The Lunatic Is A Wakeful Dreamer [Chapter I]
Title: The Lunatic Is A Wakeful Dreamer
Author: cardboard_doll
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Disclaimer: If I owned Batman, it wouldn't be nearly as well written, or as worksafe.
Warnings: [Chapter by chapter] Nothing yet
Summary: There's been an incident at Arkham.
They really should take better care of their patients.
"You wanna tell me how I got these scars?"
A/N: So this is my first attempt at writing in a long time, so please excuse the choppiness. I'm hoping that the quality of my work will improve as the story progresses. I used to be quite good, not to toot my own horn or anything. You're encouraged to point out any spelling or grammatical errors, it would be greatly appreciated seeing as I have no beta. Anyways, let's get this show on the road.
The Lunatic Is A Wakeful Dreamer
Chapter I
Ruth Adams had potential, anyone who had ever worked with her could tell you that; however, they could also tell you that potential means nothing without drive and determination. Luckily for Ruth, she possessed both of those qualities as well.
At the tender age of 16, following a close encounter with a gun-toting maniac, Ruth had all but made up her mind. She was going to become a psychotherapist. From that point to the present day, Ruth had dedicated herself to her studies- graduating high school at the top of her class, and promptly being accepted into the most prestigious University of Psychiatrics that America had to offer. She had immediately dropped everything and moved to Gotham City, the home of said university, to continue her studies and begin her career as a nurse at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. From there she had quickly moved up the ranks to where she stood today, as head nurse of the C-Block section, (a ward for the particularly dangerous and unpredictable patients, those that couldn't be pacified by a box of washable non-toxic markers), and it was well known that there was little she wouldn't do to continue up the ladder. Today however, Dr. Jeremiah Arkham was threatening to cross her thin line of morality in regards to their most infamous patient:
“Increase his phenobarbital intake.”
Ruth's eyes widened; any Arkham staff member worth his salt could tell you the dangers of using such a highly potent barbiturate on an unstable patient. She opened her mouth as though to object, but upon locking eyes with her superior, quickly shut it again- she knew that look well. That look meant that the good doctor was beyond reaching, too lost in his own mind, lost to the almost childlike wonder of finding a new plaything- a new guinea pig to experiment on.
Dr. Arkham had his back turned to her now, fevered eyes staring out the large window behind his desk. Opting not to risk her employment by pushing the matter- this time, at least -Ruth instead nodded and quietly excused herself.
She was not surprised that her words received no acknowledgement.
She knew he couldn't hear her.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
The Joker was in a foul mood, and the staff were beginning to worry. The clown had been huddled in a small ball between the hospital-issued cot and whitewashed wall all morning, and red welts were starting to appear in tracks where he had repeatedly ran uneven fingernails down his cheeks.
“My child, do not think that because I cannot see you, I cannot still sense you.”
The madman gave a jerk at the sound of the other man's voice, an animalistic growl escaping clenched teeth.
“Someone had better shut him up or else I will,” he snarled to no one, fingers tangling in forcibly cleaned curls and tugging harshly.
It was this scene that Ruth was greeted to when she swung open the heavy metal door. She paused to take in the now softly rocking madman, and his distinct lack of straight-jacket. Quickly slipping a mask of professionalism back into place, she warily approached the obviously distressed man.
The Joker gave no indication that he had heard her enter.
It took several more minutes for her to realize that her presence wasn't simply being ignored, but rather unnoticed. Stopping a safe distance away, Ruth spoke up:
“Joker? Joker, what's wrong?”
Fevered green eyes immediately snapped upwards, though he seemed to be having trouble focusing on her face. She waited patiently, and was rewarded when she finally seemed to register in the clown's drug-fogged mind. The recognition put an unnerving smile on his face, and he reached an unsteady hand in her direction, as though asking for help to get to his feet. She maintained her distance; though not as afraid of the psychopath as most of the other staff were, she still trusted the man about as far as she could throw him.
