#faerybladefics

[faeryblade]

|| The Ennui of Jonathan Crane || A Crane x Reader Slow Burn ||

Synopsis: It's just another boring afternoon at the office for Dr. Jonathan Ulysses Crane. Although, testing out his latest fear toxin is yielding some...interesting results.

Word Count: 5,534

TW: Dead Dove: do not eat. 18+ content, minors DNI. NSFW, SMUT. Gaslighting and manipulation. Mention of EDs. Degradation. Non-con. Implication of suicide attempt. Forced oral, anal. Use of aphrodisiac and fear toxin. Hallucinations. Power imbalance, therapist/patient. Age difference. Monster fucking (Scarecrow). Corruption. Ahegao. Creampie. Rick roll near the end.

Note: Uh, hi there. I got bit by a highly infectious idea and quickly developed super terminal Jonathan Crane!rot...which I guess I'm making everyone's problem now. This is the first chapter of a long Jonathan X Reader fic called: "Please, don't tell my psychiatrist-he'd kill me!"

Song: "Careful What You Wish For" by Jack Harris

Taglist: @caesariawritesstuff @greeneyedshooter @enochtopus-the-pressed

"I-I don't even know what I'll do. It's not like I can cancel now..."

Subject 76 picked at the fibers of her knit sweater anxiously, brows furrowed. There's a hitch to her voice. Her shoulders are slightly hunched over as if she's trying to protect herself from the topic at hand. Dr. Crane makes a note of this with a quick flourish of his ballpoint pen. Besides him, safe in her black iron cage, his pet crow, Nightmare, stares keenly at Subject 76.

"Plus, my friend has been planning this wedding for MONTHS and I'm her bridesmaid! I can't just not go to the wedding! I-I'd feel like...I dunno, like a bad friend-"

Subject 76 reached for the glass of water placed on the coffee table in front of her. She took a sip from it to settle her nerves before continuing to speak:

"Just the thought of letting her down makes me feel some awful way. Like, I don't know. I'm just, uhh. I'm just..."

"...Afraid?" Dr. Crane's smooth voice offers, almost seeming to reverberate in the air.

Subject 76 looked at her psychologist with a wide, doe-eyed expression. Her bottom lip trembled. It was a small, almost imperceptible movement that had Crane's pen scribbling furiously in his notes once more.

"No," Subject 76 denied immediately, then falters a second later, "Yes. I-I don't know, maybe??? I'm just anxious, I guess??? It's just that this wedding will be the first time in six years that I've seen my high-school friends. And I wanna make the right impression. I don't want it to look like I don't have my life together."

Subject 76 went quiet for a moment. Her gaze drew down to her wrists where thick, pink scars crisscrossed her skin. While the sweater she was wearing did its best to conceal them from sight, a few still peaked out and were clearly visible to anyone who had a wandering eye. Shame settled upon her.

"I've even started to...uhm. I..."

Subject 76 fell silent again. The woman returned to picking the threads of her sweater, tugging on its cotton weave compulsively instead of talking.

Dr. Crane glanced up from his notepad, peering over the top of his glasses to assess his subject. "Miss. Bree?" He asked, raising a single eyebrow. He waited for her to speak.

But Subject 76 pursed her lips into a thin line and ignored him.

Sighing, Crane leaned back in his chair. An edge of annoyance laced his tone as he addressed his subject...

"I don't think I have to remind you that the court has mandated your cooperation in therapy, Miss Bree. And...with anything I see fit to hasten your rehabilitation. Now, I wouldn't want to be forced legally to report you to your probation officer for resisting treatment. However, if I must-"

"WAIT!" Subject 76 cried out, terror in her eyes.

The smallest smirk twitched at the edges of Dr. Crane's lips, "Oh?"

Splitting open like a rotten pumpkin, the woman confessed that she'd started throwing up. 'Just small meals,' she'd elaborate further, attempting to lessen the impact of her words, 'Just the bad carbs and fats, nothing serious.' Subject 76 went on to talk about the dress she was trying to "look slay" for. How the bride had chosen a type of cut that left little to the imagination. And most telling to Dr. Crane of all; that she was frightened about what everyone would think when she wore it.

Crane placed his notebook and pen down on the accent table at his side, then steepled his fingers together, peering at Subject 76 with intent.

With hunger.

"Do you think your frankly lackluster endeavor to lose weight will be enough to stop the whispers and the gossip?" He asked off-handedly, making Subject 76 flinch in response, "And all the secret shared laughter at your expense?"

"W-what?"

"Just an observation, really."

Subject 76 looked confused. She blinked several times and wondered if she was hearing the what the doctor had said right. Or if somehow she was hearing him wrong instead.

"In fact, I doubt fitting into anything will improve your standing," Crane stated with a casual wave of his hand, "How do you know that you weren't invited to this...grand affair...as a joke?"

Shock spread across Subject 76's face.

"I-"

"If they were judging you in high school, six years wouldn't change anything substantial. They're no different than they were back then. Tell me, have you changed?"

Dr. Crane answered the question for Subject 76, not allowing her to explain for herself what he'd already figured:

"According to your records, you've been purging since middle school... And here you are now, still continuing to follow the same, tired, destructive pattern."

"Dr. Crane, I-"

Crane held up an authoritative hand.

"I digress, Miss. Bree," He said, "We've become a bit sidetracked here. Any form of eating disorder is categorized as self-harm. I cannot allow this to continue. As a mandated reporter, I'll have to tell your case manager. Unfortunately, I can judge by your previous history, that it's quite likely you'll be put on a 72-hour hold in a psychiatric facility. Probably here at Arkham. Contrary to Gotham's popular belief, we do treat normal citizens, too."

A fresh, new wave of panic bloomed on Subject 76's face. Tears welled up in the young woman's eyes. She shook her head, both hands rising up to clasp over her mouth, muffling the words she spoke and making them harder to hear.

"Hmm? What was that?" Dr. Crane nearly purred, making a show of leaning in closer to listen better.

"I-I can't go back there," Subject 76 replied with a choked stammering breath, "I just can't, doctor. I c-can't-"

Such marvelous fear...

Dr. Crane drank it in, savored it like fine wine. He wished he could bottle this moment to treasure for himself and keep forever. This was a human at their most beautiful.

"There is an alternative solution," Crane offered, only after Subject 76 looked about to vomit on his rug, "But I don't offer it to just anyone I treat. You, however, would be a perfect candidate."

"Really, doctor? I would?"

He barely suppressed his disgust as the woman shifted from fear-torn to hopeful at just the mere suggestion of salvation.

"Yes, but you'd have to submit to a new regimen and administration of medicine," Dr. Crane said, "Plus, we would be exploring novel paths of therapy that we've yet to approach in session. If I deem it productive, then I can forget about this reporting nonsense-"

Not to mention all the paperwork he'd have to go through because of it.

"-Does that sound amenable to you, Miss. Bree?"

"Yes!" Subject 76 answered brightly, "Anything to keep probation away!"

As if commenting on the woman's statement, Nightmare let out a series of loud, raucous caws that sounded strangely like laughter. Subject 76 glanced at the crow with uncertainty before Dr. Crane redirected her attention back onto him.

"Anything, hmm?" Crane asked curiously, taking off his glasses and tucking them into his breast pocket, "Well, that's good to know. It'll certainly make this next portion that much easier."

"Huh?"

Before Subject 76 knew what was happening, Dr. Crane was at her side; his hand gripping her ponytail and yanking her head back. She caught the sight of a spray bottle seconds prior to a strange, fine, orange mist enveloping her face. Crawling up the passages of her nose. Making her feel instantly dizzy and lightheaded. Sick.

"Yeeeah, that's right," Crane's voice cooed gently into her ear, "Breathe it all in, little lamb. Goood. Just like that..."

The effects of the toxin were instantaneous. With vested interest, Jonathan Crane watched as 76's pupils dilated until her irises nearly disappeared and her breaths came out in labored gasps that sounded painful. He grabbed the woman's wrist to check her pulse. His long fingers bit into soft flesh, leaving the crescent-shaped impressions of his nails in their wake.

"As expected," he spoke aloud, narrating more to himself than anyone else, "Patient is responsive to a 10 mg dose of K-series. BPM is at 125, within range of a common panic attack. Eyes dilated to 8 millimeters. Symptoms are much more evident than Batch 4. Most likely due to the introduction of fear prior to administration-"

A low, husky moan interrupted him:

"Mmmn, Doctor Crane. I feel so hot..."

Jonathan turned his attention back onto the test subject, who was trying to press her body to his in desperation. He felt his cock harden instantly. That spark of hunger he'd experienced moments before returned; but, it'd become ravenous now. Insistent. Snapping. It demanded to be fed. And this lost, little lamb was offering herself willingly to his opened maw. Who would refuse such a feast?

The darkness inside Jonathan took control.

Subject 76 gasped as his hand suddenly gripped her neck and pulled her closer. He grazed his lips along the woman's silky cheek, whispering softly into her ear-

"Hush now, child, your Shepherd God is here. All will be well."

-before blazing a trail of greedy kisses and bites down her shoulder, ripping off her sweater in the process. He threw it onto the carpet. Subject 76 hardly noticed. She was far too preoccupied with his explorations to care. Her eyes fluttered back into her skull as Doctor Crane teased the tender areas of her flesh with tongue and teeth. Searing heat coiled like a spring in the pit of her stomach. Another moan flew from her throat. Louder this time.

"Tell me how you feel?" Jonathan asked his prey with a commanding growl.

Subject 76 squirmed underneath his grasp.

"I-I need you," she replied, "Doctor, please! I need to feel you. I want your hands on me. I-I want you to touch me. Bite me. I need you-"

Jonathan Crane gripped her tighter.

"And how badly does that ail you, little lamb?" He crooned.

"I can't stand it!" 76 wailed out loud, tears rolling in cascades down her cheeks, "Everything's hot. I can't think straight! What's happening to me?!?"

A cruel smile curved along Jonathan's mouth. He could almost taste the woman's anguish. It was a delicious flavor. Irresistible, actually...

"You poor, suffering soul. Allow me to ease your troubled mind..."

Wrapping Subject 76's ponytail around his hand once more, Jonathan Crane seized control and dragged her face towards the bulge in his slacks. Surprisingly, she tried to resist. Visited by a brief minute of lucidity, the woman fought back on his grip, struggling (like hell) against the task he was setting her to. Jonathan scowled. He wondered if the toxin had worn off already? But another lusty moan from 76 indicated that it hadn't. It was just hitting her in symptomatic waves.

Whimpering as a new flood of heat overwhelmed her, Subject 76 wrestled with the metal buckle of Jonathan's belt and unzipped his pants. Her eyes widened upon seeing the monster that lay hiding in wait within his boxers. Huge, thick, and veined; the psychiatrist's dick eagerly sprang forth from its plaid, cotton bindings to greet her. It twitched with anticipation over what was about to happen. A sharp edge of panic sliced into her...

His cock was too big.

She wasn't given time to prepare herself. Crane's hand pressed down on the back of her head and forced his dick into her mouth. He slid his length as far as it could go, cockhead tapping the back of her throat before pulling out...then, slamming himself past her lips all over again. Each time, he pushed a little deeper, a little harder, until 76 was gagging and tears misted up her eyes. Jonathan let out a groan at the sight of it. The fear in those gorgeous, coffee brown depths made him want to fuck her harder and see how far he could push that mouth.

"Mmmff! Mmf-"

"Ahh, feels so good. Your pain is exquisite."

Subject 76 struggled as Doctor Crane increased his vicious pace and used her ponytail like a bar handle. He tugged, yanked, pulled, and directed every movement until she became nothing more than a living fleshlight. Forced to satisfy this tall, imposing beast until he was sated, 76 had never felt more helpless in her entire life. Despite that, a curious sensation was accompanying her loss of control; the enjoyment of his taste. A betrayal that she hadn't expected coming from her body! The doctor's musky flavor caused liquid heat to pool traitorously between her legs. As salty tang invaded her palate, a throb began pulsing upon her clit. Was she going mad!? How could any of this possibly feel good???

That's because you're a whore, sweetie.

The dulcet sound of her mother whispered softly into her ear. The tone was condescending, beset with mockery. Her father followed suit, his voice so clear (and vivid) that Subject 76 swore he was standing a few inches away:

We always knew you were a filthy pig, even as a child...

76 let loose a muted scream. Both her parents, in a unified chorus, continued their foul comments, prodding at every insecurity she owned while the only thing she could do was choke on Dr. Crane's dick and cry.

"Oh, you're in it now, aren't you?"

Suddenly, his movements halted. Subject 76 felt herself being hauled up by her hair to meet a pair of glowing eyes and a terrifying smile comprised of sharp, yellow fangs. She screamed again. This time, the sound was so loud it hurt her own ears. Gone was the famous psychiatrist, Dr. Jonathan Crane, and in his place...was a nightmare!

The monster seemed pleased by her horror. A dark chuckle rumbled from deep within its emaciated chest.

"My toxin has infiltrated your mind," It said with a relished growl, dragging 76 closer, "Past all your defenses. Can't you feel it tearing at your sanity? Breaking down your senses bit by bit? Reducing you to your most primal state?? Fascinating how a person can become so pliable with just a small amount of this in their system..."

Confusion washed over Subject 76. The monster was speaking eloquently. However, she could not understand any of it. Her brain had turned into a congealed soup-useless jelly-that sloshed inside her skull. Unable to make connections as it once had mere hours ago before she'd stepped foot in Doctor Crane's office. The ache between her legs was intensifying, the pulse tapping upon her clit less easy to ignore, and the sensitivity of her skin made even the smallest touch a torture. 76 cried out to God...

But only the God of Fear answered her: "Silence, lamb. Therapy is still in session."

One fluid motion was all it took for the terrifying beast to extract Subject 76 off the couch and up onto her feet. It dragged her across the confines of Dr. Crane's office, towards the gigantic curtain wall that overlooked Arkham Asylum's entrance courtyard. With a sharp and commanding tug, 76 was forced to stand before it, despite protest, so that she could see the goings-on down below. Another whimper fell out of her lips as her vision turned the gnarled trees and wrought iron fence outside into clawed hands. Five people suddenly stared up at the window from their spots on the benches near the Asylum's smoking zone. They looked so familiar. But, she could not remember why...

The monster slid behind her soundlessly. Its long talons crawled like many spiders up the sides of her arms. "This is who you really are inside, Miss Bree. Your truest self," It assured her, speaking in a matter-of-fact voice, making everything it said sound obvious and plain, "Just a trembling web of misfiring neurons in the amygdala attempting to rectify a reality too frightening to assimilate-"

The monster caressed her cheek.

"-I want to help you embrace your fear and truly understand it."

Those five people in the courtyard all raised their forefinger and, as one unit, pointed at Subject 76 with laughter twisting upon their lips. She shook her head. Averted her gaze. Took a step back to put distance between herself and the plexiglass window. Unfortunately, 76 was stopped by an unyielding wall of flesh. The beast's body was poised just a few inches away from her own and in response to her shame, it took a step forward, sandwiching her between itself and the tall, cold glass she sought to avoid. Subject 76 prayed to God again. This time, she promised Him that she would stop purging; that today was the last day she'd ever throw up her meals if He'd spare her life...

But only the God of Fear answered her: "What do you see, little lamb? What horrors keep you stuck in place?"

"I-I don't know!!"

Its spindly fingers roamed an idle path down her throat to settle upon her chest. She trembled as its razor-edged nails brushed against her nipples absentmindedly.

"I think you do," the monster insisted, "But you're resisting the awareness of it. We try to hide away from the shadows of our minds so we can live in peace during the day, don't we? It's only human. But you, little one, have nowhere left to scurry to. Nowhere you can run. The Scarecrow has come to show you the truth inside your fears..."

Allowing 76 no time to consider its words, it tore open her camisole top, exposing the bra that she wore underneath. The monster made quick work of the lace, discarding it into a pile on the carpet. Skeletal digits went seeking flesh. Subject 76 felt its boney hands grasp both her breasts and start to knead them roughly as panic washed over her. It pulled her nipples with hard pinches. First one, then the other. Then, both at the same time in a torturous rhythm that milked a lusty sigh from her throat.

76's eyes widened when she heard it. Had that perverted sound come out of her?

What a fucking slut!

That's the way she was in high school. We did it behind the bleachers, her ass was so fucking tight.

But she's so fat!!

So? The thicker they are, the thicker the juice.

Ugh, you're so gross, Mikey.

Voices from the courtyard outside intermingled with her litany of moans. The five smokers were talking, gossiping candidly amongst themselves, while they sneered at her from the benches they sat in. Subject 76 jerked away, tried to push off the monster so she could hide her naked chest and cover the shame that came with being seen. The monster didn't let her, though. Almost like it sensed her self-disgust, it pinned her up against the window glass and handled her boobs harder. Tugged and pulled them so that her rosy peaks stretched out. Pressed its throbbing, hard bulge into her ass so that she could feel it pulse. Licked a trail up the curve of her neck to taste the sweat on her skin.

The five spectators outside laughed in response to her struggles.

Pig!

Whore!

Slut!

Sudden recognition dawned upon 76. Those five, smirking people down in the courtyard were her high school friends. The ones that she would see at the wedding next week. The ones who hadn't seen her since graduation. Their blinkless stares drilled into soul her as if she were soft plywood. She could feel their scrutiny already. 76 let out a horrified scream:

"N-no! NO!!! Please! D-don't look at me!! Don't!!!"

Hot, fetid breath that smelled like decaying flesh tickled her ear when the beast spoke. "Ahhhh," It said with a sultry purr, "Scopophobia. The fear of being seen by others. Of having so many judging eyes on you. My, what a vain creature you are to think anyone would look at you? Well then, let's give your audience something...more substantial to gaze at-"

It yanked down her pleated skirt and pulled aside her thong.

"I want all of them to see and hear you sing hosannas of anguish to Scarecrow!"

Eagerly, the monster guided its cock to grind on the entrance of Subject 76's ass. And bit by bit, it pushed itself slowly into her tight, puckered hole. 76 clawed at the window as she felt this invasion begin to pump within her. Striking a curious spot inside her body that caused drool to trickle down her chin from the edges of her mouth. Each hard stroke that it gave Subject 76 made her cry, then moan, then scream, then beg the Scarecrow for forgiveness. But the monster continued to thrust (unempathetically) into her asshole without any regard. Bright stars exploded in rapid numbers behind her eyes. Building heat churned at the pit of her belly, threatening to combust. Her pussy became sopping wet as his busy hips smacked into her backside with more force, speed, and single-minded desperation than her mind could handle. 76 felt like she was going to go insane. If it kept pounding her like this, she would certainly die!

The beast let loose a satisfied groan as it tossed its burlap-shrouded head back, "Mmn, fuck, yes! Show everyone what a sick little dirty whore you are for the God of Fear. Let the many, many eyes witness your senseless fright, you pig!"

"N-nnnooo!! M'nuh a pig, d-daddy! I'm clean! I'm clean!!"

"You're as filthy as they come. There's no doubts about that," the monster growled low and darkly, clamping its taloned grip upon both sides of 76's hips to hold her steady while it readjusted inside of her ass.

Subject 76 squirmed.

"Be still, slut!"

This was the only warning she received before its cock went to work. Now, positioned at a different angle, the monster penetrated her ass deeper. A wave of euphoria and fear swept over Subject 76 as she felt sensation after sensation threatening to break her. In. Out. Faster and harder. Rougher. The sheer brutality with which it fucked her body senseless was quickly burning a giant hole in her psyche and rearranging her brain chemistry into a shape she didn't recognize...

A transformation, Subject 76 soon realized, that she was quite helpless to stop.

In fact, 76 found that she was starting to like this new state; moaning, panting, squirming, crying!! Begging for her life. Getting so thoroughly railed by the God of Terror that it forced her eyes to roll back and her mouth fall open and her mind to go completely blank with the only thought she had (or could adequately retain) being how amazing it was to have this monster's dick buried so deep inside her!! Subject 76 had even forgotten about the audience that was watching this.

Maybe she even wanted the audience to watch?

If she was honest, perhaps she'd always wanted that...?

