Terra Firma

Signs of an Abusive Relationship

Important warning signs that you may be involved in an abusive relationship include when someone:

* harms you physically in any way, including slapping, pushing, grabbing, shaking, smacking, kicking, and punching
(Come on I want you to do it I want you to do it. Hit me. HIT ME!)

* tries to control different aspects of your life, such as how you dress, who you hang out with, and what you say
(WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT CALLING ME THAT?)

* frequently humiliates you or making you feel unworthy (for example, if a partner puts you down but tells you that he or she loves you)
(science experiment, hm?)

* coerces or threatens to harm you, or self-harm, if you leave the relationship
(Think I'd just let you go?)

* twists the truth to make you feel you are to blame for your partner's actions
(You're doing... things. You stop, Ivy!)

* demands to know where you are at all times
(IVY)

* constantly becomes jealous or angry when you want to spend time with your friends
(you and your little bitch friend...
THE BITCH
LITTLE GIRLFRIEND
BITCH
BITCH
BITCH.
i found her i made her i keep her)

Ivy

I set the informative pamphlet on the flat, grey, impersonal table. I sneered as I glanced over the cover, displaying a male staring down at a woman cowering in the corner, his fists balled and the muscles in his leathery face overexaggerated. I was inflamed at how the woman sat lax in the corner, as if she didn't have things called legs trembling beneath and fingernails extending from her fingertips.

I mean, you may need to be a hybrid plant woman to match a guy like The Joker, but you don't if you're fighting a guy like Mr. Smith. Legs and nails, honey. Legs and nails.

I was in charge of making the entrance again, activating the 'signal', as he called it. I always captured attention the best, after all.

I smirked, getting up, taking the pamphlet again, licking my poison lips and trying my best to affect the tone of a woman who was afraid and helpless.

Riddler

Most people with obsessive-compulsive disorder fall into one of the following categories:

* Washers are afraid of contamination. They usually have cleaning or hand-washing compulsions.
(it seems I've neglected to bring my gloves)

* Checkers repeatedly check things (oven turned off, door locked, etc.) that they associate with harm or danger.
(did I leave a riddle? I thought I left a riddle...)

* Doubters and sinners are afraid that if everything isn’t perfect or done just right something terrible will happen or they will be punished.
(anything else, boss?)

* Counters and arrangers are obsessed with order and symmetry. They may have superstitions about certain numbers, colors, or arrangements.
(it was THREE)

* Hoarders fear that something bad will happen if they throw anything away. They compulsively hoard things that they don’t need or use.
(this is old news, Riddle. That was three years ago)

I shrugged, slicking my hair back and placing the pamphlet carefully back on the rack. I paused to straighten all the other ones out, then counted them. Counted them twice. Any with odd numbers, I took one to even it out--stuffing them into a coat pocket of my shabby grey 'day' suit. I'd passed some woman in a floppy hat and sunglasses on my way in the little waiting area of the therapy floor, which was thankfully empty. After all, once you went nuts in this town, you could rarely be fixed. They could fill it with their 'therapy' wards all they wanted--this place still housed Poison Ivy and The Joker at one point.

I inspected my bag of tools and guns for a minute, contemplating what the next step should be. Two-Face wanted his little high school crush back, but first I would need some henchmen.

And what was the best place to get Henchmen? Arkham 'Mental Health' Facility, as they called it.

Angel

"Cosette... Cosette... Cosette!"

"Hm?"

She looked up from scribbling furiously away at her little yellow legal pad--which looked like it'd seen better days--and stared at me with her warm brown eyes.

"Could you do me a favor and make 50 copies of these mental health evaluation sheets for me?"

She nodded, smiling. She'd often come with me to work, either to do research on a book or to have company. I didn't blame her. That apartment seemed to get pretty cold sometimes. Being in the therapy ward, my work was mostly talking to patients and filling out paperwork anyways, so I didn't mind. She often helped me figure patients out. She had an intuitive insight for people, that's for sure.

She took the papers in my hand, heading out and down the hall to the copy room. I didn't want to give her anything too stressful, not with what she'd been through last night. Whatever she was through.

It was less than ten minutes later that I heard a subtle knocking on the doorway to my office.

"Yes?" I turned in my desk chair to see a woman standing there, wearing large sunglasses and a hat that hid her hair. She smiled, straightening out a pamphlet she held in her hands.

"I was wondering if you could help me?" Her voice seemed uncharacteristically meek and timid, "I-I think.. I'm in an abusive relationship..."

I sighed, unfortunately accustomed to these encounters. I reached for the purse beneath my desk, pulling out a disguised business card for a shelter and handing it to her.

It was then, as she raised her ruby red eyebrows and smiled chillingly, that I gasped in disbelief.

"Ivy..."

"Here's the problem with these little pamphlets..." She laid it carefully in front of me, "They leave no room for exceptions. You see, I'm not that woman on the front. He's no Mr. Brawny there, either."

I reached under my desk stealthily, quickly flipping up a glass case and flipping the emergency switch.

