Exchanging Pleasantries [Open]

[jokersbackintown]

((Pre-Joker Coma))

The cell was dark, damp and cold. The metallic walls were unforgiving, not allowing any light to escape it's black dense surface. He lay on his bed thinking. The hard board was suspended by chains from the ceiling of the tiny room, with only two fibre rags for blankets. His toilet was a plastic bucket in the corner of the box near the bolted metal door. Everything had been taken from him; his gloves, his cards. Everything. Although, it was probably easily justifiable as to why his belongings were confiscated as just last week he'd been responsible for the murder of Prisoner 253 and seven maximum security officers using only paper clip and a pistol. 

The banging on the bolted door awoke him from his uneasy slumber. A beam of light broke the gloom of the cell and an aggressive voice shattered the silence. He moaned in annoyance as he swung his legs over the bed and sat in a upright position. Burying his head in his hands, he ran his fingers through his now lengthy green hair. 4 months. 4 months he had been left to rot in this hell hole. 4 long, tedious months of  repetitive planing and toiling over a perfect escape plan to go head over heels down the gutter. Trapped, he was truly incarcerated, maybe for good this time. He dismissed this though with a shake of the head as he let out a large sigh. 

Slipping his pale feet into his plastic pumps, he stood. He placed both of his hands, palms splayed, on the base of his back. He pushed hard and felt his spine crack back into place. He stretched his arms and yawned. Checking the clock tower that he could see from his barred window, the time was 11:15. Who could possible want him at this time of night. He shrugged his shoulders and simply waited for fate itself to make the first move. He turned towards the iron door as it swung open, emitting a blinding light. He raised his white boiler-suited arm to shield his eyes whilst a shadow blocked the blinding light. Joker lowered his arm as the silhouette began to form the same of a person he recognised. 

"Well, this a surprise I must say..."

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

Of course everything had been taken from him, that’s how the solitary cells Intensive Treatment worked. Only the most dangerous criminals found themselves in Solitary in Intensive Treatment, which was designed to hold Arkham Asylum’s most lethal and when speaking of inmates who would kill you as soon as talk to you, Joker was high on that list. He kept proving why as well, Dr. Arkham pondered as he shuffled into the door of the Island’s smallest facility.

He recalled when he had rebuilt his uncle’s decaying and decrypted asylum, that he had furnished the Intensive Treatment sector for patients with specialized needs. Back then he’d never have assumed it to come to mean such things as temperature controlled cells or cells that blocked such radio frequencies, the latter for Rogues like Jervis Tetch. And he certainly hadn’t imagined solitary confinement would come be used for the likes of criminals like that of the Joker, Riddler, or Scarecrow, though he of course never referred to them by their aliases, except the first as his name was unknown. How Gotham had changed since he’d gained his degrees and taken over the asylum. First had come Batman. He had sent the mob, the corrupt of the police office running. Then from their ashes madness erupted. Criminals of the like Gotham had never seen before hatched from its bowels, criminals such as the Joker.

Jeremiah nodded curtly in greeting to the guards who stood watch just within the entrance of the building. By the rich aroma that floated into the air, he could tell they’d just gotten their first of many caffeine fixes that would keep them alert during Arkham Asylum’s graveyard shift. He adjusted his glasses as he came to stand before the reinforced door that separated the present area from the main of Intensive Treatment. The buzzer sounded and he heard the lock unlatch. He moved to push it open.

“Doc Arkham,” one of the guards drawled.

He turned his head, one dark brow raising over his wiry frames as he regarded the young, blonde man who had spoken to him. He could it had been him as he rubbed his lips together as if upon having the attention of the man he’d wanted, he didn’t know what to say. Arkham was patient and finally he gained his words again.

“Who ya visitin’ so late?”

Jeremiah stuffed his hands into his pockets and offered the guard, Stevens as his nametag labeled him, an understanding smile. “Visiting? No one in particular. My legs were just falling asleep at my desk, thought I could do some rounds around the Asylum grounds.”

“I get ya on that, doc.”

Jeremiah nodded. “Actually, I do have a question about one of the patients now that you’ve reminded me. Stevens could you tell me if you’ve been keeping tabs on the Joker?”

“The Joker?” Jeremiah lips twitched in their genial smile. He was trying not to grin in amusement at the guard. “Yes, I would hate for there to be a repeat of the incident last week. You have been keeping inventory of what goes into and comes out of that cell, haven’t you? They are to be equal.”