"M'gunna c-cum!! I gunna-"

Something mixed between a scream and a moan flew out of her mouth as the monster hilted itself fully into her ass, sparking an orgasm that shook her entire body to the core. A moment later, heat spread inside Subject 76. Thick and gooey, it ran down her thighs and joined the nectar of her own cum. The monster continued rocking its hips and unloaded spurt after spurt of sticky warmth that never seemed to end. Aftershocks accompanied every lazy, squelching thrust. More drool trickled down her chin, more moans were wrenched from her throat. 76 was less of a person now than she was a fuck sock; mindless and wet and perfectly submissive. The terrifying beast that called itself the "Scarecrow" had freed her from all the worry and pain she'd carried inside and replaced it with inner peace...

And obedience to the God of Fear.

Dr. Jonathan Crane sighed.

The "Kappa Psi" series toxin was a success. After countless days and sleepless nights and seventy six clinical trials on his unsuspecting patients, Dr. Crane had finally created something even he was afraid of. The K toxin was a potent combination that fused Doctor Isley's plant pheromones with carbogen and cortisol. When administered, it'd attack the pituitary gland first. Then, hurry itself onto the thalamus, amygdala and prefrontal cortex, where it'd flood the victim in mixed signals that twisted fear and pleasure together. With the right type of psychological stress applied, a subject under the effects of K Toxin would be highly susceptible to subliminal messages. Dr. Crane had found on the third clinical trial that sometimes a complete and utter dissociation would occur where the subject was...altered after the toxin wore off. Around the fifth clinical trial, Crane discovered that he didn't need to do much to invoke that dissociative state within his subjects. He started feeling like a God who crafted his own men and women alike from the soil of fear.

But, after seventy-five trials, each one a success, he'd started feeling unsatisfied. Bored, even. And now, on the seventy-sixth trial, Doctor Jonathan Crane was ready to concoct a new formula. This time, perhaps, he would experiment with a toxin that'd stimulate a timed, cardiac arrest? It'd be a great way to study Thanatophobia.

"I-I obey...I obey fear..."

Interrupting his musings, Subject 76 muttered to herself on his couch where she'd been since he'd dosed her. Crane rolled his eyes. It'd been half an hour (already) and without so much as a touch or a whisper in her ear, the young woman had come undone. He adjusted his glasses, then peered up at the clock hanging upon his wall. He'd give 76 a grace period of ten more minutes before he used an antidote. After all, she seemed to be enjoying herself even if he wasn't. Her fingers ground into her groin while she chanted hymns to horror with tears rolling from her glazed over eyes. Normally, Dr. Crane would be enchanted. The K Toxin made his job as a practitioner of fear too easy, though. The finesse involved in scaring someone seemed almost obsolete, comparatively. A ridiculous and foolish notion but one that bothered him greatly nonetheless.

While Crane waited for the K toxin to subside, he scrolled through his unread emails...

Dr. Leland was requesting any and all additional files on the Page Monroe case.

Jeremiah Arkham had CC'd the entire asylum on the rules and guidelines regarding the treatment of patients. It was obvious this message was just for Bolton, however.

Dr. Bartholomew was reminding everyone who'd used the staff refrigerator in the past 24 hours to label their food containers and lunches to "avoid any confusion."

Mike Browne, a senior orderly who worked in the Intensive Treatment Unit, was reporting theft. A concerning amount of Propofol had disappeared from the medical supply.

And a "Mister E" had messaged him at midnight (three whole days ago) with an email that was mysteriously entitled: "Question."

Just as Jonathan was about to open the mystery email, a timid voice interrupted him...

"D-Doctor Crane...?"

Subject 76 was (finally) shaking off the effects of the toxin and coming back to reality. The woman looked confused, a bit scared as well. And when he met her stare from his spot, perched at the desk, Crane saw terror blossoming inside those doe-like eyes. But, other than that little detail, 76 seemed to have recovered enough for Jonathan to talk to now. Turning away from his computer and clearing his throat, he began to weave a web of (plausible) deniability that reframed the past hour or so in a positive light...

"Don't alarm, Miss Bree. You seem to have fallen asleep during our guided breathing exercises. It's a common thing that happens with patients who hold onto too much stress. Rest assured, you're not the only one of my clients who've passed out on that couch...and I very much doubt that you'll be the last."

Subject 76 immediately reached up towards her mouth, wiping it clear of leftover drool. Then, the woman moved on to smooth her hair and fix any wrinkles that she saw in her sweater. As soon as 76 felt put together, the woman risked peeking a glimpse at the doctor. That beautiful fear which he loved so much still clung to the edges of her gaze.

"So, all that was just a nightmare?" she asked Dr. Crane with a voice that said she couldn't be more relieved, "All the things I saw...they weren't real?? Even you reporting me?"

Jonathan raised a single, curious brow. He made a show of taking off his glasses, wiping them on the material of a handkerchief that he kept in his pocket, and returning them to his face before he answered the question:

"You had a nightmare, Miss. Bree? Well, that isn't all too uncommon, either. Guided breathing and meditation has been known to jog loose trauma from within our subconscious mind. That's why its use is so effective in a therapeutic setting," Dr. Crane said, then gestured casually over towards the wall clock, "But, I am afraid that will have to be a conversation for later. Our time today is up."

"Oh..."

"Let's schedule you for the same time next week. And perhaps this time, we can focus on staying awake throughout our session, hm?"

Embarrassment in the form of a rosy pink blush spread across Subject 76's cheeks at that small, wayward comment. She tried to hide it, though. Jonathan ignored this and led her over to the door, holding it open for the woman after she'd collected her things. As his patient walked by him, however, Crane froze her with an innocent question from out of left field...

"Before you go, Miss. Bree, I've been admittedly quite curious about something. It's my hope you can indulge me with an answer. What will you be wearing to your close friend's wedding, exactly? I'm not familiar nor particularly educated on the social formalities involved in such an occasion's dress wear."

76 paused, then replied as if commenting on the weather: "Oh, probably nothing. I want everyone to see my whore body. Wouldn't you, Dr. Crane?"

"Mm," Jonathan hummed in response before he closed the door behind her.

It'd started to rain outside. A light dusting of tiny water droplets were collecting themselves upon the glass of the curtain window beside his desk. Jonathan Crane could hear the pattering getting (progressively) louder by the second. He strolled over to his office chair, then sat in it. Watched as the storm rolled in from Gotham Bay and the icy Atlantic sea beyond it. Idly, he wondered if he'd ever meet a subject who could hold his interest? Or if The Batman, alone, would continue to keep that honor for himself?

Swiveling around to face his computer, Jonathan decided to open that "Mister E" email. He clicked once upon the subject line and was assaulted by bright green text almost instantly. A deep frown tugged on his lips as he squinted, trying to read the words despite wearing a pair of prescription glasses...

'Like a rhubarb, what also desperately searches for light in the darkest depths?

:3

I'll give you a hint: It doesn't crack or pop, but it can scream just as loudly in Arkham's basement.'

Underneath this was a picture of himself in a lab coat, administering a lethal dose of fear toxin to an Arkham patient who was strapped down to a surgical table. Another photo, in addition to this, was timestamped for a few minutes later, and it featured Jonathan wearing a badly stitched-up, burlap, respirator mask. The patient who was screaming in the bottom right corner appeared to be bleeding around the mouth and eyes. The final one was a zoomed in shot of his name tag while he was disguised in the mask: Dr. Jonathan Crane, MD.

He stilled.

Everything in the world went absolutely quiet. He could've heard a single pin drop. But the silence was quickly shattered by the sound of electronic beeping. Jonathan peered down at his waist belt to see that the Motorola pager he wore strapped to it was flashing him a message...

'9229.'

All the muscles in his jaw tensed.

Immediately, Jonathan turned off his computer and using a brass key (that he always kept close on his person), opened up the bottom drawer to recover a briefcase hidden underneath the cover of an internal partition. As soon as his fingertips brushed against the leather item, Nightmare let out three loud, ear-splitting caws from her iron cage. She spread her wings, then flapped them several times in apparent aggravation. The crow pierced Jonathan with a look that seemed to warn him of something that he couldn't logically discern. But, fear was not logical, he reasoned to himself...

...And the only thing there was to fear in Gotham City was the Scarecrow.

"Hold the fort down while I'm gone, Nightmare," he said to his bird, hoping that his request would help to ease her worries, "This'll only take a bit. It usually does."

Jonathan Crane strode out of his office with an incredible sense of urgency and ire. His old, leather briefcase was gripped tightly in his hands like a gun. Nobody blackmailed the Scarecrow...

Or lived long enough to tell about it.

[faeryblade]

|| Five Year Plan || A Reader x Jonathan Crane, slow burn fic ||

Synopsis: Every so often, the city of Gotham will randomly select one person to have a really, really bad day. This time, that lucky person is you!

Aka: Your stupid ass accidentally signs up to be a goon at a "Goon Hiring" Agency after your landlord increases the rent. Oops!

Word Count: 11,059

TW: General violence, drug use, coercion, and swearing.

Note: So, uhh. Still working on this concept that has gripped me by the throat. There's a lot of little references scattered in this chapter to Arkham!Verse, Reeves!Verse & other DCU works. The Gotham this x Reader takes place in is sort of an eclectic jumble with it's own unique timeline. For previous chapter, click here. Enjoy the second installment of "Please don't tell my psychiatrist!". ♡ And let me know what you think in my asks if you want~

Banner art made by: @skxtchyghost

Song: "Are You Satisfied?" by Marina & The Diamonds

Taglist: @caesariawritesstuff @greeneyedshooter @enochtopus-the-pressed @vveirdvvitch

It wasn't a bad job. As far as employment went in Gotham, it was okay. Ish. The pay wasn't horrible and the location was a quick, 15 minute, monorail ride away from home. And sometimes, when the manager wasn't there, you got control over what songs the radio played. All this considering, you really couldn't complain. There were worse ways to get a paycheck... However, today's shift at the Cadmus Bar had you wondering if that was true or if it was another lie you were telling yourself to cope?

Your questions began with the first wave of early morning customers who'd exploded through the door, eager for their (keto) protein shake to start off the day. Several complained that their drinks were made wrong even though they'd gotten the exact things that they'd ordered. One of them, a woman sporting a bob cut, screamed at you for making her gluten-free veggie wrap gluten-free. Another demanded that they use the bathrooms before ordering anything. You were forced to tell them that it was against company policy to allow "non-paying individuals" access to the restrooms unless they bought something first. This ignited a vitriol-fueled tirade where you (eventually) had to ask the person to leave. On their way out, they kicked over the store sign and damaged it. You'd tried fixing the frame but to no avail. It remained slightly crooked.

Shit snowballed in the afternoon, just before the lunch rush, when the new trainee spilled a whole tray of smoothies on a customer, then managed to lock their cashier register out of the system. A mistake that spelled doom for everyone else who was working front of house. Specifically, you. It'd taken HOURS to figure out what they'd done and by that time, the trainee had already clocked out. To top it all off, your (least favorite) manager had decided to pop in unexpectedly which meant the radio was now honed onto 95.6 The Outlaw Star, a station that only played country music. Really bad country music. The kind that grated on your ears as it repeated the same insipid chorus lines again and again and again...

You're almost certain crap like this violated parts of The Geneva Conventions. But, what could you honestly expect from a restaurant chain that was owned by Lex Luthor?

Well...

At least you weren't unemployed.

"I'd fuck him."

Whatever worries you had about your job totally vanished in an instant when Zen, your co-worker, made this off-handed remark while cleaning the lobby with you in-between customer flows. She gave no additional context after that, leaving you baffled.

Glancing around first to see if your manager was lurking nearby and not finding him, you ask Zen-

"What?"

-with a deadpan tone that distinctly conveys just how excited you are about the subject matter of this conversation and where you believe it's most likely headed.

"I think he's hot," she reiterates, "I mean, the suit is weird but I'd still fuck him."

You stop wiping off the sticky, juice residue from a tabletop to stare at Zen. "Care to, uh, elaborate a bit more?" You question her, "Because I'm lost here."

Your co-worker waved over at the TV perched in the lobby corner. It was set to the Gotham News Network. Displayed on screen, lead anchorman, Jack Ryder, was interviewing several Gothamites at the scene of a burnt-down brewery. A chyron banner underneath stated: "Ten People Saved in Joker Attack by The Batman, Grand Re-opening Postponed Indefinitely."

"Batman!" Zen announced as if it were obvious, "I think he's sexy. I mean, he's got those incredible pecs and that delicious jawline! I'd absolutely be down to fuck. But, he's gotta lose the suit in bed. Or wait! No, scratch that. He should leave it on..."

A giggle escaped from her. You continue to stare at your co-worker like she's suddenly grown two heads. Eventually, though, you clear your throat and go back to scrubbing the table. Zen scowled at this.

"Oh, c'mon!" She exclaimed, "Tell me you haven't thought about it. Not even once?"

You roll your eyes.

"Literally, not even once," you reply, voice devoid of enthusiasm while you continue to do your job. A bit of orange gunk had crusted onto the table and was being difficult against the force of your washcloth.

Zen didn't believe you.

"Liar," she said.

"It's the truth," you shoot back at her, applying a bit more pressure into your scrubbing. Still, that infuriating splotch remained.

A wicked grin curved along your co-worker's lips. Zen hopped onto the table. She leaned in toward you, invading your personal space and stopping you from cleaning. You glare at her sourly. It only encourages her to scoot even closer near you.

"Let's play a game of Fuck, Bang, Kill," she said, not waiting for your response either way before launching into her proposal, "I'll pick the options and you say 'fuck', 'bang', or 'kill'. Simple enough, right?"

"No."

"Okay!"

"Ugh, you're really gonna make me do this, aren't you?"

"Yup! No mercy!"

One brief moment passed where your co-worker tapped her finger against her chin. She looked to be deep in thought while considering the choices for the game. Knowing Zen, however, you figure she had probably come up with it weeks ago...

"Clayface," she said first, squinting (narrowly) at you for signs of a hidden monsterfucking fetish.

This one is a no-brainer.

"Kill," you automatically reply, wasting zero time to deliberate.

"Killer Croc," she says next.

Frowning, you answer: "Kill."

"Firefly," Zen states, "But, you gotta let him move into your apartment."

"He'd set too many things on fire. Kill."

"Two Face."

"Double Kill."

"Scarface."

"I'm not into puppets, kill."

She tossed her hands in the air, "Oh my god, you can't just keep choosing kill, Y/N! That's not how this game works!"

"Well," you shrug, "You said it was my choice. So, I'm just playing according to your rules."

"Joker and Harley Quinn."

"Kill them."

"Catwoman."

"Eh, kill."

"Poison Ivy."

"Ask why my succulent is dying, then kill."

"Mad Hatter."

"Do I look like an Alice? Kill."

With the slightest hint of satisfaction, you watch as Zen's face betrayed her own frustration. There was practically (black) smoke billowing from her ears while she tried to guess which Rogue you'd be most likely to marry. Or fuck. You wonder how long it would take until she called it quits?? After all, the two of you still had a lobby to clean. If the manager caught you both slacking off, you'd get written up for sure.

Suddenly, your co-worker's face brightened.

"THE RIDDLER!" She exclaimed like she'd solved a crime, jabbing her index finger up into the air. "I bet you'd break for the Riddler."

You blink.

Something flickered in the back of your mind. An old memory that you thought you'd forgotten.

"Uh, kill?" You answer, although you sound a hint uncertain, "I don't know, you can't really see him behind that mask and I'm not sure I could handle his followers. Plus, those riddles..."

Zen pouted. You could tell she was getting close to admitting defeat. It was only a matter of time now. You give the stubborn splotch another hard scrub with your rag, really putting your arm into it. The tiniest portion was beginning to come off. However, you pause when you hear Zen suggest a name that you'd never heard of before:

"Well, how about that new one? The one that the news is calling the Scarecrow?"

You open your mouth to speak but find yourself interrupted by a rush of customers. Moms with their kids in soccer uniforms and teenagers who were just getting out of school. Zen lets loose a sigh, knowing that you'd been spared from her torture by fate or chance. At least, for now. She quickly rushed over to the cash register, putting on her "customer service" smile while she began taking orders, leaving you to finish up the lobby alone. You caught Zen glance over at you once as if to warn you that this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Unfortunately, she wasn't someone who gave up easily...

Minutes before you were scheduled to take your ten, the manager calls you into his office. With a lazy wave, he gestures for you to sit down in the chair across from his own while he riffles through a filing cabinet behind his desk. You happened to sneak a peak and see that what your manager is picking through are employee folders. An unease settles over you when he yanks out a file labeled "[your name]," then places it down between you both as he takes a seat. He looks at you for just a moment, eyebrow raised.

"[Y/N], where you do see yourself in five years??" He asks you.

Your mind is racing in all possible avenues at this question.

"E-Excuse me?" You stammer out finally, though it sounded as if your voice was just a squeak, "I don't understand what you're-"

"Back in March, when you filled out your resume, you said you were planning to go back to college next semester. Is that still true?"

Your manager cuts you off. He cracks open your file, selecting the job application that you'd filled out a year ago when you decided that you needed an extra source of income. Despite this city being a trash fire, Gotham was still an expensive place to live. And college wasn't cheap! Buying textbooks for all the psychology courses that you were going to take in September would cost you. Even with the grants you were on! You watch nervously as your manager thumbs through your application idly, waiting for you to speak. He seems annoyed.

"Uhm," you mumble at first, but recover yourself enough to ground the uncertainty fluttering inside your stomach as you attempt a reply, "Yeah, that's the plan."

Your manager sighs.

"Look [Y/N]," he says, skepticism dripping from his tone like leaded water in an old pipe, "I didn't want to be the one who had to point it out to you but upper management has been cracking down on us lately. Our customer reviews have been too low for the past couple of months. You came up during our team meeting last Wednesday as a topic of interest. Several times, actually."

You blink, confused.

"Wait, what?"

You knew you weren't the best employee that the Cadmus Bar had. But, you knew that you weren't the worst either! Certainly, this had to be a huge misunderstanding. You ask for some clarification and your manager (with all the energy of a mildly disappointed father) begins to list off a series of ridiculous infractions, accusations, and "witness reports" that pegs you as the person who keeps breaking the smoothie blenders. Something that you, yourself, have been reporting (complaining) to management about since the very first day of your employment here.

"Annnd, we don't feel like you're smiling enough," your manager adds, placing the cherry on top of his corporate-talk cake, "You don't really portray the warm, friendly disposition that the Cadmus Bar is known for in its employees. Uh, one report we recently received about you seems to call you 'weird and off-putting'. Another one claims you're 'unhelpful' and 'have a rude attitude'. So, uh, you understand how none of this looks good, right Y/N?"

You scrambled for a reasonable explanation. Any explanation. However, what slipped out was half cooked mumblings that didn't sound convincing when spoken aloud: "I'll try harder. It's just been a rough couple of weeks and-"

Your manager holds up an authoritative hand.

"No, it's been a rough couple of months, Y/N," he says, correcting you immediately with the slight bite of annoyance heard from every word that he spoke, "And look, we were willing to grant you a brief period after your accident so you could get reorientated again. But, this behavior has turned into a pattern."

He levels an accusatory stare at you.

"I..."

The world darkens for a moment as you process his words. Images flash before your eyes in quick succession: rain on the windshield, a blind corner of a lonely road, high beams and screeching tires that tore through the air alongside screams, fire, blood staining wet pavement... Your mouth goes dry. You feel numb inside. Somehow, it's like you are there, reliving that awful night all over again. Your manager brings you back to reality when he clears his throat, appearing uncomfortable with how you were handling this talk. He tries shifting your focus by telling you "the good news" about your predicament...

"The silver lining is we're not firing you yet. We've got that new trainee, though, so you might want to start seriously thinking about the future, Y/N. All those college fees are going to be expensive. Maybe you can put some work into that smile in the meantime, yeah? Start wearing some pretty buttons on your vest to show our customers the real Cadmus Bar spirit."

You wished you had said anything other than the quiet, mumbled agreement that had slipped out of you. For some reason, the words you could've chosen just ran through your fingers like sand at a beach. With no refutes available, your manager sends you away, satisfaction on his bloated face that advertised (quite obviously) the pleasure he took in crushing your spirit and making you feel small in this moment. He tosses your file into the trash as you leave the office. The knowledge that your days working here were numbered became suddenly clear.

You decide to take your ten.

"They can't fire you!"

Inhaling a deep lung full of smoke from her joint, Zen medicated the rage she felt, then released it with a mighty exhale and a walloping cough. She passes the burning joint onto you, who partakes from it less aggressively, and continues her rant despite wheezing in between (her sharp-spoken) words.

