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red-batty · 10 months

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The Arkham Hellion: Year One

Chapter 2: The One Where Everything Goes Wrong

Warnings: Violence, swearing, murder. hospital setting, prison setting. Dark, criminal, and adult themes. 16+

Characters: Connie Inviglio (oc), Emril Griffith (oc), Harvey Dent/Two-Face

Word Count: 1.2k

AN: See this is the chapter where we start cooking with peanut oil

_____

Every Arkham breakout made a sick feeling settle on Connie- as it did most of Gotham. It also made her angry--once someone dangerous was put in the asylum, they were supposed to stay there for good, until they were safe to be around other people--but Arkham was so poorly run that it was only really a matter of time before someone slipped through their fingers. This time, it was Harvey Dent, who since his accident preferred the title Two-Face; and because it was Two-Face specifically, she worried.

Harvey Dent was once friends with her father, when Dent was Gotham’s District Attorney, and Mr. Inviglio worked for him. Mr. and Mrs. Dent would go out to dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Inviglio, and it wasn’t uncommon for the Inviglio family to be invited to an event Dent was hosting. Mr. Dent was over ten years older than Connie, but Connie still saw him almost as a friend. She had fond memories with him in them, and with Gilda Dent, Harvey’s wife. When Dent was scarred questioning a criminal on the stand, Connie found herself worrying for her father’s friend.

And now that Dent had gone insane, and escaped the asylum he had been sentenced to, Connie found herself worrying again. She tried not to let it get to her… of all the things Two-Face would wish to pursue, her family couldn’t possibly be one. As she served herself and her loyal dog breakfast, she tried to forget how her dad had been the prosecuting attorney against Two-Face. As she grabbed her keys and head out the door, she tried to forget that Gilda might be one of his targets. As she drove through Gotham, she tried to forget that he was out there, and that something could happen at any moment.

Her positive psychology class helped boost her mood, and passed without a hitch. Afterwards, though, she was needed at Arkham. When she reached Arkham, she was forced to remember it all as she was faced with the aftermath of the breakout.

“Griffith!” she called as she entered Intensive Treatment. “What the hell happened last night?”

“I was at home, it was the damn night staff.” Griffith scowled, not so much at Connie but at the ever-incompetent system at Arkham.

“It’s always the damn night staff,” Connie grumbled under her breath. “You’d think that with us basically living out of Wayne’s pocket, the money would actually get put to some good goddamn use around here.”

“What, are you gonna take it up with Mr. Sharp?”

“Y’know, I just might.”

Griffith scoffed. “Like that’ll do any good. Save your breath, love. We’ve got to check in with the patients, see if they know anything.”

“Well?” Griffith asked, five hours later.

“They know two things,” Connie announced as she flopped into the chair across from Griffith. “‘Jack’ and ‘Shit.’ No one saw anything… they were either out of their mind, drugged to hell, on the other side of the building, or perhaps just too scared to admit anything. I’d honestly stick around, but I wanna check in at GCPD; the station is probably hell right now.”

As Connie logged out her hours, Griffith reached across, took the pen and signed it off.

“You told security everything, yeah?”

Connie raked a hand through her hair, and sighed,“Everything I could. But it's a little late to do any good, y'know?”

“Well, saying anything is worth something, eh?”

She hummed, and readjusted the bag on her shoulder.

“Ey, Inviglio?”

Connie looked up at her friend, and mentor.

“Stay safe, luv.”

An understanding silence settled in between the two, just for a beat.

“Thanks, Griffith. You too.”

Sure enough, the GCPD was completely on edge. She had paperwork to do, so Connie tried to tune it out and mind her own job. She didn't have a shift on Fridays, but she wanted to be here today. She just wanted to get everything in order, and be as helpful as possible. One of the other forensics, unfortunately, interrupted that.

“Hey, intern!” she called. “You work at Arkham, yeah?”

Connie turned around, and glanced over the speaker. She was short, maybe 5’2”, with her straight black hair neatly cut straight above her shoulders. A single barrette kept her bangs out of her face, and her beady black eyes stared pointedly at Connie. She remembered this lady - her name was Alicia Kemp.

“Yes ma’am. Can I help you?”

“How’d he get out?”