Realizing he had been rejected, the Joker instead brought the back of his hand to his forehead in a theatrical motion, grin still firmly in place.
“Oh Ruthie, it's terrible, someone seems to have poisoned the water supply!” he giggled, tongue quickly darting out to moisten chapped lips. Ruth raised an eyebrow, taking a moment to look around the room, not seeing the straight-jacket she had been sure they had fitted him with.
“Joker, where is your straight-jacket?” she asked, ignoring his earlier comment. The clown looked thoughtful for a moment, before lifting himself an inch from the ground and tugging the now wrinkled white suit out from under him. He lowered himself back down, and offered the jacket to her, shrugging and saying: “You really oughta invest in carpeting,” by way of explanation.
“Most people use the bed,” she replied, instantly realizing how ridiculous that sounded. Of course the Joker wouldn't do what most people did- the Joker wasn't most people.
Noticing that Ruth was making no move to retrieve the suit, he shrugged once again and returned it to its previous position. The simple action took longer than it should have, his movements sluggish and clumsy, but eventually it was replaced and he locked eyes with her once more.
“Ah yes, but given your lovely staffs' hospitality thus far, it wouldn't surprise me if they run out of laundry detergent and decide that flesh-eating bacteria would do just fine,” he quipped, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. Choosing to ignore his comment once again, though silently agreeing, Ruth decided that it was high time she got down to business. Slowly backing towards the door, she spoke:
“Now, I'll be right back, you just-”
“-Ah, two presences I now sense, the lonely child has company.”
She was cut off, and before she could react, the Joker was on his feet- eyes wild with rage, teeth clenched and mouth twisted into a grotesque snarl. With no more grace than one could expect from someone so heavily drugged, the clown flung himself at the wall the voice seemed to have emanated from, hitting it with everything he had; fist, foot, nail, knee, head- it made no difference.
Alarmed at the suddenness and severity of her patient's fury, it took Ruth a few moments to snap out of shock and into action. Once she had, she started banging desperately on the inside of the door, not daring to turn her back to the Joker. When her frantic knocks seemed to have gone unheard, it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to scream for help. She did resist however, unsure if the noise would agitate the man further, and quite possibly redirect the brunt of his rage onto her.
Thankfully, it seemed that the two burly security guards that she knew were stationed outside the door had just been in a slight state of shock as well, as moments later they came bursting through, nearly knocking Ruth over. They wasted no more time in circling behind and subduing the much smaller man.
The Joker, apparently oblivious to the intruders until they had grabbed him, seemed to grow even more enraged. He kicked and clawed at his restrainers like some sort of animal, eyes rolling and wordless snarls escaping his lips.
The two paid him no mind, their combined bulk easily overpowering his significantly slighter form. They hauled him across the room and pinned him on the cot, pressing an elbow on each of his shoulders, and using their free arms to secure his legs.
They could ignore him no longer though, when the madman managed to sink his teeth into an inconveniently (or conveniently) placed bicep. The goon howled in pain, yanking and jiggling his arm in a vain attempt to free it, but the Joker had locked his jaw, and all this accomplished was to tear the wound further. Fresh blood now dribbled down the Joker's chin, and he closed his eyes blissfully to the coppery tang.
Only when goon #2 got tired of hearing his companion's screams and punched the madman hard in the jaw did he finally let go. However, instead of a pained expression, the clown flopped his head back on the white pillow, mouth curved into a toothy smile. Teeth that were stained with blood (Goon #1's, and now a healthy mixture of his own) and bits of flesh. Blood that was trickling from the corners of his open mouth, twisting to fit the knots and curves of his extended smile, painting it red once again.
Breathing a sigh of relief, the man now missing a chunk of his upper arm decked the suddenly docile clown once more for good measure, before turning to Ruth for further instructions.
Obviously disapproving of her colleagues' brutish behaviour, Ruth's reply was clipped and harsh, “Wait here. I'll be back.” With that, she left the two alone with a much more lucid Joker. As soon as the door slammed behind her, Ruth rested her back against it and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to drive off the migraine that had been threatening to strike since her meeting with Dr. Arkham.
