Raising The Roof [Scarecrow/Open]

Jeremiah grimaced, lips pulling into a tight pucker as he glowered down at the prosecuting lawyer that paced below him, making his arguments, winding his verses. It was all rhetoric, that’s all a court was, it was the best and most dramatic stage in the world. Why? Because it was here that the stakes were the highest. There was no encore and the story was not fiction. The story was the fate of another’s life. The lawyer thought he was talented, thought he had the case in the bag. Jeremiah could tell how arrogant he was by the way he stood straight and flashed a smile to the jury as if nothing he said could be reputed. He could even see it in the way his eyes would flicker to his position seated just left of the judge’s seat. He knew that stance of superiority because he knew egotism. He saw in some of his patients, Edward Nigma the epitome of it, though Riddler wasn’t the only one he considered to hold, his was just visible as the man believed himself to be of a higher mold than most. Higher intelligence? There was certainly no doubt of that, Jeremiah knew his IQ and it was quite impressive, but pride could fall even the most superior. Yet Jeremiah also knew conceit because he, himself was quite arrogant. And that arrogance made him all the more confident that this man was in way over his head, trying to pretend he knew a lick about psychology.

He made a show of straightening his sport’s jacket as the lawyer finished his drawn out verse and turned to Dr. Arkham. What he really wanted to ask was who had given him his information, a psychologist who had never once dealt with a patient beyond a report in from the American Psychological Association? But instead he too offered the lawyer a grin, one that he hoped made him realize he was playing with matches above gasoline.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat the question,” he inquired in suave voice, “I couldn’t quite catch it through all the assumptions.”

The lawyer scowled at him for an instant before that smirk was back in place. “I assure you, Dr. Arkham, that when it came to the man in question, I did not—”

“No, you did. Probably no fault of your own of course, you’re just repeating what you’ve been told, but that is the problem. I spent over three hours assessing the mental capabilities of the man you stand to accuse, that man there,” Jeremiah gestured to the male who stared into the tabletop, greasy, dark hair obscuring his face. “While I assure you that he has no mental illness that could cause him to be guiltless of committing a crime…”

The lawyer whipped around on his feet and raised his hand as if to proclaim his correct assumption, but Jeremiah wasn’t finished. He didn’t show his irritation on his face. “He doesn’t have the capacity to do it.”

He could have smirked at the way the man froze, the way his back clenched in fury, but he didn’t. His expression remained peaceful as ever. “Excuse me?” The question was posed, but the lawyer did not turn around. Jeremiah folded his hands. “Look at the defendant. He avoids eye contact and is certainly not the most hygienic. He suffers from a severe anxiety disorder coupled with an equally stark social phobia. He’s muttering to himself under his breath now I would presume. And against your expert’s assumption, it’s not in half-crazed or manic phrases. He’s crying.”

The darkness in the counselor’s gaze sent a shiver of ecstasy down Jeremiah’s spine when he snapped around. He fed off that anger, had to clench his jaw from giving into the urge to smirk wide and proud. The lawyer waltzed up to stand just below him.

“Repeat yourself, please.”

Jeremiah wondered if he was the only one that caught the chill in his voice. He pursed his lips before speaking, “The defendant is in mourning. He does not have the mental capacity to be your murderer. He can hardly speak in his defense without stammering. In fact, were you to place him on this very stand, I’d chance to say he’d have a severe panic episode: a panic attack. And yet, despite all that evidence you expect him to have not only wielded a knife, but have attacked a woman viciously?” Jeremiah allowed himself a disbelieved chuckle. “To put it simply, he’d have been too scared to have lifted the knife, let alone have used it.”

The other man crossed his arms, “And I am going to assume you can back this up by evidence?”

This time Jeremiah did smirk, grinned as if to ask silently just who the man thought he was talking to. He leaned forward and rubbed his hands together in his lap. “Of course, counselor. Should I start by explaining the reasons linked to his phobia and anxieties that caused him to be found cowering over the body covered in her blood, hand covering the knife? Or would the best starter be to explain his disorders,” Dr. Arkham let his gaze fall to the jury. “Or maybe,” he let his face fall into a sympathetic expression, “I should explain how he is a victim and in fact witness to Ms. Halls’s murder based entirely on his behavior, because that’s all that’s needed to be certain.” He returned his gaze to the lawyer.

