Arkham Administrator has High Hopes for Project [Arkham]

[Deleted]

The security check prior to Clark taking the ferry across Gotham Bay had been intensive, with a rather intrusive search that hadn’t quite gotten to the level of strip search, but did include numerous body scans, metal detectors and one strange sort of x-ray scan that was able to look through the clothes to see if any wires or machinery were underneath it. The last one was fooled with a quick burst of X-Ray radiation from Clark’s vision, and the simple patdown was considered more than enough for security sake.

Clark Kent had to show his recorder, of course, use it and let the guards inspect it. They’d confiscated it, but then again, Clark intended to do most of his work with shorthand anyway. He knew the drill, for the most part. He’d been to Belle Reve before, although Arkham Asylum had almost as strict a security regimen, even if the buildings and the structure were of a significantly older time and retrofitted multiple times for alternate purposes as time continued. The Wayne Industries scanners were easy enough to spoof, although Clark hadn’t had as much practice with them as the LexCorp models, they were much older. Clark had heard that Lex had invested a significant amount of money and worked on those fundraisers to update the facility. With the Arkham City project, everything seemed to be going in a different direction, and somewhere deep inside Clark wondered how much Lex had expected or knew about this ahead of time. Whether or not those funds and the pitch ahead of time, showing the world how inadequate the security of Gotham was to deal with its problems, was a ruse to start the push towards the Arkham City project.

Clark wouldn’t put this entire thing past Lex, God knows he’d had found himself as the man pulling the strings behind a lot of odder or larger plans, nothing provable, of course. But even so, more often than not Clark had investigated something big, only to find a larger presence behind the scenes. In Metropolis, 9 times out of 10 that meant Lex Luthor. And now Lex Luthor was coming to Gotham with a lot of money to try to save the city. Maybe it was paranoia, maybe it was just good experience, but even so, to Clark’s reporter’s instincts something stank about the whole Arkham City project. It was moving too quick, and frankly there were too many supporters for it behind the scenes. He couldn’t put his finger on why, maybe it was just too long working around Lex, but Clark knew something else was going on, and whenever he had these instincts, he just had to dig deeper.

There was a chill wind that cut over the smell of the bay as Clark stood on the deck of the ferry, looking at the approaching island. The Bridge had been closed for retrofits and for security purposes, the ferry was at the moment one of two ways across, although getting an interview after using the second way would be much more difficult. Clark looked to his left and noticed one of the sailors pull a jacket closer around him, and then decided to cross his arms and shiver a bit in the face of the cold wind. He wondered, sometimes, what it was like to be cold. He felt cold, he knew that it felt like a cool pressure, but he wondered what it was like to feel that cold like a knife, to the bone, to feel the skin go numb and the body shut down. It was a sensation Clark had never really known, although he didn’t relish the idea of ever really feeling it.

The entry to Arkham was large and forboding as the ferry entered the way. Clark stepped down the gangplank and looked up at the looming structure of the island. “Rather foreboding, though.” he said to noone in particular. The Guard was silent, bullet proof vest and bulky body making him tower over the subdued Clark. He smiled wanly and walked the path past the dead trees and scrub of the grassy knolls outside Arkham’s water entry.

Another sign in, another quick security scan, Clark walked through the entry hall escorted by the guards and had his first look at the interior of the main hall of Arkham Asylum. Lots of people watching, voices calling out. Lots of lead inside here, hard to see all the details, although some of the figures were clearly visible.

“I smell you, I smell you there. Fresh meat.” The giant hurled himself against the walls and looked out the thick glass that made up its cage. The chains that tied it to the wall creaked under the pressure as Clark looked over the figure for a moment. Tail, scaly skin, this wasn’t your average madman, this was a monster.

Clark found himself taking a step closer. “Do you now? I think it’s the new cologne.” He smiled as he said “Clark Kent, Daily Planet.”

One of the guards shouted out “Don’t get too close, he’s been known to eat visitors who get too close.”

Clark took a step back and grimaced for a moment “Well, I wouldn’t want that. I believe in the power of the press as a protection, but I would hate to put it to the test. How long have you been in here?” He asked the beastman, ever the journalist.

“Too long.” He spoke simply. “I’ll get out soon. Get something fresh. Come back again when I’m full. Maybe I’ll find you when I get out.”