Jeremiah had remembered the incident, and though he imagined that guards like Stevens, who he could tell were still new by the way he shuddered at even the thought of the Joker, would have been surprised at what the man could accomplish with a mere paperclip. The pistol was just a useful, but that paperclip…Jeremiah hadn’t been surprised to hear about it, disappointed and livid, perhaps—especially when the time came for him to fill out the report on the incident—but not surprised. The man was in solitary for a reason and it didn’t matter of the guards gained or lost an item, either could equal bad news.

“We have. No worries, doctor.” Another guard stepped up beside Stevens. Jeremiah recognized him as his most trusted guard Aaron Cash. He placed his hand on Stevens shoulders. “That bastard ain’t gotten the slip on me yet and long as I have got this hand he won’t, not on my watch.”

“Thank you, Aaron. Stevens.” He nodded to the other guard who was now eying Cash’s hook that he now sported in place of the hand he’d lost to the likes of Waylon Jones. He pushed open the door and disappeared into the motley of cells that constructed Intensive Treatment.

It was a maze Jeremiah knew well, had traversed more times than he could count and so he could navigate it blindly, not that he was immersed in any sort of deep thought. He wasn’t. He had truly gotten tired of sitting at his desk as he thumbed through court reports and had needed a break. His shadow glossed over the walls as he walked past the cells where the mindless, the babbling, or the patients that would fling themselves at bars were. He watched them all out of the corner of his eyes, never flinching when the hurlers attached themselves to bars, reaching out their hands. He dodged their swipes with practiced ease and then he was descending down stairs, passing more and more cells until he came to a quiet block.

Solitary.

He picked his way down the cells, his path suddenly clear. He stopped before one of the door and without hesitation he began to knock against the secured door.

“Four months and you’re still here, I’m quite impressed.” He called through the metal grate that served as the window. He reached into his pocket and produced his keycard. He swiped it through the reader and after a few moments, the door beeped and the bolt slid back. Jeremiah walked into the frame and peered.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the cell, but when they did he offered a smile at the pale man, whose green hair was much longer than he had remembered last. His lips pulled into a wider smile at his greeting.

“No, no…the surprise is that my staff apparently appears to be doing their jobs. I’d have expected you to be gone by now, a massacre in your wake.” His voice was back baritone. “Do you still love your accommodations?”

[jokersbackintown]

Dr Jeremiah Arkham. The head physician and owner of Arkham Asylum, now locked in a small room with the most notorious psychopathic murder and torturer in America. However, this wasn't an uncommon occurrence . In fact, Joker was lying when he said it was a surprise. It was just a joke. He's the Joker. He does that.

Arkham would usually visitJoker twice a week, in his dressing gown and at a similar time. He'd crack open the cell door and plonk his bony white ass on the edge of Joker's bed. Joker knew the old doc liked nothing more than to just sit and pick his brains with his open and leading questions. The Clown Prince would usually just comply and tell the tales of his years of exploits. However, sometimes there was nothing Joker would like more that to sit and pick Arkham's brain, with a screwdriver. 

"Well the en suite leaves a lot to be desired and could you send the maid up with more towels..." The Joker whimsed. 

A waft of perfume graced his nostrils as it breezed down the corridor. Heels of shoes clacked down the corrugated iron floor and echoed closer towards Joker's cell. The Clown's eyes wandered over towards the door as the radiant figure of Dr. Harleen Quinzel drifted by the door. Kiss was blown from her crimson lips to his which he caught in his pale palm. His piercing emerald eyes caressed her curves and slid down to the blonde's derrière. The Joker, still distracted by his lustful tendencies, spoke to Jeremiah.

"I'm thinking about writing a book actually..."The Lord of Laughs stared into Arkham's soul through his eyes. "Fifty Shades of Purple: The Clown's story..." The Joker laughed wildly and placed his hand upon his forehead...

"Actually, Jerry. I have little story to tell you..."  