Don’t worry, he thought, I’ll dumb it down so you understand every single word.



The sun glinted against the panes of windows and metal of the towering buildings above him. He squinted and adjusted his glasses as they too caught the glare of the sun as it set in Gotham. He picked his way down the courthouse steps, briefcase of his notes in hand. Several lawyers and some defendants loitered on the steps having their idle conversations, but Jeremiah, himself was not called to and that ideal to him. He had no want to immerse himself in mindless chatter. He merely offered those that knew him a nod which was returned as he continued onto the sidewalk.

If there was one thing that Jeremiah had learned from being a psychiatrist who was often called to court, it was how horrid parking was there just in front of the doors. He’d learned shortly to always park a few blocks away and the walk had never bothered him, he normally travelled light anyway and his suitcase was never over laden. Jeremiah wasn’t one for carrying what he thought unnecessary. He covered his bases; he memorized his reports for courts. He wasn’t one to count on papers to recite from, besides it made a man appear foolish if he had to fumble through papers to make his points. His arguments would be laughable, he would considered dim-witted and no one ever truly took a person like that seriously. If one were able to memorize their speeches—and his field, one should have been more than capable, then it should have been done.

It was no wonder most of the doctors released into society today weren’t worth their salt. They were taught it was alright to rely on crutches. No, only part of what you made a psychologist intelligent and worthy was taught in school. Principles, methods, and honestly little of the latter, were taught. The rest was gut and instinct and realizing that what they told you in classes was only the tip of the iceberg. Memorize symptoms all you wished, the real test came when you were met with your first truly disturbed patient, those who were responsible for horrible crimes, knew it, and were intelligent enough to speak of them. Those were the ones society feared the most, those that could bow their heads, say their prayers, smile and then dig their fingers into your minds because you underestimated them, thought them normal. And doctors thought them capable of rehabilitation. Thought they could learn to sympathize.

Jeremiah snorted at the thought, flicking the cigarette had lit upon exiting building onto the ground as he passed a dank alley.

Psychologists today thought they could read books, tend a few patients at their common hospital, and call themselves ready. They screamed just as loud as anyone else right before the light was stolen from their eyes. They were missing something beyond their commonsense.

He had just moved into the view of the alley mouth, when he felt a needle at his neck. He cursed that he had been too caught in his thoughts to have reacted in time before it pierced into his skin. He felt the pinch of whatever it was entering his system as the plunger was compressed on the syringe. Yet that’s what they were missing, this feeling of ice that rushed down his back, prickling the skin. They were missing fe—

But his thoughts were drowned out by rush of unconsciousness and laughter.



The laughter still echoed in his mind as the blackness began to fade. His mouth was dry from the sedative and his first instinct was to move. He twitched, movements first sluggish, but also hindered. He tried to control the prickling that seared across his chest at the realization of his bindings. He could hear the noises of traffic, recall what had happened, but he knew not who had him and for what purpose. Or he’d had no idea until again that laughter filled his ears. It was a laugh that he knew intimately, one that unnerved guards at Arkham.

Joker.

His eyes remained closed, but his assumption was proven at the unmistakable voice. He was still groggy, mind still fogged with sleep too much to completely react. He knew he had to do something as he heard the footsteps, the tune that left his lips. He moved his fingers, he tried to will his body to be as awake as his mind and failed and failed utterly until something hot was placed against his skin of his arm.

He screamed, eyes flying open, body attempting to rise, attempting to get away. He tried to jerk his arm away. His eyes screwed shut as he tried to wrap his mind around the pain enough to form words.

“I’m awake! I’m awake!”

Grabbing the steering wheel, The Joker pulled the ambulance around into an alleyway. Slamming on the brakes, the car screeched to a sharp stop. Joker sat and gathered his breath. He was dressed in nothing but a hospital gown he was wearing at the time of his escape. Having eluded both Bats and Superman in Gotham County, Joker was back in the game and back on the run. He knew it would only be a matter of time before the whole city was informed that The Joker's transfer to Arkham Asylum hadn't gone necessarily as planned. He slouched in the seat and ran the palms of his hands up his face and through his hair. The large scar he had running the length of his chest pulsed as Joker breathed heavily. The first thing he needed was clothes. 

