One black eye and two weeks later, Arkham had not stopped moving.
It was rather silly that he thought it would, just because of an incident so insignificant. No real news of the Joker, or anyone else. Not Isley, Quinn, even Nygma. It was getting too droll for his tastes in this place, and so he found himself returning to the dilapidated couch in the recreation room, taking down several of the worn books. It was almost therapeutic--moreso than his actual therapy--to read these texts. Like he back in high school.
Then again, he hated high school. He also hated the asylum that he helped shape. Had he known he would be having an "extended stay" at some point, he would've left better policies in place. Whatever. Past in the past, Jonny-boy. It wasn't all too bad. He got singular shower privileges (halfway, he suspected, because the other inmates were afraid of him) and decent hours out of the claustrophobic (padded!) cell. For a major criminal, he was living a relatively cozy life. Key word: relatively.
His head hurt like hellfire for days, and the black eye stung for longer--but, hey. He acknowledged it to be in the order of things, and moved on. His glasses were useless, at this point, thus causing him to forgo them. They were mostly for image, anyways--he could see fine, for the most part, and he took them off regularly for the Scarecrow persona.
(Better not to dwell on the mask, now. The persona would return in good time.)
And so he found himself curled up on the pathetic sofa, reading one of the multiple outdated chemistry books. Child's play, really and truly.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-02-25 09:21 pm (UTC)It was rather silly that he thought it would, just because of an incident so insignificant. No real news of the Joker, or anyone else. Not Isley, Quinn, even Nygma. It was getting too droll for his tastes in this place, and so he found himself returning to the dilapidated couch in the recreation room, taking down several of the worn books. It was almost therapeutic--moreso than his actual therapy--to read these texts. Like he back in high school.
Then again, he hated high school. He also hated the asylum that he helped shape. Had he known he would be having an "extended stay" at some point, he would've left better policies in place. Whatever. Past in the past, Jonny-boy. It wasn't all too bad. He got singular shower privileges (halfway, he suspected, because the other inmates were afraid of him) and decent hours out of the claustrophobic (padded!) cell. For a major criminal, he was living a relatively cozy life. Key word: relatively.
His head hurt like hellfire for days, and the black eye stung for longer--but, hey. He acknowledged it to be in the order of things, and moved on. His glasses were useless, at this point, thus causing him to forgo them. They were mostly for image, anyways--he could see fine, for the most part, and he took them off regularly for the Scarecrow persona.
(Better not to dwell on the mask, now. The persona would return in good time.)
And so he found himself curled up on the pathetic sofa, reading one of the multiple outdated chemistry books. Child's play, really and truly.