“Oh, I don’t know if you want to try to eat me. I’m pretty gamey and wiry. I’m sure I’d cause some sort of indigestion. You do that a lot? Get out of here and eat people?”

Croc smiled and said nothing. Clark looked at the guards who seemed to be watching with odd curiousity at the newbie try to talk to the monster.

“I mean, if you’re going to all that trouble, why come back? It doesn’t seem too welcoming.”

Croc shrugged and was thoughtful for a moment, “Home . . ”

“I assure you, you won’t find him to be a comforting or adequate conversationalist, Mr. Kent. He’s a slave to his hungers, more beast now than man.”

Croc smiled, showing a row of knives hidden behind a thick muzzle. His mouth was larger than Clark’s head, Clark was certain of that. Then again, no reason to be rude. The beast’s neighbor sat and spoke through the transparent glass as Clark turned slightly away from the plexiglass and started to walk away. He could feel Croc staring at him, watching him as if he were prey.

“The cooling days of September, Mr. Kent. . . do you know what today is? Most people don’t think much of today, it’s an obscure holiday. Some might know it as the feast day of Matthew the Evangelist, the author of the first Gospel. Such an unknown figure, no one knows if he died a natural death or a martyrs death. He remained in palestine, yet his words reached throughout the world. The son of Alpheus, a tax collector. It was of course Dr. Crane that provided me with a simple formula to feed into the ventilation, to cause blindness and then death, but it was me that had the presence of mind to use it to attack the Tax collection office. An obscure date, perhaps, but still, worthy of memory, and truly the best time to celebrate the other holiday today. Do you know what today is, Mr. Kent?”

Clark Kent shook his head as he said “The equinox?”

The man raised an eyebrow and said “Very good, Mr. Kent. It is indeed the Equinox. A day of perfect balance. They’d said it was the day of the international day of peace, a day when light and dark are perfectly balanced against eachother, at the razor’s edge just before the darkness pushes away the light for the remainder of the year. It takes an artist’s eye to understand the beauty of it, you see. Blindness and death. . . the dark pushing away the light. . . and then the ultimate peace of Death. There is no peace in life, Mr. Kent. Batman tried to stop me, but it was too late. I don’t think he understood the beauty of the work. Do you, Mr. Kent?”

Clark Kent pursed his lips and then shook his head “I have to admit. I can’t see the art in killing at all. I don’t want to lie to you, but it sounds horrible. I don’t really see a life as something that can be sacrificed for art at all.”

Julian Day looked disappointed, but still calm “At least you’re honest. You’re not like the others here, pretending to understand so that they could try to get into my mind. It’s important, Mr. Kent, to make a statement. Life is fleeting, it is forever wasted, moving towards an inevitability of death against the everpresent predator of time. We remember these important elements, so that we achieve true immortality. Those tax collectors that sacrificed themselves for a greater purpose were dead already, even though the exact time and date of their death had not come as of yet. But now? Now they are immortal, tied forever to the day and time. There will never be a September 21st where their lives are not inexplicable tied to the rememberance of the date. Time killed them. I made them immortal through my art. What do you think about that, Mr. Kent?”

Clark Kent stood up straighter and stared into Julian Day’s cell, eye to eye now. For a moment Julian felt a little taken aback by the figure he saw. A simple rube, country trailer trash, there was something else to the man’s gaze. Perhaps Julian had caused a reaction, but it was surprising what the reaction was. Not shock, not surprise, not terror, not fascination. . . judgement? He watched with interest, feeling that edge of sensation and maybe a moment of some sort of deeper element. . . fear? Fear? He’d faced Batman eye to eye and knew no fear. He'd led the police on a merry chase for years, came to Arkham, escaped and returned again and again, just as dangerous, just as deadly within as without as plans and dates and time went onwards. Fear? No, it was stupid, Julian let the thought pass. Obviously a trick of the light or a moment of indigestion. The reporter spoke with a bit of firmness “We only get the one life, there are a million causes and a million things to die for, but really only the one life to give and once it’s gone, it doesn’t come back. That’s why it’s so important. I’d say the preservation of life is infinitely more important than any sort of message that we could give, any sort of symbolic gesture, any sort of immortality of name. Life is too important to waste, because it’s just too short and we don’t need to have anything else making it shorter than it already is. Maybe one day you can see that, with treatment. But every life is precious. Even yours. I hope you, one day, can appreciate the opportunities that you took away from others. So I suppose the answer is that I don't know what to think of that at all.”