"You and I keep this shit together!! If it wasn't for us, nothing would get done right. They think the evening prep gets done by Terry and his shift?! I can't count the times they've fucked the freezer up!"

You exhale a small stream of pungent marijuana into the air. Then, cough. Even though your chest seized, the relaxation you felt afterward was just enough to persuade you to take a second toke. It had been a stressful day for you already. And the day still wasn't over yet...

"I know," you agreed, grumbling at the hand your job was dealing you, "But, I don't "smile enough" for fucking Terry, apparently. I'm too 'weird and off-putting' and 'unhelpful with a rude attitude'."

"Well, that last one is true. You are pretty fucking rude sometimes, Y/N." Zen replies, reaching out to take the joint you were offering back, "But, it's still bullshit! That trainee can't replace you. She's barely handling the dishwasher right now. A few weeks won't make a difference if she's that dumb and incompetent!"

"I know, right?"

"Like, who am I supposed to talk to about stupid shit all day?"

A sobering kind of silence fell upon Zen and you. Despite the city noise that pounded at your ears, the only thing you could hear was the emptiness that was forming in the slots of your daily routine and the dreadful monotony that would take your co-worker's place. While you knew Zen wouldn't totally disappear from your life, things would be different enough that you cringed just imagining it. You don't think you'd be able to stand working around anyone else. Sighing, you lean your head against the brick wall behind you and gaze up at the thin sliver of (overcast) sky above. This might be the last time you smoke with Zen in this shitty alleyway. You try to savor the moment but all you can do is frown as if you'd tasted something that had spoiled.

"You got me still, man."

Roach breaks the awkward silence. You turn your head to look at the homeless stoner that Zen and you had befriended (adopted) months ago when he'd first shown up in this alley, asking for a light, and rolling papers. With a frown, you realize that you'd miss him. Even if he did bum way, way too many cigarettes. Roach, in some weird way, was also a fixture of your daily life that you'd become attached to...

"Oh, sweetie. We love you but that's not the point being made here," Zen says, taking a quick hit of the joint before passing it along to Roach, "Point is-"

"The point is I'm screwed," you interject, "WE are screwed. Hell, I watched Terry throw my file into the trash! I'm getting fired."

Roach inhaled half the joint as he listened to you speak. Coughing, nearly choking on the cloud he made with his exhale, he summarizes today's ten minute break in three simple words-

"This sucks, man!"

-then, takes another generous toke. The cloud of smoke he made this time was (somehow) bigger than the last. Roach shook his head. Ran a hand through his matted, tangled hair and sighed. He looked genuinely upset. Your heart turned over a little seeing how much these people cared about you.

"Like, who am I gonna bum smokes from now?"

Nevermind.

A laugh rumbles deep from Roach's chest as Zen (and you) just squint at him. "Oh, c'mon! You had to know that was a joke. I'm kidding, I'm kidding! This is a huge bummer, though. I liked smoking with you guys. You aren't weird about how I look. You treat me like I'm normal..." He says this with a heavy frown that collapses very suddenly upon his face.

"Well, you're as normal as the rest of us!"

"Careful guys, they might send us to Arkham."

"Oh my god, I bet they'd put us in cells right next to each other! We could pass along little notes in between the bars or something, haha!"

You all laugh as a group...but it feels bittersweet.

Zen and Roach give you the last hits off the joint, now merely a blackened nub. You were reminded of the time and realized that your ten was almost over. Zen must've been on the same wavelength as you because she groaned (loudly) when she'd checked her phone. She pouted for a second like a kid who'd just been told to go clean their room. You follow suit in your own subdued way, feeling the weight of each second that counted down to your inevitable unemployment.

Flicking the spent remainders of the joint into an ashtray, you take a breath, and mentally prepare yourself for the last hours of your shift.

"Ugh, time to clock back in."

"Same. I'll take care of the trash?"

"Thanks, Y/N. I fucking hate doing the trash."

You spend about fifteen minutes lugging stuffed, Hefty bags out to the dumpsters. One split open in the middle of transport. Another was leaking a sticky, warm liquid that got all over your uniform, making your clothes smell like rancid candy and crap. On the last round of trash, Roach helps you toss an extra heavy one that you were struggling with throwing away. You try to thank him. He just shakes his head, though, insisting that no thanks were necessary among friends...

"You've been decent to a bum like me. This is the least I can do for you."

Still, you find yourself thanking him again. Then, turn to slouch back into the Cadmus Bar (where a new wave of customers were surely crowding at the cash register by now) but are stopped by Roach, who wants to give you something. From his stained jeans pocket, he pulled out an onyx black card. He hands it to you with a rare, serious look on his face as he explains:

"Look, I hate to see them fuck you over so here's the number to my cousin, Frankie C. He's a good guy when he's not drunk. He runs a temp agency in Otisburg. If you need some quick cash to get you by while you figure shit out, call him. He can set you up with a small gig just like that. It won't be enough to break even, usually. Sometimes, an opportunity comes in, though. Depending on the season and all that."

You shake your head while telling him that you'll be fine, that you already had a plan (even if you absolutely didn't and were panicking about the next few months of your life). Roach seemed to know you were lying because he refused to take the card back from you. He just kept redirecting the topic onto his cousin. Eventually, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets so he couldn't use them. You're forced to keep the card after that. Roach smiled when you finally slid the thin paper into your vest pocket.

"Just, uhhh, keep the Frankie stuff between you and me, okay? Don't wanna ruin a sweet deal like this on everyone!"

He winks, nudging your side with an elbow. You end up laughing despite your mood. It was hard to be sad around Roach. And you wish you could do more for him than just share your smokes on the days you were working here. You could keep his secret, however. Now, it was your secret, too. You pat your vest pocket and salute Roach as if he were the captain of a ship.

"My lips are sealed!" You exclaim, making a show of pursing your lips and sealing them shut.

Your shift flew by relatively fast. Before you knew it, you were riding the D-line back to Rosserie St. where the peace of your apartment awaited you. The trip was smooth, almost TOO smooth for an average Gotham evening. It had you gripping the canister of the pepper spray you kept hidden in your purse out of suspicion. But, the minute you made it to your neighborhood, you relaxed a little bit. With the GCPD so close to your home, crime here was more tame. The worst it usually had to offer came in the forms of muggings by average thugs. Or break-ins. It was partly the reason your parents had been willing to pay the deposit when you'd moved out. Through some miracle, you'd convinced them it was safe. It'd helped when you mentioned that the police station was just a few blocks away. You knew they regularly donated to the GCPD and their fundraising galas every year.

You spent the rest of your night filling out online applications and re-writing your resume, despite knowing that any place that would hire you likely wouldn't read it.

At 5 am, a loud banging on your apartment door startles you awake. An angry voice accompanies it. By the Pennsylvania Dutch accent, it was your landlord. Reluctantly, you peeled yourself off the couch and stumbled lifelessly through the living room to go figure out what he wanted. Because it wasn't the first of the month and you'd already taken care of the bills so there was nothing that sour old man could (possibly) want from you. A breath is taken before you open the door. A little prayer is said to whatever God was listening up there. You steel yourself, plaster a smile on your face, then open the door to greet your landlord. Your stomach drops when you see he's holding a bunch of envelopes that were addressed to each resident of the building.

"The rent's just increased," he says while handing you your envelope from his pile, "I'm gonna need the difference you owe by Monday, alright?"

Your landlord shoots this new information at you with such casualness that it makes you feel sick. He's staring at you as if you were an idiot for not knowing (or expecting) that this would probably happen. Fortunately, you recover from the shock quick enough to form what you hope is a protest. It doesn't go well.

"I...already paid my rent, though."

"Yeah? Well, now the new payment is due."

"You can't raise the rent until next month!"

"Look, I don't know what to tell you, Y/N. It's that "gentrification" stuff all those woke hipsters talk about on the social medias. Prices going up? The rent goes up. Pretty open shut case, alright? Not a lot of mumbo jumbo to it."

"This apartment is rent controlled. I made sure it was when I moved in!"

"Okay, then take it up with the housing authority and wait for them to call you back about it. In the meantime? I'm gonna need that money from you on Monday. 5 am sharp. Or you can move out of here and I'll rent this apartment to someone who would pay triple the new price!!"

Your landlord's threat ripped the argument from your lips. He seems pleased when you fall silent and appear to crumple internally. You mask it by putting on a brave face...but your attempt isn't a convincing show of strength. Just as he's about to continue speaking, a (LOUD) meow interrupts him. Both you and your landlord stop what you're doing, pressing a momentary pause on your talk, to look towards the source of the noise that was growing more obnoxious by the second. You see that an orange cat was pacing back and forth on your balcony patio. Like it was waiting for you to let it in. Like this was a routine thing you did and not the very first time you'd ever seen it here. As you make the innocent mistake of giving it direct eye contact, it reacts by reaching up and eagerly paws at the sliding glass door.

Your landlord scowls.

"So, you got a pet?" He spits, raising an eyebrow at you, "That'll be an extra 200 for pet insurance. Cats piss and shit everywhere, ya know? Dirty lil' bastards. They'll fuck up my nice, clean carpets."

The carpets in your apartment were neither nice nor clean. Actually, they'd been stained and dirty since day one. The only reason they were decent now was all the steam cleaning you did to keep it tenable! Even then, your carpets were only a few more accidental messes away from being trash...

"That's not my cat," you state firmly, putting your foot down, "I don't have a pet. I don't owe you for a cat that isn't mine!"

Your landlord jabs his finger in the cat's direction and says, "If it's sitting on your fucking patio, it's your fucking cat! End of discussion. Don't need a brain to figure out that, do ya?"

He smirks (again) when he sees frustration twist anew upon your face. It made the short-statured man happy whenever he could provoke this kind of conflict in someone. But, you were convinced it meant more to him when that person was you; which filled you with such impotent anger that it nearly blinded you. Dark thoughts about ripping the smirk off his lips and grinding it into the dirty carpets that he seemed so proud of swirled and spiraled around inside your head. You held back, however, because you also wanted to keep a roof over your head. Fall was just around the corner in Gotham. It was about to get cold. Really fast. It'd be iced-over mornings and winter storms before you knew it...

So, you bit your tongue and said nothing.

"You have to think about your future, Y/N. No one is gonna do it for you," your landlord drives home the point he wanted to make even further, gently patting the frame of your apartment door with a faux concern, "Think about where you wanna be. You got until Monday to decide if it's here like an adult or out on the street in a cardboard box."

That was the second time your "future" had been mentioned. The sound of twisting steel hits your ears. Breaking glass shatters all around you as a tire, engulfed in fire, rolls past your mental vision. Someone is crying out for help. A scream crawls from your throat and takes the form of three tiny words that you speak in a defeated whisper:

"This isn't legal."

Your landlord laughs loudly and shrugs when he hears you, "This is Gotham, toots!"

He walks away before you can say anything else. You're left holding the envelope he gave you with the cat you now, apparently, owned. Who hadn't stopped meowing, by the way. You could hear it practically yowling, clawing down the tempered glass of your patio door, trying its hardest to get your attention. Sighing, you shut the front door. Lock it tight. Then, turn to face the mess of your apartment. Was paying the rent increase worth it considering what a dump house this place was?? The question nagged you while you crossed your living room (stepping over piled books and dirty laundry that you'd forgotten about a week or two ago) to open the patio door. Immediately, the cat stopped crying once it'd been let in. You watch it make itself at home on your couch and begin to purr.

Nope, you were never getting rid of that cat. You could see 200 dollars literally flying away in this moment as you relented and sat down next to it on your couch. Your fingers ran through the cat's soft, pumpkin-colored fur. Maybe you'd buy it a collar the next time you got paid? Maybe one of those cute, themed ones that you'd (sometimes) see at Petco. If you still had a job by then...

Your head falls back against the couch as a slow and exasperated groan unfurls out of you. With a desperate eye, you search the cobweb cracks in the ceiling for clues on what you should do. Their answer is silence. You were screwed.

So, you decided that breakfast was the answer!

There was a greasy spoon diner down the street that served a (passable) eggs and hash. Despite knowing your wallet couldn't handle it, you found yourself sitting in your usual spot fifteen minutes after opening the envelope, hoping that a simple, hot meal would ease your turmoil. 1,500 dollars plus 200 extra for the cat that wasn't yours and an additional increase on utilities that you didn't use. Like parking. Or the community gym. That's what you owed your landlord by Monday. It was money you just didn't have! Even thinking about it made your eyes bigger than your stomach. You end up ordering way too much food, then regret it almost instantly. Today, the eggs are bland and unseasoned. The hashbrowns are burnt black at the edges. These flavors settled on your tongue, as disappointing as the debt you had to pay, and lingered there with the stress that hung over you like a storm cloud.

Technically, you had the money...but, it was your college fund.

You couldn't touch that.

When you had moved out of your parents' house, blessedly away from Metropolis, you'd promised yourself something; that one day, you'd get your bachelor's degree in psychology, start a practice of your own and finally prove to your family that you were a capable, independent adult. However, more than that bit, you felt a certain gravitational pull towards learning about how the mind works. Even at a young age, you were always absorbed in observations about the people (and the world) around you. You'd scribble them upon sheets of paper with crayons or colored marker or pen and pencil. Sticking them on your bedroom walls. It'd driven your parents absolutely insane. They had dreams (delusions) of you becoming a grammar school teacher. A "safe profession for a girl" that wasn't too ambitious and established your role in the family legacy. All Wrenns were educators. No deviations from the antiquated mold. Unsatisfied with this as you grew older, you tried arguing to your parents that psychology and teaching were similar fields. That they were (for all intents and purposes) practically the same thing! The result had been a disaster. And sometimes, they'd still laugh at the notion over holiday dinner, throwing salt on the wound by mentioning with a mocking scrutiny-

'Except you're not around crazy people!'

-to end the conversation. Not surprisingly, they'd been unsupportive of you the day you'd received your acceptance letter to GSU. They also weren't proud of the grants you'd earned to, in their own words, throw your future away on a crack career like head shrinking. And they didn't help you with anything other than the deposit on this shit hole you now hated renting in the city they hated you living in. Sometimes, your parents would call you to ask if you'd consider coming back home. They would suggest you enroll in the "nice community college" just a few blocks down from their house. Or they'd sneak details into the dialogue about a new position at the elementary school your Mom worked in when they were feeling extra unhappy by your choices. You'd always say patiently: 'No, I can't. I'm staying in Gotham,' and they'd end the chat on a sour note. Lately, they seemed to really enjoy using how well your brother, Braydon, was doing in Metropolis.

Your college fund was the only thing standing in between you and returning back to your parents, crushed and defeated. You couldn't dip into it to solve your money problem. Doing so would only cement the quaint, milquetoast future that they determined for you. It would set you on a course of compromises until you became less an actual person and more a thing they felt entitled to "set right again." You knew, without any shadow of a doubt, that asking your parents for help in your current predicament would only result in a battle where they'd make you admit that you couldn't handle living on your own. They'd probably drive all the way to Gotham to come pick you up and take you back home. You'd wake up ten years in the future after that; a passionless, grade school teacher just like your mother. Probably married to a man you (barely) tolerated with a handful of kids you'd push into being an educator as you'd been pushed. Insisting they give up their dreams for your vision instead. For the only vision that a Wrenn was allowed. What a nightmare concept.

And yet, you found yourself texting your Dad. He had always been the more reasonable parent...

You: Hey, Dad. Can I ask you a favor?

You: Dad, I really need to borrow

You: So, something came up this month

You: Hey, how're you? How's Mom? [5:55 am]

The response came a half an hour later.

Dad: Isn't it a little too early for you? 😜 We're doing fine. Haven't heard from you in a while. How're things in Gotham? We heard there was a new madman running around the city on the news. [6:25 am]

By that time, you were already back home.

You: 🤷‍♀️ There's always a new madman running around Gotham. Dad, can I ask you Dad, I've run into troub I'm doing fine, tho. Just busy. [6:27 am]

Dad: That's good. Remember to put the GCPD on speed dial in case anything does happen, ok? [6:28 am]

You: I've got them on speed dial already. Don't worry. Hey, could we talk about something [6:30 am]

Dad: That's good, sweetie. Just want you to be safe. How's college been? Have you decided on when you'll be transferring over to St. Mary's? [6:35 am]

You stared at the message for a long time after it was sent and realized, with a sinking feeling, just how futile asking your parents for help was. They didn't want you to study at the GSU. They didn't want you to be a psychologist. Hell, they weren't even cool with you living in Gotham! Here they were, already pushing you to leave the city (and your dreams) behind. No, this had been a stupid mistake. If you had a problem, you were going to have to solve it yourself. Like an adult.

You: I'm staying at GSU, Dad. Classes are going really well. My teachers love me. [6:44 am]

The reply from your father came too quick to be anything good. It simply said-

Dad: Ok. [6:44 am]

-and nothing else. You don't text him back. You'd just be wasting time at this point. Instead, you fill out more online job applications. Even the listing you found for a janitor position at Arkham. Right now, you weren't being picky. When you'd milked all of Linked In, Craigslist, GothHires, and several local group forums, you funneled your anxiety in other ways; you began washing the dirty dishes that'd sat in your sink since...you forget, you pick up the books off the floor (putting them together on your shelf), and start sorting through the old laundry piles too.

When you grab your clothes from yesterday, you notice that something falls out of your work vest. It lands on the floor at your feet. You bend down to pick the thing up and peer at it (kinda baffled) and clueless before suddenly remembering what it was. This little black card was the contacts for the temp agency run by Roach's cousin. As you flip it over to see: "Frankie Cee, hiring agent. He'll see the potential in you!" printed on it with black ink and metallic foil, an idea strikes you. A genius idea...

What harm could a phone call do?

You begin dialing the number on the card.

"Hello, Frankie? Hi, uh. My name is [Y/N] and my friend Roach said you hire people. Could I set up an interview with you? My call back number is..."

Sandwiched between the glamour of the Bowrey and the government offices of the West End was a dump called Otisburg where all the dirt, sweat, and grime in Gotham collected itself. Comprised of crumbling brick and dark alleyways that were always littered with trash, it stood out against its wealthy neighbors, reminding everyone that just beneath the (gilded) surface was a festering sore left untreated within the city. And that year after year, Mayor Hill neglected it stubbornly despite his many "sincere" promises to do otherwise. It's inside this wound that you find yourself a couple of hours past noon, wondering (worrying) if you had gotten the address right?? Or if Frankie Cee had sent you the wrong pin on WayneMaps...

Because the place your pin had sent you to was a dive bar.

Brows furrowed in confusion, you quickly check WayneMaps again. Nope! This was it. 4580 45th St (South). Right next to a bus stop and a row of condemned apartments that'd seen better days. Stashing your phone away, you peer at the neon sign that said "Stacked Deck" in mustard yellow and scarlet red with apprehension twisting your gut. Unless this (particular) hiring manager ran a bar or worked at an incredibly progressive, super chill, non-profit, having your interview here didn't make sense. Things like that were typically done in an office. You were starting to realize, albeit a touch late, that this whole situation was sketchy and your genius idea had been stupid! While you knew Roach was only trying to help, he'd set you upon a fool's errand, anyways. Should've stayed home and done job applications. You turn around to leave but surprise yourself when you walk into the bar instead as if a gravitational pull held your feet for ransom.

Suspicious stares fix themselves upon you when you enter the Stacked Deck. Some patrons even leer and throw lascivious comments out, hoping to rattle loose a reaction from you. One guy asks how much your hourly rates are? Another seems way too curious about why "a tiny little thing like you" has come to a place like this? Ignoring each prod and jab these bar-dwellers throw, you wade through the sea of cigarette smoke that hung in the air, focused solely on the long counter where drinks were being served. Unfortunately, you tug your hoodie strings while you do this, advertising the discomfort you felt to everyone regardless of the stiff upper lip you were trying (and failing) to portray. RIP you. After waiting a couple seconds, the next available bartender slides up to you and asks what you want to order with narrowed eyes full of skepticism. She's probably wondering the same thing everybody else is; what're you doing here?

In the back of your mind, you're questioning that too...

"Oh, uhh, no. No, I'm here for Frankie?" You reply, sounding uncertain, your statement forming into a question at the very end, "Frankie Cee? Do you know if he's around?"

