Prologue
The person known as Edward Nygma barely managed to open his eyelids because of the intense light that didn't let him sleep, but also it put pressure on him so much that he couldn't open his eyes. The pile of thoughts that would accompany the terrible headache he had in a matter of seconds would certainly not help him.
No misunderstanding; He loved being a genius, he even adored it. But sometimes it could turn into something really tiring and painful. For example, while most people were not even aware that they had woken up and realize they can move, Edward had many thoughts flowed into his mind right now. The thought that told him to understand out where he is was stronger than others.
Holding his head, he made a move to straighten himself up, simultaneous with the first move that made his back ache with terrible pain. He only experienced such painful situations when he fought Batman.
Oh no.
No no no.
He scanned all over, wishing he was wrong, though he didn't need to look around to know where he was. He had anticipated this. He was back in that sickening cell in Arkham.
I'd rather die than spend another minute with these idiots who had lobotomy.
No, that was nonsense, he loved to live.
Also he loves to using the art of exaggeration.
To avoid the impending tantrum and frustration, Edward decided to do a very detailed body damage assessment, which would clear his head and give him about a day for his next escape date. Despite being one of the smartest people in the world, Edward often found himself in this kind of situation because of his allegedly big ego. He was really fed up with it.
He would be sure to kill the bat on his next escape. If Batman didn't have extraordinary physical strength, it would have been child's play for him, but he may knew a way around this situation.
I'm coming for you Bruce. And this time you won't be able to creep to your cave.
くコ:彡
Doctor Jonathan Crane not letting go of his bag, which he held tightly as if his life depended on it and had not let go of his hand for a moment, while he was examining the bookshelf of his new study with his eyes. As far as he could see during this in-depth review, there were plenty of classic, self-improvement, gothic, and a few psychology books on the wooden shelves.
Previous doctor must have been a real idiot. What kind of psychiatrist wannabe puts Freud's books on their bedside?
The fact that he didn't see himself as superior to other humans didn't mean he didn't think many of them were living forms that did nothing but consume oxygen. Still, at least he wasn't wasting the oxygen he breathed just to maintain his life, no he was using it to help humanity even though they didn't deserve it. Because Jonathan was a scientist, and it was his only duty, his humble wish. He wants to help them even though he thought they didn't deserve it.
Another thing that caught his attention in the room was that it had no windows. They probably avoided putting objects such as glass so that the patients would not attempt anything dangerous. Although it was a very sensible act, it added a depressing air to the room. At least the air conditioner fitted so that the occupants would not be overwhelmed could have been used to ventilate the place.
Holding his bag tightly in hands, he took a few steps into his new study, which was just the size that he wanted, and walked over to desk belongs to him. He rub his finger over the table, which he guessed was made of oak, the dust passing from the cold plane to the index finger was the biggest indicator that this table had not been used recently.
The owner, Jeremiah Arkham, really didn't care what kind of conditions his patients were treated under, or even whether they were treated. This deplorable situation would only make Jonathan's job easier.
Surely he would help the patients who are unlucky to staying here.
Otherwise, by what right could he call himself a scientist?
No, he would give them far more help than they needed.
Whether they want it or not.