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

Arkham didn’t find himself surprised to be in the Joker’s presence either. The man, despite his reputation, his scathing and what Jeremiah termed purposeful act to be irritating to the utmost of his abilities, was intelligent and could offer the type of conversation that Jeremiah found rarely elsewhere. Perhaps that realization should have frightened him. He enjoyed coming in twice a week, sitting on the edge of the Joker’s bed, he enjoyed showing him just how close he was willing to get to him, a notorious murderer. Dr. Arkham took great pleasure in picking his brains, knowing the whole time that Joker wanted to do nothing more than probably shove some instrument or another up his nose and drag his brain out through his nostrils, one helping at a time.

Dr. Arkham should have been terrified that he enjoyed his conversations with the likes of Joker, Scarecrow, and other various rogues more than he enjoyed his conversations with most of his colleagues and others of more “sane” constitution. And if he was honest with himself, he was. It worried him how he preferred the company of the mad over the company of the sane, but he had been baptized into Madness. Maybe he’d always known he too was not as “normal” as he appeared. And he had a feeling that no one of rational mind knew it, too blind, but these people…They knew. They could sniff out one of their own like a dog could a fox. He came to visit his patients to bask in the madness, to exert his power, to feel in control. He came because he could, he came because no one dared to stop him.

He chuckled at Joker’s capricious comment stepping within the room, though his advance was staved when Joker’s attention moved from him to behind him. The odor of her distinct perfume had reached his nose as well long before he’d heard her heels as well. From the periphery of his sight he saw the exchange, mouth twitching, but the expression was gone as soon as Joker began to speak once again. The dark fury dissipated from his features with the press of his lips together. He’d just have to speak to Dr. Quinzel it seemed. Getting distracted by a patient, idolizing him, especially when that patient was Joker. How dare she come here only to be distracted by this man. A waste.

He ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth, eyes meeting Joker’s. His face made no movement at his laughing and instead he simply continued into the room, door shutting behind him as he came to sit in his customary place on the edge of the bed, inclining his head to Joker, the gesture exaggerated at Joker’s final statement. His brow in deferred and suspicious curiosity.

“Do tell, Joker. You know I love stories.”

[hatter]

It was yet another one of those times spent working around the asylum, passing down the halls and stopping to interview patients on occasion, evaluating them for the preparation of medicinal prescription. Hugo Strange, who liked to be addressed as Professor Hugo Strange, the bald, bearded doctor, was walking down a hall checking off a notebook page with an ink pen. Today he just wore a dark blue sweater and tan slacks, along with simple dress shoes and his ever present round spectacles.

He had noticed the head of the asylum himself just enter a door up ahead, apparently to hold yet another talk with the Joker, with that one rather ignorant young doctor Harleen Quinzel nearby. Jeremiah had come from the entrance where the guards out there stood and sat around drinking too much coffee for their own good.

While most ordinary doctors in his line were simply pharmaceutical industry gatekeepers getting heavily paid off of the use of certain drugs, Hugo Strange was a bit more invested in trying to understand these patients of his, perhaps even obsessed with it just as he had come to be obsessed with perfecting his manner, his intelligence, and his physicality over the years. Hugo wrinkled his already wrinkled brow thinking about how he tried to ignore time, but he had to face it, he was getting old in years, and it wouldn't be long before he'd have to take the fact that he would probably lose so many things he had worked for, one of them being the profession he held, devoted to the mind.

When it came to the mind Professor Hugo Strange was an expert on research, experimentation, and understanding, especially when it came to the mind. Over the years Arkham Asylum had become the place for mental rehabilitation, not just a revolving door prison with a cardboard disguise as an asylum, and Hugo Strange liked to consider himself one of the causes of this development, besides of course, the antecedents that would be Jeremiah Arkham, and his forefathers.

Hugo Strange held no respect for the people locked in Arkham, to him people like the Joker were most often unaware of their own paltry intelligence and positively heartbreaking lack of ability to withhold integrity and honesty, to withhold respect for another human being. While the asylum inmates like them held onto their egos, looking down upon the establishment with all the same disrespect your average teenage delinquent looks on the school system for trying, persevering to help an unreachable cause, the innocent doctors worked by their teeth to effect a change, to 'cure'. Other, less innocent doctors, shamelessly used the misbegotten infamy of the criminals to publish books and rake in high payrolls from prescriptions and the like.

Even Jeremiah wasn't right, Hugo believed he understood what his thoughts were. Years of training only furthered his ability to probe into the recesses of others' minds. Arkham liked speaking to these delinquents; he took too much time, he felt power from being able to cage the powerless who in all their attempts to show that they had power were no more powerful than a tiny mouse screaming at the top of their lungs for control.