Climbing through to the back of the ambulance, Joker had only two things left from his original outfit. His spat covered shoes. Although his escape had been made in barefoot, he didn't exactly relish the idea of walking over the used condoms and hypodermic needles of Gotham City's alleyways. Slipping his feet into the shoes, Joker kicked open the doors of the ambulance and hopped out into the blazing sunlight. Surveying the main street in front of him, Joker headed for the theatre costume shop over the road. Bursting through the glass doors of the store, he dragged the red haired cashier from behind his desk and demanded to know where the clown outfits were. Beating several others in the process, the vicious and untamed Joker torn at the clothes on the railings. After what happened to him, The Joker was more violent and vicious than ever, and he loved it. Rather than deciding on a completely new outfit, Joker grabbed a pair of purple pants a pair of red braces and quick shirt from the store. In his true style, The Joker admired himself in the mirror.

"A new me deserves a new outfit. And I must say, I'm loving the Clockwork Orange look..."

Howling in laughter and grabbing a straight razor from the props department, The Joker raced out of the store and down another alleyway. Smiling wildly to himself, Joker strolled down the brick covered corridor. Tittering slightly, air rushing into his lungs, The Joker knew what he must do. Something life affirming. After all, he needed it at the minute. Plus, not all of Gotham knew he was back on the scene yet. But they would. His train of thought was broken by the screams of a distressed woman coming from around the corner. His paced quickened as he raced to the source of the sound. Three men, dressed in black, pinned a young blonde woman to the wall. A Latino looking fellow began to lick along the girl's face as the others ripped and tore at her clothes. Rape. A horrible, horrible crime. The Joker stood. This wasn't his problem, he should just walk away. But he couldn't. As heartless a monster as he was, he couldn't let this continue. He had a wife once, and she looked just like this girl. He had to stop it. 

Flicking open the straight razor in his hand, The Joker bounded into the fray. Grabbing the first devil by the hair, who was attempting to tear the poor creature's skirt from her legs, he pulled sharply backwards on his head and swiftly ran the razor along the length of the man's throat, blood pouring out. Letting his lifeless body fall to the grime covered floor, The Joker sprang up on his legs and connected a punch to the second man's jaw. As he tumbled, the Latino perp lunged at Joker with a knife he was holding to the woman's throat. Dodging swiftly, the knife came screaming past Joker as he used the razor to slice the fingers from the hand that was holding the blade. The offender he had previously punched in the jaw, ran forward, screaming at the top of his lungs. The Joker simply raised a boot and connected it with the man's nose. His heels pushed against bone and forced it into the brain. Instant death. The now one handed Latino man pulled a pistol from the back of his pants. The Joker licked the blood from the straight razor as he started down the barrel. The Latino squeezed the trigger as Joker dropped to his knees, grabbing the knife from the floor and letting it fly from his hand. The blade embedded itself in the retina of the Latino as his body instantly stiffened and collapsed against the wall. The Joker tittered as the corpse fell to the floor. The young woman huddled into a ball and began to cry. 

"Put that on..." The Joker said bitterly as he threw his shirt at her feet, replacing the braces on his shoulder. 

The woman wiped the tears from her eyes and placed her arms through the sleeves. She looked up at the man who had just saved her as he claimed his prize from the Latino perps body. As he walked away she called after him.

"Th-Thank You"

The Joker froze and his hands fell to his sides. The black coat his was now wearing flapped in the breeze. He turned his head slightly so that his face was in profile, the razor still in hand.

"You saying nothing to nobody about what happened here..."

The Joker flicked up the collars on the coat, and with that, he disappeared back towards the ambulance. 

With his new attire, The Joker sat in the back of the car. Taking a few syringes of muscle relaxer for good measure, he admired his patient transfer chart. He viewed the scrawlings on the paper until something caught his eye, in the comments section. 

PATIENT TO BE REFERRED TO DR LELAND UPON ARRIVAL. DR ARKHAM UNAVAILABLE DUE TO COURT HEARING.