“Wuh-oh. She was really steamed huh? Looks like someone's sleeping on the couch tonight.”
The Joker's head was still resting on the pillow, but his eyes were now bright and alert, darting back and forth from goon one to goon two. Ignored once again, the clown closed his eyes and sighed heavily through his nose.
Sulking like children who were caught with their hands in the cookie jar. He mused disapprovingly.
----------------------------------------------------------
Ruth slowly retracted the needle from the rubber cap and held it up, flicking it to remove any deadly air bubbles.
She had quickly calculated the highest possible non-lethal phenobarbital dose during her short walk to the supply room. Despite her confidence that the clown would not die, her conscience still nagged at her horribly, warring with her need for Dr. Arkham's approval.
Pausing on her way out the door, Ruth shook her head and steeled her nerves.
When did you become such a pushover? This is no time to develop empathy for a psychopath. After all, the man can barely be considered human after all he's done.
Resolve firm, she marched purposefully through the hall, her mouth set in a grim line. As she passed the Joker's neighbour's room, she couldn't resist sneaking a look at the nametag on the clown's antagonist's door: 'Maxie Zeus', it read. Well, that certainly explained a few things.
Ruth re-entered the room to find it the same as she had left it- apparently brawn sometimes was more beneficial than brain.
She approached the bed, syringe raised.
As soon as the Joker caught a glimpse of metal-tipped plastic, filled with the promise of hours of mind-numbing, debilitating torture, he began to fight his restrainers once again. Unfortunately, his still sluggish muscles seemed much less concerned with the contents of the needle than his brain and refused to co-operate, making his struggles borderline pathetic.
Ruth squashed her mind's last attempt at pity and, with practised ease, located a vein and inserted the needle, injecting the clown's bloodstream with powerful sedative.
A moment passed before the men deemed it safe to release the Joker, one heading over to retrieve the abandoned straight-jacket.
Ruth leaned over the bed, placing her index and middle finger over the madman's pulse, which she was relieved to find was still beating steadily.
At the touch, the clown's eyes snapped open, a hand reaching up to snatch Ruth's wrist in a bruising grip.
The two guards stood back, unsure whether their interference would provoke the other man further.
Ruth tried to remained calm, staring into the Joker's bright green eyes.
Watching as the light faded from them.
His fingers went slack.
Dear God, what have I done?
-------------------------------------------------------
Bruce pulled the cowl from his head, smoothing sweat-slicked bangs from his forehead, before checking the clock on the wall.
12:45 am, the neon numbers reported dutifully.
12:45; another early night.
He couldn't say he was surprised though. Ever since the Joker had been put away, the city seemed to have been needing Batman less and less. Even the mob had lost some of their gusto, but who could blame them? If a criminal mastermind like the Joker had been shut down, what chance did they truly have?
It had been refreshing at first, in the past few weeks Bruce had gotten so much sleep that he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself. He had also been able to focus much more attention on Wayne Enterprises, and by doing so had been able to complete several very successful business deals and secure very generous pay-raises for his employees. Not to mention that Alfred seemed to be more at ease now that his ward was safe and tucked in well before dawn most days.
Bruce didn't want to say he was bored, but... there was only so much satisfaction to be gained from strolling into and shutting down a poorly attempted robbery. Only so much adrenaline released from chasing down a would-be mugger.
Sometimes he would find himself gliding aimlessly through the night sky, only to find himself at Arkham's wrought-iron gates.
Suspicion, he would tell himself, it only makes sense, the Joker wouldn't go down that easy. He's planning something.
Then he would leave- back to his penthouse -to dream of mad laughter and yielding flesh.
----------------------------------------------------------
A/N: So there you have it, my first completed chapter in over a year, hopefully it wasn't too scattered and disjointed. This was more of an introduction/warm-up than anything, so sorry for the lack of action. I'm not sure how long this is going to be, I'm flying by the seat of my pants here.
