquist.
According to the files he suffers from a split personality. His file showed a pretty good image:
Arnold himself was the weak, shy part, and his doll, dressed like a Mobster of the Prohibition and named “Scarface”, was the dominant and aggressive part of the personality.
Apparently even so aggressive and dominant that Scarface also humiliated and insulted Arnold…which meant Arnold was insulting himself.

I put on my coat and left the changing room, with the file in hand. Rachel, the nurse, greeted me in front of the elevator.
“Morning, Doc. So, first time contact with the GCPDs, huh? Guess you are officially a part of us now!”, she said with a soft giggle.
I looked over my shoulder at the security guard, but he was already focused on his Grey Ghost comic again, hopefully another issue and not the same one.

“Yeah, because of the whole Riddler thing. What was yours?”, I asked as we both went into the elevator.
“Oh, mine was two years ago. Anarchy had held a dinner hostage, demanding for some Senator to step down. I don’t remember if it actually happened. I only remembered how Batman smashed through the ceiling and knocked that masked boy out…truely an interesting day. Didn’t even get my pancakes for free afterwards!", she said laughing.
Deep inside I was happy to have never met Batman during my childhood and since I moved back here.
The elevators opened and I saw the familiar long hallway that led to my therapy room.
Guards were already standing in front of it, but seemingly less worried.
But I couldn’t really blame them. Weskwer only seemed dangerous when he was combined with his doll, and every therapist before me had ordered the guards to remove any kind of doll from him before sending him to therapy.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I entered the rather sad room, its interior still as cheap and boring as before.
Wesker was a small, nervous and balding man. He looked up at me with eyes that were covered by thick glasses.
“Good morning, Doctor.”, he said nervously. I would lie if I said that I expected such good manners from him, or anyone in Gotham.
“Good morning, Arnold. How are you today?”, I asked calmly as I sat down across from him and placed his case record in front of me.
“Pretty good, Sir. I started sleeping better and his voice rarely appears.”, Wesker explained, but not without looking around nervously, like he was suspecting something or someone to jump him any time.
“His voice? Who are you talking about?”. Of course I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from him.
“Scarface…”, he answered with genuine fear.
“What does Scarface tell you?”
“He wants me to leave this place and message his men outside…he wants to take revenge on the Batman for humiliating him…”

Wesker spoke of Scarface like he was a real person, who deserved respect and to be taken seriously. But in the end, Scarface was nothing more than a wooden doll.

“Well, Wesker, is there anything YOU want to do? What would you do if there was no Scarface?”
Arnold looked at me, like I was the killing psychopath in the room. Like I had said something so impossible that he had never considered it.

“I-I…I would like to work for Children Television…Before Scarface stepped into my life, I had worked on prototypes for dolls and puppets that I would have used to pitch it to GTV…but it never happened.”, he told me, like he was almost ashamed of that idea.

“Well, Arnold. Why don’t you go deeper into that idea? And if you ever have a satisfying pitch, I can talk with Dr. Rourke and see what we can do!”
With that, I had seemingly earned his trust, because he smiled at me, like a child who had been offered free ice cream in a brutal summer.

We continued our session with some small talk, some breathing techniques and for the first time since entering Arkham I felt like I actually made progress.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was sitting in Pauli’s Dinner during my lunch break, chewing on some pretty decent sandwiches and reading through my “For You”-Page on Echo, Gotham’s Nr. 1 Social Media Platform:
“Does anybody know what the Condiment King has been up to? Just had the driest Hot Dog in Central Park!”
“Bruce Wayne just went into my Store, together with Casandra Cain and Tim Drake, bought a shit ton of black eye shadow and gave me $100 in tips #OnlyinGotham”

I couldn’t help but giggle at those posts. Gothamites always had a very special kind of humor, which you just had to acceüt or you would fall into depression in a town like Gotham.

My little lunch break was quickly disturbed as a random man sat down across from me.
He had a rugged face and wore work clothes that were branded with “Hell’s Gate Disposal Service”.
“So, you are the doc, huh? You look a bit too innocent, but I don’t get paid to ask questions…”, he said.
I looked up at him confused, but before I could answer, I could feel his fist hitting me straight in the face.
Blood ran down my face as my nose started bleeding and I felt myself fall to the ground, followed by a kick to my stomach.
“Riddler sends his regards.”, he said, spit on me and quickly rushed outside.
The last thing I noticed were a few people coming closer and someone screaming for an ambulance before I passed out.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I woke up dazed, with a broken nose, in some random hospital bed. The smell of cigarettes and cold coffee filled the whole room.
I felt a hand resting on my chest.
With great strength I moved my head to see my mom, sleeping on the side of my bed, her hand on me.
But someone else was in the room. I didn’t have the strength to move my head, but I had a feeling.
And that feeling was confirmed as he spoke.
“You are in the Wayne Memorial Hospital. Doctor Leslie Thompkins is assigned to your case.”
It was a deep voice, probably enhanced artificially to make it even deeper and difficult to recognize.
“The man who beat you up, was part of Two-Face’s Gang, but got paid by Riddler from some side jobs.”
He continued, my heavy breathing being the only other sound.
“Why did he target you?”
I tried to move my head, but everything hurt horribly. I was sure I had broken some rips as well.

“I have no idea." We just had a single session. He had that massive monologue about how riddles are his artform and all that…and then I told him what I really think of him, and that seemed to hurt his ego or trigger him or…I don’t know.”
I said, feeling tears run down my face. I was scared. What if my mom would be his next target?
What if hurting me wasn’t enough?

“I listened to the audio tape with you and Wesker.”, he continued, seemingly ignoring my previous statement.
“You think he could become part of society again?”I could hear the doubts in his voice.
And could I blame him?
We were in Gotham.
Our crime statistics were the highest in all of America.
So, how could I imagine to even send someone like Wesker, a schizophrenic murderer and criminal back on the streets?

“I-I don’t know… It’s worth a try, isn’t it? It has to be. Otherwise we would just give up on all of them. If we let Wesker rot in his cell, he will become worse. He would be like a rat in a cage. If we stop with Wesker…for crying out loud, then why judge cops who shoot criminals? I’m their first, and often enough last step to any form of redemption…and if I don’t try, we might as well burn Arkham to the ground…”

I don’t know if he had even listened to the last part of my sentence, because after I stopped, there was no answer. Only the wind coming through an open window.

A few minutes later, two cops came in and questioned me about what happened at the dinner.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I spent the rest of my day calling in sick and getting a taxi to make sure that my mom would arrive back home safely.
After I had made sure she was cozy on her sofa, with one of those endless re-runs of “Zoro” on Television, I headed into the kitchen, seemingly the sanctuary in this house for me, and buried my face in my hands.
What a horrible day. Work luckily seemed pretty understanding of my situation, but then again that was probably daily business for them… but I also have never really met any of my other co-workers except Rachel.
So…I just hope it’s daily business for them?

I switched the small radio on and made myself a cup of Tea.

“--and that was Charles with the Weather! Now, back to Jack Ryder on the street! Jack, how is Gotham holding up with a potential Riddler heist coming up and the big game closing in on us?”
“It’s wild out here, Jannice! And you have to ask yourself–”

Some football fan interrupted the broadcast by screaming: “Go Gaslights! We will crush those Boyscouts!”

“As I wanted to say, Jannice…”, Jack continued after silently cursing under his breath. “You have to ask yourself: What is the GCPD going to do against this announced Riddler crime? Why are we forced to watch some lunatic turn our town into his little game and even threaten the lives of our youngest generation?”

“Good question, Jack…”, I thought to myself as I sipped on my tea.

“Good question, Jack.”, Janice replied. “According to an official police statement we received earlier today, Commissioner Gordon will increase the security at the three riddler locations, as well as the stadium in two days. The question that we all have of course: Which police men is he speaking off? Gotham has only a limited amount, Blüdhaven has enough problems and Metropolis has just reduced its police force AGAIN, after sinking to 10% in crimes. So yeah, we will just have to see where Commissioner Gordon will get the extra help that he desperately needs!”

With those heavy words, they switched back to music.
And left me waiting impatient for what’s to come.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Text

The next day started a lot calmer.
I had decided to not take multiple days off, and instead jump right back into work.
For one, to ignore the feeling of fear that had started to swell up inside of me, and also to just do what I was able to do: Hopefully help other patients.
And yes, I was still thinking of these murders, arsonists and monsters in human form as patients, even though every file I read always used the word “Inmate”.
For me, Arkham Asylum wasn’t a prison. At least I didn’t want it to be.
It was the last refugee for those with problems.
So, maybe it was slowly becoming my home too.

After a long taxi drive, with a very onesided conversation by the taxi driver about how “the monarchs are just a bunch of wimpy kids who never had an actual fist fight” and how the Gotham Gaslights would destroy them, I finally arrived, once more, at the iron gate of the Asylum, and once more pressed the little button on the intercom, and once more… no answer.
Instead of the chubby security guard answering my intercom call and opening the gate for me, there was silence.
But that silence was quickly broken by the almost deafening sound of sirens coming from the asylum.
I tried to remember the emergency sheet they had given me on my first date, and I was pretty sure that this scenario meant that someone broke out, or at least was trying to.

Over an hour, I waited in front of the gate, before there was finally the familiar buzzer sound, followed by the squeaking of the metal gate that finally let me inside.
I walked up to the massive steel door, and to my amusement it was opened by the chubby security guard, who was covered with mustard, ketchup, and going by the smell, probably another condiment.
“We had a possible breakout…”, he said rather angry as he saw my amused face and grabbed a napkin from nearby to wipe some mustard from his brow.
“I can see that, I assume Condiment King wasn’t very thrilled to talk with me today.”, I said, unable to hide a small giggle.
I had already studied his case file in the morning.

Mitchell Mayo was for sure one of the more absurd then dangerous cases.
According to the different experts, including one side comment by Hugo Strange, nobody was really sure where his fascination with condiments came from.
He also, like some less serious colleges claimed, to be more fascinated by the idea of sauces than portraying an actual threat.

According to his crime record, he never killed anyone, which did make him one of the rare cases in Arkham.
But he did hurt people or rob banks, which made him a criminal nonetheless.

A giggling Nurse greeted me at the elevator. “Morning, Elliot! Guess you are not in the mood for hotdogs today!”, she said, not even trying to hide her amusement about the saucy disaster.
I want to be honest, it felt good to giggle and to laugh, especially after the events yesterday.
And she was right, especially after we had entered the elevator, the smell of mustard only grew stronger, almost sickening.
Rachel had to feel the same, as her giggling soon stopped and she covered her nose and mouth with a handkerchief as we walked up to the therapy room.

Guards, with equally angry faces as the one downstairs, looked at me and nodded.
I could still see the ketchup and mayo stains on their otherwise blue uniform and body armor.
They offered me a small mask with the comment: “Against the stench.”, but I refused, took as deep a breath as I could and went inside.
He was a bald man, with a rather long face and he was incredibly skinny.

“Mr. Mayo, I heard you decided to share your sauces with the guards.”, I said, unable to once again hide a small smile.
“You call ME by my citizen name?! How dare you?! I am the sultan of sauces, I am the condiment king!”

I certainly didn’t expect that answer.

I sat down, cleared my throat, and opened his records, after turning on the audio tape.
“Well then, Condiment King. What is it that forced you to ruin the uniforms of the guards today?”

“I saw an ad today for a special burger menu…and they were calling it CONDIMENT KING!!! How dare they use my name for a pathetic meat sandwich! I am the only one allowed to wear that mighty name! They will never be able to catch up to my mighty glory!”

“Oh boy, another narcissist…”, I thought to myself, but let him ramble about his saucy glory and let him do numerous sauce puns.
After a while he seemingly gave me enough breathing room to reply to him.
“Okay, Condiment King. I can understand that you are angry. But your name is not trademarked, never has been. How about I will fill out a trademark request for you, let the guards bring it to you to sign it, and then we will see, okay?”

That seemed to calm the nerves of the mighty king of sauces and he even apologised to the guards as they removed him from the therapy room.