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

The Joker’s door shut behind him with metallic catch as the latch caught and lock was initiated. Jeremiah Arkham once again glanced into the cell, though his face betrayed nothing, and then his eyes were once again down the hall, though now it seemed his expression was one of conflict. He placed a hand against the door and for a moment rested his weight against that wrist. Did he return to his office or continue down the hall? He adjusted his glasses and when he straightened he stuffed his hands into the white lab coat he wore over the gray button-up, black tie, and dark slacks. He began to walk down the hall away from the entrance, his dress shoes soft against the hard floor.

Jeremiah hadn’t known that he’d been spotted as he’d come to visit the Joker, though he wouldn’t have been perturbed—his visits weren’t kept a secret and they were a routine he had. He also hadn’t seen Professor Strange. He wasn’t aware of anyone other than the guards and the glimpse he’d gotten of Dr. Quinzel. Dr. Quinzel. Jeremiah’s face drew into a scowl. If there was one thing that Jeremiah could full-heartedly agree with Hugo Strange on, it was on that woman’s ignorance. Perhaps she was a bright mind, but her naivety doused that in his mind. What a waste of intelligence and he had believed she had shown so much promise. He was beginning to wonder if that promise wasn’t a false one. Which reminded him that he had wanted to speak to her about her behavior pertaining to the Joker and how absolutely unprofessional it was. As if he couldn’t see what was going on. The woman had stepped into dangerous territory and if he allowed her to continue this descent without any intervention…He just couldn’t do that suffice it to say. So that’s why Jeremiah decided to shift deeper into the cells of Intensive Treatment—to attempt to find and corner Dr. Quinzel.

Dr. Arkham was not the usual doctor either, like Hugo he was not interested in playing lap dog to bureaucracy nor in merely being paid to test drugs that the industry asked, though he did have them and he did test them, any and everything to benefit his patients, at the ones he concerned could be benefited. Jeremiah Arkham too was passionate about understanding his patients and their motives. To understand why and how, that would open doors and pathways. It was one thing to understand motive, but to understand psychopathy to its roots, even recalling it made Jeremiah feel both small and yet so alive and enthused. Yet perhaps the prize was not as important as the journey, Jeremiah wasn’t blind to the fact that, though still young, he wasn’t as young as when he’d acquired Arkham Asylum, but his age didn’t bother him yet and as long as he left knowing more or understanding at least one patient, he’d have considered his job a success.

There was no doubt that if Arkham could boast of anything it was his ability to understand: to seem to sympathize with his patients when needed, to be able to hold conversations with them, to speak on a level they could understand. Jeremiah Arkham was a charismatic speaker, an expert at social interaction and an ace at getting and leading people exactly where he wanted, be it intentional or not. Yet his opinion on what Arkham Asylum was was different than Hugo, just a bit. He saw Arkham Asylum as both a haven of mental rehabilitation and a prison. For those it could help, it was a searched for sanctuary dedicated to healing. Yet for others, Arkham often thought that Arkham was a waste bin, a place to store them away from the casual offenders as if they were diseased and it was infectious. Yet that didn’t mean that the place was horrible place with doctors that were worth their degrees—though those were few in number in Jeremiah’s opinion. And despite that he and Hugo could have their differences, Jeremiah did think the man intelligent and learned.

One such difference they did in fact hold was that whereas Hugo respected not the likes of Joker or those imprisoned to Arkham, Jeremiah did, or least he feigned it as well as he could. He had his favorites though. Yet he wasn’t blinded as Hugo thought the other doctors were. He didn’t believe the inmates curable; they would never hold up to society’s standards and Jeremiah knew that. They could feign it, but they wouldn’t ever be accepted into society again. Yet he wasn’t the type that used their infamy for books or the like. He wasn’t interested in that. His interests were more primal. And Hugo was right, he did feel power from talking to these delinquents, but Hugo’s reasonings weren’t completely correct, but what did that matter? He’d always had people thinking they knew just who he was and why he acted as he did. Those kind had flocked and chattered around him since he’d first entered school.

Jeremiah pressed this from his mind, though he’d not had much else to think about as Harleen wasn’t showing herself. Arkham, however, wasn’t one to easily give up. He wanted to find the young female doctor, but all he’d had luck finding were patients within their cells: some who stayed back from his passage, others who walked to their doors. Some stared and some spoke to him and when appropriate he answered them.