Author: cardboard_doll
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Disclaimer: If I owned Batman, it wouldn't be nearly as well written, or as worksafe.
Warnings: [Chapter by chapter] Nothing yet
Summary: There's been an incident at Arkham.
They really should take better care of their patients.
"You wanna tell me how I got these scars?"
A/N: So this is my first attempt at writing in a long time, so please excuse the choppiness. I'm hoping that the quality of my work will improve as the story progresses. I used to be quite good, not to toot my own horn or anything. You're encouraged to point out any spelling or grammatical errors, it would be greatly appreciated seeing as I have no beta. Anyways, let's get this show on the road.
The Lunatic Is A Wakeful Dreamer
Chapter I
Ruth Adams had potential, anyone who had ever worked with her could tell you that; however, they could also tell you that potential means nothing without drive and determination. Luckily for Ruth, she possessed both of those qualities as well.
At the tender age of 16, following a close encounter with a gun-toting maniac, Ruth had all but made up her mind. She was going to become a psychotherapist. From that point to the present day, Ruth had dedicated herself to her studies- graduating high school at the top of her class, and promptly being accepted into the most prestigious University of Psychiatrics that America had to offer. She had immediately dropped everything and moved to Gotham City, the home of said university, to continue her studies and begin her career as a nurse at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. From there she had quickly moved up the ranks to where she stood today, as head nurse of the C-Block section, (a ward for the particularly dangerous and unpredictable patients, those that couldn't be pacified by a box of washable non-toxic markers), and it was well known that there was little she wouldn't do to continue up the ladder. Today however, Dr. Jeremiah Arkham was threatening to cross her thin line of morality in regards to their most infamous patient:
“Increase his phenobarbital intake.”
Ruth's eyes widened; any Arkham staff member worth his salt could tell you the dangers of using such a highly potent barbiturate on an unstable patient. She opened her mouth as though to object, but upon locking eyes with her superior, quickly shut it again- she knew that look well. That look meant that the good doctor was beyond reaching, too lost in his own mind, lost to the almost childlike wonder of finding a new plaything- a new guinea pig to experiment on.
Dr. Arkham had his back turned to her now, fevered eyes staring out the large window behind his desk. Opting not to risk her employment by pushing the matter- this time, at least -Ruth instead nodded and quietly excused herself.
She was not surprised that her words received no acknowledgement.
She knew he couldn't hear her.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
The Joker was in a foul mood, and the staff were beginning to worry. The clown had been huddled in a small ball between the hospital-issued cot and whitewashed wall all morning, and red welts were starting to appear in tracks where he had repeatedly ran uneven fingernails down his cheeks.
“My child, do not think that because I cannot see you, I cannot still sense you.”
The madman gave a jerk at the sound of the other man's voice, an animalistic growl escaping clenched teeth.
“Someone had better shut him up or else I will,” he snarled to no one, fingers tangling in forcibly cleaned curls and tugging harshly.
It was this scene that Ruth was greeted to when she swung open the heavy metal door. She paused to take in the now softly rocking madman, and his distinct lack of straight-jacket. Quickly slipping a mask of professionalism back into place, she warily approached the obviously distressed man.
The Joker gave no indication that he had heard her enter.
It took several more minutes for her to realize that her presence wasn't simply being ignored, but rather unnoticed. Stopping a safe distance away, Ruth spoke up:
“Joker? Joker, what's wrong?”
Fevered green eyes immediately snapped upwards, though he seemed to be having trouble focusing on her face. She waited patiently, and was rewarded when she finally seemed to register in the clown's drug-fogged mind. The recognition put an unnerving smile on his face, and he reached an unsteady hand in her direction, as though asking for help to get to his feet. She maintained her distance; though not as afraid of the psychopath as most of the other staff were, she still trusted the man about as far as she could throw him.
Realizing he had been rejected, the Joker instead brought the back of his hand to his forehead in a theatrical motion, grin still firmly in place.