—--------------------------------------------------

Just as I was about to stand up, Rachel came inside and switched the case file from the Condiment Kind with the one from Arnold Wesker, the ventriloquist.
“Sorry Elliot, but he has begged for another session with you. Guards told me he was awake all night…”, Rachel explained, waiting for my answer.

“I mean…sure, bring him up.”, I said, not sure if that was a positive or negative scenario. But I guess I would find out soon enough.
It didn’t take long till the guards brought Wesker up to my room.
He was holding huge pieces of paper, different coloured sockets and gloves, as well as a few crayons.

He excitedly entered my therapy room and started spreading the pieces of paper all over the table.
At first I couldn’t really tell what he was trying to show me, but then I started to see it.
Those were blueprints for dolls and puppets, stage props and entire scenes.
He must have worked on it ever since I gave him the hint yesterday and I couldn’t hide my proud smile.

I listened patiently as he explained his different characters to me, even pitched me basically the entire first episode.
“So, Doc. Can you keep your promise and maybe pitch that to a TV Network?”, he asked me with big hopeful eyes.
It was almost sad to see this fully adult man, desperately clinging to this idea.
But I nodded.
“I will see what I can do, Arnold. Can I take your notes with me for now?”
He almost broke his neck by how hard he nodded and scrambled to fold all of his notes and hand them to me.
I put everything carefully in my bag, before the guards calmly transported him back to his cell.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe my idea was a bit delusional, but I had decided to drive straight to Wayne Enterprise, hoping that pitching my idea directly to Bruce Wayne would result in something better, then to hand it to some money hungry corporate shark.

I went inside the massive Wayne Tower, the heart of Gotham and THE Wayne Enterprise headquarter, and walked up to the receptionist, a young woman with long brown hair, currently still on the phone.

The entrance hall was massive, and just a small symbol of how wealthy Wayne Enterprise was. While outside the door it was seemingly dark and always raining, here inside everything was well lit, the floor was sparkly clean and huge pictures of Gotham hung on every wall.

“Yes, Mr. Thorne. But I can’t give you an appointment, if I don’t know when Mr. Wayne or any of the other Board members are available again.”, she said. It was seemingly an ongoing phone call already and I could tell that she was close to breaking her customer smile.
“Asshole!”, she mouthed, without saying it, and I couldn’t help but giggle.

While I looked around more, she seemingly finished her phone call and with a big sigh put her focus on me.
“Sorry for that. How can I help you today, sir?”, she asked, doing her very best to go with her friendly customer voice again, even though I heard the exhaustion in her voice.

“Well, it might sound weird, but is it possible to talk with Mr. Wayne or any higher ups? I know you said they wouldn’t be available at the moment, but maybe put my name on a list somewhere?”, I asked, trying to be as friendly as possible.
Working with customers, or people in general was always a shitty job, especially when your customers are entitled rich assholes, so showing a smile and calm demeanor seemed like the best way to go into this conversation.

“Well, as you might have heard, I can’t tell you when Mr. Wayne or other parts of the Board will be here–”, just as she was about to continue, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and the face of the receptionist showed pure surprise.
“Well, one is here now, Bridgett.”, a manly, but famous voice said.
I turned around and was absolutely shocked to see directly into the face of Bruce Wayne himself.
“Mr. Wayne, I-I…”, me and the receptionist basically stuttered at the same time. I was seemingly not the only one impressed by his mere presence.
“And you are?”, he said and shook my hand.
“Elliot Grange, sir. It’s a huge honour to meet you!”, he said, still absolutely awestruck.

He walked past me and closer to the receptionist’s desk.
“Bridgett, officially I am still not here, till Monday, okay?”, he said and winked at her, before grabbing me by the shoulder and leading me to one of the elevators.

“You are the boss, Mr. Wayne.”, I heard her reply with a giggle.

“Well then, Mr. Grange, you wanted to meet me. How can I help you?”, he asked while we were standing in the elevator.
I had to take a few deep breaths to truly collect my thoughts. After all, I was speaking with BRUCE WAYNE!
His face was exactly like on one of those gossip magazines, a big grin, combed back black hair and fine stubble.

“Well, Mr. Wayne. I work as a psychotherapist in Arkham and one of my patients, a man named Arnold Wesker, also known as the Ventriloquist…well, you see, he really wants to do children television. He gave me all his notes and his episode pitch and…I know it’s a lot to ask for. He is an inmate in Arkham after all. But you were the only man that came to my mind who would actually listen to my idea, and not just kick me out or steal Wesker’s ideas…”, I said, feeling responsible for my patient and his idea.

Bruce Wayne stayed silent.

“I don’t want much, Mr. Wayne. Just a pilot episode? Just so Mr Wekser can see that there is more potential in him, then just being controlled by a speaking Mafia doll. It would mean a lot to him…and me.”

Wayne, who had faced the elevator door during my monologue, turned around to me.
“I will see what I can do, Mr. Grange. But I can’t promise that any network will actually air it, especially when we credit Mr Wesker as author. I will make a few phone calls. Give Bridgett downstairs your number, so we can stay in touch.”
He said just in time as the elevator doors opened. I handed him Wesker’s notes and nodded.
“Thank you, Mr. Wayne.”, I said, just as the doors closed again and I rode back down again.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Text

The days passed by and the city prepared itself for the big game.
And yes, some people on social media still talked about the whole Riddler thing, but at this point, with so much going on, even I had kinda forgotten about the whole thing.

Wayne hadn’t called me yet, Therapy with Condiment King and Arnold Wesker, aka the Ventreloquist, went rather good, but I was sure that they were only one bad day away from relapsing.
Some boys from the security team, Lopez and Martin to be exact, had asked me if I would like to go to the football game with them and I had happily agreed and bought myself one of the last available tickets.

It was one day before the game though, that work presented me with a new challenge.
“Hey Doc. You might want to take a taser with you today. Heard they are bringing Croc up.”, the fat security guard at the door (by now I learned that his name was Kevin) recommended.
I gulped as a bad feeling creeped up my back, but I listened to his advice and pocketed a rather strong taser before heading into the elevator.

I immediately noticed that the whole situation was tense, because as the door opened to my regular floor, it was not empty, but instead filled to the brim with heavily armored and armed guards, all pointing their guns towards the end of the hall, where the elevator for the patients was.
The atmosphere was tense, but I didn’t really know what to expect until I saw Rachel run down the hallway towards me.

“Sorry, Elliot. Dr. Rourke had decided last minute that you would have a session with Killer Croc today. They are bringing him up just as we speak!”, she said, nervous. I could clearly see a bullet proof vest under her shirt, something I regretted not thinking of myself.
I took Croc’s File from her and headed into my “therapy room”, deciding to sit on the opposite side of the table today, so the guards could easier reach him, in case something would happen.
His file was all over the place with DNA tests, multiple different diagnoses and hundreds of potential crimes, ranging from bank robbing to full on cannibalism.
Waylon Jones used to be a normal kid… well, normal but with a “skin condition” that gave him scaly and thicker skin. Apparently that led to a lot of bullying and him growing up poor in the East End of Gotham seemed to create the perfect combination for a life of crime.

My reading of his documents got interrupted as I heard the DING of the patient elevator, followed by the clicking of 20 guns or more, that switched their safety off.
The ground was shaking as heavy footsteps came closer towards my room.

“You still think that these toys could stop me?”, a gnarly, deep, rumbling voice teased the guards.
“Shut up Croc and keep walking!”I heard Lopez shout, and I was damn sure he needed all his energy to hide his nervousness around someone like Croc.
I had only seen pictures of him that were pinned to his documents but even they didn’t prepare me for the monster that forced itself through the door frame of the therapy room.

The beast of a man had to be at least 3 m tall, and wider than the door frame. It was obviously unpleasant for him to bend down so low and literally squeeze himself into a room that was made for humans, and not for whatever he has become.
His shoulders caused the door frame to splinter and his head scratched the ceiling as he finally stood in front of me.
It was hard to see Waylon Jones as anything else than a beast. And it was hard to ignore the potential cases of cannibalism if you stood directly in front of him.
Martin had told me about a previous guard called Cash, who now worked for a private security firm, who lost his hand because of Croc.

Normally I would have laughed at such a story…but I wasn’t really in the mood to laugh right now.
Croc wore a massive collar around his neck and the iconic orange pants. But apparently no shirt would have fit him, so they didn’t even try, leaving me to stare at his massive muscles flexing under those scales.

“So, you are the doc Riddler spoke about…”, he said with a gnarly, deep voice that sounded like someone was trying to find the perfect voice for an evil predator in some animated movie.
“If you know anything about Mister Nigma’s esc–”, I tried to say with the bit of courage I had left, but Croc interrupted me quickly.
“I’m not here to talk about Eddie, Doc. I want to go on parole."
He said that and what followed seemed to be his kind of a chuckle. A grueling sound that I would never forget till the end of my days.

“Well then, Jo–”, again, he interrupted me.
“Killer Croc. The other name is useless. Nobody uses it anyway.”
Did I hear sadness in his voice about that fact? I couldn’t quite tell.

“Well then, Croc. To gain parole I have to do multiple sessions, plus you have to pass multiple psychological tests as well as staying 3 months out of trouble.”, as I said that I realized just how small these steps truly were and it explained a lot about the constant movement of criminals in this establishment.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------

I spent my first sessions with Croc establishing certain ground rules about his coming months and his daily life in general, as well as just rather casual small talk, while I kept making notes.
After almost two and a half hours (one hour and thirty minutes more than regular patients get), he left the room again and followed the guards to the elevator and left me with three pages of notes about him.

“Do you really consider granting him parole?”, Rachel asked me after all the guards had left and she had taken off her vest.
“ I don’t know. We will just have to wait and watch him. And even then, I don’t have the clearance to allow anything. That’s up to Dr. Rourke and the board members… who exactly are they anyway?”
It was the first time I really thought about it. Dr. Rourke seemed like the sole leader of the Arkham Asylum, but then again he had to ask the board to hire me and seems to leave me a lot of independence for my therapy sessions.

"No one really knows. Some say it’s people like the Police Commissioner and the mayor, who partly control Arkham, others say it’s a bunch of “Old Money”-people who use Arkham as some tax evasion and money laundering scheme. I certainly don’t care as long as they pay me!”, she said with a giggle and left me standing in front of the elevator after we arrived in the main lobby again.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------

The day of the big game had come and I was glad that Lopez and Martin had picked me up from my place.
The streets were absolutely packed. It was like the entire city had just waited for a major event to finally release some energy.
Police, the Fire Department, News teams…literally everyone had their hands full as me and the boys were crawling through the heavy traffic towards the stadium.

“-- and now to Jack Ryder on the street? How is Gotham holding up today, Jack?”
“It’s udder Chaos! Everyone and their mother are on the street and if you want to go anywhere other than the stadium then you are in bad luck today! It’s like a tsunami of loyal Gothamites streaming towards the stadium to support their team and show the Metropolis Monarchs that nobody toys with Gotham!”

Lopez had seemed to turn on the radio and I was gifted with Ryder’s annoying voice once more.

“With me is Sergeant Harvey Bullock right now! Sergeant Bullock, how do you judge this situation? Is the Police Department even prepared for such a wave of people?”
“Listen, Ryder! We got everything under control! We got all our men and women doing overtime on the streets right now! I even had to cancel my vacation! So you all better behave out there or I’m making sure you get a personal hit in the face from all the cops protecting your shops and houses from hooligans right now!”

That sounded like Bullock when I got to know him.

Slowly but steady the traffic moved forward, creeping closer and closer to the stadium. On our way we passed the Gotham City Central Bank, and I could still see the slight leftovers from Riddler’s graffiti that someone had tried to remove.
And I couldn’t help but ask myself, if those were just empty threats or if all of Gotham was marching into one massive trap.

Lopez and Martin seemed to notice my thoughtful face and turned to radio louder, to help me block out all of those negative thoughts.

“-- you, Ryder. We are now switching to Catherine. Catherine, what is the mood on social media? What are the people saying on Echo?”
“Everything and Nothing! I have a post here from @G0thamG1rl94 who writes: “I hope that even the villains can appreciate a good ball game today! I need a day to relax!”. I feel you Gotham Girl 94. Or here, a different user @BatSignalStan writes: “Why isn’t our mascot Batman or one of the Robins yet? Let Batgirl sing the Anthem already!” . Damn right, Bat Signal Stan! We need more local patriotism!”