Wordlessly, the bartender stares at you. When it was beginning to get super uncomfortable, you tried clarifying. Somehow, this makes you sound less confident than if you'd kept quiet: "I have an interview with him at 3."

The bartender continues staring. Her expression morphs from skepticism to abject disbelief. "You have an interview with Frankie Cee? You?? At this bar?"

"Yes," you say, a bit frustrated now.

She raises an eyebrow, "Are you positive?"

You absolutely weren't.

"Yeah," you repeat, firmer this time, "he gave me this address to meet up. I just didn't know it was gonna be at a bar. Uh, his text said to talk to the bartenders first."

Judging off pure mood alone, you could tell that the bartender was done talking with you. Before she could show you the door, though, you reach into your pockets and pull out the onyx card that Roach had given you. You hold it up so the lady could see it, like it was an ID, hoping this would be enough to convince her to help you out or at least point you in the right direction. If you'd been thinking with your head on straight, if you'd only paid attention to the red flags, you might've realized how weird all this was. How wrong it felt in the pit of your stomach. But, the specter of lost college funds, homelessness, and your (almost certain) unemployment was blinding your sight to the bad omens surrounding you. You wanted money now more than anything else. Even the possibility of it seemed worth the potential risk.

The bartender sighed when she saw the card. It was obvious she was annoyed by the sight of it. "Well, fuck! Here I was thinking you were a lying bitch I could 86. No happy endings in Gotham. Yeah, Frankie's here. Give me a minute. I'll go snag him for ya. In the meantime, be a paying customer, buy yourself something, and go sit at those seats in the back. Or else I'll have to kick you out, anyway. Alright? So, what's your poison?"

You decide on beer. Something light, something without a high alcohol percentage. After all, you didn't want to get fucked up before the interview. The bartender sighs at your choice. With disgust in her tone, she grumbles 'of course' underneath her breath, then turns around to make your order after you'd handed her 15 crinkled dollars. Soon, with drink in hand, you hurry past the pool tables and the cue rack and the glowing neon sign that said: "Keep Gotham Weird". You slip into the end booth closest to the restrooms where a poster of Zephyrs of the Holy hung. Zen had once told you that the band was magical, so you'd thought it'd be a good place to wait. Maybe their luck would rub off on you?

You were half a beer in when Frankie Cee arrived. The man was not what you were expecting! Bald and beefy with black tattoos blazed up his arms, Frankie was the polar opposite of his cousin. He looked suspiciously like if Mr. Clean had joined a biker gang. The man glances at you (and your drink) once, chuckles to himself, then joins you in the booth. You swear you heard him whisper 'of course,' but you pretend not to hear it. Which was probably the best thing you could do in this scenario for more than one reason.

"So! My piece of shit, good for nothing, bum of a cousin sent you my way, huh?" Frankie asks you, grin on his face. Despite the twinkle in his eye, it was hard to tell if he was joking or being serious. That edge of uncertainty has you sweating bullets. You gape at him; frozen cold in the headlights by his question. You weren't sure how to answer him and Frankie seemed amused that you didn't quite know what to say. He continues speaking, taking a casual sip of the Tennessee Rye that was clutched in his hand while doing so, "You know, that fucker still owes me for the last favor I did. You wanna pay his tab for him?"

"Uhhh."

This interview was going great already! You were going to kill Roach when you saw him next. Your face twists up momentarily as you contemplate the logistics of murder...

The man must've sensed what you were thinking because he erupted with laughter. Wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye, Frankie switches gears and decides to stop panicking you. "Nahh, I'm just playing' with ya! My cousin's decent when he's not on the drops. But he does owe me a pack of cigs the next time I see him."

"You and me both," you replied, a weaker chuckle than his escaping from your throat, still shaky on whether (or not) this was truly a joke. You try reminding yourself that if everything went wrong for some reason, you had pepper spray handy in your pockets. It was a weak reassurance but the only one you had at the moment.

"Right. Well, enough chit-chat. Let's get down to business." Frankie says, that merry twinkle in his eye becoming much sharper than before.

The man retrieves a folded paper from his pant's pocket, opens it up flat, then slides it over to you. It's a job application. Emblazoned on top was the logo for the temp agency (an eyeball wreathed in flames) with the company name orbiting around it. A small sentence follows underneath: "We can SEE the potential in you!". This agency definitely had their brand figured out, you thought, as the slogan hooked onto your brain like a Super Bowl commercial. Scanning through the rest of it, you find that everything seems pretty normal (about four sections dedicated to general info, medical history, driving record, and previous employers), but when you flipped the paper over...things got a little weird. 13 questions greet you, each more confusing than the last.

You squint at them.

Frankie senses your bewilderment and chuckles. "Just fill the questionnaire out to the best of your abilities, girly. Some of them are a little out there due to our clientele, but answering them all helps me figure out what gigs you'll best be suited for, you dig?? We wanna match our employees' skills to the needs of our clients."

You nod, then ask him a question. But he ignores this completely and asks you one instead. Which nags you in an insistent way. Something was off. Something wasn't right here. Something tugged on your gut for you to leave this place.

"Are you thirsty? I'm gonna snag something from the bar. I'll be back in a moment. Try getting that thing done, alright?? Just don't think about it too much."

Frankie drains the rest of his Tennessee Rye with a single gulp. An impressive feat considering his glass was practically full. He uses your stunned silence to make his getaway. You watch the man saunter towards the bar counter, greeting some new faces that'd just entered the Stacked Deck from the alleyside door. After a second, you turn your attention onto the paper. Blinking, still lost, you search for a pen inside your purse and begin to tackle the easiest parts on the front. That tug in your gut yanked harder. Finally, you arrived at the back page of the application. By that time, it felt like your whole, damn stomach was twisted into knots.

You poise your pen over the first question. Your hand is shaking slightly as you do...

1. How flexible are you willing to be with work hours?

Answer: All weekends and holidays.

That one was normal and simple to answer. You jot your response down without much hesitation.

2. Do you have any physical disabilities that would prevent you from finishing a task?

Answer: No.

This question was also pretty common. You have to have seen it printed on a hundred different job applications before.

3. Do you have any familial connections to law enforcement?

Answer: No.

Another inquiry that didn't appear abnormal. But you wondered, albeit briefly, why a temp agency would want to know that? You figure it was likely a conflict of interest deal for some of the clients. After all, you weren't a fan of the GCPD, either.

4. Do you own a firearm?

Answer: No.

Not an odd question to ask in Gotham. Everyone and their mothers kept some kind of weapon on them. The most efficient option being a gun. You had thought about owning one, back when you'd been planning to move to this city. Instead, your parents convinced you (wore you down) to buy a can of pepper spray. They were mortified by the idea of you shooting a pistol. Luckily, a year into GSU, your dormmate had shown you how to use one.

5. How do you feel about dressing in uniform?

Answer: I'm okay with it.

You supposed this one made sense? Every job in retail that you'd had made you wear a uniform or at least a company T-shirt. You hated the cheesy outfits of some places (like BatBurger), but right now, you weren't really in a position to turn down a paycheck. So, you lie on the application with a bold flourish of your pen.

The next question was where things got strange.

6. If you had a catchphrase, what would it be?

Answer: Ready for anything!

What?? You stare at the words until they seem to bleed off the paper. This HAD to be some sort of attempt at a psychology quiz! One of those lame passes a business would use to gauge your level of agreeability. You roll your eyes, jotting down a phrase that meant nothing to you...but sounded like something that a hiring manager would want to hear. You cringe at the dishonesty. Yet another wave of anxiety rolls over you. Perhaps this beer wasn't agreeing with your stomach?

7. Do you have any physical skills or talents?? Example: Could you scale a wall or jump over a fence? If you had to, could you run for longer than 20 minutes? Are you proficient in martial arts?

Answer: N/A

You blink. Again, the word "what" re-emerged as a question within your brain. You tap your pen on the side of your cheek, chewed it's cap anxiously for a moment while squinting at the query. What in the world kind of business would need martial arts skills?! Was this temp agency hiring people for a dojo? But then, your brain clicks into place, recalling a chat you'd had with Roach about the time he'd been a security guard. He'd quit the job after the first night when a league of black-clad ninjas stormed the vault he was supposed to be protecting. Looking at number seven again, you supposed that it made sense. This was Gotham and insane, crazy shit like that happened all the time.

8. If the police or any legal figures of authority were to ask you to give up the name/s of your fellow employees, would you?

Answer: _________.

How were you even supposed to answer that? Of course, you would have to comply with any legal authorities! What other choice was there? Unless this temp agency was working alongside villains or criminals, a question like this was just strange. You take a gulp of your beer to steady yourself in an almost instinctual reaction, feeling once more a tug at your soul that screamed: LEAVE NOW!!! Five minutes later, you'd drained the whole glass, but those twists in your gut had only grown into a briar patch of knots. You couldn't bail from this opportunity, you reason with the panic. A worse fate awaited you on Monday if you couldn't find another source of income. That fate freezes you to your booth. You decide to leave number eight blank and come back to it. There were five other inquiries to fill.

9. Do you have any medical conditions to your knowledge that may be triggered or worsened by unknown chemical gas?

Answer: I don't know, I've never been exposed before.

Chemical plants. This temp agency must hire for chemical plants and dojos. That had to be it! You mentally pat your own back, proud of your logic, and flawless sensibility. Gotham City retained a high demand for factory workers, chemists, and also...ninjas? Your hand darts out to take another gulp of your beer only to wrap around an empty glass. As you stare at it, the scream inside your head grows louder, evolving into a shriek. Leave now. Leave now! LEAVE NOW! Instead, through clenched teeth, you write the truth in the answer slot. A heavy weight, like you'd signed your death warrant, settled upon your shoulders. Your heart began to pound in your chest. You push on to the next question...

10. Theoretically, if you were thrown into a pit of acid, how would you react?

Answer: ____________.

LEAVE. LEAVE. LEAVE. LEAVE-

"Almost done with that?"

A gravelly voice interrupts your panic attack. You glance up to see Frankie has returned; two beers in his hands and looking a little drunker. He gives you a wink, then sets your glass down in front of you. It wasn't the brand you'd bought before. The beer was darker, almost orange, and foamed up so thickly at the rim that it threatened to spill out onto the table. Thanking the man, you move the application away from the glass just in case. You hear Frankie laugh. It sounds almost sinister. You weren't sure what was so funny, but you restrain yourself from asking. There were more pressing matters on your mind like these 13 questions on the page before you.

Frankie seems to sense your apprehension as he seats himself in your booth. "Ya know, if you have anything confusing you at all, just ask. That part on the back can really stump the newbies."

Running a hand through your hair, you decide to take the man up on his offer. Perhaps, maybe, it was only a misunderstanding and you were just being stupid.

"Uhm, okay. So, I am a bit, uh...unclear here about some of these questions. Cause they sound a bit-"

Weird.

Strange.

Fucking out there.

"-unconventional," you say cautiously, choosing the adjective with care, "I've honestly never seen anything like this asked on an application before and I've worked a lot of places in Gotham."

Frankie nods lightly, appearing receptive to your concerns. He stays silent. Allows you to continue rambling with an attentive focus stationed upon you.

"Like number 10. W-what am I even supposed to say to that?? Is this a legitimate concern I should be having on the job? What about number 11. Uh, heads or tails??? Why does your agency need to know that? Okay. And let's just take a moment to appreciate number 13, because. I'm just...lost on that one! 'Thoughts on tea and scones? How do you brew a proper Earl Grey?? What are your full thoughts on cerebral manipulation via electrode and have you read Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll?'. Just what kind of clients do you have?!"

Frankie answers without skipping a beat, "We're a grassroots cooperative business catering to a high class, criminal clientele and providing them with necessary services."

Silence settles over you. For a few moments, you simply stare at the man, robbed of words to say, and devoid of thoughts to think. Frankie doesn't react, carrying on as if waiting patiently for your next questions. That twinkle gleaming in his eye got just a touch brighter and sharper. It doesn't catch your notice.

"What?" You ask, your mind finally rebooting and turning back on.

The man replies in a similar way as before:

"We're a traditionally-run recruiting agency that connects the criminal element to those in need of quick gigs or temporary employment. Usually, that first one, though, since our clients can be a little hazardous. But only if you're an idiot."

Frankie laughs while you gawk at him.

Swallowing thickly and with a hushed voice, you rephrase your last question again. You just want to hear the man say it another time in case you'd misheard him. Everyone deserved the benefit of a doubt. Frankie's laugh died down, immediately, when you asked him to repeat his simple answer for a third round. Now he was staring at you. You see a frown pull at his beer-stained lips. Another shift in gears brought a more serious tone to the man as he says, "We're a "Goon Hiring" agency."

...

Frankie Cee sneered, "What, my cousin didn't tell ya?"

"No."

"Well, that's just classic Roach, isn't it?"

...

Instantly, you stand up (ramrod straight) and get out of the booth. Plastering your best "customer service" smile upon your face, you thank Frankie for his time, collect your purse, and turn to leave. As you do, the sound of a gun clicking into place hits your eardrums. It's followed by a growl that commands you to sit back down. Trembling, you obediently comply and return to your seat facing Frankie who now has a Glock trained on you. You peer down the barrel of the pistol, eyes watering, heart pounding fast, and internally screaming at yourself for how dumb you were, how you hadn't listened to the red flags. If you were this fucking stupid, maybe it was a good thing you'd never go back to GSU? You could just die (right now) with the knowledge that it would've never worked out.

Still, your dream of being a psychologist spurred you forward...

"P-please don't k-kill me," you whimper, lower lip trembling like an autumn leaf.

"I won't as long as we can finish up this interview, girly. Now stop crying and drink your beer, we're almost through the paperwork portion."

With a shaking hand, you lift the perspiring glass up to your lips. Frankie lowers his gun as you do. The orange-hued booze that he bought you isn't to your liking. It's too strong, too bitter. It had an astringent aftertaste that clung your tongue and lingered there. Stubbornly. But, you couldn't risk being picky at the moment. Frantic, you wonder if anyone would step in to save you? Was anyone aware of this? Were they calling the cops already or rolling up their sleeves to give teach this man a lesson? At least with this question, the answer was obvious; nope. Everyone inside the Stacked Deck was ignoring you as if somebody pulling a gun out on someone else was normal. A tad late, you remember that you were in Otisburg. To this place, it WAS normal.

And nobody was going to come save you...

Frankie rests the gun on the tabletop in between you but still clutches it close, a warning (for you) not misinterpret his relaxed mood with allowing you a chance to escape. He heaves a sigh, looks at you wearily, and shakes his head. "Look, girly, you either leave because you aced this interview or leave with Tommy and Benny in a rug. Totally your choice-"

Was it really, though?

You gulp.

"-but save me the rug, okay? Those cost money. I can't keep buying more rugs this week. Plus, let's be honest: if you didn't really need this job, didn't reeeally need the money, you wouldn't have even called me. I can tell you need the dough, girl. You got that hunger just like me when I was your age. I promise if you come work with me, I'll feed that good. My temp agency ain't fucking Underworld Talent. We don't use algorithms but we're damn fucking good at what we do. You can't do better than me."

You couldn't do better.

He's right.

You feel like the walls were closing in on you.

Frankie continues his pitch, oblivious to your fear or simply uncaring. "You stick with me? Now, you got something good. Something that'll pay good. I've been doing this shit for years and I can see a future henchmen from miles away. And you? You got henchmen written all over ya, girly. Embrace that. Now, what'll it be...? A damn good job-"

He taps the end of his Glock upon your half-filled application. The sound, impatient, and urging.

"-or Tommy and Benny? And before you choose, think HARD about where you want your future to go. Who do you see yourself being in five years?"

Dead.

There was that question again. You swear, it was haunting you. The instant you heard it said, your mind floods with unbidden images. Bloody flesh on slick pavement. Twisted metal feeding flames and smoke. A cry into the night, soon becoming a wail for help that would go unheard, drowned out by the roll and crack of thunder as it rattled the earth. Lightning flashing across the sky as if God himself was angry. And you, in the middle of it all, crawling along the ground like a worm...

Did you even have a future to imagine after that?

Did you even have a future?

Despair opened its mouth wide to consume you. Yet, before it could, another vision snatches you away from it. Inside the empty hall of an old and dusty classroom, a friend smiles warmly at you. They're patting you on the back as you dab your eyes with a tissue. 'Don't stress out! It's just one bad score. You're gonna make a great therapist someday, trust me.' They say this with absolute confidence. Suddenly, you snap back to reality. A feeling far stronger than despair sparks within you.

Hope.

"I-I want the job!" You exclaim, stammering, but raising your chin to portray enough confidence nonetheless.

Frankie laughs in reaction. He seems pleased by your final decision. "Now that's what I like to hear from newbies! I knew you were a smart cookie-"

The man smiles coldly with a sharp gleam in his eye. Unlike the times prior, you knew that Frankie wasn't joking now. He was being dead serious.

"-so, let's fill out that application, yeah? I got shit to do later."

Steeling yourself, you reach for the ballpoint pen that you'd abandoned on the table and pick it up (determinedly) in your hand. With renewed spirit, you begin tackling the application. You answered every question as best you could. Even the ones that terrified you and made no sense. At the end of the back page, beneath number thirteen, you finally get to the point where your signature was needed. You poise the pen tip over the blank line, take a deep breath, then chew the inside of your lip. After this, there was no turning back. But, it wasn't as if you could turn the ship around now, either. Not if you wanted to keep your roof or go to college next semester...or live long enough to see tomorrow.

Upon the document line, you sign your name. It's a messy scribble of a signature. But, it'll do.

Frankie takes the application from you moments afterward. The ink hasn't even dried on the paper and he's already folding it into his pocket for safe keeping. The man assures you that this was the best choice you could've made; that you weren't going to regret it so long as you did exactly what you were told and followed the rules. Fear seized your heart again. You tried to ignore it. The deed had already been done. The future depended on you making some peace with it...

Because hell or high water, you were going to be a psychologist!

"Well, now that we got that squirt away, let's talk about your first job. A great one just came in an hour or two ago, perfect for a beginner goon like you," Frankie says, not giving you a second more to ruminate before throwing you into the fire, "It won't be dangerous. Just a simple D-List task. If you ask me, it might as well be free money! You'll be cleaning out a warehouse, you feel me? You're in, you're out. Badda-bing, badda-boom! Easy as mother's pie."

"But, I-"

He talks over you, waving away your words with an imperious flick of his hand, "Don't worry, girly, I won't be sending you in alone. This time. You'll be working with a team of my other employees. All experienced with this kind of job. Just listen to whatever they say and you should be golden. They're my go-to squad. So, you're in excellent hands. Trust me."

Frankie snaps his fingers, calling for Tommy and Benny with a voice that pierces through the bar's ambient noise. You're soon joined by two brollic, rough-looking men who tower over you. Frankie asks them to bring him the 'Halloween crap from last year'. A few minutes later, which feels like a lifetime to you, they return, carrying with them a cardboard box full of gimmick masks. Stuff you would buy at a Spirit Halloween store for twenty bucks. Frankie instructs you to pick out one that you liked. Without giving it thought, your hands plunge into the box and pull out a mask at pure random. You blink when you process what you've chosen.

It's a red axolotl mask.

"Take it. Wear it on the job tonight," Frankie says, explaining the purpose of his gift, "Consider it a part of your uniform from now on, alright?? And congratulations, you're officially hired! Welcome to the family-"

He grins at you. His smile has icy shivers racing down your spine.

"-I think you're gonna fit right in."

[faeryblade]

I just wanted to come here and comment on your fic please don’t tell my psychiatrist (I would’ve commented on ao3 but I don’t have an acc :/ )

It was single handedley the most well written fucked up thing I have ever read in my entire life. (And I mean that in the most complimentary way.)

Crane’s casual cruelty, how he enjoyed the power but didn’t seem to give a crap about her/pain suffering, like it was all clinical to him INSANE.

It’s been a week now and it’s still got me feeling some kind of way. Seriously. Your fic is living rent free in my head as we speak.

Oh my god!

This ask made my entire month. I swear, I'm being sent to fic writer heaven right now just reading this ❤️ Did you know you're the first ask this blog has had? I'm so HONORED you enjoy [Please, don't tell my psychiatrist!]. To be honest, I've still been trying to figure out how my Crane operates and Ch. 1 was kind of an exploration into who he was inside my brain.

