I went through so much stress and periods of strife. I would have panic attacks… I literally always had a stomach ache. And I was a control freak and I couldn’t anticipate what was going to happen in a given situation, so I’d be like, ’Maybe I’m going to get sick’… It’s kind of remarkable. I just grew out of it, but that’s not to say I don’t get worried.
It came as little surprise how much Arkham had failed to
improve over the past few weeks.
Dr. Quimby was in over his head and positively drowning in
his newfound responsibilities. You tried to take up the slack where you could,
but there was only so much you could do. You could hardly just run the asylum
for him, nor would you want to. Arkham was a mess you had no desire to clean
But still, you had a job to do.
The patients ranged from demented to drugged. There was a
handful you could manage something that resembled a conversation with, but most
were either too sedated or too lost in their own minds. It was beginning to
feel like your job here was ultimately pointless. Institutions were meant to
have structure, but Arkham lacked rules of any kind.
Glancing at the clock, you pursed your lips as you noticed
the time. You cleaned off your desk of errant papers and closed all files. Your
next patient would be arriving any moment and he was far too curious and
observant for his own good.
Edward Nygma was beginning to frustrate you.
There was no doubt that he was a brilliant man, but his
tendency to speak in riddles wasn’t limited to long told puzzles one could find
the answer to on Google. The man himself was a riddle. He never liked to give
you a straight answer. Every statement he made was twisted in someway. While he
appeared to enjoy your back and forth, it merely exasperated you.
You couldn’t help a man who refused to be honest with you.
But that was the problem, you mused as your office door
opened and once more an orderly escorted Mr. Nygma inside. Edward Nygma didn’t