He’d still not found Harleen, but just as he turned a corner he found someone else to whom he could speak if he so wished. His eyes fell on the bald doctor, whose hand held a notebook. He could pass him, he could pretend that he’d had another commitment to attend to, but Hugo was worth conversation.

Jeremiah raised a hand, “Hugo, I wasn’t aware you were making your rounds as well. Are they coming along?” He asked in greeting. “And have you seen Dr. Quinzel, I was looking for her to speak to, but she seems to have escaped these halls at least.”

[hatter]

Something more interesting than standing around was happening. Arkham was here, and Strange could express some of his thoughts to him. He felt as if this was rather important, seeing that it concerned one of the doctors here, not just one of the patients. The key to the best run institute was good discussion and management, so Strange was going to bring this problem out into the open.

Strange's job here revolved around working with people like Arkham, handling disagreements with how things should be done, agreeing with things he agreed with, speaking to people and trying to help them with their lives here as patients. Basically it was extremely people oriented. He spoke to the highly educated such as Arkham here almost everyday, and worked on projects that were great in scope. He'd even been working on a machine quite recently, that was capable of processing thoughts and the like, and reading them out so that he could better understand people. He was interested in getting it licensed and using it for the benefit of the asylum as well, but he didn't want to make anything that would violate privacy, so he'd been hesitant as of late to discuss this device. He stopped thinking on it though, and on this matter. Arkham was asking about that doctor, so he granted him a response concerning his knowledge of her whereabouts.

" Hello Dr. Arkham. The rounds are going quite well actually, everything is in order at the moment. And Quinzel, well she slipped off, and I have no clue where." Strange replied, noticing Jeremiah was apparently done with his small talk he'd been holding with that inmate.

Strange had walked around a corner shortly after his thoughts. But then before Hugo could go to his destination he noticed Arkham had apparently come out of the room just now, perhaps giving a glance at the Joker through the little window on the door after he'd shut it, and walked around the same corner. Jeremiah raised a hand in greeting as he began talking. Arkham's face as he'd walked towards him had almost betrayed what appeared to be some slight anger for a second, though, and because of the expression Strange thought he must have been feeling some sort of anger, probably at the fool he'd been talking to. Strange didn't know, but he was probably going to find out from this conversation. It was always good to speak with someone like Arkham, who was easily worthy of conversation. Strange had then easily formed a reply. Now he was deciding to voice something he'd been think about for a while.

Being professionals they dressed professionally, though perhaps not expensively by any means. But Strange cared about appearances, and so did Jeremiah. Both of them kept what could be termed old style appearances, though. Lab coats, for instance. Strange had worn them before.

Jeremiah looked decent, respectable in that lab coat, dark tie, and slacks. His second question didn't surprise Strange in the slightest either, he was wondering where that doctor was running around, that same one Strange had just saw, well prior to her disappearance just now. Dr. Harleen Quinzel, someone to be reckoned with.. or perhaps not. She was someone who would flirt with a patient like the Joker, which was really weird to say the least. To Strange, this Joker was a failure, not really worthy of interest as someone like the Batman would be. If a man like him had aspired for something in an entertainment business, like say a position as an actor, he'd be in a very different place right now. He'd just conceded to becoming some minor villain locked away in an asylum, flirting with crazy air headed doctor kids. What 'prince' was interested in doing this? Not any sort that Strange had heard of at least. But for some reason Jeremiah, and to really put it to the point Quinn, found him interesting. Well Arkham'd probably find what Strange was going to say interesting as well, seeing it directly concerned the Joker. Quinn had been acting weird lately, and so had the Joker in regards to her. Behavior like this was unacceptable, and surely Jeremiah would see that.

"Her behavior was odd though, did you notice it? You don't think she's done anything odd with him? Well perhaps the cameras would've revealed something horrible like that, but imagine what one's reputation would be, if someone did something like that; consider yours for instance, if you took a bit too much of an interest in the Joker's private life, like Quinzel might."