“Oh Ruthie, it's terrible, someone seems to have poisoned the water supply!” he giggled, tongue quickly darting out to moisten chapped lips. Ruth raised an eyebrow, taking a moment to look around the room, not seeing the straight-jacket she had been sure they had fitted him with.
“Joker, where is your straight-jacket?” she asked, ignoring his earlier comment. The clown looked thoughtful for a moment, before lifting himself an inch from the ground and tugging the now wrinkled white suit out from under him. He lowered himself back down, and offered the jacket to her, shrugging and saying: “You really oughta invest in carpeting,” by way of explanation.
“Most people use the bed,” she replied, instantly realizing how ridiculous that sounded. Of course the Joker wouldn't do what most people did- the Joker wasn't most people.
Noticing that Ruth was making no move to retrieve the suit, he shrugged once again and returned it to its previous position. The simple action took longer than it should have, his movements sluggish and clumsy, but eventually it was replaced and he locked eyes with her once more.
“Ah yes, but given your lovely staffs' hospitality thus far, it wouldn't surprise me if they run out of laundry detergent and decide that flesh-eating bacteria would do just fine,” he quipped, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. Choosing to ignore his comment once again, though silently agreeing, Ruth decided that it was high time she got down to business. Slowly backing towards the door, she spoke:
“Now, I'll be right back, you just-”
“-Ah, two presences I now sense, the lonely child has company.”
She was cut off, and before she could react, the Joker was on his feet- eyes wild with rage, teeth clenched and mouth twisted into a grotesque snarl. With no more grace than one could expect from someone so heavily drugged, the clown flung himself at the wall the voice seemed to have emanated from, hitting it with everything he had; fist, foot, nail, knee, head- it made no difference.
Alarmed at the suddenness and severity of her patient's fury, it took Ruth a few moments to snap out of shock and into action. Once she had, she started banging desperately on the inside of the door, not daring to turn her back to the Joker. When her frantic knocks seemed to have gone unheard, it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to scream for help. She did resist however, unsure if the noise would agitate the man further, and quite possibly redirect the brunt of his rage onto her.
Thankfully, it seemed that the two burly security guards that she knew were stationed outside the door had just been in a slight state of shock as well, as moments later they came bursting through, nearly knocking Ruth over. They wasted no more time in circling behind and subduing the much smaller man.
The Joker, apparently oblivious to the intruders until they had grabbed him, seemed to grow even more enraged. He kicked and clawed at his restrainers like some sort of animal, eyes rolling and wordless snarls escaping his lips.
The two paid him no mind, their combined bulk easily overpowering his significantly slighter form. They hauled him across the room and pinned him on the cot, pressing an elbow on each of his shoulders, and using their free arms to secure his legs.
They could ignore him no longer though, when the madman managed to sink his teeth into an inconveniently (or conveniently) placed bicep. The goon howled in pain, yanking and jiggling his arm in a vain attempt to free it, but the Joker had locked his jaw, and all this accomplished was to tear the wound further. Fresh blood now dribbled down the Joker's chin, and he closed his eyes blissfully to the coppery tang.
Only when goon #2 got tired of hearing his companion's screams and punched the madman hard in the jaw did he finally let go. However, instead of a pained expression, the clown flopped his head back on the white pillow, mouth curved into a toothy smile. Teeth that were stained with blood (Goon #1's, and now a healthy mixture of his own) and bits of flesh. Blood that was trickling from the corners of his open mouth, twisting to fit the knots and curves of his extended smile, painting it red once again.
Breathing a sigh of relief, the man now missing a chunk of his upper arm decked the suddenly docile clown once more for good measure, before turning to Ruth for further instructions.
Obviously disapproving of her colleagues' brutish behaviour, Ruth's reply was clipped and harsh, “Wait here. I'll be back.” With that, she left the two alone with a much more lucid Joker. As soon as the door slammed behind her, Ruth rested her back against it and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to drive off the migraine that had been threatening to strike since her meeting with Dr. Arkham.