Me and the boys couldn’t help but laugh at those silly comments and the mood in our car quickly improved, while we got closer and closer.
Over the stadium we could already see a massive LexCorp Zeppelin fly circle.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

As we finally arrived at the stadium, a very annoyed cop guided us to a free parking spot and we all headed to the entrance gate afterwards, which was once again connected with a lot of waiting and slow movement.
After another 30 min, we were finally inside, and even though we were almost an hour early, the stadium was already packed full with people.
It was a real struggle to force our way through the packed hallways and up the stairs to our seats, but after we each got a beer and something called “Ace Chemicals Nachos”, with weird green-coloured cheese and were FINALLY sitting on our seats, I couldn’t help but smile.
We could see everything and the stadium truly looked like everyone from Gotham AND Metropolis came here on this day to watch this iconic match.
Fans were singing hymnes, huge flags were swung and I could see the two iconic mascots, Gotham’s Gargoyle and Metropolis’ Titan, heating up the fans even more.

After another hour of waiting and small talk with Lopez and Martin, the huge Jumbortron finally switched from Advertisement to actual camera feed, but instead of the mayor, we saw something that silenced the whole stadium…

Chapter Text

My heart stopped for a second as I saw him on the jumbotron.
A green bowler hat, green suit and a cane with a question mark on it…The Riddler.
Normally I would have joked about how silly that looked, but right now I was too scared of what he could do.

“Ladies and Gentleman…you have all come together here on this fine day to watch a game of sports. To watch adult men beat each other up for some pig leather. But some of you in the audience like to believe they are made for something better, that they are worth more than the normal citizen. Dear Gentlemen, if you could step forward please!”

The camera switched from Riddler to apparently some camera down on the field and filmed the entrance, where normally the players would get on the field.
Instead, three men, followed by a masked henchman with a shotgun, slowly walked onto the pitch.
The audience was dead silent as it recognized these three men as the mayor of Gotham, Hamilton Hill, the police commissioner, James Gordon, and the owner of the orphanage, Peter Pauling.

“These three gentlemen think they are above the law, above morals and above the common good! But even they are just mortal men!”
The camera had switched back to Riddler, but my focus was on the henchman, who was busy putting bombs west on the three men, who now stood in the middle of the field.

“In my psycho therapy someone had told me that I was narcissistic and had a problem with authority…and maybe that is right! Every genius has flaws, that’s why they are a genius!”
While Riddler said that I could feel Lopez and Martin’s eyes on me.
“BUT I AM NOT SOME CRAZY LUNATIC!”, Riddler screamed, causing the sound boxes of the stadium to reverb.

“That’s why I will give these men a fair chance to save themselves and what they are standing for…Morals, the Law and Fairness!”

Three more henchmen came out of the team entrance, equipped with microphones and extra sound boxes. They placed the microphones in front of each of the kidnapped men.
From somewhere in the audience I heard rumble and screams.
Probably someone had tried to escape, but some henchman had already blocked the exit. It was hard to see what had actually happened, but that was my best guess.

The microphones squealed as they were set down in front of the men and the camera on the field zoomed onto the bombs. For me, as someone who had never seen a bomb west before, it looked real enough.
Blinking lights, weird long rectangles, that could be anything from plastic explosives to C4, and lots of wires.

“Even on my free day I have to deal with maniacs…”, Lopez whispered and couldn’t help but agree with him.

“Well then, Mayor Hill. How about we start with you?”, The Riddler said with amusement in his voice.
Looking closer at his camera feed, I was almost certain to see a window in his background and…sky?
Confused over that information, I didn’t have time to really think about it, as the camera already switched back to Mayor Hill’s face, which was filled with fear and nervousness. His forehead was shining with sweat and he was obviously shaking.

“Well then, Mayor Hill.
This city bleeds and burns, yet you sit in your tower.
What costs one life each night, yet grows by the hour?“

Silence once more, the camera still on Hill’s face.
Somewhere, on the other side of the stadium, a child was crying. And the soft humming of the sound boxes felt like white noise.

“Corruption…”, I mumbled softly, only loud enough for Lopez and Martin to hear.
“He would never admit to that…”, Martin replied with a stern face.

“Listen, Mister Nigma, I’m sure we–” Hill started, apparently needing all his courage to try to hide the fact that he just wanted to crawl out of this situation like the rat he was.

“ANSWER THE RIDDLE!”, Riddler screamed again, causing Hill to flinch.

The Mayor stuttered something, but didn’t say anything coherent which led Nigma to reply with:

“NO! That is wrong! The answer would have been: CORRUPTION!”, he said and didn’t even try to hide his amusement and giggled.

A small red lamp lights up on Hill’s West, causing him to sob in fear.

“Maybe our next contestant is a bit smarter and faster: Commissioner Gordon!”
Edward Nigma obviously loved the attention and control he had over the whole situation, but before he could ask his question, my focus was drawn to something else.

A black sillout, moving in the shadow of the stands.

And I immediately felt how my pulse and heartbeat became calmer.

„You have 1 city, 2 million souls, and 5000 cops.
If 1 Bat saves 100, and your cops save 10…
Tell me, Gordon: who does Gotham really need?“

“That’s not even a riddle!”, Gordon complained as a red light on his west lights up.
Apparently a part of the audience thought the same and started booing, but were quickly silenced by a few henchmen shooting into the air.

“Oh, it was a riddle. Just not one we need an answer to, dear Commisoner!”, Edward said laughing.
Gordon was obviously not pleased with that result, but was silenced when a gun was pointed at him, by some henchman.
Just now I noticed how regular they looked.
One was wearing a Hell's Gate Trash Disposal uniform, the other a leather jacket and biker boots and a third one wore a police uniform.
The only thing that marked them as Riddler’s henchman was a green face mask, resembling a military cold weather mask.

Riddler’s camera showed a shadow creeping toward him, before it switched back to the camera on the field, which was pointed at the face of the Orphanage owner, Peter Pauling.
He was crying, quivering in absolute horror, and had to be held up by a henchman.

“Well then, Mister Pauling. I do hope that, for the sake of the other two men, you are a more honest and righteous man and will answer my riddle just– ARGH!”

Riddler’s voice over was cut short as he suddenly screamed in pain.

Then everything went incredibly fast.

The black silhouette I had seen before, jumped out of the shadows and grabbed one of the henchmen and threw him into the side of the playfield.
While that happened, shots were ringing and the other two henchmen fell to the ground holding their heads, as something red dodged back into the crowd and more manly screams were heard.

A person dressed in purple swung down from apparently the roof of the stadium, right in the middle of the field and apparently began to free the three men from their deadly wests.

“Everyone, please leave the stadium!”, I heard a familiar voice shout.
Detective Montoya had seemingly fought her way into the stands, blood running down her forehead, and guided people towards the exit.

Lopez, Martin and myself didn’t have to be asked twice, and just like the rest of the audience began evacuating the stadium, some more panicked than others.

“I hope we at least get our money back for the tickets!”, Martin said jokingly while we jogged out of the stadium.
But I didn’t really listen as a big smile was forming on my face.

Without even fully knowing it, I had seen the Batfamily in action for the first time ever.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“-- was Mayor Hill’s statement to the recent attack on the stadium. Commissioner Gordon didn’t agree to an interview. We are now switching to Jack Ryder who is live at the scene. Jack, tell us, what is happening at the stadium right now?”
“Well, the Police are desperately trying to fix the mess the Riddler has created. I am counting over 20 arrests, a damage of over 500 thousand dollars and a potential lawsuit from LexCorp and the Metropolis Monarchs. As far as I’ve heard, the Riddler is now in police custody. If that is thanks to actual police work or the vigilante we call “The Batman” and his little army of trapeze artists, we don’t know yet. But I’m sure that thanks to the Riddler’s display today, we do have to ask ourselves as Gothammites if we want to support figures like Mayor Hamilton Hill or Commissioner Gordon in the future as well!”

I was sitting in the car with Lopez and Martin and we were just driving around, without a destination.
We were silent, just letting those past hour and the events replay in our head.

“You think he would have actually detonated the bomb?”, Martin asked.
“He is a lunatic, I’m sure of it.”, Lopez replied.

But then I felt both of their eyes on me, waiting for my “educated” answer.

“I don’t know…maybe?”, I replied after a moment of silence.
That apparently wasn’t the “educated” answer they were hoping for.

“Seriously, Elliot? Maybe? That’s your answer?”, Lopez said laughing.

I ignored his teasing and instead looked out of the car window and watched Gotham pass by.
I saw families quickly walking back to their homes, shop owners checking on their stores for any signs of demolition or thieves and a lot of police cars and ambulances driving towards the stadium.

“You think Rourke would give us a day off if we told him that we were at the stadium today?”, Martin asked, partly joking, partly serious.

“Nah, I doubt that. And even if, I would rather save my sick days for some serious event, like Freeze making the streets undrivable or when Penguin looks for bouncers for his club again…last time I got like 500 bucks, just for standing in front of the Iceberg Lounge for 5 hours!”
Lopez said with a proud smile.

I decided to stay quiet, mostly to not question his morals for working for a known crime boss.

Instead, I pulled my phone out and opened Echo, just to see half the city joking about the event, the other half panicking.

@TrafficOnCrimeAlley: “So, if anybody wants to leave Gotham today, good luck with that! The streets are absolutely packed! It’s like all of Gotham had to drive to that stadium, even though we have a fully functional train system, people!”

@TrueBlueGCPDfan: “Why attack our Police Commissioner?! Gordon is the best man we have after we got rid of Lobe! Let the man do his job already!”

@BricklayerTom: “Are we just ignoring how Hill would have rather died then admit that he is getting paid by Falcone and the elites? Has Gotham no other candidates anymore? #NoMoreHill “

@CityChick22: “Why am I the only one absolutely fangirling about the series of Interviews with the Wayne Kids the Gotham Times Magazine did?! I bought every issue just for the covers!!! WHY ARE THE WAYNE KIDS SO HOT!!! AHHHHHH!”

I closed the app with a smile again. It truly felt like just a regular day in Gotham at that point…

Chapter Text

My next workday didn’t start as expected.

“So, Elliot…I wondered if you would like to drink a coffee together or watch a movie sometimes?”
I was stunned as Rachel asked me that, and I felt myself blush as I got lost in her green eyes and her red hair that perfectly framed her cute face.
I could have sworn that she had just seen me as a nice colleague, but then again I had always been blind to such things.

“I-I would love to!”, I said with an honest grin as I put my kevlar west on, which was already prominent under Rachel’s nurse uniform.
“Awesome! Let’s head upstairs for now! And afterwards we can head to the monarch theater! I heard that the Grey Ghost Remake is rather good!”
She said excitedly, but her movie review was answered with a “Meh, it’s decent.”, from Kevin, who was reading a Booster Gold Comic for a change.

We both giggled and headed into the elevator.

The elevator brought us to my second home, the long hallway that led to the therapy room, a small room decorated with a metal desk, two chairs and a potted plant. And yes, sometimes I can still smell mustard in there.

If Rachel’s and my kevlar west didn’t already were hints enough, the army of guards in that hallway were a pretty clear sign that today would be another session with Killer Croc, alias Waylon Jones.

“He is coming up!”, one of the guards shouted and I hurried up to reach the room before the patient elevator would arrive.
Just as I sat down and placed his file in front of me, I heard the DING of the elevator, and a smell I hadn’t noticed before, like a wet cellar, flooded the hallway and the room.
His heavy footsteps and grunts only underlined his presence.

He once again forced his way through the, compared to him, small door of my therapy room, and sat down. The metal chair I had requested for him was heavily screaming under his immense weight.
“We already had quite a good session the other day, but I forgot to ask…why do you want parole right now, Croc?”, I started.
I noticed that I was more looking at the table, then him, still too nervous that he would bite my head off if I looked him in the eyes.