Strange really was hoping this doctor hadn't been caught up in the Joker's deceit, and helped him plan out something somehow, avoiding the radar. Overconfidence may not be so beneficial, and this was one of the Joker's follies, considering he might be planning what Strange thought he was, without thinking that he'd be found out. Know your strengths. Know your weaknesses. Know your problem. Understand everything, and you know what you can do, and what you cannot do. The Joker could not evade the surveillance of this asylum, if they discovered some plot he'd drudged up to try and get free, they would be sure to stop it, Strange believed.

It was best to speak of these things, and not stick to the proverbial "comfort zone" of believing doctors weren't capable of falling on their faces just as people who didn't have their jobs were. Doctors fell all the time. People were still people, no matter what jobs they had.

"I would imagine you'd have a problem with behavior like this, but I believe it predicts something for her future myself. Would you not shudder to think what it could mean for this man to be around in Gotham, no matter how boorish he may seem? Imagine if she was smartly planning something for him and arranged means for his departure. I might be taking this too harshly though, but I can't help but express my concern, since it has to do with the reputation of this asylum." Strange said.

He stood there, still holding the file he'd been carrying around with him, wondering what Jeremiah would say. Strange had said quite a lot, but he felt as if he needed to since his thoughts had gone on the subject in depth, by now. If anything, the Joker wasn't just a small annoyance, he was a big annoyance. Still that didn't change the fact that he was rather not so intellectual, and not so physically dangerous, well not when it regarded someone like Strange anyway. Strange didn't worry so much about the Joker, though he was thinking a bit too much into him right now, he noted.

Arkham would likely be in understanding of what he was trying to say, since he was the administrator of the asylum and all. Strange's words had some bearing, just as Arkham's did. It was a strange subject they were discussing, and ironically it was Strange who was bringing it into the light.

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

People were still people, no matter what jobs they had…

How correct that statement was and how well Jeremiah knew it. Yet that didn’t make him less irritated that a doctor would fraternize with the Joker in the ways he suspected of Harleen. Hugo may have believed him boorish and unworthy; Jeremiah was more than aware that Strange thought the Joker dull and obtuse, but Jeremiah had spoken to him and he knew better. Joker had his gimmicks and his way of speaking may have seemed to cast him negatively. Even his plans were highly stylized and meant to draw attention, but that did not take away from what Joker was.

He was intelligent.

He was deadly.

And he was resourceful and just the kind of beast that could and would sniff out the most vulnerable to prey on. Harleen Quinzel seemed to the prey of choice this time.

Jeremiah wasn’t interested in the Joker the way Harleen seemed to be, but he was interested in the mind and its workings. Joker’s and in fact every single of the higher level inmates possessed minds that were extremely complex. Yet he placed those aside for the moment, instead focusing on Hugo. Professor Strange, despite Jeremiah believing that he too easily set aside the Joker as unworth the time that Jeremiah spent speaking to him, was just as worthy of conversation.

“I’m happy to hear that your rounds are going well and everything is quiet more or less,” he offered politely as he came to stand beside Hugo. He let his face fall after that, however. “As for Dr. Quinzel I’m just as concerned as you. I’m afraid her conduct is exactly what I’m speaking of. Of course, I plan to pull the security feed from her sessions, but you didn’t see what I did. Or I’m not certain you did at least.” Jeremiah looked down the hall a moment before returning his attention to the man at his side. “The way he looked at her. It is the way a man stares at feast: hungry, ravenous, licentious…And she looked back as if I wasn’t even there and she winked and blew him a kiss. I’m afraid her reputation is the last thing on her mind.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think Dr. Quinzel has taken an interest in the private life of the Joker. I know she has. That’s why I asked if you had seen her. I’m very concerned.”

He began walking forward, hoping that Hugo would follow him. This was not a conversation to be held standing idle in one spot. Jeremiah was quite understand of what Hugo was saying and was pleased that he seemed to agree. They could have their disagreements, but he knew that Hugo held Arkham in high. He wanted to do well by him and that was respectable. “I have a huge problem with this type of behavior. Arkham loses doctors so easily and I’m disappointed to find her so easily led by a psychopath. He is just using her,” he sighed, “and I’m afraid Dr. Quinzel does not see it. It does say much about her future. If my suspicions are proven correct, I cannot allow her to have such a high-risk patient, nor to speak to any of the Rogues. They are a dangerous agglomeration of what Gotham has created and I shudder to think what Gotham would be like with him on the streets again as well. She needs to be looked into.”