Actually, this whole fic was just going to be a one-shot. Just so the Dr. Crane in my brain would stop bothering me. Like, uh. A sort of a...here you go now fuck off and stop giving me brain rot kind of deal? But after Ch. 1, the Crane in my brain was like-

"I require more of you, child."

-and now I'm doomed to long fic hell. 😂 So, I guess come enjoy the ride with me? Having you tell me it's living rent free (a terrible little gremlin) in your head is such a euphoria for me. AAAA. And just you wait! You think he's bad now? That was only just a taste of what is to come.

Especially when he meets Reader.

Who hates him.

Anyways! I'm glad you're enjoying the fic. I'm currently in the process of writing Chapter 3 right now. ❤️ DMs are always open.

[vveirdvvitch]

🧡

|| Scopophobia || A Jonathan Crane Fic ||

Synopsis: It's just another boring afternoon at the office for Dr. Jonathan Ulysses Crane. Although, testing out his latest fear toxin is yielding some...interesting results.

Word Count: 5,534

TW: Dead Dove: do not eat. 18+ content, minors DNI. NSFW, SMUT. Gaslighting and manipulation. Mention of EDs. Degradation. Non-con. Implication of suicide attempt. Forced oral, anal. Use of aphrodisiac and fear toxin. Hallucinations. Power imbalance, therapist/patient. Age difference. Monster fucking (Scarecrow). Corruption. Ahegao. Creampie. Rick roll near the end.

Note: Uh, hi there. I got bit by a highly infectious idea and quickly developed super terminal Jonathan Crane!rot...which I guess I'm making everyone's problem now. This is the first chapter of a long Jonathan X Reader fic called: "Please, don't tell my psychiatrist-he'd kill me!"

Song: "Careful What You Wish For" by Jack Harris

Taglist: @caesariawritesstuff @lasagnebats @ceramicghost @greeneyedshooter @fresh-luminarium @enochtopus-the-pressed

"I-I don't even know what I'll do. It's not like I can cancel now..."

Subject 76 picked at the fibers of her knit sweater anxiously, brows furrowed. There's a hitch to her voice. Her shoulders are slightly hunched over as if she's trying to protect herself from the topic at hand. Dr. Crane makes a note of this with a quick flourish of his ballpoint pen. Besides him, safe in her black iron cage, his pet crow, Ichabod, stares keenly at Subject 76.

"Plus, my friend has been planning this wedding for MONTHS and I'm her bridesmaid! I can't just not go to the wedding! I-I'd feel like...I dunno, like a bad friend-"

Subject 76 reached for the glass of water placed on the coffee table in front of her. She took a sip from it to settle her nerves before continuing to speak:

"Just the thought of letting her down makes me feel some awful way. Like, I don't know. I'm just, uhh. I'm just..."

"...Afraid?" Dr. Crane's smooth, southern accent offers, his voice almost seeming to reverberate in the air.

Subject 76 looked at her psychologist with a wide, doe-eyed expression. Her bottom lip trembled. It was a small, almost imperceptible movement that had Crane's pen scribbling furiously in his notes once more.

"No," Subject 76 denied immediately, then falters a second later, "Yes. I-I don't know, maybe??? I'm just anxious, I guess??? It's just that this wedding will be the first time in six years that I've seen my high-school friends. And I wanna make the right impression. I don't want it to look like I don't have my life together."

Subject 76 went quiet for a moment. Her gaze drew down to her wrists where thick, pink scars crisscrossed her skin. While the sweater she was wearing did its best to conceal them from sight, a few still peaked out and were clearly visible to anyone who had a wandering eye. Shame settled upon her.

"I've even started to...uhm. I..."

Subject 76 fell silent again. The woman returned to picking the threads of her sweater, tugging on its cotton weave compulsively instead of talking.

Dr. Crane glanced up from his notepad, peering over the top of his glasses to assess his subject. "Miss. Bree?" He asked, raising a single eyebrow. He waited for her to speak.

But Subject 76 pursed her lips into a thin line and ignored him.

Sighing, Crane leaned back in his chair. An edge of annoyance laced his tone as he addressed his subject...

"I don't think I have to remind you that the court has mandated your cooperation in therapy, Miss Bree. And...with anything I see fit to hasten your rehabilitation. Now, I wouldn't want to be forced legally to report you to your probation officer for resisting treatment. However, if I must-"

"WAIT!" Subject 76 cried out, terror in her eyes.

The smallest smirk twitched at the edges of Dr. Crane's lips, "Oh?"

Splitting open like a rotten pumpkin, the woman confessed that she'd started throwing up. 'Just small meals,' she'd elaborate further, attempting to lessen the impact of her words, 'Just the bad carbs and fats, nothing serious.' Subject 76 went on to talk about the dress she was trying to "look slay" for. How the bride had chosen a type of cut that left little to the imagination. And most telling to Dr. Crane of all; that she was frightened about what everyone would think when she wore it.

Crane placed his notebook and pen down on the accent table at his side, then steepled his fingers together, peering at Subject 76 with intent.

With hunger.

"Do you think your frankly lackluster endeavor to lose weight will be enough to stop the whispers and the gossip?" He asked off-handedly, making Subject 76 flinch in response, "And all the secret shared laughter at your expense?"

"W-what?"

"Just an observation, really."

Subject 76 looked confused. She blinked several times and wondered if she was hearing the what the doctor had said right. Or if somehow she was hearing him wrong instead.

"In fact, I doubt fitting into anything will improve your standing," Crane stated with a casual wave of his hand, "How do you know that you weren't invited to this...grand affair...as a joke?"

Shock spread across Subject 76's face.

"I-"

"If they were judging you in high school, six years wouldn't change anything substantial. They're no different than they were back then. Tell me, have you changed?"

Dr. Crane answered the question for Subject 76, not allowing her to explain for herself what he'd already figured:

"According to your records, you've been purging since middle school... And here you are now, still continuing to follow the same, tired, destructive pattern."

"Dr. Crane, I-"

Crane held up an authoritative hand.

"I digress, Miss. Bree," He said, "We've become a bit sidetracked here. Any form of eating disorder is categorized as self-harm. I cannot allow this to continue. As a mandated reporter, I'll have to tell your case manager. Unfortunately, I can judge by your previous history, that it's quite likely you'll be put on a 72-hour hold in a psychiatric facility. Probably here at Arkham. Contrary to Gotham's popular belief, we do treat normal citizens, too."

A fresh, new wave of panic bloomed on Subject 76's face. Tears welled up in the young woman's eyes. She shook her head, both hands rising up to clasp over her mouth, muffling the words she spoke and making them harder to hear.

"Hmm? What was that?" Dr. Crane nearly purred, making a show of leaning in closer to listen better.

"I-I can't go back there," Subject 76 replied with a choked stammering breath, "I just can't, doctor. I c-can't-"

Such marvelous fear...

Dr. Crane drank it in, savored it like fine wine. He wished he could bottle this moment to treasure for himself and keep forever. This was a human at their most beautiful.

"There is an alternative solution," Crane offered, only after Subject 76 looked about to vomit on his rug, "But I don't offer it to just anyone I treat. You, however, would be a perfect candidate."

"Really, doctor? I would?"

He barely suppressed his disgust as the woman shifted from fear-torn to hopeful at just the mere suggestion of salvation.

"Yes, but you'd have to submit to a new regimen and administration of medicine," Dr. Crane said, "Plus, we would be exploring novel paths of therapy that we've yet to approach in session. If I deem it productive, then I can forget about this reporting nonsense-"

Not to mention all the paperwork he'd have to go through because of it.

"-Does that sound amenable to you, Miss. Bree?"

"Yes!" Subject 76 answered brightly, "Anything to keep probation away!"

As if commenting on the woman's statement, Ichabod let out a series of loud, raucous caws that sounded strangely like laughter. Subject 76 glanced at the crow with uncertainty before Dr. Crane redirected her attention back onto him.

"Anything, hmm?" Crane asked curiously, taking off his glasses and tucking them into his breast pocket, "Well, that's good to know. It'll certainly make this next portion that much easier."

"Huh?"

Before Subject 76 knew what was happening, Dr. Crane was at her side; his hand gripping her ponytail and yanking her head back. She caught the sight of a spray bottle seconds prior to a strange, fine, orange mist enveloping her face. Crawling up the passages of her nose. Making her feel instantly dizzy and lightheaded. Sick.

"Yeeeah, that's right," Crane's voice cooed gently into her ear, "Breathe it all in, little lamb. Goood. Just like that..."

The effects of the toxin were instantaneous. With vested interest, Jonathan Crane watched as 76's pupils dilated until her irises nearly disappeared and her breaths came out in labored gasps that sounded painful. He grabbed the woman's wrist to check her pulse. His long fingers bit into soft flesh, leaving the crescent-shaped impressions of his nails in their wake.

"As expected," he spoke aloud, narrating more to himself than anyone else, "Patient is responsive to a 10 mg dose of K-series. BPM is at 125, within range of a common panic attack. Eyes dilated to 8 millimeters. Symptoms are much more evident than Batch 4. Most likely due to the introduction of fear prior to administration-"

A low, husky moan interrupted him:

"Mmmn, Doctor Crane. I feel so hot..."

Jonathan turned his attention back onto the test subject, who was trying to press her body to his in desperation. He felt his cock harden instantly. That spark of hunger he'd experienced moments before returned; but, it'd become ravenous now. Insistent. Snapping. It demanded to be fed. And this lost, little lamb was offering herself willingly to his opened maw. Who would refuse such a feast?

The darkness inside Jonathan took control.

Subject 76 gasped as his hand suddenly gripped her neck and pulled her closer. He grazed his lips along the woman's silky cheek, whispering softly into her ear-

"Hush now, child, your Shepherd God is here. All will be well."

-before blazing a trail of greedy kisses and bites down her shoulder, ripping off her sweater in the process. He threw it onto the carpet. Subject 76 hardly noticed. She was far too preoccupied with his explorations to care. Her eyes fluttered back into her skull as Doctor Crane teased the tender areas of her flesh with tongue and teeth. Searing heat coiled like a spring in the pit of her stomach. Another moan flew from her throat. Louder this time.

"Tell me how you feel?" Jonathan asked his prey with a commanding growl.

Subject 76 squirmed underneath his grasp.

"I-I need you," she replied, "Doctor, please! I need to feel you. I want your hands on me. I-I want you to touch me. Bite me. I need you-"

Jonathan Crane gripped her tighter.

"And how badly does that ail you, little lamb?" He crooned.

"I can't stand it!" 76 wailed out loud, tears rolling in cascades down her cheeks, "Everything's hot. I can't think straight! What's happening to me?!?"

A cruel smile curved along Jonathan's mouth. He could almost taste the woman's anguish. It was a delicious flavor. Irresistible, actually...

"You poor, suffering soul. Allow me to ease your troubled mind..."

Wrapping Subject 76's ponytail around his hand once more, Jonathan Crane seized control and dragged her face towards the bulge in his slacks. Surprisingly, she tried to resist. Visited by a brief minute of lucidity, the woman fought back on his grip, struggling (like hell) against the task he was setting her to. Jonathan scowled. He wondered if the toxin had worn off already? But another lusty moan from 76 indicated that it hadn't. It was just hitting her in symptomatic waves.

Whimpering as a new flood of heat overwhelmed her, Subject 76 wrestled with the metal buckle of Jonathan's belt and unzipped his pants. Her eyes widened upon seeing the monster that lay hiding in wait within his boxers. Huge, thick, and veined; the psychiatrist's dick eagerly sprang forth from its plaid, cotton bindings to greet her. It twitched with anticipation over what was about to happen. A sharp edge of panic sliced into her...

His cock was too big.

She wasn't given time to prepare herself. Crane's hand pressed down on the back of her head and forced his dick into her mouth. He slid his length as far as it could go, cockhead tapping the back of her throat before pulling out...then, slamming himself past her lips all over again. Each time, he pushed a little deeper, a little harder, until 76 was gagging and tears misted up her eyes. Jonathan let out a groan at the sight of it. The fear in those gorgeous, coffee brown depths made him want to fuck her harder and see how far he could push that mouth.

"Mmmff! Mmf-"

"Ahh, feels so good. Your pain is exquisite."

Subject 76 struggled as Doctor Crane increased his vicious pace and used her ponytail like a bar handle. He tugged, yanked, pulled, and directed every movement until she became nothing more than a living fleshlight. Forced to satisfy this tall, imposing beast until he was sated, 76 had never felt more helpless in her entire life. Despite that, a curious sensation was accompanying her loss of control; the enjoyment of his taste. A betrayal that she hadn't expected coming from her body! The doctor's musky flavor caused liquid heat to pool traitorously between her legs. As salty tang invaded her palate, a throb began pulsing upon her clit. Was she going mad!? How could any of this possibly feel good???

That's because you're a whore, sweetie.

The dulcet sound of her mother whispered softly into her ear. The tone was condescending, beset with mockery. Her father followed suit, his voice so clear (and vivid) that Subject 76 swore he was standing a few inches away:

We always knew you were a filthy pig, even as a child...

76 let loose a muted scream. Both her parents, in a unified chorus, continued their foul comments, prodding at every insecurity she owned while the only thing she could do was choke on Dr. Crane's dick and cry.

"Oh, you're in it now, aren't you?"

Suddenly, his movements halted. Subject 76 felt herself being hauled up by her hair to meet a pair of glowing eyes and a terrifying smile comprised of sharp, yellow fangs. She screamed again. This time, the sound was so loud it hurt her own ears. Gone was the famous psychiatrist, Dr. Jonathan Crane, and in his place...was a nightmare!

The monster seemed pleased by her horror. A dark chuckle rumbled from deep within its emaciated chest.

"My toxin has infiltrated your mind," It said with a relished growl, dragging 76 closer, "Past all your defenses. Can't you feel it tearing at your sanity? Breaking down your senses bit by bit? Reducing you to your most primal state?? Fascinating how a person can become so pliable with just a small amount of this in their system..."

Confusion washed over Subject 76. The monster was speaking eloquently. However, she could not understand any of it. Her brain had turned into a congealed soup-useless jelly-that sloshed inside her skull. Unable to make connections as it once had mere hours ago before she'd stepped foot in Doctor Crane's office. The ache between her legs was intensifying, the pulse tapping upon her clit less easy to ignore, and the sensitivity of her skin made even the smallest touch a torture. 76 cried out to God...

But only the God of Fear answered her: "Silence, lamb. Therapy is still in session."

One fluid motion was all it took for the terrifying beast to extract Subject 76 off the couch and up onto her feet. It dragged her across the confines of Dr. Crane's office, towards the gigantic curtain wall that overlooked Arkham Asylum's entrance courtyard. With a sharp and commanding tug, 76 was forced to stand before it, despite protest, so that she could see the goings-on down below. Another whimper fell out of her lips as her vision turned the gnarled trees and wrought iron fence outside into clawed hands. Five people suddenly stared up at the window from their spots on the benches near the Asylum's smoking zone. They looked so familiar. But, she could not remember why...

The monster slid behind her soundlessly. Its long talons crawled like many spiders up the sides of her arms. "This is who you really are inside, Miss Bree. Your truest self," It assured her, speaking in a matter-of-fact voice, making everything it said sound obvious and plain, "Just a trembling web of misfiring neurons in the amygdala attempting to rectify a reality too frightening to assimilate-"

The monster caressed her cheek.

"-I want to help you embrace your fear and truly understand it."

Those five people in the courtyard all raised their forefinger and, as one unit, pointed at Subject 76 with laughter twisting upon their lips. She shook her head. Averted her gaze. Took a step back to put distance between herself and the plexiglass window. Unfortunately, 76 was stopped by an unyielding wall of flesh. The beast's body was poised just a few inches away from her own and in response to her shame, it took a step forward, sandwiching her between itself and the tall, cold glass she sought to avoid. Subject 76 prayed to God again. This time, she promised Him that she would stop purging; that today was the last day she'd ever throw up her meals if He'd spare her life...

But only the God of Fear answered her: "What do you see, little lamb? What horrors keep you stuck in place?"

"I-I don't know!!"

Its spindly fingers roamed an idle path down her throat to settle upon her chest. She trembled as its razor-edged nails brushed against her nipples absentmindedly.

"I think you do," the monster insisted, "But you're resisting the awareness of it. We try to hide away from the shadows of our minds so we can live in peace during the day, don't we? It's only human. But you, little one, have nowhere left to scurry to. Nowhere you can run. The Scarecrow has come to show you the truth inside your fears..."

Allowing 76 no time to consider its words, it tore open her camisole top, exposing the bra that she wore underneath. The monster made quick work of the lace, discarding it into a pile on the carpet. Skeletal digits went seeking flesh. Subject 76 felt its boney hands grasp both her breasts and start to knead them roughly as panic washed over her. It pulled her nipples with hard pinches. First one, then the other. Then, both at the same time in a torturous rhythm that milked a lusty sigh from her throat.

76's eyes widened when she heard it. Had that perverted sound come out of her?

What a fucking slut!

That's the way she was in high school. We did it behind the bleachers, her ass was so fucking tight.

But she's so fat!!

So? The thicker they are, the thicker the juice.

Ugh, you're so gross, Mikey.

Voices from the courtyard outside intermingled with her litany of moans. The five smokers were talking, gossiping candidly amongst themselves, while they sneered at her from the benches they sat in. Subject 76 jerked away, tried to push off the monster so she could hide her naked chest and cover the shame that came with being seen. The monster didn't let her, though. Almost like it sensed her self-disgust, it pinned her up against the window glass and handled her boobs harder. Tugged and pulled them so that her rosy peaks stretched out. Pressed its throbbing, hard bulge into her ass so that she could feel it pulse. Licked a trail up the curve of her neck to taste the sweat on her skin.

The five spectators outside laughed in response to her struggles.

Pig!

Whore!

Slut!

Sudden recognition dawned upon 76. Those five, smirking people down in the courtyard were her high school friends. The ones that she would see at the wedding next week. The ones who hadn't seen her since graduation. Their blinkless stares drilled into soul her as if she were soft plywood. She could feel their scrutiny already. 76 let out a horrified scream:

"N-no! NO!!! Please! D-don't look at me!! Don't!!!"

Hot, fetid breath that smelled like decaying flesh tickled her ear when the beast spoke. "Ahhhh," It said with a sultry purr, "Scopophobia. The fear of being seen by others. Of having so many judging eyes on you. My, what a vain creature you are to think anyone would look at you? Well then, let's give your audience something...more substantial to gaze at-"

It yanked down her pleated skirt and pulled aside her thong.

"I want all of them to see and hear you sing hosannas of anguish to Scarecrow!"

Eagerly, the monster guided its cock to grind on the entrance of Subject 76's ass. And bit by bit, it pushed itself slowly into her tight, puckered hole. 76 clawed at the window as she felt this invasion begin to pump within her. Striking a curious spot inside her body that caused drool to trickle down her chin from the edges of her mouth. Each hard stroke that it gave Subject 76 made her cry, then moan, then scream, then beg the Scarecrow for forgiveness. But the monster continued to thrust (unempathetically) into her asshole without any regard. Bright stars exploded in rapid numbers behind her eyes. Building heat churned at the pit of her belly, threatening to combust. Her pussy became sopping wet as his busy hips smacked into her backside with more force, speed, and single-minded desperation than her mind could handle. 76 felt like she was going to go insane. If it kept pounding her like this, she would certainly die!

The beast let loose a satisfied groan as it tossed its burlap-shrouded head back, "Mmn, fuck, yes! Show everyone what a sick little dirty whore you are for the God of Fear. Let the many, many eyes witness your senseless fright, you pig!"

"N-nnnooo!! M'nuh a pig, d-daddy! I'm clean! I'm clean!!"

"You're as filthy as they come. There's no doubts about that," the monster growled low and darkly, clamping its taloned grip upon both sides of 76's hips to hold her steady while it readjusted inside of her ass.

Subject 76 squirmed.

"Be still, slut!"

This was the only warning she received before its cock went to work. Now, positioned at a different angle, the monster penetrated her ass deeper. A wave of euphoria and fear swept over Subject 76 as she felt sensation after sensation threatening to break her. In. Out. Faster and harder. Rougher. The sheer brutality with which it fucked her body senseless was quickly burning a giant hole in her psyche and rearranging her brain chemistry into a shape she didn't recognize...