“My aunt died.”, he answered with his deep and gnarly voice, that made it truly difficult to see him as anything else then a grizzly monster.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”, I said while taking notes, purposefully not asking how he got to know that, because as someone categorized as High Security, he would have normally no access to outside information.
“Was she important to you?”

“She was a big part of my childhood. I lived with her till my first arrest.”, once again I was sure to hear some sort of sadness or regret from his voice, but if I had learned one thing since Riddler, it was to not trust the patients.

It took me a moment of silence to find a way on how to continue this session. If I would be too confrontational he could attack me, if I am too friendly, he might betray me…

I decided to do this session by the book: Showing him ink blobs, asking him very standardized questions and giving him the words to reply with the first word to come to his mind.
My psychology professor would have been proud of me…but I hated me for it.
It wasn’t the kind of therapy these patients needed.
It was cheap, didn’t cause any work and kept me emotionally on a safe distance…but in the end it would help none of them.
Was it fair? No, absolutely not.
But I couldn’t risk another “Nigma”-Incident.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After a rather boring and uneventful session with Killer Croc, I met Rachel again in the main lobby.
“I will never get used to Gotham. How can anybody work with giant crocodiles or plant ladies all day?”, she asked and smiled, but I could see the sincere exhaustion behind her beautiful smile.
“Well, luckily we don’t have to…at least not till tomorrow!”, I said and she giggled. Her laugh made my heart beat faster and I tried to memorise if I had always had a crush on her or if that had been a recent thing.
But I abandoned that thought rather quickly and headed into the men's changing room, to finally take the heavy armor off and switch into more casual clothes for my movie date with Rachel.

As someone who didn’t own a car during that time, I was glad as Rachel offered to drive us to the Monarch Theater herself. It was an older but decent car, but that was pretty much all I could say about it from the outside as someone who never had any interest in cars at all.

We drove in silence for a while, both of us seemingly too awkward to start any form of conversation, until she was the first to break the ice.
“Sooo, I don’t think I asked that before, but why did you start working at Arkham Asylum? You seem to be a pretty good psycho therapist from what I have seen. Why not work for the rich and famous?”

“That was an option?”, I replied jokingly. “But seriously, at first I never really wanted to return to Gotham. I liked my university and even had an offer from my professor to stay there and work for him…but then my mom got very sick with side effects from both Joker Gas and Scarecrow’s Fear Toxin. And as her only son I couldn’t just abandon her. So I returned and looked for something useful to do with my degree. Seems that during all my time away from Gotham I forgot how sick this city really was…”, I explained, gaining a quick sympathetic look from her before she had to focus on the street again.

“Well, I’m glad that you joined the Asylum, it makes my work days a lot more fun!”, she said with a soft grin and shortly after we arrived at the Theater.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Monarch Theater normally displayed itself as a high end place for classical theater, opera and very artsy stuff (and also the place of death from Thomas and Martha Wayne, but then again that’s not really a thing to be proud of) but to go with the times, they turned one of their massive halls into a cinema.

The cinema hall wasn’t as packed as I had feared it to be, so Rachel and I got rather good seats in the middle of the hall. As we listened to the ads and munched on some popcorn, Rachel leaned over to me.
“I’m very happy you agreed to this.”, she said with a smile and softly touched my hand.
“I would have been a fool to say no…”, I replied, thinking it was smooth, but I only received a charming giggle from Rachel.
I would still count that as a success though.

As the movie started I felt her leaning closer, and I struggled to focus on the movie for a big part.

90 mins later, and a few tries on holding her hand, we ended the evening with a nice hug in front of the Theater and an awkward “See you tomorrow…” before we both headed back into our lives.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------

My workdays though only kept on getting weirder.

After I had changed into my coat, it was not Rachel that greeted me, but Dr. Rourke.
He was an older man. Bald. Big round glasses and a rather long and pointy nose.
“Mr. Grange, please follow me. We have to discuss something.”, he said in a calm, calculated voice and didn’t wait for my response before heading into a hallway and stopped in front of a door that said “Office of”.
Apparently a janitor had tried to remove the letters on the door that would tell the staff whose office exactly it was, but a few black streaks still remained, although not enough to result in an educated guess.

He unlocked the office door and led me into the same room where I had my job interview with him.
Just like before, the office was heavily stacked with towers of paperwork.
A whole mountain of video tapes rested in front of an old TV and still unopened crates had been turned into temporary tables.
He sat down behind his utterly messy table, and I had the feeling that he himself was a stranger in this office.
He offered me a chair across from him, but seeing how at least 20 patients' files rested on both chairs that were standing in front of his desk, I decided to stand.

“Today will be Mr. Nigma’s trial. Normally it is my job to stand before the judge as an expert on Mr. Nigma’s mental state. But the police and especially the Commissioner insisted on taking you as their witness and expert on Edward Nigma.”, he spoke slowly and deliberately.
Almost like he hated my mere existence just because the GCPD asked for me and not him.

“I can do that.”, I replied with confidence. Or was it just fake confidence to hide my nervousness of being confronted with Riddler again?

“Good. And I have a message from the board for you, regarding that matter.”, he said and handed me a letter.

It looked ancient, and even had a wax seal with the Iconic A in a diamond shape, the “logo” of the Asylum.
The paper inside the letter looked even older. It was nearly yellow and the words were seemingly written by hand.
It only said: “Don’t say more. Only answer the questions.”, and it was signed with the initials T.V. .

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I had taken a taxi to the Solomon Wayne Courthouse. An almost ancient looking building, surrounded by modern skyscrapers and Ad posters.
I remember my teacher telling me in elementary school that this courthouse was one of the first buildings built in Gotham and that it marked the rise of the Wayne family.

In front of this house of justice, a huge number of people had gathered, surrounded by GCPD officers trying to control said mass.
They were holding self made shields saying things like “PUNISH THE CORRUPT!” or “RIDDLE ME THIS, HILL!”.
Some people were even wearing masks similar to those the Riddler henchmen wore.
I paid the driver and left the car, just to be fully confronted with the sound of the screams and shouts of the masses. It was almost deafening.
Fathers, mothers, teenagers…completly normal citizen had collected her, to defend a known criminal, because they believed that his crimes were nothing compared to the corruption people like Mayor Hill were spreading.
And weirdly, I understood them.

But that’s a Gothamites mindset. We would elect criminals like Oswald Cobblepot as Mayor or accept Harvey Dent as a Lawyer, because we know that those “shiny” figures like Hill can’t be as good as they try to look like.
If you get Harvey Dent as a lawyer, you at least have a 50/50 chance of winning your case.
When you take anyone else, he might be bribed by the mob, the mayor or anybody else who can afford it.

A police officer spotted me, grabbed me by my arm and quickly led me into the courthouse, before anyone could make the connection of why a stranger would join this trial.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Text

The courthouse was filled to the brim.
Three lawyers seemed to work for Nigma, the State Attorney seemed completely overwhelmed and the judge heavily struggled to keep the public quiet.
Every seat was filled, some people were even standing, flash lights constantly filled the room like the press wanted a picture of every second.

“Mr. Dent. We have heard multiple witnesses from the defense now, and even though I am personally convinced of Mr. Nigma being guilty, the law speaks a clear language. Do you have a remaining witness, or can we close this case?”

I saw Harvey Dent look across the crowd of people and directly at me.
Some called him ‘Two-Face’ behind his back, because of his unorthodox methods to deal with clients and or witnesses.
In the public he was the sunny boy, the white knight of Gotham.
But behind closed curtains? Well, I heard he could get real aggressive.
But those were just rumors after all.
I knew though, that every rumor in Gotham was true.

“We do. I call into the witness stand: Elliot Grange, Mr. Nigma’s therapist at the Arkham Asylum.”
The attorney said, not without a smug grin, as the crowd got silent and watched me stand up and head towards the front.
I had to place my hand on a bible and swear that I would speak the truth, and nothing but the truth.
How many criminals said those exact words before?

“Mr. Grange, is it correct that you were Mr. Nigma’s therapist?”
“That is correct.”
I answered Dent’s question.
It took my entire focus to not look over to HIM.
But I could feel his eyes on me. Those green narrow eyes that just screamed: “I am the smartest man in the room, and I will make sure you all know it!”

“How many sessions did you have with the accused?”
“Only one. He was my first client after starting at Arkham and broke out shortly after.”

Apparently those were a bit too many informations as the crowd started to mumble and whisper.
Now I felt a second pair of eyes on me.
A man. Suit. Hair combed back.
He looked rich. But not special enough to be famous.
He looked dangerous. But not dangerous enough to pull a gun on me.

“Mr. Grange, did you hear my question?”
Dent looked at me. Apparently I had been too deep in my thoughts.

“Excuse me, Mr. Dent. Could you repeat it?”
“Of course, Mr. Grange. I asked what your results or your evaluation was after that first session.”

My brain switched back into the professional therapist role.

“I confronted Mr. Nigma with it right away: I diagnose him as a heavily narcissistic person, who suffers from unresolved child trauma. He is heavily obsessed with always proving that he is the smartest person in the room and has a distinct problem with authority. In my opinion, Mr. Nigma can only be kept safe in Arkham Asylum, even though he has multiple times broken out of said establishment.
But facilities like Blackgate or Belle Reve wouldn’t hold him for a day.”

I explained, and had the feeling that the strange man in the crowd was nodding while I talked.

Dent’s smile grew wider as he asked me:
“Mr. Grange, would you recommend the death penalty for Mr. Nigma?”

He knew exactly that he would attract the masses with that question and the defense’s “Objection!” was drowned out in the screams and shouts of the crowd in the courtroom.

It took 15 min and four police officers to calm the crowd, and turn down their volume enough so I could answer.

“I wouldn’t recommend the death penalty for any patient or criminal, Mr. Dent. That is the purpose of the jury and the judge.”, I said, but felt my hands shaking while I spoke.

Was it because of fear? Or because I was so angry at Nigma?
I knew that a death penalty could delete this sick individual from this plane of existence, that it would make my mother a little safer.

But could I just abandon a patient? Even worse, could I be the one who “recommends” to kill him?

I felt sick. And Dent’s smug grin made me even sicker.

Luckily an officer quickly escorted me from the witness stand as the great Harvey Dent started his address to the jury.

—---------------------------------------------------------------

After I had returned to Arkham that day, I was greeted by Frank Boles, who introduced himself as head of Arkham Security.
He strongly smelled like alcohol and looked like he barely shaved…or slept.

“Dr. Rourke gave me the glorious task to introduce you to your next “patient”...if you even can consider this freak as a human anymore…”, Boles said, with obviously deep hatred toward pretty much every patient in the asylum.

And I wasn’t surprised.

Only after he had guided me to the patient’s elevator, I felt the fear creep up my back.
He was guiding me straight into the lion’s dent, and he had to take a long sip of his hip flask to apparently be able to go there himself.

The doors closed and the descent towards the home of the clinical insane began.
—------------------------------

As the stainless steel doors of the elevator opened, I was presented with a familiar view.

A long hallway, with hundreds of doors that led to different rooms.
Although those doors weren’t exactly doors.

It was more heavily enforced glass walls that could be opened by the press of a button.

Just as I wanted to step out of the elevator, Boles stopped me by grabbing my shoulder.

“Listen here, Doc. These freaks can smell fear. So don’t look at them, don’t talk to them, don’t even breath towards them. Got it?”
“Yes, Mr. Boles.”, I replied, with more nervousness in my voice than I wanted.

I felt the grip on my notepad tightening as we stepped into the hallway.
My decision was to only look at the tiles on the ground and follow Boles.

But even that decision didn’t save me from at least hearing some of the patients that resided in the deepest parts of Arkham.

“Oh, such a flawed little doll! Too thin! Too many fingers! Ugly! UGLY! OINK!!!”
“Shut it, Pyg!”, Boles screamed towards the maniac who apparently didn’t like my appearance…or Boles’.

“A new guest here, how curious indeed, will you plant flowers, or water the weed?"
“Fucking hell, Tetch. Stop that stupid ryhming…”, Boles said, commenting once again on another “patient” statement towards my mere existence.

But the word “patient” seemed to lose all meaning the deeper we went.

Boles stopped suddenly, causing me to run head first into him.
As I rubbed my head and looked up, he pointed at a seemingly empty cell.

