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Summary: The Riddler is well truly ready to leave Arkham Asylum, but unfortunately he can’t just explode his way out. Thus he has to rely on other people who know the asylum well.
Characters: Edward Nygma, Harley Quin, Jonathan Crane
A/N: I wouldn’t call this shipping, more like shoving into the same little jar and shaking it around.
In Arkham Asylum, they’ve largely given up on trying to treat any of the bat’s Rogue Gallery. None of them will change, not unless a shooting star hits them in the head. The only real option to keep them docile, occupied until eventually something gives. This doesn’t go over well with everyone.
They used to try giving Edward Nygma sedatives, but he hated every second that he wasn’t in complete consciousness and control. He figured out how to fake it, and escaped 4 days later. The solution was a monthly puzzle book subscription, and kindly reassuring him that they won’t be trying that again. He’s now one of maybe five that don’t take any sedatives or things that directly impede his thoughts. Which means he has all day and night to figure out his next escape.
Arkham Asylum was built like they gave a Parkinson’s patient a pencil during an earthquake. A labyrinth of halls, cells, offices, and a few central areas that seem to be the only easily findable places. As an inmate, Edward knew only so much of the layout… but he knew some people who probably knew Arkham like a second home. Three rogues previously worked as doctors for Arkham Asylum: Dr. Hugo Strange, Harley Quin, and Jonathan Crame. If he could get to one of them, he has a ticket out… problem being, none of them are considered ‘docile’ without a heathy dose of meds.
“… Harley?” Edward started, trying to appear kind and polite. “May I have a word?”
“Which one do ya want?” Harley giggled a little to herself at the joke.
“Very funny. But I was wondering if you would consider going outside… for a while.” Edward posited.
“Mister J is here, though.” Harley said, a soft frown on her face.
Edward groaned. He overlooked her frankly unhealthy attachment to that lunatic. Of course she wouldn’t want to leave him behind, and breaking out the Joker is an ordeal and half. Lost cause.
“Good night, Harley.” Edward said as he walked away. He glanced over at Julian Day, who was playing with a tear away calendar like a toddler.
He took a deep breath, pinching his nose bridge, and decided to try a different avenue. This place would not keep here any longer, that much was certain.
“Jon…?” Edward said with an edge of caution. He slowly pushed into the man’s cell… not knowing if the doctor was awake. “Just me.”
Jon rolled over and looked Edward with dead disinterest, “What.”
Fun fact, about accents. A person’s accent is gained by who teaches them how to speak, and can be later modified with concentrated speech therapy. However, the original accent will remain and can become stronger with inebriation or other instances where a conscious effort isn’t made to change the voice. … all this to say, Jon sounds like he never left the Deep South right now and it’s difficult to place his words.
“… you wanna see your crows?” Edward asked, hoping for a nod and not spoken sweet tea.
“Yeah.” Jon replied with a small nod.
“Good, good. … then I need your stone cold sober.” Edward explained. He looked around, before remembering that Jon was good about hiding contraband. He lifted a stone slab, finding fake pills and a long tongue depressor to cause vomiting.
“… what’chusmilin’at?” Jon asked loosely. His words slurring together like a bile rather than a sentence.
“I… I have no idea what those words are.” Edward said, with mild discomfort.
He took the fake pills out of their baggie and set them in Jon’s hand. He sighed softly and looked very seriously at the other.
“I need you to not be high off your ass. Take these, and then meet me near the vending machine on the first floor. Yes?” Edward asked urgently.
“… k.” Jon nodded. He pocketed the fakes, and laid back down.
