Genius Loci Arkham Asylum

[lepouvantail]

For years, people have wondered the mysteries of Arkham Asylum. There have been many rumors about it, how the creator himself went mad, that it was haunted by a demon, that the very land it was built upon was cursed.

Over time, its reputation grew, where cases of psychotics were sent back over and over again in hopes of rehabilitation.

For reasons unknown, the asylum went into lock down, helped in part by a raging snowstorm outside. It was rumored that even the Batman had been unable to get inside, for why else would the inmates be roaming the halls, with corpses piling and rotting, with the most feared of inmates claiming parts of the asylum as their own domain?

Most have claimed their territories, created a home for themselves. Others strive to make sense of the new atmosphere. Over time, the minds of the others have deteriorated. The Joker is still out and about; most others are still imprisoned here.

Within the madness, only the Riddler, who had taken over the security wing, has any clue as to what's really going on---and very select few are able to get in to see him. The hospital wing belongs to the Scarecrow, while Poison Ivy has sunk her roots into the grounds, but even she has not been able to leave, compelled, instead, to remain here and protect what little plantlife there is.

In desperation to keep his mind, the Music Meister has sought to create a masterwork dedicated to Arkham and its stars. His muse, a most fickle mistress, who at times had helped him create beautiful music, flowing with passion as each Arkhamite's role was determined, had recently stopped visiting when it came to write down the Riddler's role. She hated him, called him a traitor, refused to sing again for him.

Where one muse had fallen, another muse rose.

Through happenstance, the Scarecrow, pleased by such an epic of madness, had agreed to inspire him through fear. The prima donna fell, and the Master of Fear stepped up to take her place.

Comments

[lepouvantail]

The notebook was safe in his possession, those precious words his and his alone. As promised, he would allow Billy to bring in the coffee maker. Whatever it took to keep these precious words, this grand story, alive.

Jonathan was reading it the second, third time, a tale of madness and terror, of fear in its purest form. The torment Billy had put himself through---allowed himself to go through---well, wasn't there a saying that the greatest artists suffered? And truly his suffering has produced brilliance.

A fickle muse, pining for the maddest of them all, the one who was not trapped behind these walls. A poor soul bound to her, striving to please the bratty little diva, giving her more love than the Joker ever could.

He smiled.

Tonight, the songs were to the God of Fear, who could appreciate true art, would grant inspiration in exchange for more of these songs of praise.

What intrigued him even more was the handwriting itself, how Billy became frantic as he fought and begged with the muse to sing for him, sometimes the pen tore right through the paper. It changed as their author had, raw emotion right into this precious book.

Jonathan moved to lock it away again. Billy would come for it, he knew. He could only write here, as per their agreement, but he was already checking his ration of fear serum.

He had to be certain the story could be finished, after all.

[hypnotic_patter]

Billy's new patron had been so kind to him, so generous with the injections that sent his mind into horrific paroxysms of creative ecstasy. He did not completely remember what he had seen under the influence of the fear serum, beyond screams and flashes of hellish creatures reaching out for him, but he had awoken with his notebook covered in the most wonderful poetry and prose written by his frantic hands.

His patron deserved a gift, Billy decided. Some token of his appreciation for all the good he had done. He wandered the corridors waiting for inspiration to strike, fingers jittering behind his back. Riddler had ordered him to steal some of the fear serum and create in front of him, rather than in the Scarecrow's domain as he had promised...but it would only be a small act. And worth it, if it meant Riddler would not hide his brilliance away from Billy's needy eyes.

Luck was with him. In the kitchen he found love's laughing martyr stuffing her face with cookies from a packet that had fallen behind the fridge.

"Harley?" Billy asked, approaching her with a wide smile. "Would you like to play a game with me?"

Some time later Jonathan would hear the sound of a heavy wheeled cart being pushed down the hallway.

[lepouvantail]

The cookies had been the best thing to happen to her since they became trapped here from the snow outside. People would have been blaming Mr. Freeze if he weren't isolated in his cell here, pining for Nora, and one of the few inmates to stay where he had been put originally.

Harley perked when Billy approached her, swallowed the cookie, grinned. She was always up for a game!

Even one that ended in finding a poor, not-so-crazed soul and sneaking up behind them, knocking them unconscious.

She walked with him, helping to keep some of the other inmates away from their prize, carrying a beam-turned-baseball bat as a deterrent. When they got closer to the hospital wing, however, Billy was on his own. Harley didn't mind Professor Crane, but his hideaway unnerved her greatly.

Jonathan perked at the sound of the wheels, came in investigate.

Smirked when he saw Billy.

"I see you've brought a friend this time."

[hypnotic_patter]

"A gift. A tribute!" Billy pulled the sheet covering the cart away to reveal the splayed form of an unconscious inmate. It was no one of note, no one with any artistic grace, and so he was mere fodder for Crane's beautiful hungers.