It had the same glass wall as all the other cells.
One bed, one desk and two chairs.

“Listen here, Doc. For this freak we got special rules.”, Boles said coldly, and he had to take another sip from his flask, seemingly to calm his nerves.

“1. Never enter his cell. 2. Make sure that you never leave any objects near his cell. 3. Never tell him anything about your private life. And 4…every cell has only one bed, one desk and ONE chair.”, Boles said and finally handed me my patient's file.

It belonged to Basil Karlo, alias Clayface.

“Now stop these games, Carlo, and say Hello to the doctor! Or we stop feeding you for a week!”, Boles shouted and banged against the glass.

In absolute fear I watched as the second chair slowly turned into a slimy puddle, just to slowly form into a humanoid form afterwards.
As soon as those “eyes” looked at me, I had the feeling that the thing constantly tried to copy me, and the longer I stood there, the more his dripping facial features seemed to immediately become my own.

I opened Karlo’s file. Apparently he used to be a big movie star, but unlucky for him, his face wasn’t meant to ever be the shining poster boy he hoped to be. Instead he was always cast as the villain or Monster in those movies.
And as he tried to change his appearance to finally get the roles he desired, he sadly used an untested cream, that in turn used a highly unstable isotope.
Karlo’s muscle fibers and DNA itself were heavily altered, turning him into the shapeshifting monster now called Clayface.

„Well then, Doctor… shall we rehearse a tragedy, or perform a comedy?“, he asked.
His voice was like someone was aggressively changing through radio stations, every word seemingly spoken by a different person.

I looked over my shoulder, to see Boles still standing there, watching us closely. So, instead of asking the questions I really wanted to ask, I tried to hide it.

“Mr. Karlo, ever since you are being treated in Arkham, do you feel freer when you transform? Like, did you feel at peace when you were that chair?”

“Doctor, free and imprisoned are just two words in a script on the same page. What I do and don’t is all controlled by those directors high above us, in their balconies made of ivory. And who doesn’t follow the directors’ guidance, they will be fired.”, he answered my question, and I had honestly underestimated his intelligence, as he had instantly catched onto my game, while Boles behind me looked bored on his clock.

He had spoken like some wise movie or theater critic, while a massive drippy smile formed on his face. Just now I realised he neither had tongue nor teeth. Everything seemed to be made out of that weird brown goo that constantly dripped from his body, just to collect on the ground and be absorbed by him again.

“Can you be more exact, Mr Karlo? Who are those directors?”
It was hard to hide my true intentions in complex questions, my own curiosity begging me to ask him more directly.
But Boles awful alcoholic smell gave me a good reason to not raise any suspicion.

Clayface started pacing in his cell, and I watched as his head turned into a replica of Shakespear, and in his hand formed a human skull.

“Dear Doctor, it’s a rather strange case… They are always watching, they have always been here, and if you speak about them, you might lose your head!”
He dropped the skull on the ground, and it splattered into brown goo, just to be instantly absorbed again.
I swallowed hard, because even if I didn’t fully understand what he meant, it certainly wasn’t anything good.

My “session” was interrupted by Boles walkie-talkie transmitting a message:
“Hey Boles, we got the GCPD coming. They are bringing Nigma back home.”

“Understood. I will bring the Doc back upstairs and then I will join you!”, Boles answered and grabbed me.

“Well Doc, end of the freak show for now. The daily business is starting again.”
He basically dragged me through the hallway and almost threw me into the elevator.
Just before Boles could press the button I could hear Clayface shouting, using the voice of Dr Rourke:

“All the world’s a stage, Doctor… but not all the players know their lines.”

Then the elevator doors closed and I was sent back upstairs.

Chapter Text

“--and his new single ‘Lady Luck’. And now we switch to Jack Ryder, who is once again on the streets of Gotham. Jack, how is Gotham treating you tonight?”
“It’s calm out here, at least for Gotham Standards. Especially if you remember how crowded these streets were a week ago, when thousands of Gothamites were fleeing from the stadium because of the hostage situation created by Edward Nygma, also known as the Riddler.
But seriously, Mark, why do we give those criminals those big names? The Riddler, The Penguin, Mad Hatter… all these people are like you and me! None of them have any superpower!
We should treat them like the criminals they are and stop idolizing them with those grand titles!”
“Well, Jack, but those are the times we live in! Flying Aliens, Red Speedsters and two man sized bats! The world is going insane, but as Gothamites we have to keep some sort of local patriotism! And if you have to get robbed, I would prefer it to be by Humpty and Dumpty, then Jeff who lives next door! And with that, Hannah, how does the weather–”

I was sitting with Rachel on her couch, my head resting on her lap as she played with my hair.
We had come to her place after our third date and decided to listen to some radio, while just letting the night pass by.

“Gotham really is crazy, huh?”, I mumbled.
“We have the highest crime rate, but also the lowest rent prices…”, Rachel replied and I could hear the soft giggle in her voice.

“Fair, I guess…”
Before I could fall deeper into the cozy feeling of her lap, my phone rang, showing me some random number I didn’t have saved.

“Yes, hello?”, I asked after I had picked up.
“Am I speaking with Elliot Grange?”, it was the voice of a young man on the other side of the phone.
“Yes, you are. How can I help you?”
“Mr. Grange, I’m Timothy Drake-Wayne. Bruce had sent me the pitch documents you had handed him from a certain Arnold Wesker.”

I immediately jumped up, standing straight as a candle.
“Yes! I have to be honest, I didn’t expect a response anymore at this point!”, my heart was beating fast. Was this finally the moment where I could actually help a patient?

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. We had a lot to do recently. Well, I called because I found a TV studio that is interested in working with Mr. Wesker, but only if you would stay with him during every meeting and the production.”, the Wayne son explained.

“Yes, of course! That would be no problem, Mr. Drake-Wayne!”, I say, and Rachel stared at me like I had said the name of god himself.
“That’s great. How does 10 am tomorrow sound, at the Monarch Studios? I will meet you there. My people will call Dr Rourke.”, Tim Drake said and after I agreed he hung up.

“Did you…did you just talk with one of the Wayne Kids?”, Rachel asked, completely shocked.
“I think I did…”, I answered.
“And you will meet him?”, she said and got closer towards me.
“It looks like it…”

Both of our smiles grew wider and we screamed like school girls who would go to their favourite boy band concert.

—-------------------------------------------------------------

The Arkham Asylum had prepared a full-on prisoner transport.
Three guards, Arnold Wesker alias The Ventreloquist and me were sitting in the back of a grey van.

Wesker still wore his orange prisoner uniform and handcuffs.
He seemed nervous, even though he had been smiling as I had told him the good news earlier that day.
But I guess every partially sane man would be nervous if three heavily armed guards were sitting in the van as oneself.

“Listen Arnold, if you feel overwhelmed or if anything bothers you today, please tell me immediately, okay? This is a massive step for you, but even a big goal can be reached with small steps.”, I said with an honest smile and put my hand on his shoulder.

“T-Thank you, Doc.”, he replied and adjusted his glasses.

With loud squeaking, the massive car finally stopped.
Two guards forced Wesker on his feet and basically shoved him out of the van.

Outside, the majestic Monarch Studios showed its glamour.
Once THE Place of Hollywood, where legendary shows like The Grey Ghost or Zoro were recorded, or even movies like ‘Feat of Clay’, in which Basil Karlo played one of his last big roles.

A small group of people were standing under an archway that proudly exclaimed the name of the studio, and in the middle of the group I could clearly see the young man that had been on the phone with me the other night.
Tim Drake, which was then again short for Timothy Drake-Wayne. He was one of the…what was it again? 6?...Wayne kids, that Bruce Wayne had adopted over the years.

While his father seemingly enjoyed his life as a rich playboy, Tim had been in the news over the past few weeks for seriously increasing Wayne Enterprises Fame and Fortune in every possible way.

He walked towards us, his entourage of assistance, the press and studio workers following him steadily.

“You must be Mr. Grange.”, he said with the confidence and smile of somebody who talked to the press and strangers on a daily basis.
“Yes, thank you so much for this opportunity, Mr. Drake-Wayne. This means a lot to me and Mr. Wesker!”, I replied, unable to hide my fangirl-like smile.

“Indeed, Sir. T-Thank you…”, Wesker mumbled, and I had to remind myself that I wasn’t here to fangirl over a celebrity but instead help one of my patients to a potentially healthy life.

“This is no problem at all. If you please follow me, we have prepared everything for a potential pilot episode.”, Tim said and guided us deeper into the studio area.
The press didn’t leave his side, asking questions, making photos.

I stayed close with Wesker.
“Are you okay with them taking photos of you too, Arnold?”, I asked calmly, trying to establish a friendly tone.
“Y-Yes, Photos I can survive…”, he said with a soft chuckle, which caused him to flinch and hold his side.
According to his medical file he still had some bruises from a nasty fall, caused after a fall during an escape from The Batman.

We entered a warehouse-like building and were confronted with a scenery and stage that looked like it could be straight out of an episode of ‘Sesame Street’. Everything was slightly elevated, so the puppeteers could fit under the stage, so the magic would be more apparent during the broadcast.

Wesker was seemingly stunned, and not only I had noticed it.
“We built it all like you had intended, Mr. Wesker. I hope it fits your imagination.”, Tim said after having turned around and walked closer to us.
“A-And the puppets? The dolls?”, he asked, and somewhere in his voice I heard a mix of fear and obsession that I didn’t like.

“Those too.”, Tim answered and let us backstage.
There, where you normally assumed to be makeup and costume for normal actors, was a massive array of puppets, dolls, life sized costumes and small props.
Everything seemingly builds straight from the frantic plans of Arnold.

Arnold took a few steps further into the backstage area and I noticed a bit too late for my own taste that he was seemingly lost in thought and staring at something.
He didn’t react to me softly calling his name or to the wave of flashlights coming from the press.
Only after I followed him and made out what he was looking at, I realized we might have a situation on our hands.
He was staring at a doll. A very simple one.
Naked, no colour yet. Purely made out of wood, with a move that seemed to be able to move.
A Ventriloquist doll.
Some colour and a scar and it could be the perfect replica of Scarface.

“Arnold?”, I asked again, now standing next to him.
“N-No, I can’t do this…he would hurt them…he would hurt me…”, Arnold whispered, almost whimpering.
I saw tears well up in his eyes and saw him begin to shake.

“Arnold…he is not here. Without you, he is just a doll. Just like all these other dolls…You are what gives them life…purpose even. Turn this purpose into something good, Arnold.”
I handed him a handkerchief and he gratefully accepted it to wipe away his tears.

We turned around, to look into the energetic eyes of studio workers, puppeteers and Tim Drake himself, all eager to turn Wekser’s idea into a real show.
And that’s what happened that day.

Over 6 hours of puppeteers learning how Wesker imagined his puppets and dolls to move, how he wanted the actors in those full-body costumes to act, how he wanted the lighting, the script, the tonal variances.
It was like Mozart, trying to teach an entire orchestra how to follow his piano in the most amazing way.
And it worked.

At the end of the day, we had a 21 min long Pilot Episode, for a puppet show made for kids.
An episode about street safety that, even the press agreed, was heavily needed in Gotham.

As we were driving back to Arkham, I looked at Wesker, and I saw a small smile.
It had been an exhausting day, and he had for sure struggled at some points, but he had done an amazing thing today.
Now we just had to wait for the test screening and how the audience would react to his show.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sadly, not every day in Gotham can be that successful.

It all started with a ‘Cold Case’ - TV Show, where old cases were presented, hoping that any Gothamite could help solve that case or give a (probably one man) police team a new hint.

I had been at Rachel’s place, and we were both sitting on her couch, watching that show, because nothing better was on.

The host had just explained the next case they would present:
A group of college kids had been found three years ago, killed with a blunt object that seemingly hit them on the head multiple times.
…and there was video evidence.

“What we will now show you, dear viewers, is highly disturbing. If you have a weak stomach or if children are present, we highly recommend switching the channel now.”
The host warned, before they switched to the video.

Meanwhile me and Rachel were slurping Instant Noodles on her couch.