Connie sighed.

“I spent all morning trying to figure that out. I wasn’t there, and only the guards he beat on the way out saw him. None of the inmates know how he got out of his cell, or where he was planning on going.” Before Connie could turn back

“Shouldn’t you know these sorts of things?”

“I’m an intern there, just as I am here. And like I said, I wasn’t there, so I don’t know.”

Kemp turned to her colleague, and started whispering. He whispered back, but when she responded, Connie could here it.

“Arkham’s incompetent. If the inmates are just going to break out every other week, they should just bulldoze the place.”

Connie spun around in her seat to face Kemp. She turned back to face Connie, and arched an eyebrow.

“Arkham is not the greatest establishment known to man, but with the resources we have and the number of fucking psychos we have to deal with on the daily, Arkham is the most competent aspect of Gotham.”

“Really? You really believe that? This city is practically built on Wayne tower, and anyone with half a brain knows no one working at Arkham is even really trying anymore.”

Connie was on her feet instantly.

“You wanna know something? There are dozens of hardworking nurses at that asylum. And some of the most hardworking people I know are there. There are guards who genuinely do their goddamn best at Arkham, and they get shit on for it. So why don’t you save us all some time, shut the fuck up, and go unfuck yourself.”

Kemp glanced at her colleague, then back at Connie.

“That’s a lot of harsh language, intern.”

“My name is Caroline Inviglio, and Gotham is a harsh town. I can speak however I damn please. Now if you excuse me, I’ve got work to do, rather than just stand around and gossip.”

Kemp rolled her eyes as she turned away, as if Connie wouldn’t see it, but Connie could tell. It made her blood boil. Only after Kemp and her colleague had turned their backs did Connie take her seat, and turn back to her desk. Her temper hardly overwhelmed her like that, she worked hard to keep it under control, but this seemed to be an exception.

Friday night didn’t have any course classes, and Connie didn’t have to go to her self defense class that night. She was exhausted and bitter and on edge from a long day, so as soon as she got off work, she went home and collapsed onto the couch.

Arkham wasn’t a good establishment, but it was all Gotham had. It was all Connie had, too, and she refused to give up on the gloomy asylum. There was some good to be done there, some good to be found, even if Connie had to bring it to life herself.

When she finally went to bed, sleep came to her all too soon.

Four days later, Alicia Kemp was found dead in her home.

When Connie found out, she was almost sick to her stomach, but she couldn’t dwell on it. She worked for Gotham City Police, so homicide was no stranger. She just had to keep her head down, and keep moving forward.

taglist: @arts-and-sharks @burnthashbrown27 dm or ask to get added to the taglist

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red-batty · 10 months

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Just for the record, Cas was the first ever Arkham Hellion fan, my number one supporter for this book, and truly just an all-around 100/10 friend. I'm putting this here so one day when I'm super famous or something cas can have clout <3

@burnthashbrown27

#red batty oc #enemies to lovers #red batty #original character #the arkham hellion #arkham asylum #batman arkham trilogy #batman fan comic #batman rogues gallery #batman fanfiction #arkhamverse #batman arkhamverse #arkham city #jonathan crane #scarecrow x oc

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red-batty · 10 months

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The Arkham Hellion: Year One

Chapter 1: The One Where Everything Worked Out (Part 3)

Characters: Connie Inviglio (oc), Dante Spectre (oc), Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow. Emril Griffith (oc, mentioned), Connie Inviglio x Jonathan Crane (slight)

Warnings: Language warning, dark themes, psychoanalysis

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: okay i know i tagged this as Crane x Connie but like it only sets the foundation for it here

———————

Connie stopped by her apartment first. She had thirty minutes until she had to be at the station, and she needed to feed her dog. Bilbo came bounding towards her, his fluffy tail wagging with excitement. Her shift at GCPD ran from 3 to 8, mirroring the hours she worked at Arkham, from 9 to 2. She was going to get home late tonight, so she fed Bo half of his dinner early. As she looked at her calendar in between shifts, she realized that her shift ended at 8 (way past when her parents would be enjoying dinner) and that right after she needed to get to the university for her class. A lot of her credits came from her work with the police and at the Asylum, but there were still a couple of classes that would help round out her degree and assure her future doctorate. Her class would be at nine, end at ten, she’d be home at ten thirty, and she could sleep.