“Wuh-oh. She was really steamed huh? Looks like someone's sleeping on the couch tonight.”
The Joker's head was still resting on the pillow, but his eyes were now bright and alert, darting back and forth from goon one to goon two. Ignored once again, the clown closed his eyes and sighed heavily through his nose.
Sulking like children who were caught with their hands in the cookie jar. He mused disapprovingly.
----------------------------------------------------------
Ruth slowly retracted the needle from the rubber cap and held it up, flicking it to remove any deadly air bubbles.
She had quickly calculated the highest possible non-lethal phenobarbital dose during her short walk to the supply room. Despite her confidence that the clown would not die, her conscience still nagged at her horribly, warring with her need for Dr. Arkham's approval.
Pausing on her way out the door, Ruth shook her head and steeled her nerves.
When did you become such a pushover? This is no time to develop empathy for a psychopath. After all, the man can barely be considered human after all he's done.
Resolve firm, she marched purposefully through the hall, her mouth set in a grim line. As she passed the Joker's neighbour's room, she couldn't resist sneaking a look at the nametag on the clown's antagonist's door: 'Maxie Zeus', it read. Well, that certainly explained a few things.
Ruth re-entered the room to find it the same as she had left it- apparently brawn sometimes was more beneficial than brain.
She approached the bed, syringe raised.
As soon as the Joker caught a glimpse of metal-tipped plastic, filled with the promise of hours of mind-numbing, debilitating torture, he began to fight his restrainers once again. Unfortunately, his still sluggish muscles seemed much less concerned with the contents of the needle than his brain and refused to co-operate, making his struggles borderline pathetic.
Ruth squashed her mind's last attempt at pity and, with practised ease, located a vein and inserted the needle, injecting the clown's bloodstream with powerful sedative.
A moment passed before the men deemed it safe to release the Joker, one heading over to retrieve the abandoned straight-jacket.
Ruth leaned over the bed, placing her index and middle finger over the madman's pulse, which she was relieved to find was still beating steadily.
At the touch, the clown's eyes snapped open, a hand reaching up to snatch Ruth's wrist in a bruising grip.
The two guards stood back, unsure whether their interference would provoke the other man further.
Ruth tried to remained calm, staring into the Joker's bright green eyes.
Watching as the light faded from them.
His fingers went slack.
Dear God, what have I done?
-------------------------------------------------------
Bruce pulled the cowl from his head, smoothing sweat-slicked bangs from his forehead, before checking the clock on the wall.
12:45 am, the neon numbers reported dutifully.
12:45; another early night.
He couldn't say he was surprised though. Ever since the Joker had been put away, the city seemed to have been needing Batman less and less. Even the mob had lost some of their gusto, but who could blame them? If a criminal mastermind like the Joker had been shut down, what chance did they truly have?
It had been refreshing at first, in the past few weeks Bruce had gotten so much sleep that he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself. He had also been able to focus much more attention on Wayne Enterprises, and by doing so had been able to complete several very successful business deals and secure very generous pay-raises for his employees. Not to mention that Alfred seemed to be more at ease now that his ward was safe and tucked in well before dawn most days.
Bruce didn't want to say he was bored, but... there was only so much satisfaction to be gained from strolling into and shutting down a poorly attempted robbery. Only so much adrenaline released from chasing down a would-be mugger.
Sometimes he would find himself gliding aimlessly through the night sky, only to find himself at Arkham's wrought-iron gates.
Suspicion, he would tell himself, it only makes sense, the Joker wouldn't go down that easy. He's planning something.
Then he would leave- back to his penthouse -to dream of mad laughter and yielding flesh.
----------------------------------------------------------
A/N: So there you have it, my first completed chapter in over a year, hopefully it wasn't too scattered and disjointed. This was more of an introduction/warm-up than anything, so sorry for the lack of action. I'm not sure how long this is going to be, I'm flying by the seat of my pants here.