The video was shaky, seemingly a handheld camera, that showed the three teenagers heading into an alley.
It was filmed from quite a distance and it was heavily zoomed.
The night and strong light from the street lanterns didn’t help the quality of the video.
The person holding the camera was seemingly walking towards that alley, following the teenagers from a distance.
“Cut.”, a hesitant voice whispered, before the video cut to black.
Just for the image to reappear right again, showing the three teenagers laying on the concrete floor of that alley.
Two of them, boys apparently, were heavily bleeding at the head.
A masked figure, wearing dark clothes, moved away from the camera and positioned itself over the last person, a young girl. Her arms were tied behind her back and her move was covered with duct tape.
She was crying, trying desperately to free herself.

“Now smile into the camera, dear…”, the masked figure said, before lifting what looked like a crowbar.

Then it switched back to the TV host in the studio.
He too seemingly needed to collect himself after watching that video, just like the viewers.

Meanwhile, I was carrying two glasses of wine to the couch.

“Now, the GCPD needs your help. We are looking for any hints regarding this case. Have you seen these three teenagers on a warm summer night three years ago? Have you seen a masked man carrying a camera? Do you recognize anything that you have seen on the video? Then please call your local GCPD station now and tell them the Keyword “Mr. Camera”.”

Me and Rachel looked at each other, before suddenly the phone on the TV was ringing, drawing our attention back to the show.

“Yes, hello? You are live at ‘Cold Cases: Gotham’. Do you have anything that might help this case?”, the host asked, trying to interact with the caller.
Heavy breathing was the answer.

“It was shot on 16 mm film with a Bolex H16…I know, shabby. But then again, movie equipment is expensive. I didn’t even have a budget for light. I had to use all natural lighting…”, the caller said.
Now me and Rachel were truly invested.

“Excuse me sir, may I ask who you are? What do you mean that you didn’t have a budget?”, the host asked, trying to fulfill his journalistic duty.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I am Mr. Camera. I made that little movie you showed just moments ago.”

The TV show switched to a ‘We’ll be right back!’ screen.

Gotham was never boring…and never safe.

Chapter Text

The ringing of my mobile phone ripped us out of our shock about what just had been happening on TV seconds ago.
Looking at my phone screen it showed a number I didn’t recognize.

“Elliot Grange, how can I help?”, I answered the call.
“Mr. Grange, Commissioner Gordon here. We need your help as an expert on psychos. And Dr. Rourke said you were the only one available.”, a familiar voice explained.

I was the only one available? Then again, I had never seen any other therapy staff or similar roles. Especially for an asylum of that size, that was very unusual.

“Y-Yes, sure. I can help. What is it about?”, I asked, trying not to sound too excited about a chance to help the GCPD.
“That camera freak sent us another movie and our previous profiler died last year in a Fear Toxin attack. I will send some boys over to pick you up!”, he explained and after telling him where to pick me up exactly, I hung up.

“Who was it?”, Rachel asked, while her pretty lips took another sip from the wine.
"Commissioner Gordon. Seems like I get a sneak preview on the new movie of Mr. Camera…”, I said, with a bit of morbid fascination, which later would shock me.
I heavily criticised people like Croc or Riddler, but now? Now I felt some pride in my job, some form of deep interest into the psyche of killers and mad men.

I got dressed, gave Rachel a kiss and went downstairs, to be picked up shortly by two officers who were on parole.

—---------------------------------------------------

What I had once seen while being in handcuffs, now showed its true face to me.
The GCPD was controlled by some eldritch combination of bureaucracy and chaos.
Over 50 desks, each one filled to the brim with paperworks, overfilled holding cells and cops constantly running around, shouting and pushing.
Somehow, this was Gotham in a mini-version and I felt right at home.

The cops who had driven me to the station also guided me into a small room, where Gordon, as well as Detective Montoya and Detective Bullock were already waiting for me.
The room didn’t have much furniture.
A big desk, probably normally used for meetings and discussions, was now used as a chair by Montoya.
A white board, whíth hundreds of hints, newspaper and words all sticking to it with magnets.
And a projector, with a movie roll already installed in it, apparently just waiting for me to watch it.

“We are very glad you could make it, Mr. Grange.”, Gordon said, with some sort of honest relief. The smell of tobacco and old coffee stuck to him like cologne.
Bullock didn’t even look in my direction and Montoya nodded with a soft smile.

“Elliot is enough. I just saw the cold case episode with his case, before he called in and they stopped broadcasting. On the phone you mentioned he sent something new?”, I asked, looking curious at the projector.

“Indeed. It probably doesn’t bring much to avoid the unavoidable. Montoya, roll the tape.”, Gordon commanded, and with a nod the young Detective turned the humming machine on and it began spinning the film roll and projecting on a free white wall.

The movie showed what looked like the backseat of a car. A man was laying on it. He wore a suit, his light grey hair showing signs that he had struggled against his attacker.
He wore a little pin on the right side of his suit.
All in all an apparently wealthy man, with some kind of Influence.

“Senator Bailey.”, Gordon explained. “Been missing for 48 hours.”, Bullock continued.

A hand from offscreen ruffled the senator's hair. It wore a dark glove.

“Oh poor Senator. You are not from Gotham, so I will forgive you for your mistake. But they don’t…”, a breathy, whispery voice said from offscreen.
It was the same voice that had also called the show earlier.

The Senator struggled again and screamed against the duct tape that covered his mouth.
The camera suddenly got very shaky, before the sound of liquid was heard from offscreen.
“Cut.”, the voice said, and just like before the movie went dark, just to quickly reappear, showing a burning car.
The extreme brightness of the car made it hard to make out the surrounding area.

“Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadowy perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send the Talon for your head.”.
The breathy voice, apparently the so-called ‘Mr. Camera’ recited a poem I had never heard before, although that ‘shadowy perch’ gave me a deja-vu.

“What I do and don’t is all controlled by those directors high above us, in their balconies made of ivory. And who doesn’t follow the directors’ guidance, they will be fired.”.
Those were Clayface’s words as I had my little session with him, and I felt how cold sweat ran down my back.

Was this ‘Court of Owls’ real? And was it so dangerous that villains would rather work with them than against them?

“We found the car an hour ago at the docks, completely burned out. The senator could only be ID-ed by his dentals.”, Gordon explained after he had interpreted my silence for analysing.
“And the tape?”, I asked, trying to focus back on the crime at hand.
“Found it on the roof, taped to the…”, Gordon got quiet for a second.
“I stuck to the fucking Batsignal, Jim! Just say it!”, Bullock said angrily.

“When did the goddamn GCPD stop being cops and leave every fucking case to the Bat? And since when do criminals use us as little message boys?!”, he continued and angrily kicked a chair over.
I could clearly see that Gordon and Montoya felt similar.

“He clearly sees himself as an artist, as a film maker.”, I started my analysis, hoping to switch the topic again and it seemed to work as even Bullock calmed down a bit.
“He prides himself on his high knowledge on film making and prides himself for his own style. As he called the TV show earlier, he not only mentioned that he used 16 mm film, but also a certain kind of camera, a Bolex H16.”

I saw that Montoya was writing down notes and Gordon was nodding along, so I was doing at least something right.

“He clearly edits his movies, it’s not a raw cut of his footage so, we as the viewer can’t always 100% say what truly happened during those crimes.”, I continued.
“He kills them, isn’t that enough?” Bullock chimed in.
“He does, but did they fight back? Did he have helpers? In the video of the three teenagers from 3 years ago, did he overpower three people all by himself? And then kill one after one without any of them fleeing?”, I explained.

Once again Gordon nodded.
“So, we are either looking for a massive beast of a man…or he had help.”, he said it more clearly.
“And that poem, that rhyme…what is it about?”, I asked, like it was just some tiny detail.

“Oh, that? Just some dusty old children rhyme that parents used to scare their children so they would eat their food or pray before going to bed…”, Bullock said, clearly not believing it in the slightest.
In Montoya’s face though I could see that it went deeper than that.

“Anything else, Elliot?”, the Commissioner asked me.

“He doesn’t have a clear victim type. Teenagers, now senators…what did he even mean with a mistake? What kind of mistake did the senator make?”, I asked, while scratching my chin.

“Bailey tried to convince the state to buy the Arkham Asylum and make it a government funded facility.”, Montoya explained.
“It’s not?”, I reply shocked.
“No, it’s been in the hands of the Arkham family ever since it was built. And they never wanted to sell it. As far as I know, Amadeus Arkham, the last member of the Arkham Family now owns it, even though nobody has seen him for decades…”, Gordon explained.

“Are there city officials or famous figures who might be interested in making Arkham a government facility? Because that seems like our best guess at the moment…”, I suggested and Gordon nodded.
“A few city council members and even famous figures like Bruce Wayne. I will send out a few patrols and tell them to watch them.”, he said.

After that, he thanked me for my time and sent me on my way.

—--------------------------------------------------------------

“--causing his stocks to plummet into a new low. In Gotham a senator was found dead. Senator Bailey, known for his strict viewpoints on crime reduction and public healthcare, was found last night dead in his car at the Gotham Docks. According to bystanders, his car had been set ablaze and the fire department had to watch helplessly as the car burned down, destroying any potential evidence. There has been no statement from the GCPD yet.”

The radio was playing in the background, while I was standing in the archive of Arkham Asylum.
I had come an hour early, acting like I had misplaced Killer Croc’s file, just to get a few minutes alone in the dark and dusty archive of the Asylum.
Massive file cupboards lined the walls, each heavily packed and ready to burst with at least a century worth of documents, case files and patient reports.

Then, after at least 30 min of rummaging and destroying any chance of ever finding anything else, I found what I was looking for:
the entire log of incoming patients.

It was a massive block of papers, probably over 15 kg heavy, but it didn’t take long for me to find the name I was looking for:
Amadeus Arkham himself had been an inmate in Arkham, and according to the data, he was never released.

I quickly ripped the page out of the log and hid it in my lab coat.
Further investigation would have to wait till after my daily sessions.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------

After two rather uneventful sessions with Condiment King and Wesker (who I estimated to be on a very good way to recovery), I continued my little investigation.

According to the patient log, Arkham was supposedly held in Cell 1-A.
But it is ironic that Amadeus Arkham, the heir to the Arkham name and the asylum itself was held in its very first cell.

It didn’t take a master thief or a Catwoman, to steal Boles ID card, while he was drunkenly sleeping at his tiny office desk, and it took even less skill to use the patient elevator and drive down into the deepest part of Arkham.

It only took me a few steps to reach Cell 1-A. It was a cell like all the others I had seen the last time I was down here with Boles.

A massive glass door worked as the containment and also viewpoint.
A single bed, single chair and a single table stood in the cell.

And in that cell sat a man. He sat on a massive circle that somebody had painted with dark colour on the ground.
The walls were also painted with circles of varying sizes. Circles painted over each other, inside each other, across each other.
I felt dizzy just looking at it.

But I had to look at the man again.
His back was faced towards me.
He had long, filthy looking hair but his hands looked clean, like they never had touched dirt before.

“You should not be here…”, a breathy, whispery voice said.
And I noticed too late that I knew that voice.

The last thing I remembered was my head being grabbed from behind me and my face being smashed into the glass wall, before passing out.

Chapter Text

The gruesome pain was the first thing I felt.
The pulsing, brutal pain that came straight from my forehead.
As I finally opened my eyes, they were instantly overwhelmed by the strong light of some sterile fluorescent tubes.
Their soft familiar humming made me at least one thing clear, I had to be still in the asylum.
But where? And how much time had passed?

As my eyes finally adjusted to the light, I was finally able to look around, at least as far as my restraints allowed it.
I was bound to a massive table, my head fastened to it and two soft blocks held it in place.
I felt something hard in my mouth.
If I counted two and two together, then I was highly likely laying in some shock therapy room, a highly outdated sort of therapy…more like torture.

The room itself looked small, but old. A glass cupboard seemingly held some patient files, I could see a tiled floor and the ceiling paneling had seen better days too.
“Ah, our patient has woken up…”, a voice said, that I would recognize everywhere, even though I had barely heard it.
Dr. Rourke stepped into my point of view. His round glasses reflected so hard that I could only see myself, not his eyes.