Also there were peanut butter sandwiches.

[lepouvantail]

A nod of acknowledgement, a beckoning finger to bring him to one of the unused bed in the hospital wing, where the poor wretch would wake to be bound down with belts until Crane was ready for him.

The God of Fear would properly take his tribute then.

The sandwiches were taken with further appreciation. Food was at times difficult to gain when half of your time was spent guarding your territory.

"Shall we continue?" he asked, already moving to his office, to the precious chemicals locked behind the safe.

[hypnotic_patter]

The man was undeserving. Billy felt no pity for him.

"Yes, Patron."

Billy's gaze went to the safe, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation in his expression. He was eager for the scalding touch of his muse but with it came dreadful pain. There were still marks on his hand from where his pencil had run off the edge of the paper and begun mortifying his flesh instead.

And now he would have to find a way to steal the chemicals without Crane seeing him, which would be extremely difficult. After the treatment it was hard enough to stay on his feet. But he could not be denied Riddler's contributions.

[lepouvantail]

Jonathan went to the safe, carefully entered the combination, got it open and pulled out a vial. He closed the safe, set the bottle on his desk as he went to get a syringe.

Billy wouldn't dare, he knew. Not when he knew he was the key to unlocking his inspiration, and that he could at any time refuse him.

[hypnotic_patter]

Oh, but he would.

As soon as Crane left the room Billy slipped a hypodermic out of his pocket and carefully removed some of the liquid from the vial. He looked fearfully at the door, then capped the needle and hid it in his pocket again. It was only a single dose, measured from what Crane had given him in the past, but even a half dose would put his mind far enough into the hellish abyss.

Balls, Billy. Balls.

[lepouvantail]

He returned after a few moments, having to actually search.

Damn scavengers. If Jonathan ever found out who had broken into his sanctum and stolen from him, a dose of fear serum would be the last thing they'd need worry about.

He was already opening a package to get a towelette to wipe it down, as proper cleaning supplies were difficult to come by...or being converted to fear serum depending on their ingredients. And failing that, booby traps to poison intruders at certain entrances.

"Have you created anything more?" he asked, moving to take the vial and get a dose measured.

It was to Billy's fortune that he hadn't noticed the liquid line had dipped.

[hypnotic_patter]

His breath was already starting to quicken. What Crane would do to him should he discover the theft...Billy grabbed the fear and held on to it. Fear was his inspiration. It must be embraced, not rejected.

He started rolling up his sleeve, eyes on the needle. "No. You have my notebook, as you decreed, and I haven't written outside your sanctum."

[lepouvantail]

"Good."

When he was pleased, the injections were always a lot less intentionally painful, and today was no exception. It was best to have the Music Meister at his peak for the horrors he was about to inspire.

Jonathan carefully injected him, then went to get the notebook from the safe.

"Now," he said, "allow your muse to bring about Arkham's song."

[hypnotic_patter]

Billy had already curled up on the floor when Jonathan returned. He took deep breaths, letting the poison course through his system and bless him with its blinding light. The notebook was accepted into trembling hands.

"First comes the screaming," he mumbled, opening to a fresh page and setting his pencil to it. He didn't need to write yet. The fear would handle it for him. "Always the screaming, for you, the screaming and then the silence."

[lepouvantail]

"Yes," Jonathan replied, already with a devious smirk. "The God of Fear relishes in your cries of anguish."

He knew well the pages would be filled, the story continued. It was as much his masterpiece as it was Billy's---after all, he had provided the means to create...and he would see it to its perfection.

[hypnotic_patter]

The pen began to move. Billy's eyes closed, the better to take in the horrific visions.

"The silence is more agonizing than the screaming. White figures, unmoving on the stage, staring at me. Their throats are torn open." The pen scrawled in staggered music to fill in the music, desperate to keep away the horrible stillness. "They bleed. I can see their vocal cords in shreds, torn out in vengeance--no, penitence. Penitence for sins."

He clutched at his own throat in sympathy.

[lepouvantail]

He sat and listened, watching as Billy wrote, smirking a bit.

"I've always known that was one of your truest terrors," he said.

Jonathan stood, moving to lean over him like the overgrown vulture he was.

"...Why not homage it?"

[hypnotic_patter]

"Hissing...no music, just horrible noises. Tuneless. Rasping, wet." His free hand clutched at his own throat in sympathy to the pain of the twitching figures. "They are unworthy. They are guilty. They are denied perfect song."

[lepouvantail]

"As should only be fitting," Jonathan replied, "for it is only for the elite."

Already, he was imagining the horror, smirking with wicked glee.

[hypnotic_patter]

"Shame," whines Billy. "Such shame." It's the guilt of his crime that's fueling his visions. He has stolen fire from the God of Fear and he fears he will be punished for it by having his greatest fear inflicted upon him. He fears for his voice. "Where is the music? I must, I need, please..."

Tears form in his eyes.