[hatter]

"I agree," Hugo replied, promptly falling in step behind him,"keeping an eye on her is non-negotiable since the security of this institution is involved."

Strange didn't really change his somewhat stern though calm facial expression in any fashion, or make any gestures to convey his thoughts. He simply thought about the subject, hoping that they could rein in Quinzel before it was too late. He got closer and now walked alongside Arkham through the hall, still discussing the problem with his notebook still in hand. Hugo wasn't all that expressive when it came down to it, he was slightly stiff in his mannerisms and always had been. It'd been a product of his long gone youth's harsh influence, an influence that had also burned in his need to succeed at everything he did without failure or weakness getting in the way.

"And I didn't see the look he gave her. I know it may seem like I find him to be not very capable at what he does, but I understand how he is, entirely, and just how dangerous he can be. I simply find his brazen behavior to be very.. foolish. Uncouth. I don't have any other word for it."

Irritating might have sufficed for that other word. Strange just didn't appreciate disrespect for the institution or Arkham himself, actually. This Joker didn't even bother to conceal his manipulations, blatantly making a public show of them and this weird relationship he was developing, to people like Arkham or Strange himself, and it wasn't something Strange'd let off lightly if he could help it. He was glad Arkham wasn't prepared to such a thing either. Instead he was rightly focused on making sure that the Joker's possible scheming didn't get anywhere.

"I suppose for the doctor.. we should keep an eye on her for a long while, see what happens, what's she up to, and what she tries to do," Hugo said, still walking,"knowing the Joker, she's not up to any good if she truly has "fallen" for him in some way."

Now that Strange thought about it, he mostly referred to Jeremiah Arkham as specifically Arkham, in his mind. Arkham was almost the face of Arkham as its administrator, and disrespect towards him went towards the facility, and vice versa. It was a thought Strange hadn't had before, but it was a true one.

"Anything else to discuss, or would you have further insight on the subject?"

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

Jeremiah felt Hugo’s presence join him, heard the echo of his footfalls off the metal of the empty cells as the vibrations rattled doors. The ward of Intensive Treatment was still rather uncrowded during this time and their movements and very conversation bounced off the walls in the empty halls. Yet it wasn’t as if Jeremiah was wanting their dialogue to be furtive. Perhaps Dr. Quinzel would hear it and make her appearance known. Maybe their talk would incense her and she could have not one senior doctor, but two speaking to her.

He paused in his walk and allowed Hugo to catch up with him, “You have no idea how much I agree with you. Foolish and uncouth, indeed,” he rather liked those words and felt irritating would be too little to describe the Joker, “I’m very confident in your assessment. I know you think it’s waste of my time to speak to people like him, but I want to understand, not just the madness, but the method as well. I want to understand in order to further help people. I’m certain you know he’s dangerous. Mocking too. I’m glad you weren’t witness to their exchange.”

He didn’t mind Hugo’s demeanor, the way he held himself in a solid, albeit serene countenance. It was one of the things that Arkham found himself respecting in the man. He was a professional and he played off Jeremiah well, he thought. Jeremiah knew himself to be much more expressive and his manners came with an ease that differed from Hugo’s, but there was something easing about it. They could converse and despite that Hugo wasn’t often one to show affect, Jeremiah seemed to understand him fine. He was an asset to Arkham Asylum and one of the few that Jeremiah was proud to name a colleague.

Such as now, Jeremiah didn’t have need for Hugo to scowl to know that he was very displeased not just at Joker’s blatant actions, but Harleen’s as well. He was right, it wasn’t something to be taken lightly and Jeremiah found himself glad he was agreed with. “Would you be willing to help with me that, actually, Hugo? Two heads are quite better than one. I know I can trust you to keep an on her. Arkham is just as important to you as it is to me.”

He met Hugo’s countenance. One was calm and collected and the other was open and friendly. Jeremiah gave him a warm smile. “She won’t be up to any good, but we’ll need physical proof. I need an ally, and I would be honored to count you one, Professor Strange. I always have.”

And just as Hugo saw him as the face of Arkham, Jeremiah saw Hugo and the few like him as the cogs that kept the machine going. What would Arkham be without such dedication? An abandoned building, falling into ruin.

“I think until we know more,” Jeremiah answered his final question, “there is little to be furthered discussed on that issue. As for if I have anything else to discuss, how is your own research coming? The last I heard, you were working on something.”