“I knew that a man like you, Mr. Grange would be trouble. But The Voice had other plans. Sadly, those plans don’t involve you any longer. Which is why I am allowed to do whatever I please with you now…”, he said while putting on black gummy gloves.
“Now that this charade is over, I might as well introduce myself properly…”, he said and grabbed into his mouth to remove prosthetics that seemed to have stuck in his cheeks as well as a prosthetic nose.
“I’m Dr. Hugo Strange. It was my pleasure working with you, Dr. Grange. You had made such excellent progress…”, he complimented me, before turning on the machine and hundreds of volts caused my head and body to wildly swing around, only held in place by the restraints.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------

During the rainy night of Gotham, a certain man drank his tenth coffee that day, while waiting for a good friend.
He was standing on the top of a roof, the lamp shining brightly and the sound of the city below him felt so familiar.
But whenever that light was turned on, by him and him alone, it didn’t mean anything good.

“Commisioner.”, a voice behind him said.
He didn’t have to turn around. He didn’t even hear him landing.
But he knew who it was without a doubt.
“Elliot Grange is missing. We had asked him to profile the current ‘Mr. Camera’ Case. He has been missing for just 24 hours, but still…”
The man explained, taking out a file from his trenchcoat.
“I have a bad feeling, Batman…”

No reply. And Gordon knew that his only friend in this godforsaken city had accepted his request for help and was already long gone.

—----------------------------------------------------------------

“What has four legs at d–”
“Shut it, Eddie! Nobody is in the mood for your riddles!”
“Oh me, Oh my…the morning shines! Little Alice is crawling out of the rabbit hole!”
“He woke up?”
“Let’s establish who rules these halls!”
“You certainly don’t, Harv. How about you throw your coin to check if you pee or poo today!”

With an awful headache and a dozen voices in my head, I opened my eyes…just to quickly shut them again as the artificial light on the ceiling blended.
But who were those voices that seemed to talk about me, without addressing me?

My temples hurt like crazy and a light touch revealed that they were slightly burned.
Somewhere, deep in my brain, a voice was screaming to get up, to flee.
But why?
The more I rested on this hard bed, the more I felt…nothing.
No Fear, No Panic…and even the pain started to disappear.

After a few more minutes of silently resting on the hard surface, I finally had the energy to get up.
“He is up, He is up! The tea party is complete!”, an annoying voice shouted, and after I stumbled to a cold, smooth surface, I felt a dozen eyes on me.

After another minute of breathing, I was finally able to open my eyes and see the source of this rhyming annoying voice.
A small man, with a massive tophat, seemingly folded out of hundreds of newspapers.

In the cell left from him was a man who was seemingly perfectly split in half and sawn together with an opposite version of himself.

And in the cell right from him, was…him. Edward “Eddie” Nygma, the Riddler.

“Where am I? What happened?”, I mumbled, my voice raw and broken, like I had screamed all day.
“Oh, the doctor doesn’t know where he is. Well, you are where you belong. Where you live. Where you die!”, the split man said with constant changing voices.

My eyes slowly began focusing on the Riddler, unable to look anywhere else.
I felt my body go numb, immovable as I watched his smug grin grow wider and wider, stretching his face beyond human anatomy.

Then everything went white, and I felt a scream, heard a scream running closer towards me, creeping into my throat.
It felt like someone was pushing a burning metal rod through my temples, twisting and turning it, like they were making sure to burn a perfect circle into my brain.

Somewhere, beyond all the pain, I heard wood crashing, lamps being broken and punches being served.
Then all the white got replaced by black, all the pain by static numbness, like my brain was begging for the pain to return…

—---------------------------

The beeping of the heart-rate monitor was almost deafening and I deeply wondered if medical machines even had volume regulation.
The smell of brutally aggressive disinfection gel rose into my nose, giving me the feeling of an unwelcome deja-vu.

“Is he awake yet?”, a grumpy man asked, his mouth still half-way filled with food.
“No, Detective. Mr. Grange is still unconscious and even if he will wake up, he might not be ready to be interviewed just yet.”, a female voice replied, seemingly used to the rough and ‘head through the wall’ attitude of the detective.

It’s always interesting how people think that you notice nothing while being blacked out.
But maybe I wasn’t blacked out anymore, and instead my body was just not ready yet to open its eyes and see where exactly I am.

Slowly the feeling of my body returned, and I felt a weight resting on my arm…no, arms.
Left and right.
It was heavy, but not too heavy. It felt just right.

The urge to open my eyes was steadily crawling deeper into my brain and begged my body to comply, so after just a little bit more of ‘pseudo’-sleep, I finally opened my eyes…just to be blinded by the light directly above me.
After a few brutal blinks and getting used to the sterile light that hospitals used, I was finally fully present.
A quick look to my left and right also revealed what the weights on my upper limbs were…the two most important women in my life, Rachel and my mom.
Both were peacefully sleeping on my arms, or partly my chest, looking exhausted, worried and other adjectives I didn’t have the energy to think about.

The door to my room opened carefully, like somebody had read my mind about everything being horribly loud in a hospital, and a nice looking older lady, wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope around her neck walked in, smiling as she saw me awake.
“Happy to have you back in the world of the living, Mr. Grange. I’m Dr. Lesley Thompkins. How are you feeling?”, she asked, with the friendliness of a grandma.
I recognized her voice. She was the one who told the detective that I wouldn’t be ready for interrogation yet.

“Better, I believe…”, I mumbled, my voice raw and hoarse, a sign of hours of screaming.

The doctor smiled, like she only believed half of what I said, but would accept it for now.

“Good. Rest a bit more. I try to keep the detectives off your back. When you are ready, we will just need to do a few tests and then you can head home again.”, she said, nodding with a smile and leaving me be.

Just as the doctor left through the door, I saw something brown rush by the window, followed by the voice of GCPD’s very own bulldog screaming: “Gordon! He’s awake!”, which was then followed by a “Sorry, yeah, hospital…”
Bullock had probably gotten an angry stare from some pissed off grandma or a nurse, and even he wouldn’t dare to fight them on their own turf.

It didn't take that long after that for the police commissioner to enter my room. I saw that he tried to be as careful and quiet as possible, but how he also knew that Bullock had ripped apart any way to do it with decency.
He looked at me silently for a minute, like he was thinking about something.
About how I could have been another body in the morgue.
About how he didn’t save me.
About how he didn’t even know where he would have found me.
About how ‘friend’, a man dressed like a bat, had saved a life that he, Gordon, had sworn to protect.
And how he was blaming himself, for potentially putting me in harm’s way for putting me on his team.

“I’m sorry.”
He meant it, I knew it.
But how was I supposed to reply?
‘It’s okay’? ‘That’s Gotham.’? ‘Shit happens.’?
I was in the hospital for the second time, just because I did things that I believed to be right, to be helpful to Gotham.
And I was rewarded with pain, fear…with worrying the people around me.

“How can you do it every day?”
It was the only thing I was able to ask, as I felt tears well up in my eyes.
I don’t know why, but suddenly this town felt hopeless and in front of me stood a man who worked in this city for decades. Who fought corruption, maniacs, earthquakes and metahumans…
How could he stand there? Why wasn’t he running? Why did he stay in Gotham?
Why did I stay in Gotham?!

“For them.”
He answered and nodded towards Rachel and my mom, who slowly woke up because of this conversation.
“Because of my daughter, Barbara. Because I love this town, no matter how many flaws it has. Because I rebuilt it with my hands after Noman’s Land. Because I wear this badge, Elliot. And I can’t ask you to do the same. Fuck, I can’t even ask my cops to do it. But they stay, because it’s the right thing to do. Even if they get hurt.”
I heard it in his voice. He was hurt, deep, deep inside.
Not because of my question. But because the question opened some deep scars that he hid every day behind the coffee, the cigarettes…the bat signal.

I felt Rachel’s hand on my cheek, as she whipped away a tear that ran down my face as I listened to Gordon.

“I won’t ask you to come to the GCPD…not after what you went through. But if you want to help, maybe even for the last time. We have Strange.”, he said, nodded towards me and the two women that now eagerly hugged me and left.

Chapter Text

The mirror in Rachel’s apartment was an asshole. Why couldn’t he picture me in a better way? Why did he have to show so clearly how exhausted and broken I was?
Strange’s little brain massage had left nasty burn scars on my temples, at least now I didn’t need so much make-up if I wanted to dress as Frankenstein’s monster.

I had sent Mom to live in an apartment complex with assisted living…in Coast City, far away from Gotham.
I know. Why now? Why didn’t I do it earlier?
Well, after she got sick and basically relied on help from neighbours already…
and now that I was back, fully working and constantly in the hospital…
It was the best option, even though I try not to think about it too often.
I know that she is not happy with that decision, and the few times I have visited her, our “small talk” was even quieter than it already was.

The Arkham Asylum was by now, one week after my “incident” closed down…which just meant it was run by some staff member of a staff member of a staff member of a senator…or some crap like that.
And yes, none of those staff members ever even held a psychology text book.
In reality, it was run by the GCPD, who reported to some James Lloyn, who already said he would never put a foot in the asylum himself.
Every new case, every new prisoner who needs medical help, gets sent to Blackgate instead for now.
Which in turn causes Blackgate to almost rip apart at the seams.

Rachel had offered that we move together…but I had avoided the topic so far. So much has happened. So much that potentially put her in danger…
How could I ever put her in danger?
How could I let her live in Gotham?
WHY WASN’T I RUNNING, SCREAMING?!?!

The ringing of my telephone ripped me out of my thoughts. I was still standing in front of the mirror, touching my temples.
“Y-Yes, Elliot Grange here?”, I answered the phone, my eyes still focused on my own reflection.
“Mister Grange, Timothy Drake here! I’m calling to tell you that the test screening of Wesker’s show was a pretty good success. When can we schedule him to produce more episodes?”, the voice of the Wayne son said excitedly.
“Uhm, yeah…about that…I currently don’t work for Arkham Asylum. None of the staff does. Looks like our main guy was…well…”, I lacked the words to explain the entire situation.

“Oh yes…I heard about that. Sorry to hear about that. Is there anything me or Wayne Enterprise can do to help?”, he asked. I don’t know if he was honest or serious.
After all, he was a rich brat. A somebody. Someone who never had to suffer from daily life in Gotham.
I must have been a bit too long silent, because he said something before I could reply.
“Mr. Grange?”

“Yeah, sorry. I was lost in thoughts…Uhm, no. There is currently nothing anyone can do I think. We will just have to wait and see how the situation develops…”, I answered.
“Okay, Mr. Grange. Please message me when you are in contact with Mr. Wesker again.”

I hung up. No Goodbye.
That brat was using me to fuel his own fame.
I bet his name was plastered on that show.

Before I even realised it, I had smashed my phone on the tiled floor of the bathroom.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks.
Two weeks since the incident.

I feel watched, constantly.
I can’t sleep anymore.
Most nights I spend outside, just walking through the dirty streets of Old Gotham.
Walking past ladies getting robbed, past stores getting broken into.

Why should I intervene? Why should I help?
Won’t they just betray me afterwards? Call the cops because I didn’t help fast enough? Or sue me because I grabbed a robber too rough?

Somehow, my way led me up on Rachel’s building…onto the roof.
Somehow my way led me to its corner.
The wind is strong up here. Down there is that dirty city.
That city that so many tried to destroy…to burn down the rot and build it back up.
Are Batman, Gordon…are all these people truly in the right to protect such a city?
To let it slow and steady sink into its filth?

Down there is the street…one step and I too could just sink into the pavement and this nightmare could be over.

I just want to sleep again…and I take the step…

Just to feel a hand on my chest.
A thud that forcefully held me in space.

I’m not falling.
My feet are still planted on the roof.

“Do you want to talk about it, buddy?”, an unfamiliar voice said.
I turn to the side and see a young man, wearing a black and blue suit.
He smiles at me.
And I start crying.

—--------------------------------------------------------

I don’t remember how long I had sat there and talked with Nightwing.
It had felt like months, years even.