Julian looked at the man in the eye, then shook off the strange sensation again. There was something in the voice, the judgement in it. Who was he to judge him? And why did it feel the judgement was final. Julian sneered for a moment “Disappointing, but honest again. You’ve got gumption at least. The courage of your convictions. I wonder if you’d say the same if we were alone together, Mr. Kent, without me in my cage and you with your bodyguards. Perhaps we'll find out someday. In this situation, you’re a man of your principles. But time changes all things.”

There was a slam against the glass next to Clark as the Killer Croc hurled himself against it, hissing. He was thrashing, attempting to break through. Clark didn’t flinch, staring straight into Julian’s eyes, at least at first. He turned to Croc and looked suitably intimidated when he saw the crack in the glass, stepping back again with a pale expression. Electricity arced through the chains as the Croc began to scream and get pulled back against the wall. The muzzle was tearing, but the electricity kept flowing into the Croc, until it seemed slower. Julian smiled and sat back down in his cage. “Be seeing you, Mr. Kent. Save the date.”

“Mr. Kent.” The guard said “We’d best get going. The patients are getting agitated”

Clark nodded and muttered "I know the feeling" followed them on his way.

The office was large, well situated and a significant change from the ward he’d been walked through en route. The various knick knacks in the area blended together as Clark approached the desk and said “Dr. Arkham, I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me today. I understand you’ve been very busy lately, with the new announcements and your change into a new role. How do you feel about your change of duties so far?”



[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

The crisp sea air mingled with the lingering nicotine in his mouth as Jeremiah took a breath. His elbows rested casually on the window sill and his eyes scanned past the grounds and the twinkling sunlight on the Bay to the ferry boat that was steadily coming closer and closer to the docks. He brought his cigarette back to his lips and took another lazily draw. Of course he knew who was on it; he didn’t have to have binoculars to know. Jeremiah was an organized individual and ever since returning to Gotham following his “vacation” that had only become more and more true of the good doctor. He glanced down at the golden watch he wore on his wrist. The black face with its stark numbers made him share a little smile with no one in particular.

Ah, good, Clark Kent was going to be early. He’d expected nothing else from the Metropolis reporter.

He wondered how Kent had taken to his security measures. Did he find them excessive? Monotonous? Or maybe the reporter would find just as Goldilocks had that they were just right. What was it he had said once to some waspish little reporter—her name was not important; she was not important—who had argued when they’d taken everything from her? Something about how Arkham Asylum was no community health center, but a Top 25 facility when it came to the depravity and intelligence of their offenders? Ah yes…the asylum his uncle had built had risen to become the “Harvard” for Psychopaths. There was a set list of items allowed and anything not described on those rules was contraband. He didn’t care how harmless they seemed, how common they were. If they were misplaced, they did not become lost, they didn’t just fall through cracks. Oh no, they fell into the hands of the best, the brightest, and the sickest offenders anyone had ever seen. Arkham Asylum wasn’t merely a place where the insane dwelled. Arkham Asylum was a place that housed the prisoners the prisons could not hope to contain. Still critics were critics and Jeremiah had plenty.

Critics had always wrote their scathing reports about escapes, about his security, but if Blackgate had gotten the prisoners he housed there would have been no hope. They’d have been out on the street faster than the ink would have dried on the police paperwork. The reviews wouldn’t get any better, either until the walls of Arkham City were dried and all were placed behind it’s blockade. And even then…

Jeremiah flicked the ashes off the tip of his cigarette and watched them flutter to the ground below. Even after all the criminals were locked behind that wall who knew? Not even he could predict that, but there were other things he knew. Things about tricks, about underhanded words, deals in the dark. He knew his suspicions. Arkham Asylum and Blackgate Penitentiary were not going to see updates; not the kind that had been originally pitched. They’d been set up just like houses of cards and knocked down, humiliated to make way for this “illustrious” proposal—the end of all of Gotham’s criminal troubles. He tapped his fingers on the window frame. He’d known what would happen from the start. He knew what Arkham City really was.