Today was Thursday for Miss Caroline Inviglio, which is why she had her night class with Dr. Crane. In the morning, she’d have to get up early to attend her positive psychology class, work her shift at Arkham, but she wasn’t needed at the station on Fridays, so she instead had a lecture, a self defense class, and the evening to herself to complete school work. Saturdays had no shifts, another self defense class and a kickboxing class, but then she’d have the rest of the day. Those were the days she’d take Bilbo out for walks, go to the park or maybe visit a cemetery and leave flowers at each grave. Sundays were more classes, more lectures, another walk, and then work would resume on Monday.

Connie worked hard. She took her pills, minded her diet, and crammed as much effectiveness into her independent life as she could. Once upon a time, she was trapped with a family with animosity towards each other, surviving through mental illness and before that, living paycheck to paycheck in uncertain households. She never would have seen herself with the life that she had now. A dog, steady work, an abundance of education and the willpower and time to train her body to fight. Rest may have been limited, but she earned every bit of it, and didn’t regret the life she had.

At 3:01 pm, Connie had parked her car, and five minutes later, she had her ID on and had checked in at the front desk of the Gotham City Police Department.

"Ms. Inviglio?" a voice asked, and upon turning around Connie was faced with one of the most attractive men she had ever met.

"That's, uh, that's me." Her mind raced to keep calm, but very attractive people, men in particular, had a way of causing her common sense to falter. Women she felt more confident around, more encouraged to impress and befriend, but men were intimidating.

He had odd features, not the kind one would typically describe a perfect man- no square jaw, chiseled features, sharp nose, or piercing eyes. Quite frankly, his features could almost be described as soft, with a rounded jaw and no overly pronounced chin, thin lips and dark brown eyes. When he extended his hand for a handshake, she gripped it with a firm and confident shake, despite her trembling. The softness of his hands caught the hopeless romantic that Connie was off guard.

A tattoo of a sun or star, some design that looked pagan but she wasn't familiar with, was tattooed on the side of his neck, and delicate symbols and shapes were tattooed on the back of his hands. A large windbreaker-type coat swamped his broad shoulders, and underneath that he wore a black shirt and a gold chain. His hair was shaved on the sides and slicked back.

The man may have had gentler facial features and pianist's hands, but his time as a detective in Gotham wore him into the focused, grizzled and bitter cop before her. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and his thin lips were pulled into a hard line.

"I'm Detective Spectre; Commissioner Gordon said you'd be arriving. You're our intern?" Even his voice was pretty, and Connie struggled to compute how to maintain social etiquette.

"I'm, uhm, yup. That’s me. I’m doing criminal profiling, yknow, ha..." Her father was an attorney and before that, a soldier. She gained a lot from growing up under him, and one of them was the lift of her chin, the squaring of her shoulders and her hands resting stiffly at her side when she was faced with a superior.

The detective regarded her carefully. "I'm told you work with Dr. Griffith?"

"Yes, sir."

As the detective lead her down to her place in the forensics lab, Connie used her inhaler. Her hammering heart and nerves did not help the scratch and ache in her lungs. It confirmed a theory she had once told a friend - that attractive people were bad for her health. Once Dt. Spectre explained his expectations for her work on his case, he left, and Connie’s focus returned.

Connie did see her dad when he came by the station to receive evidence; and she also noticed how it came from the Commissioner himself. It wasn’t hard to see the truth- that Batman was involved. In almost every aspect of her life and career, he was. Maybe, she’d get to see this fable of a man for herself, but until then, she regarded him as a resource for the criminal-justice system, and kept neutral opinions on the morality of his existence. Michael and Connie exchanged a hug, and Connie apologized that she would have to miss dinner to complete her work and make it to her class. Returning home was rescheduled for Saturday, when her mother Seanna would make her famous red rice.