He just sat there and listened to me babbling on about me, Rachel, my mom, Hugo Strange, Gotham…just everything.
Not once did he interrupt me when I was talking. He just listened, nodded and gave a comment when a comment was needed.
It felt surreal.

To talk with a HERO, like I would talk with a psychiatrist.
To talk with one of the Batfamily.

After I was done with my seemingly endless monologue, filled with self pity and hate, he just put an arm around me.
It was a strong arm, but he only put enough strength into it to pull me closer.

“What do you want to do, buddy? Like, something else then standing close to the edge of roofs.”, he asked with a soft chuckle.
I appreciated that he tried to lift the mood.
“I want to help…that’s everything I always wanted to do. It’s the whole reason why I studied psychology…but after all that happened…is it even still worth it helping people?”
“It’s always worth helping people. Maybe not everyone will appreciate that help, but those that do, well…you might change their entire lives.”
I knew, deep inside, that he was right.
But I also was strongly aware of the fact that I was not ready to accept it yet.
“Listen, why don’t you start with small steps again? Nobody asks you to cure the Joker in one day…but I’m sure there are people waiting for you, hoping that you would help them with small tasks.”, Nightwing said before grabbing my shoulder.
“I will check up on you, okay buddy?”, he said, before walking up to the ledge and just jumped down.

As I checked where he had gone, he had simply vanished and I realised how deep the fall would have truly been.

—--------------------------------------------------

Rachel was visibly relieved as I had returned earlier than usual.
I told her what had happened.
Told her how I felt, which I hadn’t done before.

My reward was a slap across my face, one filled with fear, sadness and disappointment.
My other reward for talking with her was a hug, filled with love, compassion and care.

We talked a lot that night. About her. About me. Arkham. Our future. Our jobs.

In the end, as we headed to bed, she turned around and looked me in the eyes.
“Any plans where you want to help first?”

“A few. But even though it’s a big step, I think I will have to fulfill one specific plan first. To just finish that topic for now.”

She smiled, knowing exactly what I was talking about.
“Do that. And when you return, I will be waiting for you!”

—---------------------------------------------------------------

I hadn’t called Gordon. Didn’t tell him that I would come.
And as I entered the GCPD, everyone stared at me like I was a cop, returning after I had been downed in a shoot-out.
But no one was clapping or shouting.
Probably because I wasn’t a cop, returning after a near fatal gun wound.

After long awkward stares and probably the quietest the GCPD has been for years, Gordon noticed me from his office and with fast steps came over to me.

“Are you feeling ready for this, kid?”, he asked, while grabbing my shoulder. Somehow like a grandpa, warning his grandson from the force of a rollercoaster.
“Yes. I have to see this case closed.”, I replied.
I had hope that such a confident answer would actually give me some confidence, but I felt the hands in my pockets start to shake.

Gordon just nodded and let me into the interrogation room.
He introduced me to strangers.
One was apparently an FBI agent, the other a civil rights lawyer and the last one some spy from the governor, who would probably just sign some documents in the end.

I looked through the one-way mirror to see Strange, dressed in the blue Blackgate prisoner uniform, sitting at the metal desk, his hands handcuffed to it.

“He hasn’t said a word yet. Thinks he is smarter than us and that the evidence we got is not enough.”, Gordon explained.
“Is he right?”, I replied, which turned the room silent.
Just three grown men staring at Strange, and me looking at Gordon.
He was right.

And even if he said anything about the Court of Owls, who would believe him?

“And if we get him for something else? Tax evasion? Mistreating of patients? Health safety violations?”, I asked, afraid they would release him any second now.

Gordon turned towards the FBI agent to check for an answer.

“We already checked. Arkham pays its bills, no clue how though. It’s some offshore account. Violations are difficult to prove, after all Arkham contains over a dozen lunatics, who probably forgot that they have rights to begin with…”
The agent spoke half with disgust, half with uninterest. He would stay an FBI agent after all, somewhere in Quantico, far away from Gotham.
Like every sane person should be.

“So, we got nothing.”
I said hopeless.
“That’s not true…”, the agent said and looked at me.
Gordon gave him a look like he wanted to silence him.
But it didn’t work.
“We have you.”

—--------------------------------------------------------

They sent me inside.
I was wired, had a notepad, they had activated every microphone in the room and two heavily armed guards were waiting outside.

I had to lie to myself, saying this would be a very normal, regular session.
Nothing extraordinary.
But in reality I was scared.
It would be like Interviewing Joker, Scarecrow and Riddler all at once.
Like I would talk to the entire Arkham Asylum in one person.

I sat down across from him, placed down my notepad and it took an extreme amount of force to look him in the eyes.

“How are you feeling today, Professor Strange?”, I asked.
Maybe not the best question or conversation starter, but Hugo Strange smiled.
He saw my nervousness.
I was pretty sure at that moment that he also knew that I was wired.

“I’m good, Mr. Grange. I’m being treated as well as possible.”
Fuck you.
Shut up.
Stop talking, you fu–

I had to calm myself, and after a deep breath, I decided to just stop the facade and get right into business.

“What do you know about the Court of Owls?”, I asked.
I could almost feel the eyes of Gordon and the FBI dude on me, because after one question I was already destroying the plan of luring Strange out with regular questions.

Strange leaned back in his chair, a smug grin on his lips.
“Even if I knew anything about that child rhyme, I wouldn’t tell you anything about it.”

“Why did you lock up the last remaining Arkham heir?”, I continued.
His smug grin got weaker.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Grange. I know my rights, and my attorney should be here by now.”

“Is that attorney paid by ‘The Voice’?”, I asked, not even intending to let him off the hook now.
By the mention of ‘The Voice’ his smile fully vanished.

“You stupid creton…you are bringing yourself in even more danger, just by remembering that name.”

“What do you know about the Court of Owls?”, I repeated the question.
I was pretty sure that either Gordon or the FBI dude was ready to storm the room and carry me out, but was stopped by the other.

“You have no idea what’s going on in this city, Mr. Grange. And if you are not smart enough and not able to learn from your mistakes, then maybe your little lover, Ra–”

Before he could finish I reached over the desk and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.

“Threaten Rachel only once, and I make sure that only I am locked away in Blackgate!”, I scream, unable to even handle the thought of Rachel being hurt.

That had apparently been the last straw as the two guards entered and forced me out of the room.

“Oh, how is your mother in Coast City, Mr. Grange? It would be a shame if something happened in her unwilling home!”, he said, his smug grin back on his face.

The guards brought me back to Gordon, and the FBI agent, and while said agent scolded me like a little child who cheated on a test, I just sat there, trying to see the puzzle pieces and how it all could fit.

Chapter Text

Two days.
Only two days after confronting Strange, it happened.
And the news spread like Wildfire.
The press was first of course.

“Breaking News! Just minutes ago we received the information that Professor Hugo Strange has been found dead in his holding cell, inside of GCPD. We are now switching live to Jack Ryder. Jack, what is happening out there?”

“It’s impossible to say, really. Police have almost barricaded themselves in the GCPD and my source says that there is absolute chaos in the GCPD itself. We have no idea how Strange died, how Gordon is reacting, if it was an inside job… For all our listeners just turning in, I want to repeat: Hugo Strange, previous director of Arkham Asylum, and in the custody of the GCPD because of a potential case of kidnapping and torture, has been found dead in his holding cell!”

Then the internet came.

DispatchWhisper
“According to the radio, he was nailed to the wall of his cell…who tf does that?”

ClayFaceFilter
“Batman went crazy and is slaughtering those maniacs now! No idea if I find that good or bad”

StaticEcho_
“Can the radio only afford one reporter on the street? Why is always Jack Ryder reporting on this crap?”

—---------------------------------------

Hours after that, they knocked at Rachel’s door, politely asking me to follow them to the department.
If I wasn’t who I am, and If I hadn’t survived what had happened to me, they would have kicked in my door and arrested me.

Once again, for the third time, they pushed me into the interrogation room…and left.
They had closed the door behind me and dimmed the light so much that only a cone of light illuminated the desk.

“Hello? Is this supposed to look like this?”, I asked, confused.

“Hello Elliot. Please sit down.”, a voice said, something from the shadows.
A deep voice. A mechanically distorted voice.
“S-Sorry buddy, but I have a problem with demanding voices telling me what to do…”, I said and tried to sound though, but as HE stepped out of the shadow, as the light showed HIS silhouette, I lost all strength in my legs and glided to the ground.

It was HIM. The Bat. Batman.

“I just want to talk. About our mutual…acquaintance.”

—------------------------------------

I stared at the massive figure in both stunned silence, awe and horrible fear.
HE was right there, talking to me, some nobody who had slid into something big.
So big that HE had to step in.

“You mean Hugo Strange?”, I said after what felt like an eternity of silence.
But I got no answer.
He just kept looking at me. Under the mask it was impossible for me to fully judge his facial expression.

“Y-Yeah, sure. I'll tell you everything!”
I watched him grab something from his belt, before placing it on the desk.
It was a few photos, displaying an empty cell. Cell 1-A.

“That’s the cell where Strange kept the Arkham heir…and Mr. Camera.”
“Explain that.”, he said. I couldn’t tell if he was threatening me or if he actually wanted to know more.

“Well, after my profiling session with Gordon, and some weird work experiences, I dug deeper, and found out that Hugo himself kept the Arkham heir in Arkham. He must have done something to him, because his voice was exactly the same as the voice from the recordings of Mr. Camera I had watched with Gordon. I assume he or the Court had used him for…something, I guess.”

Again, no answer. He looked at the photos, seemingly combining things and evidence in his head of which I wasn’t aware of.

“I-Is the cell empty?”, I asked, even though I had the strong feeling of already knowing the answer.

“Yes.”, he said with no seemingly emotional attachment to that answer, supporting my darkest fear of another psychopath possibly being behind me.
“Tell me more about that Court.”

“I don’t know much. Seemingly they control Arkham at the moment and also own multiple agents. I’m very sure that one watched me during Nygma’s trial. A person named “The Voice” seems to be their leader, or at least the person directly above Huge Strange. Even some of the inmates seem to know about them, like Clayface.”, I explained, trying to be as detailed as possible.

“Hm.”, was the only answer I got from him.

The man behind the mask, or was he even a man?, turned around and looked at the oneway mirror, like he was waiting for approval for whatever he intended to do next.

I couldn’t see any reaction coming from the mirror or hear any sound, but Batman must have seen or heard something, because he walked over to the film roll player, but in a small, new looking roll and turned the machine on.

“Gordon received a new roll earlier today.”, he explained, with no intend to go into any further detail as the “movie” began playing.

It showed a small apartment, seemingly filmed through a window. The camera must have been very close to the window, so there were barely any reflections.
“Here we see the homo sapiens in it’s natural habitat…”, the whispery voice of Mr. Camera, alias the last remaining Arkham heir spoke.

A weird feeling creeped up my back. The apartment was dark, and apparently it was filmed at night, so it was difficult to make out anything specific, but I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that I had been in such an apartment before.

Somewhere in the apartment a different window opened, perfectly in frame for the camera to film it. A masked figure stepped into the room, the mask’s huge round eyes reflecting the little light that was there, making the ‘thing’ look even creepier.

“I-Is that an owl mask?”, I asked ever getting closer to the wall the movie was projected on.

Batman didn’t reply. It was like he knew what was coming, like he didn’t want to draw my attention to him.

The masked owl person disappeared into a different room…

Silence.

Only to be broken by the worst sound a son can hear.
A scream.
A female scream.
A scream so raw, so helpless.
A scream so raw, like that person hasn’t spoken in months.

A scream of a mother. My mother.

“...or they’ll send a talon for your head!”, the voice of Mr. Camera said with obvious glee, citing the last sentence of the court of owls Rhyme.

The movie ended. Batman turned off the machine.

Silence again.

No.
It couldn’t be.
They can’t.
That can’t happen.
That’s not fair.

A hand on my shoulder.
Tears ran down my face.

“I’m sorry…”, was what he said, before I screamed over every word he had intended to say.
I screamed and screamed and screamed.

At some point Batman left and Gordon replaced him.
I didn’t care.
I only cried and screamed till even breathing was painful.