Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The low tones of the clock in his office continued to repeat themselves, ever ticking, ever tocking. He found himself staring at the paper in front of him, crystal blue eyes not taking in the stark black ink on the white paper. The hypnotic sounds of the clock were distracting him, drawing him in. He was left listening to these ever repeating sounds.

The room he was in was big enough that the acoustics made sure that the clock continued to echo in his room. A desk in the center of the room was where he sat, his back facing a window, while his front faced the door. The window, like every other window, had bars on it, and was almost blocked by the bookshelf behind him, holding his psychology books, his research notes, books he favored and prized over all others. The chair he sat in was one with wheels and two black, plastic arm rests giving his arms support when they needed it. It was not an overly comfortable chair, but it didn't kill his lanky frame.

Certificates hung in frames on his walls, declaring him a doctor, a graduate, a licensed psychiatrist, certified to work in the hallowed halls of Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Other than that, his office was rather bare. The door had a window on it, allowing people to see into the bare office. It was devoid of real personality; there were no pictures or personal objects. There was a plastic plant in the corner, but it did nothing to liven up the office. His name was in uniformed block letters on the window of the door, not that he cared. At least it wasn't on a plaque on the door, like some high school classroom.

It wasn't like the young doctor to get so distracted by the ticking of a clock that he could not focus on his report. The new patients given to him were of little concern, only enough concern to be sure that he would keep his job for a while longer.

But not today.

Today, Dr. Jonathan Crane's attention was fixated on the ticking of the clock.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The pen was placed on the paper as Dr. Crane's hands came up, massaging his temples. The room was silent, as he preferred it, and one hand came up to pull his glasses off. One eye pinched the bridge of his nose. Blue eyes opened again as a knock sounded on his door. He could only make out a shadow of a form though the window. He was distracted for a mere second as he remembered the old, black and white private detective movies he had snuck around to watch as a child.

"Enter."

Crane's voice was soft, but loud enough for whoever waited on the other side of the door to hear him. He put his glasses back on as the door opened, revealing another doctor. She was a tall woman with curves that weren't hidden by the white lab coat she wore. A pair of black heels rested on her feet, leading up long legs to a black pencil skirt. A navy blue blouse was buttoned up to her neck, the high neckline perfect for the black tie she had hanging in front of her shirt. Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail, not one strand left out of place, save for one curl that hung down, framing her face. Vibrant green eyes looked at him before she spoke.

"Doctor Crane, your newest patient has just arrived," she said. Crane nodded once before reaching a hand out. She passed him the file in her hand before she turned, walking out of the office. Crane made a mental note to make sure to get her name one of these days. She was a doctor at the Asylum, but he couldn't, for the life of him, remember ever being formerly introduced to her.

Blue eyes moved over to the file in his hand, and he opened the manila folder. A picture was clipped to the front of the file, but he ignored it in exchange of looking over the papers attached. There was a criminal record attached, that had a few pages of information. He skimmed it before lifting those pages to find the medical reports. His medical reports were surprisingly clear.

Still ignoring the picture presented to him, Crane looked over the psychological reports, the reports that interested him the most. He had been in Arkham a few times, though not so many that he had run into Crane before. Interesting…

Crane realized that the prospect of a new patient successfully distracted him from the ticking of the clock. However, he knew that it would be more important for him to finish the file he was working on for the other patient, so he set aside the new file and picked up his pen again. However, the natural curiosity that filled him caused him to glance at the picture.

The man in the picture wore a purple mask over his brown eyes. The smirk on his face was positively devious, as well as with a touch of arrogance, like he knew something no one else did. Over his shoulders was a green coat with black question marks, and Crane could see the top of a purple shirt under the coat. They were both clearly expensive and made of high quality material, perfectly tailored to his body. His hair was an auburn color, a little long, and in waves under a green hat with a wide purple ribbon around it, and a black question mark in the center. Crane's blue eyes looked over the name on the file once more.

The Riddler.

He made no sound, merely closed the file and turned his attention back to the paperwork on his desk. It was then he noticed the clock once more.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

(?)(?)(?)(?)(?)

Brown eyes were narrowed in agitation as the guards dragged him through the halls of Arkham Asylum. He heard the sneers, cries, and laughter of the other inmates, but he didn't bother to look up. It didn't matter to him what they thought, not even a little bit. Every last one of them were scum, completely useless to him in the long run. Not a one could hold a handle to his intellect. It was a moment of poor planning that landed him in here, but his great planning had already gotten a new plan in motion. He would be getting out of here soon, if everything went according to plan.

The cell was opened with the jingling of keys. The brown eyed man lifted his head to look at the familiar cell he was being forced into. Ah, so repeat offenses did have its benefits. This cell would be his, and would be his forever… Good. He had been counting on that.

The cell was bare, safe for a metal cot with a paper-thin white mattress, nondescript white sheets, a too-thin white pillow, and a toilet in the corner by a sink. He was pushed in and the door was closed shut. He backed up to the door calmly, his hands sticking out of the small opening, just big enough for a grown man's hands to fit through, and the guards removed his cuffs.

Edward Nygma walked around his cell, rubbing his wrists from the too-tight handcuffs. He took in his cell, without the comfort and safety of his mask. That, like his clothes and cane, had been confiscated during the processing process. He sighed, sitting on the cot before he decided to lay down, hands coming up to rest behind his head, a smirk on his face as he looked at the ceiling.

His thoughts were interrupted by an angry roaring sound filling the Asylum. He merely glanced over toward the see-through doors of his cell. Guards rushed by, guns and stun guns in hand running to the source of the outburst.

"Restrain him! Get him restrained!"

The cries were echoed down the corridor, and repeated by a few different voices; Edward was sure he even heard it repeated in another language! The roar he had identified as Killer Croc, and he was a bit glad that he was in the cell instead of out there. It wasn't that he was scared, necessarily. No, the truth was that he could talk Croc around until the wrestler was so confused he just let Edward go to shut him up. Or, he could talk Croc around in circles until he was devoured by the much larger man. But, the problem was that Croc was no fun, and his sub-par intellect was going to serve only to agitate Edward to the point of sheer anger. No, Edward didn't need that.

Another roar, followed by swearing that carried louder than the guard's yells, demonstrated that the Arkham guards had gotten better at stopping inmates who were out of control. Or, at least, had managed to restrain Croc and get him back towards his cell. Edward let out a sigh, though a smirk crossed his face again.

"My favorite home away from home. Some things never change..."

A thought occurred to Edward, and he sat up, hands coming back to hold him up. His smirk faded as he thought it over, and he looked toward the window against the far wall, too high up for him to look out, and too small for him to try to crawl out of. And barred. No surprise there.

"I wonder who it is that had the sheer misfortune to get my file… It is time for a new doctor, after all…"