Work went smoothly from there. As a forensic, she assisted a witness in Dt. Spectre’s case in sketching a depiction of the criminal. If the GCPD wasn’t so understaffed, Connie wouldn’t have any involvement in forensic art, but she was more than qualified to provide the service. As the witness struggled to describe her assailant, she shook, stammered and contradicted her own statements. Connie had to calm her down repeatedly. Connie then had to write out a rough description of what kind of person would be inclined to commit certain crimes - profiling. The assailant for Spectre’s case was the most interesting, because Connie deemed him to be a complete sociopath, and what behaviors and mannerisms he’d exhibit. Once Connie submitted her report and finished up other necessary paperwork for other cases, she finished her shift at 8.

Cold barbecue pizza, feed and pet the dog, double check on the plants, grab your lanyard. Four things, just a quick stop at her apartment, and then Connie was heading out again. Leftover pizza was not the most nutritious dinner, but it would tide her over for her class. She technically didn’t need to take this class, but of all the classes that could have given her credits, this one was the most interesting. A lot of students didn’t like Dr. Crane or his class, and found him creepy, but Connie gave him the benefit of the doubt and deemed him an eccentric; additionally, in a class about fear, creepy things would inevitably be the topic of discussion.

Connie took this class despite its reputation, because understanding the psychology and behaviour centered around fear would inevitably assist her work at Arkham. It certainly helped Crane, who also worked at the asylum; his office was just down the hall from Dr. Griffith’s. She found Dr. Crane attractive in a way, but he was strange and intimidating, so it was much easier to dismiss, but she still found herself admiring him. He was dedicated to science and his work, and he had succeeded in his career. That gained her appreciation far more than his elegant features and cold blue eyes.

She made it to the campus early. After walking across the courtyard of Gotham University, going up a flight of steps and walking across the building, she found Dr. Crane’s classroom. Twenty minutes to go, and the door was closed. Not wanting to disturb her professor before he opened the door, she found a seat on the floor against the wall, and checked her phone. There were too many texts, messages, emails and notifications waiting for her; over ten hours since she was able to really check her phone, and Connie marveled at how work now distracted her from the device, and not vice versa.

Several of the messages were from Camille Gutierrez, her friend from before Connie moved to Gotham, who moved there as well pursuing her acting career. Most of it was videos that Cam found funny, and others were updates on her life. Connie took the time to respond as appropriately as she could.

“Hello, Caroline,” a voice said suddenly, and Connie jumped, jerking her eyes upward and swearing under her breath. Her gaze landed on Dr. Crane, thin and cold as always, looking down at where she sat. As her heart rate settled from the jump, Crane smiled. With one thin finger, he pushed his clear glasses up his nose, and regarded his frightened student with a remote intrigue.

“Dr. Crane!” Connie finally said once her thoughts were gathered. “Excuse my language.”

Connie stood and gathered her bag, brushing herself off and straightening her shirt.

“You’re early.”

“Traffic wasn’t as bad as I was expecting.”

Connie squirmed nervously in Crane’s presence, which brought him a mild form of delight.

“No need to sit in the hall. Come inside.”

Crane turned back into the classroom, and not wishing to be disrespectful, Connie followed.

“How have you been enjoying my class, Caroline?” Crane asked as he walked to his desk. This was the most one on one discussion she had ever had with him, and her social anxiety crept in on her. She found her preferred seat in the class, a desk towards the front of the room where she could better see and hear the professor. It wasn’t directly next to Crane’s desk, but it was close enough that Crane could engage in conversation with her.

“I’m enjoying it,” she replied, clearing her throat. “I’m finding it insightful on behavior.”

“Is that so?” He hummed. “Fear, I have found, is the most potent of neurological reactions. It is stronger than any other instinct.”

“Even love?” Connie blurted, and when Crane looked up at her with an unamused expression, she regretted it.

“What good is love to survival? And don’t say reproduction, because love is not needed for that.”

“For other animals, love and reproduction coexist for a purpose, but not for humans.”

Crane adjusted his glasses once more before looking at his computer.

“Not exactly, of course,” Connie rushed to correct herself. “Love is objective and it’s not entirely known if animals feel love, except for like dogs, or maybe dolphins…”

She laughed uncomfortably under her breath and sat back, curling in on herself.

“Then tell me. Why do you suggest love?”

“It- it gives people purpose. Without purpose, there is insanity. I think, uhm, at least. This is more philosophical, though…” Connie reached for her inhaler as she cleared her throat again.

“And you think the need for purpose is stronger than fear?”