A transformation, Subject 76 soon realized, that she was quite helpless to stop.

In fact, 76 found that she was starting to like this new state; moaning, panting, squirming, crying!! Begging for her life. Getting so thoroughly railed by the God of Terror that it forced her eyes to roll back and her mouth fall open and her mind to go completely blank with the only thought she had (or could adequately retain) being how amazing it was to have this monster's dick buried so deep inside her!! Subject 76 had even forgotten about the audience that was watching this.

Maybe she even wanted the audience to watch?

If she was honest, perhaps she'd always wanted that...?

"M'gunna c-cum!! I gunna-"

Something mixed between a scream and a moan flew out of her mouth as the monster hilted itself fully into her ass, sparking an orgasm that shook her entire body to the core. A moment later, heat spread inside Subject 76. Thick and gooey, it ran down her thighs and joined the nectar of her own cum. The monster continued rocking its hips and unloaded spurt after spurt of sticky warmth that never seemed to end. Aftershocks accompanied every lazy, squelching thrust. More drool trickled down her chin, more moans were wrenched from her throat. 76 was less of a person now than she was a fuck sock; mindless and wet and perfectly submissive. The terrifying beast that called itself the "Scarecrow" had freed her from all the worry and pain she'd carried inside and replaced it with inner peace...

And obedience to the God of Fear.

Dr. Jonathan Crane sighed.

The "Kappa Psi" series toxin was a success. After countless days and sleepless nights and seventy six clinical trials on his unsuspecting patients, Dr. Crane had finally created something even he was afraid of. The K toxin was a potent combination that fused Doctor Isley's plant pheromones with carbogen and cortisol. When administered, it'd attack the pituitary gland first. Then, hurry itself onto the thalamus, amygdala and prefrontal cortex, where it'd flood the victim in mixed signals that twisted fear and pleasure together. With the right type of psychological stress applied, a subject under the effects of K Toxin would be highly susceptible to subliminal messages. Dr. Crane had found on the third clinical trial that sometimes a complete and utter dissociation would occur where the subject was...altered after the toxin wore off. Around the fifth clinical trial, Crane discovered that he didn't need to do much to invoke that dissociative state within his subjects. He started feeling like a God who crafted his own men and women alike from the soil of fear.

But, after seventy-five trials, each one a success, he'd started feeling unsatisfied. Bored, even. And now, on the seventy-sixth trial, Doctor Jonathan Crane was ready to concoct a new formula. This time, perhaps, he would experiment with a toxin that'd stimulate a timed, cardiac arrest? It'd be a great way to study Thanatophobia.

"I-I obey...I obey fear..."

Interrupting his musings, Subject 76 muttered to herself on his couch where she'd been since he'd dosed her. Crane rolled his eyes. It'd been half an hour (already) and without so much as a touch or a whisper in her ear, the young woman had come undone. He adjusted his glasses, then peered up at the clock hanging upon his wall. He'd give 76 a grace period of ten more minutes before he used an antidote. After all, she seemed to be enjoying herself even if he wasn't. Her fingers ground into her groin while she chanted hymns to horror with tears rolling from her glazed over eyes. Normally, Dr. Crane would be enchanted. The K Toxin made his job as a practitioner of fear too easy, though. The finesse involved in scaring someone seemed almost obsolete, comparatively. A ridiculous and foolish notion but one that bothered him greatly nonetheless.

While Crane waited for the K toxin to subside, he scrolled through his unread emails...

Dr. Leland was requesting any and all additional files on the Page Monroe case.

Jeremiah Arkham had CC'd the entire asylum on the rules and guidelines regarding the treatment of patients. It was obvious this message was just for Bolton, however.

Dr. Bartholomew was reminding everyone who'd used the staff refrigerator in the past 24 hours to label their food containers and lunches to "avoid any confusion."

Mike Browne, a senior orderly who worked in the Intensive Treatment Unit, was reporting theft. A concerning amount of Propofol had disappeared from the medical supply.

And a "Mister E" had messaged him at midnight (three whole days ago) with an email that was mysteriously entitled: "Question."

Just as Jonathan was about to open the mystery email, a timid voice interrupted him...

"D-Doctor Crane...?"

Subject 76 was (finally) shaking off the effects of the toxin and coming back to reality. The woman looked confused, a bit scared as well. And when he met her stare from his spot, perched at the desk, Crane saw terror blossoming inside those doe-like eyes. But, other than that little detail, 76 seemed to have recovered enough for Jonathan to talk to now. Turning away from his computer and clearing his throat, he began to weave a web of (plausible) deniability that reframed the past hour or so in a positive light...

"Don't alarm, Miss Bree. You seem to have fallen asleep during our guided breathing exercises. It's a common thing that happens with patients who hold onto too much stress. Rest assured, you're not the only one of my clients who've passed out on that couch...and I very much doubt that you'll be the last."

Subject 76 immediately reached up towards her mouth, wiping it clear of leftover drool. Then, the woman moved on to smooth her hair and fix any wrinkles that she saw in her sweater. As soon as 76 felt put together, the woman risked peeking a glimpse at the doctor. That beautiful fear which he loved so much still clung to the edges of her gaze.

"So, all that was just a nightmare?" she asked Dr. Crane with a voice that said she couldn't be more relieved, "All the things I saw...they weren't real?? Even you reporting me?"

Jonathan raised a single, curious brow. He made a show of taking off his glasses, wiping them on the material of a handkerchief that he kept in his pocket, and returning them to his face before he answered the question:

"You had a nightmare, Miss. Bree? Well, that isn't all too uncommon, either. Guided breathing and meditation has been known to jog loose trauma from within our subconscious mind. That's why its use is so effective in a therapeutic setting," Dr. Crane said, then gestured casually over towards the wall clock, "But, I am afraid that will have to be a conversation for later. Our time today is up."

"Oh..."

"Let's schedule you for the same time next week. And perhaps this time, we can focus on staying awake throughout our session, hm?"

Embarrassment in the form of a rosy pink blush spread across Subject 76's cheeks at that small, wayward comment. She tried to hide it, though. Jonathan ignored this and led her over to the door, holding it open for the woman after she'd collected her things. As his patient walked by him, however, Crane froze her with an innocent question from out of left field...

"Before you go, Miss. Bree, I've been admittedly quite curious about something. It's my hope you can indulge me with an answer. What will you be wearing to your close friend's wedding, exactly? I'm not familiar nor particularly educated on the social formalities involved in such an occasion's dress wear."

76 paused, then replied as if commenting on the weather: "Oh, probably nothing. I want everyone to see my whore body. Wouldn't you, Dr. Crane?"

"Mm," Jonathan hummed in response before he closed the door behind her.

It'd started to rain outside. A light dusting of tiny water droplets were collecting themselves upon the glass of the curtain window beside his desk. Jonathan Crane could hear the pattering getting (progressively) louder by the second. He strolled over to his office chair, then sat in it. Watched as the storm rolled in from Gotham Bay and the icy Atlantic sea beyond it. Idly, he wondered if he'd ever meet a subject who could hold his interest? Or if The Batman, alone, would continue to keep that honor for himself?

Swiveling around to face his computer, Jonathan decided to open that "Mister E" email. He clicked once upon the subject line and was assaulted by bright green text almost instantly. A deep frown tugged on his lips as he squinted, trying to read the words despite wearing a pair of prescription glasses...

'Like a rhubarb, what also desperately searches for light in the darkest depths?

:3

I'll give you a hint: It doesn't crack or pop, but it can scream just as loudly in Arkham's basement.'

Underneath this was a picture of himself in a lab coat, administering a lethal dose of fear toxin to an Arkham patient who was strapped down to a surgical table. Another photo, in addition to this, was timestamped for a few minutes later, and it featured Jonathan wearing a badly stitched-up, burlap, respirator mask. The patient who was screaming in the bottom right corner appeared to be bleeding around the mouth and eyes. The final one was a zoomed in shot of his name tag while he was disguised in the mask: Dr. Jonathan Crane, MD.

He stilled.

Everything in the world went absolutely quiet. He could've heard a single pin drop. But the silence was quickly shattered by the sound of electronic beeping. Jonathan peered down at his waist belt to see that the Motorola pager he wore strapped to it was flashing him a message...

'9229.'

All the muscles in his jaw tensed.

Immediately, Jonathan turned off his computer and using a brass key (that he always kept close on his person), opened up the bottom drawer to recover a briefcase hidden underneath the cover of an internal partition. As soon as his fingertips brushed against the leather item, Ichabod let out three loud, ear-splitting caws from her iron cage. She spread her wings, then flapped them several times in apparent aggravation. The crow pierced Jonathan with a look that seemed to warn him of something that he couldn't logically discern. But, fear was not logical, he reasoned to himself...

...And the only thing there was to fear in Gotham City was the Scarecrow.

"Hold the fort down while I'm gone, Ichi," he said to his bird, hoping that his request would help to ease her worries, "This'll only take a bit. It usually does."

Jonathan Crane strode out of his office with an incredible sense of urgency and ire. His old, leather briefcase was gripped tightly in his hands like a gun. Nobody blackmailed the Scarecrow...

Or lived long enough to tell about it.

[vveirdvvitch]

Fic rec!!!! Chapter two!!!!

|| Five Year Plan || A Reader x Jonathan Crane, slow burn fic ||

Synopsis: Every so often, the city of Gotham will randomly select one person to have a really, really bad day. This time, that lucky person is you!

Aka: Your stupid ass accidentally signs up to be a goon at a "Goon Hiring" Agency after your landlord increases the rent. Oops!

Word Count: 11,059

TW: General violence, drug use, coercion, and swearing.

Note: So, uhh. Still working on this concept that has gripped me by the throat. There's a lot of little references scattered in this chapter to Arkham!Verse, Reeves!Verse & other DCU works. The Gotham this x Reader takes place in is sort of an eclectic jumble with it's own unique timeline. For previous chapter, click here. Enjoy the second installment of "Please don't tell my psychiatrist!". ♡ And let me know what you think in my asks if you want~

Banner art made by: @skxtchyghost

Song: "Are You Satisfied?" by Marina & The Diamonds

Taglist: @caesariawritesstuff @greeneyedshooter @enochtopus-the-pressed @vveirdvvitch

It wasn't a bad job. As far as employment went in Gotham, it was okay. Ish. The pay wasn't horrible and the location was a quick, 15 minute, monorail ride away from home. And sometimes, when the manager wasn't there, you got control over what songs the radio played. All this considering, you really couldn't complain. There were worse ways to get a paycheck... However, today's shift at the Cadmus Bar had you wondering if that was true or if it was another lie you were telling yourself to cope?

Your questions began with the first wave of early morning customers who'd exploded through the door, eager for their (keto) protein shake to start off the day. Several complained that their drinks were made wrong even though they'd gotten the exact things that they'd ordered. One of them, a woman sporting a bob cut, screamed at you for making her gluten-free veggie wrap gluten-free. Another demanded that they use the bathrooms before ordering anything. You were forced to tell them that it was against company policy to allow "non-paying individuals" access to the restrooms unless they bought something first. This ignited a vitriol-fueled tirade where you (eventually) had to ask the person to leave. On their way out, they kicked over the store sign and damaged it. You'd tried fixing the frame but to no avail. It remained slightly crooked.

Shit snowballed in the afternoon, just before the lunch rush, when the new trainee spilled a whole tray of smoothies on a customer, then managed to lock their cashier register out of the system. A mistake that spelled doom for everyone else who was working front of house. Specifically, you. It'd taken HOURS to figure out what they'd done and by that time, the trainee had already clocked out. To top it all off, your (least favorite) manager had decided to pop in unexpectedly which meant the radio was now honed onto 95.6 The Outlaw Star, a station that only played country music. Really bad country music. The kind that grated on your ears as it repeated the same insipid chorus lines again and again and again...

You're almost certain crap like this violated parts of The Geneva Conventions. But, what could you honestly expect from a restaurant chain that was owned by Lex Luthor?

Well...

At least you weren't unemployed.

"I'd fuck him."

Whatever worries you had about your job totally vanished in an instant when Zen, your co-worker, made this off-handed remark while cleaning the lobby with you in-between customer flows. She gave no additional context after that, leaving you baffled.

Glancing around first to see if your manager was lurking nearby and not finding him, you ask Zen-

"What?"

-with a deadpan tone that distinctly conveys just how excited you are about the subject matter of this conversation and where you believe it's most likely headed.

"I think he's hot," she reiterates, "I mean, the suit is weird but I'd still fuck him."

You stop wiping off the sticky, juice residue from a tabletop to stare at Zen. "Care to, uh, elaborate a bit more?" You question her, "Because I'm lost here."

Your co-worker waved over at the TV perched in the lobby corner. It was set to the Gotham News Network. Displayed on screen, lead anchorman, Jack Ryder, was interviewing several Gothamites at the scene of a burnt-down brewery. A chyron banner underneath stated: "Ten People Saved in Joker Attack by The Batman, Grand Re-opening Postponed Indefinitely."

"Batman!" Zen announced as if it were obvious, "I think he's sexy. I mean, he's got those incredible pecs and that delicious jawline! I'd absolutely be down to fuck. But, he's gotta lose the suit in bed. Or wait! No, scratch that. He should leave it on..."

A giggle escaped from her. You continue to stare at your co-worker like she's suddenly grown two heads. Eventually, though, you clear your throat and go back to scrubbing the table. Zen scowled at this.

"Oh, c'mon!" She exclaimed, "Tell me you haven't thought about it. Not even once?"

You roll your eyes.

"Literally, not even once," you reply, voice devoid of enthusiasm while you continue to do your job. A bit of orange gunk had crusted onto the table and was being difficult against the force of your washcloth.

Zen didn't believe you.

"Liar," she said.

"It's the truth," you shoot back at her, applying a bit more pressure into your scrubbing. Still, that infuriating splotch remained.

A wicked grin curved along your co-worker's lips. Zen hopped onto the table. She leaned in toward you, invading your personal space and stopping you from cleaning. You glare at her sourly. It only encourages her to scoot even closer near you.

"Let's play a game of Fuck, Bang, Kill," she said, not waiting for your response either way before launching into her proposal, "I'll pick the options and you say 'fuck', 'bang', or 'kill'. Simple enough, right?"

"No."

"Okay!"

"Ugh, you're really gonna make me do this, aren't you?"

"Yup! No mercy!"

One brief moment passed where your co-worker tapped her finger against her chin. She looked to be deep in thought while considering the choices for the game. Knowing Zen, however, you figure she had probably come up with it weeks ago...

"Clayface," she said first, squinting (narrowly) at you for signs of a hidden monsterfucking fetish.

This one is a no-brainer.

"Kill," you automatically reply, wasting zero time to deliberate.

"Killer Croc," she says next.

Frowning, you answer: "Kill."

"Firefly," Zen states, "But, you gotta let him move into your apartment."

"He'd set too many things on fire. Kill."

"Two Face."

"Double Kill."

"Scarface."

"I'm not into puppets, kill."

She tossed her hands in the air, "Oh my god, you can't just keep choosing kill, Y/N! That's not how this game works!"

"Well," you shrug, "You said it was my choice. So, I'm just playing according to your rules."

"Joker and Harley Quinn."

"Kill them."

"Catwoman."

"Eh, kill."

"Poison Ivy."

"Ask why my succulent is dying, then kill."

"Mad Hatter."

"Do I look like an Alice? Kill."

With the slightest hint of satisfaction, you watch as Zen's face betrayed her own frustration. There was practically (black) smoke billowing from her ears while she tried to guess which Rogue you'd be most likely to marry. Or fuck. You wonder how long it would take until she called it quits?? After all, the two of you still had a lobby to clean. If the manager caught you both slacking off, you'd get written up for sure.

Suddenly, your co-worker's face brightened.

"THE RIDDLER!" She exclaimed like she'd solved a crime, jabbing her index finger up into the air. "I bet you'd break for the Riddler."

You blink.

Something flickered in the back of your mind. An old memory that you thought you'd forgotten.

"Uh, kill?" You answer, although you sound a hint uncertain, "I don't know, you can't really see him behind that mask and I'm not sure I could handle his followers. Plus, those riddles..."

Zen pouted. You could tell she was getting close to admitting defeat. It was only a matter of time now. You give the stubborn splotch another hard scrub with your rag, really putting your arm into it. The tiniest portion was beginning to come off. However, you pause when you hear Zen suggest a name that you'd never heard of before:

"Well, how about that new one? The one that the news is calling the Scarecrow?"

You open your mouth to speak but find yourself interrupted by a rush of customers. Moms with their kids in soccer uniforms and teenagers who were just getting out of school. Zen lets loose a sigh, knowing that you'd been spared from her torture by fate or chance. At least, for now. She quickly rushed over to the cash register, putting on her "customer service" smile while she began taking orders, leaving you to finish up the lobby alone. You caught Zen glance over at you once as if to warn you that this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Unfortunately, she wasn't someone who gave up easily...

Minutes before you were scheduled to take your ten, the manager calls you into his office. With a lazy wave, he gestures for you to sit down in the chair across from his own while he riffles through a filing cabinet behind his desk. You happened to sneak a peak and see that what your manager is picking through are employee folders. An unease settles over you when he yanks out a file labeled "[your name]," then places it down between you both as he takes a seat. He looks at you for just a moment, eyebrow raised.

"[Y/N], where you do see yourself in five years??" He asks you.

Your mind is racing in all possible avenues at this question.

"E-Excuse me?" You stammer out finally, though it sounded as if your voice was just a squeak, "I don't understand what you're-"

"Back in March, when you filled out your resume, you said you were planning to go back to college next semester. Is that still true?"

Your manager cuts you off. He cracks open your file, selecting the job application that you'd filled out a year ago when you decided that you needed an extra source of income. Despite this city being a trash fire, Gotham was still an expensive place to live. And college wasn't cheap! Buying textbooks for all the psychology courses that you were going to take in September would cost you. Even with the grants you were on! You watch nervously as your manager thumbs through your application idly, waiting for you to speak. He seems annoyed.

"Uhm," you mumble at first, but recover yourself enough to ground the uncertainty fluttering inside your stomach as you attempt a reply, "Yeah, that's the plan."

Your manager sighs.

"Look [Y/N]," he says, skepticism dripping from his tone like leaded water in an old pipe, "I didn't want to be the one who had to point it out to you but upper management has been cracking down on us lately. Our customer reviews have been too low for the past couple of months. You came up during our team meeting last Wednesday as a topic of interest. Several times, actually."

You blink, confused.

"Wait, what?"

You knew you weren't the best employee that the Cadmus Bar had. But, you knew that you weren't the worst either! Certainly, this had to be a huge misunderstanding. You ask for some clarification and your manager (with all the energy of a mildly disappointed father) begins to list off a series of ridiculous infractions, accusations, and "witness reports" that pegs you as the person who keeps breaking the smoothie blenders. Something that you, yourself, have been reporting (complaining) to management about since the very first day of your employment here.

"Annnd, we don't feel like you're smiling enough," your manager adds, placing the cherry on top of his corporate-talk cake, "You don't really portray the warm, friendly disposition that the Cadmus Bar is known for in its employees. Uh, one report we recently received about you seems to call you 'weird and off-putting'. Another one claims you're 'unhelpful' and 'have a rude attitude'. So, uh, you understand how none of this looks good, right Y/N?"

You scrambled for a reasonable explanation. Any explanation. However, what slipped out was half cooked mumblings that didn't sound convincing when spoken aloud: "I'll try harder. It's just been a rough couple of weeks and-"

Your manager holds up an authoritative hand.

"No, it's been a rough couple of months, Y/N," he says, correcting you immediately with the slight bite of annoyance heard from every word that he spoke, "And look, we were willing to grant you a brief period after your accident so you could get reorientated again. But, this behavior has turned into a pattern."

He levels an accusatory stare at you.

"I..."

The world darkens for a moment as you process his words. Images flash before your eyes in quick succession: rain on the windshield, a blind corner of a lonely road, high beams and screeching tires that tore through the air alongside screams, fire, blood staining wet pavement... Your mouth goes dry. You feel numb inside. Somehow, it's like you are there, reliving that awful night all over again. Your manager brings you back to reality when he clears his throat, appearing uncomfortable with how you were handling this talk. He tries shifting your focus by telling you "the good news" about your predicament...