A new feature for us installed four years ago, designed to alert us of a breakout the moment we had one. Rumor had it that the Batman was connected to it, that he would hear it the moment it went off.

This was the first time it was being used.

Ivy smiled at the alarm blaring hauntingly around us, dropping her hat and inspecting her hair in a mirror near my desk. It twisted menancingly into a red ball.

"I would go home now." She said calmly, the plant in her arm now creepy slowly to cover her torso and thighs like some oddly sewn dress, "It's almost lunch. That boy of yours is probably hungry. I'll make sure nobody touches you. I don't like the thought of a child sitting home alone."

I gaped up in shock at her, my brain rolling in its head strangely.

She took up her things--the hat, the glasses, the informative brochure, the center for battered women's card--and walked out humming, following the sound of insane screams and gunshots.

The Joker

Profile of the Sociopath

* Glibness and Superficial Charm
(Evening, commissioner.)

* Manipulative and Conning
They never recognize the rights of others and see their self-serving behaviors as permissible. They appear to be charming, yet are covertly hostile and domineering, seeing their victim as merely an instrument to be used. They may dominate and humiliate their victims.
(Are you the real batman?)

* Grandiose Sense of Self
Feels entitled to certain things as "their right."
(ME ME ME ME ME!)

* Lack of Remorse, Shame or Guilt
A deep seated rage, which is split off and repressed, is at their core. Does not see others around them as people, but only as targets and opportunities. Instead of friends, they have victims and accomplices who end up as victims. The end always justifies the means and they let nothing stand in their way.
(Ho hum. I just don't care about you.)

* Shallow Emotions
When they show what seems to be warmth, joy, love and compassion it is more feigned than experienced and serves an ulterior motive. Outraged by insignificant matters, yet remaining unmoved and cold by what would upset a normal person.
(oh, sh, sh, sh...)

* Poor Behavioral Controls/Impulsive Nature
Rage and abuse, alternating with small expressions of love and approval produce an addictive cycle for abuser and abused, as well as creating hopelessness in the victim. Believe they are all-powerful, all-knowing, entitled to every wish, no sense of personal boundaries, no concern for their impact on others.
(you do brian, you really do!)

* Irresponsibility/Unreliability
Not concerned about wrecking others' lives and dreams. Oblivious or indifferent to the devastation they cause. Does not accept blame themselves, but blames others, even for acts they obviously committed.
(Killing is making a choice)

* Criminal or Entrepreneurial Versatility
Changes their image as needed to avoid prosecution. Changes life story readily.
(Wanna know how I got these scars?)

"BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH."

I tore the stray peice of paper up, laughing, spitting at it on its way down, firing bullets into the shocked receptionist who entered the waiting room, probably back from lunch, without a second thought.

"Goofy. Grumpy." I declared, ruffling my green hair.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Take the tools and open a couple of doors downstairs. Grumpy, give 'em each a gun and tell them to fire at the employees. Anybody gives you a hard time or moves too slow... you, uh, shoot them dead, got it? Meet me at the entrance. You know the drill."

"Sure do."

We'd left Cosette at dawn. She'd been sleeping, so no time to say goodbye. Oh well. There'd always be time to visit later. Right now, it was time for some fun.

"Alright." I smiled as the alarm rang in our ears, "Let's have ourselves a welcome home party."

Riddler

This place.. Arkham Asylum... had several floors. The crazier you were, the farther down you went.

Almost like Dante's take on hell.

abandon hope all ye who enter here

I clacked my cane on the ground. It was quiet now and I needed to assess things. I passed that woman again, hardly glanced at her. I hardly glanced at anyone, ever. I was always wrapped up in myself. I walked further down the upper floor and stopped, hearing a familair voice.

"Damn copy machines. No, no I don't want that many! Ugh."

Curious, I stepped into the little room, watching a young woman ruffle her blonde-red curls in frustration. Her back was turned and the copy machine whirred, spitting papers out in a flurry.

I recognized her. The girl from the carnival.

The only one to ever solve my riddles.

Something in my head snapped.

I crept slyly behind her and she straightened. I smiled, rapping my cane loudly against the machine, statisfied when she jumped from shock and fear.

Cosette

"Well, heeeellooo, my dear."

His slick voice right in my ear as I struggled in my panic against him. But he had me pinned against the machine with his body and his silly cane, trapping me. I felt the raw black emotion that was panic and an odd sense of being violated. In desperation, I opened my mouth to scream. But he slapped a hand over it. The strong smell of his leather gloves raped my nose as he began to drag me playfully about the room.

"Come on, pretty lady, don't you remember me?"

I remembered. I remembered all too well. Why was he here? And so soon?

I struggled wildly, kicking over one of those water jugs you always see in the office.

Angel you're just a few rooms away. God oh God please. Not him. Not him.

Water on the floor, dripping into my subconcious--ebbing, flowing, boiling. Boiling over.

Lightning rods shot up through my shins as he snapped his cane against them, reminding me of a golfer. I fell to the floor, dizzy from a lack of oxygen, shaking with panic and cold from the icy water.