The plume of smoke Jeremiah Arkham exhaled was followed once more by a private grin from the asylum director. Money bought a person much didn’t it? In Gotham it wasn’t exactly different, but there was something else in Gotham that opened doors. Lex had it too, but Lex didn’t grow up in Gotham. Dr. Arkham knew what Lex had done, seen the ruse for the ruse. He knew sleight of hand too, though. Poor, poor Mr. Luthor. Oh, his dear friend. If only he knew how transparent it all was. Just because someone thought they were puppet master didn’t mean they were. Luthor would come to realize that in time. He shut his eyes as the wind buffeted the island. He was upwind of it, but it still tousled his hair and as it swept over the roofs and through open windows such as his, the building groaned and whistled. Far away and low it sounded as if the Asylum screamed.

The cold didn’t bother him. The doctor had discarded his jacket on the coat hook just inside his door, his cuffs were loose and sleeves rolled up past his elbows; his tie was even lying on his desk from where he’d removed it less than an hour into his work. He didn’t look ruffled, though. He hardly even looked over-worked. His complexion was shining, his eyes were bright, and his collar was open—he’d unclasped the first two buttons on his light blue-button up. The sharp air was invigorating to him. He pulled it into his lungs and sighed before he heard his cellphone vibrate on his desk. He took one more draw of his cigarette before scraping it out and tossing it out the window.

He shut and locked the window, collected his cane from the wall, and back at his desk picked up his phone and read the text message.

[[phone]]: we’re docking

There Jeremiah stood, phone in one hand, cane clasped in the other with his hip resting against it. He glanced back at the window and set the phone back on the desk. From where he stood now, he couldn’t see the dock, but his earlier comment still stood. Clark was going to be arriving early.

It had been a while since anyone like Clark had come to Arkham on the ferry, and Jeremiah knew the view from the docks wasn’t the best, but it had never been meant to be. The ferry operated to bring locally manufactured goods most often and was used for inmate transportation otherwise because it was harder to escape in water than on land. They were easier to catch too. Still and as a result the ferry dock had a security process too. You never could be too careful about who you allowed on and off the island. So many mistakes had happened with that over the years. That ferry dock had been his main issue when he’d first taken over Arkham as he remembered.

He picked up his coffee mug and was pleasantly surprised to find the tea he’d brewed still warm and aromatic. He took a sip and had begun to tidy up his desk when his office phone rang. All it took was a press of a button to put the caller on speaker.

“The reporter’s just come in.” The easy voice of the secretary filled the otherwise silent office. Jeremiah decided not every change that was happening was to be viewed with distain. He’d done a lot of cleaning in the employment area and the Asylum was running better than it ever had; the same would be true for the City, but not because of Lex or any change he’d made. These would at the laid at the hands of the doctor and the doctor alone.

He licked his lips in thought for a moment and then nodded. “Excellent, would you please divert the security feed to my office please, I’d like to track his progress.” He took another sip of his tea and took up a remote from beside his computer. He pressed a button on it and a panel in the ceiling of his office opened and a television slid down. He could hear the secretary completing his request. No sooner had the television stopped its descent the monitor was on and showing the entry hall with its cells and cages.

“Would you like audio as well, sir?”

“Yes, please.” He turned the volume down on the screen as it came through. “Thank you, Margaret, that’s all I’ll be needing. Just be sure he gets here in one piece, please.”

His precaution was honest. No sooner had he ended the call and opened the line, Clark seemed to have caught the attention of Killer Croc. Jeremiah’s lips twisted into a contrite smile as he smoothed out his shirt and fastened the buttons he’d released before. Killer Croc was man once, a man whose physical condition had earned him a following in the circus, but whose psyche was slammed over and over by abuse and ridicule. He was not to be blamed for his skin, nor even the claws and teeth he sported. Man had truly turned him into the monster he now was. It was easier for him to be beast rather than man. It seemed his appearance had not yet failed to stun visitors as Jeremiah watched Clark approach his cell.

The exchange between Clark and Croc to the guards and the reporter made his huff a small laugh. He showed restraint and his responses were honest enough. He was ever the reporter, Jeremiah agreed. Not even in the Asylum five minutes and he was questioning one of the long-termed residences. Jeremiah bit the inside of his cheek, chuckled, and slid his tie back on and under his collar. While he tightened it the conversation between man and beast continued. It inspired many a feeling within Jeremiah. One of the more powerful ones was the drop in his stomach at the foreshadow in Croc’s words. He would never doubt that be Waylon Jones more beast, he was also intelligent in a way that many failed to realize. He had no doubt Jones would escape.

