July 17th, 12:25

"Patient number 5034 is still unresponsive - my name is Doctor. Crawford,"

"We all know you're name, Doctor. Can't we just get on with the torture?"

"Very well.."

"Tell me, Annastacia. When did you first feel your, 'mental issues' begin?"

There it was. The question every doctor, every nurse, every fucking psychiatrist tried to find an answer to. And all in their foolish wisdom believed it would evolve from her. The 'poor little rich girl' who's parents died. They traveled through the timeline - expanding each day like it were a month in itself. And Annastacia remained uncooperative; amused as she watched the bastards pull at strings, try to pluck her emotions from the cold casing that hid her inner self. She did not believe in the claims of insanity - because, in her view, there was nothing wrong with her. She acted upon pure instinct in her freedom; the lure, the belief, of chance against the world. Against Gotham. But that enticement of 'chance' had dropped her in this shit hole - locked up like some mentally deranged animal, and Arkham Asylum, was the City's Zoo.

"I could tell you, Doc. If there were issues there to begin with." the woman spoke clearly; blue hues narrowing in challenge to the brewing analyst in the Doctors' brain. But, as sight connected, it created a method of unease in the Doctors' gut: a wrenching that concocted every time she set foot in this very room: no matter the patient.

"Isn't there, at least, a chance of locating the-"

"So you believe in 'chance'?"

"Don't you, Annastacia? I read your file, and the reports say that you based your killings.. On Chance."

A scoff emulated from the patients' throat, followed by a trickle of poisoned laughter. "Then you need to finalize that rough draft in your hands, Doctor. My killings, as you so call them, were not of chance, but of choice. You see the difference? Choice, is something you voluntarily make; like the choice my parents made the night they died. Chance, on the other hand, is how the world plays your cards. Like, the chances of my parents dying that night on the cold, icy road.. High. The chances of a robbery happening in gotham city's streets.. High.

- The chances of, next time, you getting out of this room alive?

Slim."

The Doctor narrowed her eyes, mirroring the image that she faced in Annastacia.

"Are you.. Threatening me?"

"Oh no, Doctor. Threatening concludes that I won't physically do anything. No, that was a promise."

Annastacia jerked forward, and a gasp hitched in the Doctors' throat, all the while a maniacal laugh swirling through the atmosphere of the pokey, closet of a room. Raising to her feet with an instant burst of survival, the Doctor spun dramatically and proceeded to the door, while Annastacia remained perfectly perched against her metal seat. The sound of locks from the other side alerted the woman that her cell would welcome her shortly; and her hands twitched in the wrap that prevented her movements. "Till next time, Doc." her voice mewled to the other woman, who had become so obviously flustered with fear and panic - allowing the promise to haunt her coherency.

"We're done." the Doctor stated emptily, and with those two words, a pair of guards invaded the musky room; the stench of insanity molesting the air the surrounded Annastacia's self. If it had not been for the dirty-white restraints, she would have looked.. Normal. Looked like the girl that conquered Billboards and Magazines before her business lunged to hell. But it was her laugh; the shrill pitch that reminded everyone that she wasn't innocent. Not anymore.

The blue sparks at the end of the bar in one guards' hand caught her interest, and even though the laughing continued - the area soon fell into eerie silence; cascading in black.

A husked moan stifled from the limp body that was being dragged through the asylum walkways; banging and cheering from the other inmates signified her returning welcome amongst her equally creative people - all here because Society deems them unfit for purpose. Society was the crazy one here, not them.Her shoulders shook with the development of laughter, a guard tugging harshly at her arm as he tossed the female back into her display; and instantly, she swung round; hands gripped upon the bars as knuckles turned white - a devious nature in her eye as the widely stared. "Was I no fun?" she asked, voice trickled with feign amusement; but the guard refused to retaliate; to feed her with a response. Instead, he processed to lock her cell and prohibit escape - even though the main control area assured of that.

And as she watched them back up; her ears perked at the pitching in through their dusty intercoms. "We've got him. The Joker's coming in."

Excitement bubbled in her core; a casting of delight crossing her features - knowing that she was about to witness one of the greatest images in Gotham's History.

The capture of The Joker.