The sharp splinters of pain in my legs persisted and everything went hazy. I squinted, feeling tears of pain collide with the brightness of flourescent lights above me. I could only cough in air weakly as he raised the horrid cane once more, matching the dull grey color of his suit.

William Zanzinger killed poor Hattie Carol, with a cane that he twirled round his diamond ringed finger...

I could only moan in protest as his crazy eyes smiled. A high pitched whining noise grew, creeping into the room. I thought for a moment it was an alarm. In the distance, I almost heard my father laugh.

But it must've been a delusion.

That sailed through the air and came down through the room,

The cane faded. His strong body, other than the weak leg he struggled to balance on, faded. His neck faded, his undeniably handsome face faded.

Doomed and determined to destroy all the gentle.

The last thing I saw, before fully blacking out, was his smile--white, wild, brighter than the whole room. So bright that it stayed in my mind beyond anything else. The smile of a madman, a puzzlemaster.

A Chesire Cat.

And she never done nothing to William Zanzinger...

Ivy

"One, two, buckle my shoe..."

I smiled, taking up employees with my vines (mostly men, of course), cracking skulls and squeezing them dry--igniting panicked screams and running feet. I laughed as I got to the first floor, seeing my prince standing, slouching--a purple, bent figure standing like a messiah in front of Grumpy, and a small crowd of 'patients'. All dressed up in white hospital dresses, their hair messy and their faces sweating.

"So uh..." He spoke loudly over the whine of the alarm and occassionally paused to shoot a few, "Congrats to those of you who made it... so sad for those who won't. Let me introduce myself: I am.... Frankenstein's monster..."

"Don't you mean Frankenstein?"

Another shot. Another one dead. He giggled and turned at the sound of my heels clacking on the ground as I took my place beside him.

"...This is my lovely... bride. And we represent the lollipop guild! Any questions?"

One man raised his hand.

The Joker shot again, laughing, "No one? Hm? Okay, let's go!" He clapped his hands impatiently, and we set off down a long corridor lined with windows.

"Boss." Grumpy caught up with us, "Goofy says he got the new van waiting for us just outside. And he found a place. Old car shop with living quarters upstairs. Got one room downstairs, kitchen, bathroom, the works!"

"Yeah yeah. Hey Ivy, what's that you got in your hand...?"

I crumpled the pamphlet and tiny business card in my hands, smiling.

"Nothing. Nothing."

He smiled back wickedly.

There was a sudden crash as the window near us spit glass and I felt myself flying across the room.

It wasn't the sight of battyboy's black suit that ignited flames of anger within my unstable mind. Not the fact that he'd punched me out of the way rudely and caused me to sail across the room, not the fact that he was struggling with my partner up in the front--he could handle his own, anyway.

The simple fact was, he'd broken one of my nails.

I scowled, getting up swiftly and throwing a few of the newborn mindless men aside, thinking angry thoughts.

MY NAIL MY NAIL MY NAIL

HAMMERTIME!

I shut my eyes, pushing. Growing.

I looked down as I felt the soft petals form in my hand, opened up the palm to see a yellow marigold--formed with the will of my mind and my anger for the serious fellow pounding into my laughing partner with his fists.

I brought my fingers to my mouth and whistled shrilly, making the loud alarm sound like nothing more than a whisper in comparison.

Batboy looked up, swooshing his cape in a fighting stance, ready to do what he had to fight me.

"Hey, mister man, don't you know it's not nice to hit a lady? Get up. That's right. You want to catch a laugher, do you?"

He paused, snarling something back.

Geez, did the man ever say intelligent words?

"Laugh at this, stupid boy." I revealed the comically bright flower in my hand.

Make him laugh.

There was a gaseous cloud as the flower spewed and obeyed my command. Batboy looked confused for a few seconds, then his lips curled back, his eyes shut tight.

He laughed, falling to the floor, rolling, kicking his legs and spitting wildly. I could feel the men's eyes on me, in fear and admiration. The Joker stumbled up, grasping for the flower with his twitching gloved hands.

"That's uh, a nice trick you got."

I winked, placing the marigold on his purple jacket, commanding thorns to grow and latching it into the fabric. "I know a lot of nice tricks."

He batted his black rimmed eyes comedically, firing bullets into the ceiling and kicking The Batman in the gut. Four years ago, he would've been ecstatic and eager to kill the man. But now, now we couldn't.

He was an honest man trying to change the world, too much like his arch-nemisis.

The Joker smirked, straightening his tie and cracking his neck slowly.

"We'll just... make him... crazy. A freak. Like us."

Angel

I'd gotten out so quickly, so befuddled, I couldn't even think.

Remembering what I said about forgetting?

Well, this was one of those times.

I ran into my apartment, refusing to look at the door of the woman who had spoken to me earlier.

(probably hungry)

How did she know? Oh, how did she know?

I shut my door, breathing hard and rubbing my paler than normal face obsessively.

"Ms. Beattie's taking a nap," I heard Homer's calm voice through the blood rushing through my head, making a hard pumping noise in my ear, "Where's Cosette? I thought she went to work with you."

Where's Cosette?

Where's Cosette?

Oh, Where's Cosette?