"The silver lining is we're not firing you yet. We've got that new trainee, though, so you might want to start seriously thinking about the future, Y/N. All those college fees are going to be expensive. Maybe you can put some work into that smile in the meantime, yeah? Start wearing some pretty buttons on your vest to show our customers the real Cadmus Bar spirit."

You wished you had said anything other than the quiet, mumbled agreement that had slipped out of you. For some reason, the words you could've chosen just ran through your fingers like sand at a beach. With no refutes available, your manager sends you away, satisfaction on his bloated face that advertised (quite obviously) the pleasure he took in crushing your spirit and making you feel small in this moment. He tosses your file into the trash as you leave the office. The knowledge that your days working here were numbered became suddenly clear.

You decide to take your ten.

"They can't fire you!"

Inhaling a deep lung full of smoke from her joint, Zen medicated the rage she felt, then released it with a mighty exhale and a walloping cough. She passes the burning joint onto you, who partakes from it less aggressively, and continues her rant despite wheezing in between (her sharp-spoken) words.

"You and I keep this shit together!! If it wasn't for us, nothing would get done right. They think the evening prep gets done by Terry and his shift?! I can't count the times they've fucked the freezer up!"

You exhale a small stream of pungent marijuana into the air. Then, cough. Even though your chest seized, the relaxation you felt afterward was just enough to persuade you to take a second toke. It had been a stressful day for you already. And the day still wasn't over yet...

"I know," you agreed, grumbling at the hand your job was dealing you, "But, I don't "smile enough" for fucking Terry, apparently. I'm too 'weird and off-putting' and 'unhelpful with a rude attitude'."

"Well, that last one is true. You are pretty fucking rude sometimes, Y/N." Zen replies, reaching out to take the joint you were offering back, "But, it's still bullshit! That trainee can't replace you. She's barely handling the dishwasher right now. A few weeks won't make a difference if she's that dumb and incompetent!"

"I know, right?"

"Like, who am I supposed to talk to about stupid shit all day?"

A sobering kind of silence fell upon Zen and you. Despite the city noise that pounded at your ears, the only thing you could hear was the emptiness that was forming in the slots of your daily routine and the dreadful monotony that would take your co-worker's place. While you knew Zen wouldn't totally disappear from your life, things would be different enough that you cringed just imagining it. You don't think you'd be able to stand working around anyone else. Sighing, you lean your head against the brick wall behind you and gaze up at the thin sliver of (overcast) sky above. This might be the last time you smoke with Zen in this shitty alleyway. You try to savor the moment but all you can do is frown as if you'd tasted something that had spoiled.

"You got me still, man."

Roach breaks the awkward silence. You turn your head to look at the homeless stoner that Zen and you had befriended (adopted) months ago when he'd first shown up in this alley, asking for a light, and rolling papers. With a frown, you realize that you'd miss him. Even if he did bum way, way too many cigarettes. Roach, in some weird way, was also a fixture of your daily life that you'd become attached to...

"Oh, sweetie. We love you but that's not the point being made here," Zen says, taking a quick hit of the joint before passing it along to Roach, "Point is-"

"The point is I'm screwed," you interject, "WE are screwed. Hell, I watched Terry throw my file into the trash! I'm getting fired."

Roach inhaled half the joint as he listened to you speak. Coughing, nearly choking on the cloud he made with his exhale, he summarizes today's ten minute break in three simple words-

"This sucks, man!"

-then, takes another generous toke. The cloud of smoke he made this time was (somehow) bigger than the last. Roach shook his head. Ran a hand through his matted, tangled hair and sighed. He looked genuinely upset. Your heart turned over a little seeing how much these people cared about you.

"Like, who am I gonna bum smokes from now?"

Nevermind.

A laugh rumbles deep from Roach's chest as Zen (and you) just squint at him. "Oh, c'mon! You had to know that was a joke. I'm kidding, I'm kidding! This is a huge bummer, though. I liked smoking with you guys. You aren't weird about how I look. You treat me like I'm normal..." He says this with a heavy frown that collapses very suddenly upon his face.

"Well, you're as normal as the rest of us!"

"Careful guys, they might send us to Arkham."

"Oh my god, I bet they'd put us in cells right next to each other! We could pass along little notes in between the bars or something, haha!"

You all laugh as a group...but it feels bittersweet.

Zen and Roach give you the last hits off the joint, now merely a blackened nub. You were reminded of the time and realized that your ten was almost over. Zen must've been on the same wavelength as you because she groaned (loudly) when she'd checked her phone. She pouted for a second like a kid who'd just been told to go clean their room. You follow suit in your own subdued way, feeling the weight of each second that counted down to your inevitable unemployment.

Flicking the spent remainders of the joint into an ashtray, you take a breath, and mentally prepare yourself for the last hours of your shift.

"Ugh, time to clock back in."

"Same. I'll take care of the trash?"

"Thanks, Y/N. I fucking hate doing the trash."

You spend about fifteen minutes lugging stuffed, Hefty bags out to the dumpsters. One split open in the middle of transport. Another was leaking a sticky, warm liquid that got all over your uniform, making your clothes smell like rancid candy and crap. On the last round of trash, Roach helps you toss an extra heavy one that you were struggling with throwing away. You try to thank him. He just shakes his head, though, insisting that no thanks were necessary among friends...

"You've been decent to a bum like me. This is the least I can do for you."

Still, you find yourself thanking him again. Then, turn to slouch back into the Cadmus Bar (where a new wave of customers were surely crowding at the cash register by now) but are stopped by Roach, who wants to give you something. From his stained jeans pocket, he pulled out an onyx black card. He hands it to you with a rare, serious look on his face as he explains:

"Look, I hate to see them fuck you over so here's the number to my cousin, Frankie C. He's a good guy when he's not drunk. He runs a temp agency in Otisburg. If you need some quick cash to get you by while you figure shit out, call him. He can set you up with a small gig just like that. It won't be enough to break even, usually. Sometimes, an opportunity comes in, though. Depending on the season and all that."

You shake your head while telling him that you'll be fine, that you already had a plan (even if you absolutely didn't and were panicking about the next few months of your life). Roach seemed to know you were lying because he refused to take the card back from you. He just kept redirecting the topic onto his cousin. Eventually, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets so he couldn't use them. You're forced to keep the card after that. Roach smiled when you finally slid the thin paper into your vest pocket.

"Just, uhhh, keep the Frankie stuff between you and me, okay? Don't wanna ruin a sweet deal like this on everyone!"

He winks, nudging your side with an elbow. You end up laughing despite your mood. It was hard to be sad around Roach. And you wish you could do more for him than just share your smokes on the days you were working here. You could keep his secret, however. Now, it was your secret, too. You pat your vest pocket and salute Roach as if he were the captain of a ship.

"My lips are sealed!" You exclaim, making a show of pursing your lips and sealing them shut.

Your shift flew by relatively fast. Before you knew it, you were riding the D-line back to Rosserie St. where the peace of your apartment awaited you. The trip was smooth, almost TOO smooth for an average Gotham evening. It had you gripping the canister of the pepper spray you kept hidden in your purse out of suspicion. But, the minute you made it to your neighborhood, you relaxed a little bit. With the GCPD so close to your home, crime here was more tame. The worst it usually had to offer came in the forms of muggings by average thugs. Or break-ins. It was partly the reason your parents had been willing to pay the deposit when you'd moved out. Through some miracle, you'd convinced them it was safe. It'd helped when you mentioned that the police station was just a few blocks away. You knew they regularly donated to the GCPD and their fundraising galas every year.

You spent the rest of your night filling out online applications and re-writing your resume, despite knowing that any place that would hire you likely wouldn't read it.

At 5 am, a loud banging on your apartment door startles you awake. An angry voice accompanies it. By the Pennsylvania Dutch accent, it was your landlord. Reluctantly, you peeled yourself off the couch and stumbled lifelessly through the living room to go figure out what he wanted. Because it wasn't the first of the month and you'd already taken care of the bills so there was nothing that sour old man could (possibly) want from you. A breath is taken before you open the door. A little prayer is said to whatever God was listening up there. You steel yourself, plaster a smile on your face, then open the door to greet your landlord. Your stomach drops when you see he's holding a bunch of envelopes that were addressed to each resident of the building.

"The rent's just increased," he says while handing you your envelope from his pile, "I'm gonna need the difference you owe by Monday, alright?"

Your landlord shoots this new information at you with such casualness that it makes you feel sick. He's staring at you as if you were an idiot for not knowing (or expecting) that this would probably happen. Fortunately, you recover from the shock quick enough to form what you hope is a protest. It doesn't go well.

"I...already paid my rent, though."

"Yeah? Well, now the new payment is due."

"You can't raise the rent until next month!"

"Look, I don't know what to tell you, Y/N. It's that "gentrification" stuff all those woke hipsters talk about on the social medias. Prices going up? The rent goes up. Pretty open shut case, alright? Not a lot of mumbo jumbo to it."

"This apartment is rent controlled. I made sure it was when I moved in!"

"Okay, then take it up with the housing authority and wait for them to call you back about it. In the meantime? I'm gonna need that money from you on Monday. 5 am sharp. Or you can move out of here and I'll rent this apartment to someone who would pay triple the new price!!"

Your landlord's threat ripped the argument from your lips. He seems pleased when you fall silent and appear to crumple internally. You mask it by putting on a brave face...but your attempt isn't a convincing show of strength. Just as he's about to continue speaking, a (LOUD) meow interrupts him. Both you and your landlord stop what you're doing, pressing a momentary pause on your talk, to look towards the source of the noise that was growing more obnoxious by the second. You see that an orange cat was pacing back and forth on your balcony patio. Like it was waiting for you to let it in. Like this was a routine thing you did and not the very first time you'd ever seen it here. As you make the innocent mistake of giving it direct eye contact, it reacts by reaching up and eagerly paws at the sliding glass door.

Your landlord scowls.

"So, you got a pet?" He spits, raising an eyebrow at you, "That'll be an extra 200 for pet insurance. Cats piss and shit everywhere, ya know? Dirty lil' bastards. They'll fuck up my nice, clean carpets."

The carpets in your apartment were neither nice nor clean. Actually, they'd been stained and dirty since day one. The only reason they were decent now was all the steam cleaning you did to keep it tenable! Even then, your carpets were only a few more accidental messes away from being trash...

"That's not my cat," you state firmly, putting your foot down, "I don't have a pet. I don't owe you for a cat that isn't mine!"

Your landlord jabs his finger in the cat's direction and says, "If it's sitting on your fucking patio, it's your fucking cat! End of discussion. Don't need a brain to figure out that, do ya?"

He smirks (again) when he sees frustration twist anew upon your face. It made the short-statured man happy whenever he could provoke this kind of conflict in someone. But, you were convinced it meant more to him when that person was you; which filled you with such impotent anger that it nearly blinded you. Dark thoughts about ripping the smirk off his lips and grinding it into the dirty carpets that he seemed so proud of swirled and spiraled around inside your head. You held back, however, because you also wanted to keep a roof over your head. Fall was just around the corner in Gotham. It was about to get cold. Really fast. It'd be iced-over mornings and winter storms before you knew it...

So, you bit your tongue and said nothing.

"You have to think about your future, Y/N. No one is gonna do it for you," your landlord drives home the point he wanted to make even further, gently patting the frame of your apartment door with a faux concern, "Think about where you wanna be. You got until Monday to decide if it's here like an adult or out on the street in a cardboard box."

That was the second time your "future" had been mentioned. The sound of twisting steel hits your ears. Breaking glass shatters all around you as a tire, engulfed in fire, rolls past your mental vision. Someone is crying out for help. A scream crawls from your throat and takes the form of three tiny words that you speak in a defeated whisper:

"This isn't legal."

Your landlord laughs loudly and shrugs when he hears you, "This is Gotham, toots!"

He walks away before you can say anything else. You're left holding the envelope he gave you with the cat you now, apparently, owned. Who hadn't stopped meowing, by the way. You could hear it practically yowling, clawing down the tempered glass of your patio door, trying its hardest to get your attention. Sighing, you shut the front door. Lock it tight. Then, turn to face the mess of your apartment. Was paying the rent increase worth it considering what a dump house this place was?? The question nagged you while you crossed your living room (stepping over piled books and dirty laundry that you'd forgotten about a week or two ago) to open the patio door. Immediately, the cat stopped crying once it'd been let in. You watch it make itself at home on your couch and begin to purr.

Nope, you were never getting rid of that cat. You could see 200 dollars literally flying away in this moment as you relented and sat down next to it on your couch. Your fingers ran through the cat's soft, pumpkin-colored fur. Maybe you'd buy it a collar the next time you got paid? Maybe one of those cute, themed ones that you'd (sometimes) see at Petco. If you still had a job by then...

Your head falls back against the couch as a slow and exasperated groan unfurls out of you. With a desperate eye, you search the cobweb cracks in the ceiling for clues on what you should do. Their answer is silence. You were screwed.

So, you decided that breakfast was the answer!

There was a greasy spoon diner down the street that served a (passable) eggs and hash. Despite knowing your wallet couldn't handle it, you found yourself sitting in your usual spot fifteen minutes after opening the envelope, hoping that a simple, hot meal would ease your turmoil. 1,500 dollars plus 200 extra for the cat that wasn't yours and an additional increase on utilities that you didn't use. Like parking. Or the community gym. That's what you owed your landlord by Monday. It was money you just didn't have! Even thinking about it made your eyes bigger than your stomach. You end up ordering way too much food, then regret it almost instantly. Today, the eggs are bland and unseasoned. The hashbrowns are burnt black at the edges. These flavors settled on your tongue, as disappointing as the debt you had to pay, and lingered there with the stress that hung over you like a storm cloud.

Technically, you had the money...but, it was your college fund.

You couldn't touch that.

When you had moved out of your parents' house, blessedly away from Metropolis, you'd promised yourself something; that one day, you'd get your bachelor's degree in psychology, start a practice of your own and finally prove to your family that you were a capable, independent adult. However, more than that bit, you felt a certain gravitational pull towards learning about how the mind works. Even at a young age, you were always absorbed in observations about the people (and the world) around you. You'd scribble them upon sheets of paper with crayons or colored marker or pen and pencil. Sticking them on your bedroom walls. It'd driven your parents absolutely insane. They had dreams (delusions) of you becoming a grammar school teacher. A "safe profession for a girl" that wasn't too ambitious and established your role in the family legacy. All Wrenns were educators. No deviations from the antiquated mold. Unsatisfied with this as you grew older, you tried arguing to your parents that psychology and teaching were similar fields. That they were (for all intents and purposes) practically the same thing! The result had been a disaster. And sometimes, they'd still laugh at the notion over holiday dinner, throwing salt on the wound by mentioning with a mocking scrutiny-

'Except you're not around crazy people!'

-to end the conversation. Not surprisingly, they'd been unsupportive of you the day you'd received your acceptance letter to GSU. They also weren't proud of the grants you'd earned to, in their own words, throw your future away on a crack career like head shrinking. And they didn't help you with anything other than the deposit on this shit hole you now hated renting in the city they hated you living in. Sometimes, your parents would call you to ask if you'd consider coming back home. They would suggest you enroll in the "nice community college" just a few blocks down from their house. Or they'd sneak details into the dialogue about a new position at the elementary school your Mom worked in when they were feeling extra unhappy by your choices. You'd always say patiently: 'No, I can't. I'm staying in Gotham,' and they'd end the chat on a sour note. Lately, they seemed to really enjoy using how well your brother, Braydon, was doing in Metropolis.

Your college fund was the only thing standing in between you and returning back to your parents, crushed and defeated. You couldn't dip into it to solve your money problem. Doing so would only cement the quaint, milquetoast future that they determined for you. It would set you on a course of compromises until you became less an actual person and more a thing they felt entitled to "set right again." You knew, without any shadow of a doubt, that asking your parents for help in your current predicament would only result in a battle where they'd make you admit that you couldn't handle living on your own. They'd probably drive all the way to Gotham to come pick you up and take you back home. You'd wake up ten years in the future after that; a passionless, grade school teacher just like your mother. Probably married to a man you (barely) tolerated with a handful of kids you'd push into being an educator as you'd been pushed. Insisting they give up their dreams for your vision instead. For the only vision that a Wrenn was allowed. What a nightmare concept.

And yet, you found yourself texting your Dad. He had always been the more reasonable parent...

You: Hey, Dad. Can I ask you a favor?

You: Dad, I really need to borrow

You: So, something came up this month

You: Hey, how're you? How's Mom? [5:55 am]

The response came a half an hour later.

Dad: Isn't it a little too early for you? 😜 We're doing fine. Haven't heard from you in a while. How're things in Gotham? We heard there was a new madman running around the city on the news. [6:25 am]

By that time, you were already back home.

You: 🤷‍♀️ There's always a new madman running around Gotham. Dad, can I ask you Dad, I've run into troub I'm doing fine, tho. Just busy. [6:27 am]

Dad: That's good. Remember to put the GCPD on speed dial in case anything does happen, ok? [6:28 am]

You: I've got them on speed dial already. Don't worry. Hey, could we talk about something [6:30 am]

Dad: That's good, sweetie. Just want you to be safe. How's college been? Have you decided on when you'll be transferring over to St. Mary's? [6:35 am]

You stared at the message for a long time after it was sent and realized, with a sinking feeling, just how futile asking your parents for help was. They didn't want you to study at the GSU. They didn't want you to be a psychologist. Hell, they weren't even cool with you living in Gotham! Here they were, already pushing you to leave the city (and your dreams) behind. No, this had been a stupid mistake. If you had a problem, you were going to have to solve it yourself. Like an adult.

You: I'm staying at GSU, Dad. Classes are going really well. My teachers love me. [6:44 am]

The reply from your father came too quick to be anything good. It simply said-

Dad: Ok. [6:44 am]

-and nothing else. You don't text him back. You'd just be wasting time at this point. Instead, you fill out more online job applications. Even the listing you found for a janitor position at Arkham. Right now, you weren't being picky. When you'd milked all of Linked In, Craigslist, GothHires, and several local group forums, you funneled your anxiety in other ways; you began washing the dirty dishes that'd sat in your sink since...you forget, you pick up the books off the floor (putting them together on your shelf), and start sorting through the old laundry piles too.

When you grab your clothes from yesterday, you notice that something falls out of your work vest. It lands on the floor at your feet. You bend down to pick the thing up and peer at it (kinda baffled) and clueless before suddenly remembering what it was. This little black card was the contacts for the temp agency run by Roach's cousin. As you flip it over to see: "Frankie Cee, hiring agent. He'll see the potential in you!" printed on it with black ink and metallic foil, an idea strikes you. A genius idea...

What harm could a phone call do?

You begin dialing the number on the card.

"Hello, Frankie? Hi, uh. My name is [Y/N] and my friend Roach said you hire people. Could I set up an interview with you? My call back number is..."

Sandwiched between the glamour of the Bowrey and the government offices of the West End was a dump called Otisburg where all the dirt, sweat, and grime in Gotham collected itself. Comprised of crumbling brick and dark alleyways that were always littered with trash, it stood out against its wealthy neighbors, reminding everyone that just beneath the (gilded) surface was a festering sore left untreated within the city. And that year after year, Mayor Hill neglected it stubbornly despite his many "sincere" promises to do otherwise. It's inside this wound that you find yourself a couple of hours past noon, wondering (worrying) if you had gotten the address right?? Or if Frankie Cee had sent you the wrong pin on WayneMaps...

Because the place your pin had sent you to was a dive bar.

Brows furrowed in confusion, you quickly check WayneMaps again. Nope! This was it. 4580 45th St (South). Right next to a bus stop and a row of condemned apartments that'd seen better days. Stashing your phone away, you peer at the neon sign that said "Stacked Deck" in mustard yellow and scarlet red with apprehension twisting your gut. Unless this (particular) hiring manager ran a bar or worked at an incredibly progressive, super chill, non-profit, having your interview here didn't make sense. Things like that were typically done in an office. You were starting to realize, albeit a touch late, that this whole situation was sketchy and your genius idea had been stupid! While you knew Roach was only trying to help, he'd set you upon a fool's errand, anyways. Should've stayed home and done job applications. You turn around to leave but surprise yourself when you walk into the bar instead as if a gravitational pull held your feet for ransom.