The Joker smiled. The Solomon Wayne courthouse was not far from here. He claimed into the front seat of the ambulance and drove to the location. Lucky. The trial was just finishing, The Joker drove round the block and recognised Jeremiah's car. Again manoeuvring the ambulance into an alleyway, like a tiger hiding amongst the long grass, he waited. Then as he prey attempted to enter the vehicle to drive home, he struck. Sprinting forward and drawing the sedative from his pocket, The Joker pressed his weight against Arkham, slamming him uni the car. Laughing, he pressed the needle into his targets neck and caught his limp body. Dragging him off to the ambulance, Joker strapped his victim to the gurney residing in the back of the vehicle. After slamming close the doors, The Joker went to enter the drivers seat, until he was stopped. A police officer called his name. With his back to the man, The Joker paused. Sliding his palm into his coat and across the front of his pants, The Joker grabbed the pistol and fired a single shot, piercing the cop's temple.

After just murdering a police officer, Joker had no time to lose. After pulling Arkham from the ambulance and dragging him into a nearby service elevator, The Joker blew a few puffs on a cigarettes he had swiped from Arkham's jacket. After reaching the roof, the gurney was dragged out of the cage and onto the rooftop, before the elevator was destroyed in order to prevent pursuit. Slamming a nearby AC unit in front of the door leading back o the building, The Joker secured his spot before walking to the rooftop edge.

                             ~

"Good, I'm glad you are..." The Joker menaced as Arkham recoiled from the torture. "Nice little nappy wappy?" 

The Joker tittered at Arkham's pathetic whining. He didn't care. The Joker needed to re-establish himself after the fall he's suffered and there was no better way to do it that murdering Gotham's most decorated and praised psychiatrist. However, there was new voice. A new but familiar voice. A voice of gravelly tones and old horror movies. A voice designed to frighten. He knew exactly who it was.

"A bullet through the brain does that to a man's mind" The Joker whimsed. "Well that and crack..." 

The Joker bellowed in laughter as he spun to face The Scarecrow. His long black coat lapping at his plan white skin.

"So what bring's you to these parts pilgrim? Not taken up old Bats's tight wearing mantle, have you?"

The Joker spat out his ridiculous words paired with a maniacal laugh that was familiar to him. It was difficult to stand him the last time they had worked together. He really should have known better than to work with The Scarecrow. Yet the criminal underworld continued to try and ‘team’ up with him. It was their own fault to trust him, he would use them for everything they were willing to give. On the occasion his intentions started out to receive the same goal as they wanted. The Joker wanted the Batman, it wasn’t what Dr. Crane wanted, but it was a tempting offer to participate in. His obsessions often got in the way of other rouges goals however. As the Joker soon after learned.

Dr. Crane didn’t attempt to make any understanding out of what the man has said. He wasn’t even going to attempt it because he didn’t care what he had to say. Neither of them was on neutral terms to begin with, and the terms could never be good. It was impossible with The Scarecrow. Right now Joker needed to listen to Dr. Crane and what he had to say about all this, if he didn’t it surely wouldn’t end well for him. When it came to Dr. Arkham, he had little tolerance for anyone attempting to ruin his plans, because he was indeed his judge and jury.

A dark glare was offered with the Batman comment but he wasn’t going to grace it with a response. The doctor was a man of little words to begin with. There was no room for negotiation, as of right now The Joker had nothing to offer him for even a chance to use Dr. Arkham for whatever he wanted. Before he had left he had heard briefly about The Jokers escape from the asylum. Dr. Arkham really did keep his asylum very poorly. The security was always lower than it should have been for how many of the higher tier professionals that resided in it. Unfortunately none of them were working for the correct cause; all of them were chancing false hopes and dreams, something that he would never involve himself in. However poorly the security was handled by Dr. Arkham at the asylum he had noticed of late that it was becoming harder and harder each time….For him at least.

The sound of sirens filled the air around them coming up from below. The sudden flash of light from a swarming helicopter occasionally graced the ground around them but he didn’t move. Dr. Crane wasn’t here to deal with the crowd that The Joker had drawn or to play in his little game tonight. He was here to take back what was his and leave. That was exactly what he had planned to do.