The other dominant emotion was yes, a sort of pity. Chained and controlled as he was here, this place was the closest thing to a home Waylon had known in a long time. He had a warm cell here, food. All his primitive needs were met, but so many could not be. Killer Croc was a danger to society and himself. He proved that time and time again such as now.

That smile, those words from Julian Day. Killer Croc, Id in the form of a beast only focused on appetite. At least, that’s probably all he thought he could ever aspire to be. Jeremiah took a seat once more and went back to his tea as Clark’s conversation turned to the criminal labelled Calendar Man. He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or exasperated with Clark’s dawdling. Speaking to Killer Croc as he had was a shot in the dark, without doubt. Yet Croc was far simpler than Julian Day.

Julian Day was a man who began as all did, a boy. A boy who loved his father and whose father broke a promise to him. Jeremiah admitted that he too would have a grudge against his father if he’d waited for him and almost died from exposure. Julian’s home life had just chiseled at his psychosis and slowly the boy had become a man so obsessed and psychotic of mood he became very much capable of the crime he described. Jeremiah remembered that day; Julian’s crimes were quite the interesting study, after all. He put so much research into them from the large to the small. It was impressive and chilling in equal measurements, but of course Clark would not only be unimpressed by such feats, but also disturbed. He could see in the furrow of his brow and again as he lifted them.

No course, he’d not see the art in a life sacrificed, but art was so far reaching? Was not life art in itself? Everyone had choices and every choice painted a person’s life. Life was art and so in turn so could death be. Jeremiah could only smile. Jeremiah could pick apart mind such as Julian’s for hours and hours and find no amount of boredom. Psychiatry, though was an art as well. It wasn’t suited for just anyone.

The exchange between criminal and reporter went on and Jeremiah went back to tidying up his desk, noting every now and then what was happening on the screen. He supposed he found interest in how one moment Julian was the snake and next it was as if he’d seen a hawk. Jeremiah could not hear any words in that moment, nor could he see Clark’s face, but something had disturbed Calendar Man. Yet then the expression faded and it went away. That moment where air between them had become uncomfortable bled into one that had Jeremiah smirking. How easy it was to be self-righteous.

How good and noble Clark Kent was. How foolish. He didn’t see as these criminal did the harshness of life. Clark would never understand how illness crept and controlled a mind, how genius so easily warped to become insanity. Or maybe he would. Maybe so many of these self-righteous heroes of the “average man” would come feel the grip of desperation. Wasn’t that what Arkham City? It stank of last hopes of man’s attempt to contain a fire by building a wall around it. Is that what they thought the solution would be? Did they think they’d be safe? Arkham City…all it was a wall around what people wanted to forget. Deranged, sick, terrifying as all who would be housed there were, they were still people. The city wanted to forget that.

Jeremiah peered back at the monitor just in time to see Killer Croc steal the limelight and be given punishment for his troubles. Jeremiah laughed at the terror on his face. Never forget, he whispered in his head. Never forget just what sorts you’re dealing with.

Everyone was forgetting this.

Jeremiah turned off the monitor and it slid back into the ceiling, disappearing as if it was never there. He finished his mug and stood up.

He left the mug on the shelf in the ensuite bathroom before he sat down and pulled on his glasses. That’s when the door opened. He leaned back Clark entered the room and the first response the reporter received was a soft laugh.

“Mr. Kent, I appreciate a man who can just come in swinging, but please, please, take a seat first.” He gestured to the one before his desk. “And you’ve no need to thank me, I’m just aware that people are worried. This whole thing is confusing to them and when isn’t a change at this magnitude not? They all have a right to be concerned. I just want to set them at ease as best I can.” He gave him a genial smile. “I can’t say with certainty I’m the right person for the job of putting Gotham at ease; to them I must seem as enigmatic as the city council currently, but I can say that I appreciate the faith that has been put in me. I must say, the change is still a bit overwhelming, I took a vacation from Gotham and when I come back, I find out I’m going to be the administrator for a huge complex that will be cordoning off an area of the city.”

He chuckled. “Mr. Kent, I feel honored, scared, and a little excited to see what will come of this project. I only hope I can serve Gotham well.” Clark Kent had gumption. Gumption indeed.