Suspicious stares fix themselves upon you when you enter the Stacked Deck. Some patrons even leer and throw lascivious comments out, hoping to rattle loose a reaction from you. One guy asks how much your hourly rates are? Another seems way too curious about why "a tiny little thing like you" has come to a place like this? Ignoring each prod and jab these bar-dwellers throw, you wade through the sea of cigarette smoke that hung in the air, focused solely on the long counter where drinks were being served. Unfortunately, you tug your hoodie strings while you do this, advertising the discomfort you felt to everyone regardless of the stiff upper lip you were trying (and failing) to portray. RIP you. After waiting a couple seconds, the next available bartender slides up to you and asks what you want to order with narrowed eyes full of skepticism. She's probably wondering the same thing everybody else is; what're you doing here?

In the back of your mind, you're questioning that too...

"Oh, uhh, no. No, I'm here for Frankie?" You reply, sounding uncertain, your statement forming into a question at the very end, "Frankie Cee? Do you know if he's around?"

Wordlessly, the bartender stares at you. When it was beginning to get super uncomfortable, you tried clarifying. Somehow, this makes you sound less confident than if you'd kept quiet: "I have an interview with him at 3."

The bartender continues staring. Her expression morphs from skepticism to abject disbelief. "You have an interview with Frankie Cee? You?? At this bar?"

"Yes," you say, a bit frustrated now.

She raises an eyebrow, "Are you positive?"

You absolutely weren't.

"Yeah," you repeat, firmer this time, "he gave me this address to meet up. I just didn't know it was gonna be at a bar. Uh, his text said to talk to the bartenders first."

Judging off pure mood alone, you could tell that the bartender was done talking with you. Before she could show you the door, though, you reach into your pockets and pull out the onyx card that Roach had given you. You hold it up so the lady could see it, like it was an ID, hoping this would be enough to convince her to help you out or at least point you in the right direction. If you'd been thinking with your head on straight, if you'd only paid attention to the red flags, you might've realized how weird all this was. How wrong it felt in the pit of your stomach. But, the specter of lost college funds, homelessness, and your (almost certain) unemployment was blinding your sight to the bad omens surrounding you. You wanted money now more than anything else. Even the possibility of it seemed worth the potential risk.

The bartender sighed when she saw the card. It was obvious she was annoyed by the sight of it. "Well, fuck! Here I was thinking you were a lying bitch I could 86. No happy endings in Gotham. Yeah, Frankie's here. Give me a minute. I'll go snag him for ya. In the meantime, be a paying customer, buy yourself something, and go sit at those seats in the back. Or else I'll have to kick you out, anyway. Alright? So, what's your poison?"

You decide on beer. Something light, something without a high alcohol percentage. After all, you didn't want to get fucked up before the interview. The bartender sighs at your choice. With disgust in her tone, she grumbles 'of course' underneath her breath, then turns around to make your order after you'd handed her 15 crinkled dollars. Soon, with drink in hand, you hurry past the pool tables and the cue rack and the glowing neon sign that said: "Keep Gotham Weird". You slip into the end booth closest to the restrooms where a poster of Zephyrs of the Holy hung. Zen had once told you that the band was magical, so you'd thought it'd be a good place to wait. Maybe their luck would rub off on you?

You were half a beer in when Frankie Cee arrived. The man was not what you were expecting! Bald and beefy with black tattoos blazed up his arms, Frankie was the polar opposite of his cousin. He looked suspiciously like if Mr. Clean had joined a biker gang. The man glances at you (and your drink) once, chuckles to himself, then joins you in the booth. You swear you heard him whisper 'of course,' but you pretend not to hear it. Which was probably the best thing you could do in this scenario for more than one reason.

"So! My piece of shit, good for nothing, bum of a cousin sent you my way, huh?" Frankie asks you, grin on his face. Despite the twinkle in his eye, it was hard to tell if he was joking or being serious. That edge of uncertainty has you sweating bullets. You gape at him; frozen cold in the headlights by his question. You weren't sure how to answer him and Frankie seemed amused that you didn't quite know what to say. He continues speaking, taking a casual sip of the Tennessee Rye that was clutched in his hand while doing so, "You know, that fucker still owes me for the last favor I did. You wanna pay his tab for him?"

"Uhhh."

This interview was going great already! You were going to kill Roach when you saw him next. Your face twists up momentarily as you contemplate the logistics of murder...

The man must've sensed what you were thinking because he erupted with laughter. Wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye, Frankie switches gears and decides to stop panicking you. "Nahh, I'm just playing' with ya! My cousin's decent when he's not on the drops. But he does owe me a pack of cigs the next time I see him."

"You and me both," you replied, a weaker chuckle than his escaping from your throat, still shaky on whether (or not) this was truly a joke. You try reminding yourself that if everything went wrong for some reason, you had pepper spray handy in your pockets. It was a weak reassurance but the only one you had at the moment.

"Right. Well, enough chit-chat. Let's get down to business." Frankie says, that merry twinkle in his eye becoming much sharper than before.

The man retrieves a folded paper from his pant's pocket, opens it up flat, then slides it over to you. It's a job application. Emblazoned on top was the logo for the temp agency (an eyeball wreathed in flames) with the company name orbiting around it. A small sentence follows underneath: "We can SEE the potential in you!". This agency definitely had their brand figured out, you thought, as the slogan hooked onto your brain like a Super Bowl commercial. Scanning through the rest of it, you find that everything seems pretty normal (about four sections dedicated to general info, medical history, driving record, and previous employers), but when you flipped the paper over...things got a little weird. 13 questions greet you, each more confusing than the last.

You squint at them.

Frankie senses your bewilderment and chuckles. "Just fill the questionnaire out to the best of your abilities, girly. Some of them are a little out there due to our clientele, but answering them all helps me figure out what gigs you'll best be suited for, you dig?? We wanna match our employees' skills to the needs of our clients."

You nod, then ask him a question. But he ignores this completely and asks you one instead. Which nags you in an insistent way. Something was off. Something wasn't right here. Something tugged on your gut for you to leave this place.

"Are you thirsty? I'm gonna snag something from the bar. I'll be back in a moment. Try getting that thing done, alright?? Just don't think about it too much."

Frankie drains the rest of his Tennessee Rye with a single gulp. An impressive feat considering his glass was practically full. He uses your stunned silence to make his getaway. You watch the man saunter towards the bar counter, greeting some new faces that'd just entered the Stacked Deck from the alleyside door. After a second, you turn your attention onto the paper. Blinking, still lost, you search for a pen inside your purse and begin to tackle the easiest parts on the front. That tug in your gut yanked harder. Finally, you arrived at the back page of the application. By that time, it felt like your whole, damn stomach was twisted into knots.

You poise your pen over the first question. Your hand is shaking slightly as you do...

1. How flexible are you willing to be with work hours?

Answer: All weekends and holidays.

That one was normal and simple to answer. You jot your response down without much hesitation.

2. Do you have any physical disabilities that would prevent you from finishing a task?

Answer: No.

This question was also pretty common. You have to have seen it printed on a hundred different job applications before.

3. Do you have any familial connections to law enforcement?

Answer: No.

Another inquiry that didn't appear abnormal. But you wondered, albeit briefly, why a temp agency would want to know that? You figure it was likely a conflict of interest deal for some of the clients. After all, you weren't a fan of the GCPD, either.

4. Do you own a firearm?

Answer: No.

Not an odd question to ask in Gotham. Everyone and their mothers kept some kind of weapon on them. The most efficient option being a gun. You had thought about owning one, back when you'd been planning to move to this city. Instead, your parents convinced you (wore you down) to buy a can of pepper spray. They were mortified by the idea of you shooting a pistol. Luckily, a year into GSU, your dormmate had shown you how to use one.

5. How do you feel about dressing in uniform?

Answer: I'm okay with it.

You supposed this one made sense? Every job in retail that you'd had made you wear a uniform or at least a company T-shirt. You hated the cheesy outfits of some places (like BatBurger), but right now, you weren't really in a position to turn down a paycheck. So, you lie on the application with a bold flourish of your pen.

The next question was where things got strange.

6. If you had a catchphrase, what would it be?

Answer: Ready for anything!

What?? You stare at the words until they seem to bleed off the paper. This HAD to be some sort of attempt at a psychology quiz! One of those lame passes a business would use to gauge your level of agreeability. You roll your eyes, jotting down a phrase that meant nothing to you...but sounded like something that a hiring manager would want to hear. You cringe at the dishonesty. Yet another wave of anxiety rolls over you. Perhaps this beer wasn't agreeing with your stomach?

7. Do you have any physical skills or talents?? Example: Could you scale a wall or jump over a fence? If you had to, could you run for longer than 20 minutes? Are you proficient in martial arts?

Answer: N/A

You blink. Again, the word "what" re-emerged as a question within your brain. You tap your pen on the side of your cheek, chewed it's cap anxiously for a moment while squinting at the query. What in the world kind of business would need martial arts skills?! Was this temp agency hiring people for a dojo? But then, your brain clicks into place, recalling a chat you'd had with Roach about the time he'd been a security guard. He'd quit the job after the first night when a league of black-clad ninjas stormed the vault he was supposed to be protecting. Looking at number seven again, you supposed that it made sense. This was Gotham and insane, crazy shit like that happened all the time.

8. If the police or any legal figures of authority were to ask you to give up the name/s of your fellow employees, would you?

Answer: _________.

How were you even supposed to answer that? Of course, you would have to comply with any legal authorities! What other choice was there? Unless this temp agency was working alongside villains or criminals, a question like this was just strange. You take a gulp of your beer to steady yourself in an almost instinctual reaction, feeling once more a tug at your soul that screamed: LEAVE NOW!!! Five minutes later, you'd drained the whole glass, but those twists in your gut had only grown into a briar patch of knots. You couldn't bail from this opportunity, you reason with the panic. A worse fate awaited you on Monday if you couldn't find another source of income. That fate freezes you to your booth. You decide to leave number eight blank and come back to it. There were five other inquiries to fill.

9. Do you have any medical conditions to your knowledge that may be triggered or worsened by unknown chemical gas?

Answer: I don't know, I've never been exposed before.

Chemical plants. This temp agency must hire for chemical plants and dojos. That had to be it! You mentally pat your own back, proud of your logic, and flawless sensibility. Gotham City retained a high demand for factory workers, chemists, and also...ninjas? Your hand darts out to take another gulp of your beer only to wrap around an empty glass. As you stare at it, the scream inside your head grows louder, evolving into a shriek. Leave now. Leave now! LEAVE NOW! Instead, through clenched teeth, you write the truth in the answer slot. A heavy weight, like you'd signed your death warrant, settled upon your shoulders. Your heart began to pound in your chest. You push on to the next question...

10. Theoretically, if you were thrown into a pit of acid, how would you react?

Answer: ____________.

LEAVE. LEAVE. LEAVE. LEAVE-

"Almost done with that?"

A gravelly voice interrupts your panic attack. You glance up to see Frankie has returned; two beers in his hands and looking a little drunker. He gives you a wink, then sets your glass down in front of you. It wasn't the brand you'd bought before. The beer was darker, almost orange, and foamed up so thickly at the rim that it threatened to spill out onto the table. Thanking the man, you move the application away from the glass just in case. You hear Frankie laugh. It sounds almost sinister. You weren't sure what was so funny, but you restrain yourself from asking. There were more pressing matters on your mind like these 13 questions on the page before you.

Frankie seems to sense your apprehension as he seats himself in your booth. "Ya know, if you have anything confusing you at all, just ask. That part on the back can really stump the newbies."

Running a hand through your hair, you decide to take the man up on his offer. Perhaps, maybe, it was only a misunderstanding and you were just being stupid.

"Uhm, okay. So, I am a bit, uh...unclear here about some of these questions. Cause they sound a bit-"

Weird.

Strange.

Fucking out there.

"-unconventional," you say cautiously, choosing the adjective with care, "I've honestly never seen anything like this asked on an application before and I've worked a lot of places in Gotham."

Frankie nods lightly, appearing receptive to your concerns. He stays silent. Allows you to continue rambling with an attentive focus stationed upon you.

"Like number 10. W-what am I even supposed to say to that?? Is this a legitimate concern I should be having on the job? What about number 11. Uh, heads or tails??? Why does your agency need to know that? Okay. And let's just take a moment to appreciate number 13, because. I'm just...lost on that one! 'Thoughts on tea and scones? How do you brew a proper Earl Grey?? What are your full thoughts on cerebral manipulation via electrode and have you read Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll?'. Just what kind of clients do you have?!"

Frankie answers without skipping a beat, "We're a grassroots cooperative business catering to a high class, criminal clientele and providing them with necessary services."

Silence settles over you. For a few moments, you simply stare at the man, robbed of words to say, and devoid of thoughts to think. Frankie doesn't react, carrying on as if waiting patiently for your next questions. That twinkle gleaming in his eye got just a touch brighter and sharper. It doesn't catch your notice.

"What?" You ask, your mind finally rebooting and turning back on.

The man replies in a similar way as before:

"We're a traditionally-run recruiting agency that connects the criminal element to those in need of quick gigs or temporary employment. Usually, that first one, though, since our clients can be a little hazardous. But only if you're an idiot."

Frankie laughs while you gawk at him.

Swallowing thickly and with a hushed voice, you rephrase your last question again. You just want to hear the man say it another time in case you'd misheard him. Everyone deserved the benefit of a doubt. Frankie's laugh died down, immediately, when you asked him to repeat his simple answer for a third round. Now he was staring at you. You see a frown pull at his beer-stained lips. Another shift in gears brought a more serious tone to the man as he says, "We're a "Goon Hiring" agency."

...

Frankie Cee sneered, "What, my cousin didn't tell ya?"

"No."

"Well, that's just classic Roach, isn't it?"

...

Instantly, you stand up (ramrod straight) and get out of the booth. Plastering your best "customer service" smile upon your face, you thank Frankie for his time, collect your purse, and turn to leave. As you do, the sound of a gun clicking into place hits your eardrums. It's followed by a growl that commands you to sit back down. Trembling, you obediently comply and return to your seat facing Frankie who now has a Glock trained on you. You peer down the barrel of the pistol, eyes watering, heart pounding fast, and internally screaming at yourself for how dumb you were, how you hadn't listened to the red flags. If you were this fucking stupid, maybe it was a good thing you'd never go back to GSU? You could just die (right now) with the knowledge that it would've never worked out.

Still, your dream of being a psychologist spurred you forward...

"P-please don't k-kill me," you whimper, lower lip trembling like an autumn leaf.

"I won't as long as we can finish up this interview, girly. Now stop crying and drink your beer, we're almost through the paperwork portion."

With a shaking hand, you lift the perspiring glass up to your lips. Frankie lowers his gun as you do. The orange-hued booze that he bought you isn't to your liking. It's too strong, too bitter. It had an astringent aftertaste that clung your tongue and lingered there. Stubbornly. But, you couldn't risk being picky at the moment. Frantic, you wonder if anyone would step in to save you? Was anyone aware of this? Were they calling the cops already or rolling up their sleeves to give teach this man a lesson? At least with this question, the answer was obvious; nope. Everyone inside the Stacked Deck was ignoring you as if somebody pulling a gun out on someone else was normal. A tad late, you remember that you were in Otisburg. To this place, it WAS normal.

And nobody was going to come save you...

Frankie rests the gun on the tabletop in between you but still clutches it close, a warning (for you) not misinterpret his relaxed mood with allowing you a chance to escape. He heaves a sigh, looks at you wearily, and shakes his head. "Look, girly, you either leave because you aced this interview or leave with Tommy and Benny in a rug. Totally your choice-"

Was it really, though?

You gulp.

"-but save me the rug, okay? Those cost money. I can't keep buying more rugs this week. Plus, let's be honest: if you didn't really need this job, didn't reeeally need the money, you wouldn't have even called me. I can tell you need the dough, girl. You got that hunger just like me when I was your age. I promise if you come work with me, I'll feed that good. My temp agency ain't fucking Underworld Talent. We don't use algorithms but we're damn fucking good at what we do. You can't do better than me."

You couldn't do better.

He's right.

You feel like the walls were closing in on you.

Frankie continues his pitch, oblivious to your fear or simply uncaring. "You stick with me? Now, you got something good. Something that'll pay good. I've been doing this shit for years and I can see a future henchmen from miles away. And you? You got henchmen written all over ya, girly. Embrace that. Now, what'll it be...? A damn good job-"

He taps the end of his Glock upon your half-filled application. The sound, impatient, and urging.

"-or Tommy and Benny? And before you choose, think HARD about where you want your future to go. Who do you see yourself being in five years?"

Dead.

There was that question again. You swear, it was haunting you. The instant you heard it said, your mind floods with unbidden images. Bloody flesh on slick pavement. Twisted metal feeding flames and smoke. A cry into the night, soon becoming a wail for help that would go unheard, drowned out by the roll and crack of thunder as it rattled the earth. Lightning flashing across the sky as if God himself was angry. And you, in the middle of it all, crawling along the ground like a worm...

Did you even have a future to imagine after that?

Did you even have a future?

Despair opened its mouth wide to consume you. Yet, before it could, another vision snatches you away from it. Inside the empty hall of an old and dusty classroom, a friend smiles warmly at you. They're patting you on the back as you dab your eyes with a tissue. 'Don't stress out! It's just one bad score. You're gonna make a great therapist someday, trust me.' They say this with absolute confidence. Suddenly, you snap back to reality. A feeling far stronger than despair sparks within you.

Hope.

"I-I want the job!" You exclaim, stammering, but raising your chin to portray enough confidence nonetheless.

Frankie laughs in reaction. He seems pleased by your final decision. "Now that's what I like to hear from newbies! I knew you were a smart cookie-"

The man smiles coldly with a sharp gleam in his eye. Unlike the times prior, you knew that Frankie wasn't joking now. He was being dead serious.

"-so, let's fill out that application, yeah? I got shit to do later."

Steeling yourself, you reach for the ballpoint pen that you'd abandoned on the table and pick it up (determinedly) in your hand. With renewed spirit, you begin tackling the application. You answered every question as best you could. Even the ones that terrified you and made no sense. At the end of the back page, beneath number thirteen, you finally get to the point where your signature was needed. You poise the pen tip over the blank line, take a deep breath, then chew the inside of your lip. After this, there was no turning back. But, it wasn't as if you could turn the ship around now, either. Not if you wanted to keep your roof or go to college next semester...or live long enough to see tomorrow.

Upon the document line, you sign your name. It's a messy scribble of a signature. But, it'll do.

Frankie takes the application from you moments afterward. The ink hasn't even dried on the paper and he's already folding it into his pocket for safe keeping. The man assures you that this was the best choice you could've made; that you weren't going to regret it so long as you did exactly what you were told and followed the rules. Fear seized your heart again. You tried to ignore it. The deed had already been done. The future depended on you making some peace with it...

Because hell or high water, you were going to be a psychologist!

"Well, now that we got that squirt away, let's talk about your first job. A great one just came in an hour or two ago, perfect for a beginner goon like you," Frankie says, not giving you a second more to ruminate before throwing you into the fire, "It won't be dangerous. Just a simple D-List task. If you ask me, it might as well be free money! You'll be cleaning out a warehouse, you feel me? You're in, you're out. Badda-bing, badda-boom! Easy as mother's pie."

"But, I-"

He talks over you, waving away your words with an imperious flick of his hand, "Don't worry, girly, I won't be sending you in alone. This time. You'll be working with a team of my other employees. All experienced with this kind of job. Just listen to whatever they say and you should be golden. They're my go-to squad. So, you're in excellent hands. Trust me."

Frankie snaps his fingers, calling for Tommy and Benny with a voice that pierces through the bar's ambient noise. You're soon joined by two brollic, rough-looking men who tower over you. Frankie asks them to bring him the 'Halloween crap from last year'. A few minutes later, which feels like a lifetime to you, they return, carrying with them a cardboard box full of gimmick masks. Stuff you would buy at a Spirit Halloween store for twenty bucks. Frankie instructs you to pick out one that you liked. Without giving it thought, your hands plunge into the box and pull out a mask at pure random. You blink when you process what you've chosen.

It's a red axolotl mask.

"Take it. Wear it on the job tonight," Frankie says, explaining the purpose of his gift, "Consider it a part of your uniform from now on, alright?? And congratulations, you're officially hired! Welcome to the family-"

He grins at you. His smile has icy shivers racing down your spine.

"-I think you're gonna fit right in."