The attention that surrounded them was bound to attract the Batman. That was the entire reason of why The Joker had done this. The man was obsessed with a man that followed a false cause. This vigilante that he had encountered first had a mission that was unmistakable in his eyes. Dr. Crane took him very seriously for what he wanted, but knew that he was after a false cause, like so many others. What was he trying to prove? That the system worked? That justice could be brought here?...What a waste of time. There was nothing on this earth that was more important than the research that he understood so well. Of course…there was no one that could handle it as well as Dr. Crane himself. Regardless of having faced him before he had no desire to waste time with him again. If the Joker wanted to deal with the Batman he would let him, right now he wanted his prisoner, and he wasn’t leaving without him.

Dr. Crane deserved to have Dr. Arkham and he deserved to drag him to the edge of oblivion. No professional criminal in his field deserved it more than he did. This wasn’t up for discussion; this was made very clear in the asylum when he was there. Everyone knew to stay away from Dr. Arkham or they would attract the attention of the nightmare that would haunt them until their minds broke from the terror that he would bring. The Joker wouldn’t be able to play ignorant of this, he wasn’t ignorant he was an idiot if he thought he was getting away with this.

Regardless of how his mind raced through why exactly The Joker was attempting to go against him on this, he kept a calm outward exterior. It was only broke momentarily by the poetic jest that rose into the air from Dr. Arkham himself. The jest caused him to give him a short glare before his eyes were immediately back on The Joker. Everyone here knew he wasn’t to be Dr. Arkham’s savior…As his mind began to roll over the possibilities in this situation his posture changed slightly. With that slight movement he began a slow stride toward The Joker, making his advance. “Dr. Arkham’s oblivion is not yours to deliver clown.” The doctor growled out in his advance. If the Joker had any sense he would back away from his meaningless endeavor. Before he got too close to the clown his footing changed and went straight for Dr. Arkham.

He was faced with certain death wasn’t he? In all honesty, Arkham was still riling from a headache the sedative had caused and was more irritated than afraid that he was staring at a pale, green-haired, manic version of Death. Sarcasm: the lowest form of wit? Maybe. The best way for him to express his irritation, however? Absolutely. He watched the man’s lackadaisical and dismissive yawning, all the while his face pinched into a frown.

He remained silent in response and watched as he slowly had his space invaded. This was nothing new and was met with a bland stare. In fact his expression little changed as Joker continued to speak, his face only twitching at the noises that erupted around them from the police helicopter and the crowd below. It was only after his eyes caught the flash of the razor as Joker extracted it from his pocket that any large visible change came over him. This came in the form of Jeremiah’s entire body stiffening and his eyes narrowed. His fingers curled in their restraints as the man hoisted himself up and over him. His jaw tightened as he took in the Joker over him. What was up with Rogues and straddling him? Logically he knew it to be a ploy to make him uncomfortable, helpless, weak and degraded. He was restrained to a gurney and a guy with a razor was over him.

It was safe to say he felt a safe amount of weakness and hated it. He saw the man advance with the blade. His first instinct to clamp his lips shut. He wanted to, but he realized soon enough that shut or not, Joker was going to stick it into his mouth. He fought the urge to struggle as was slid between his lips and into the crease of his mouth. He breathed through his nose, knowing the threat wasn’t empty and that knowledge proven right as Joker pushed it against the skin. Arkham hissed as it bit into the corner of his lips, tasting the blood that entered his mouth. That was when he knew his shell was breaking. He was honestly frightened, but then Jonathan appeared.

It was wrong to actually be relieved at that, but he was. He’d never admit it, however, which may have been why he’d given such a greeting, but as soon as Joker was turned away from him and more importantly off of him, he was attempting to escape his bindings and not paying attention to either Rogue. He couldn’t, his attention had to be on his restraints and only on them enough to be sure they weren’t watching. So he let them trade their quips.

But of course he was being watched. He stiffened and his face became a dark sneer as his hand was replaced in its restraint, but Joker could have himself to blame for drawing Arkham’s attention to the pistol that peeked from the rear of his trousers. His tongue pokes at the sensitive skin at the corner of his mouth, but he was back to extracting his hand from the binding. He could see where Joker’s attention was, or rather on who. He managed to his hand again there was no hesitation as he grasped the pistol and yanked from the Joker’s pants.

He began to yank his other wrist against its binds, but he thumbed back the hammer again so a distinct click echoed between in the space between he and Joker. There was no smirk on his face, just cold emotionlessness.