“I think without purpose, there is no reason to fear anything.”

Crane looked up at Connie again, leaning forward.

“Interesting.”

Silence fell as Connie’s mind raced and Crane studied his pupil.

“What do you love, Caroline?” Crane asked carefully, breaking the silence.

“I, uhm. I love my dog, for sure. And my family. And my friends.”

Crane rolled his eyes.

“Only living things that give you some sort of validation?”

“I love my dog because seeing it happy makes me happy.”

“You keep mentioning your dog.”

“He’s not human. And I have nothing negative to connote to him.”

“Do negative connotations negate love?”

Connie thought over all that had happened in her life, the conflict and divisions and the fighting amongst her family, the distance and grief at missing her friends, the conflict and chaos that tore at her heart for years. At that moment, her pain of the past killed her social anxiety, and she winced.

“I’d rather not go over it. My dog is just an easy example.”

Her family was a weak point, and Crane took note of that.

“Does your dog give your purpose?”

“No,” Connie replied reluctantly. “But my dog makes the pay off of work sweeter.”

“Then what gives you purpose?” Crane gave her one of those strange looks that only he seemed to give, that other students despised.

“Helping others,” Connie replied steadily. “I can’t heal the world, but there are good people who don’t deserve to be in pain all the time.”

“Like lunatics?” Crane smirked in amusement.

“Like the people of Gotham,” Connie shot back, as politely as she could. “If I can understand fear, I can help others overcome it.”

This elicited a small laugh from Crane, and he slowly removed his glasses.

“Very well.”

Other students began to arrive, and the rest of the class went on without anything unusual. She returned home, showered, took her medicine, and went to sleep. With her loyal Bernese pup curled up at her side, she felt safe, and at peace. Things were normal.

That was, until the next morning. She heard it on the news:

Harvey Dent had escaped Arkham.

Taglist: @arts-and-sharks @burnthashbrown27 comment or ask to be added to the taglist!

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red-batty · 10 months

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The Arkham Hellion: Year One

Chapter 1: The One Where Everything Worked Out (Part 2)

Characters: Connie Inviglio (oc), Emril Griffith (oc), Pamela Isley/Poison Ivy, mention of Penguin and Batman.

Warnings: swearing, violence, insanity, doctors, hospital setting. This story is not for kiddos! 16+, everyone else scram.

Word count: 1.4k

A/N: I think we're starting to get somewhere but again, chapter one is meant to be boring. It's supposed to just walk you through the day in the life... because it's not going to be like this for long.

——————

“This isn't even ten minutes long,” Dr. Emril Griffith stated as he finished listening to the tape.

“I interviewed her, led an open discussion with her, and from there evaluated her psyche.” Connie sipped from her metal water bottle, content with her work with Isley.

“You have nothing on homicidal ideology or intent. You have nothing on her behavior or if she is violent.”

“Of course she’s homicidal and violent. Nothing could have possibly changed since the last time she was brought here. Her treatment isn’t there to assist her, it is to assist those around her. From everything I’ve seen, everyone in this damn place is out to get the people to stop doing what they’re doing. If I thought my kin was being violently tortured and massacred and I could feel all their pain, I imagine it would drive me to a state of insanity similar to Ms. Isley’s. What we need to do is have a medical evaluation done to see what caused her to have such a relationship with plant life and how we can restore her state of humanity, if at all. Then, we engage in regular psychotherapy sessions discussing her feelings and we see how those things can be amended. From what I have seen, she is not irrational.”

“She killed three men in a week with an axe for establishing a new neighborhood, you wanna tell me how that isn’t irrational?” Griffith picked through the salad on his plate, watching Connie explain.

“Emril, her actions were rational, from her perspective. We can’t change her actions if we don’t first try to change her perspective. And we can’t change her perspective until we understand what she experiences,” Connie argued.

Griffith set down his fork, and sat up straight.

“You’re walking a very dangerous line. Associating yourself with psychopaths is how you become one. They will get inside your head and make you sick. They will tear you apart from the inside out.”

Before Connie could respond, she bursted into a coughing fit, and despite her best efforts, the coughing worsened and racked her body. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her inhaler, and used it. When she was done, she put it back in her bag and cleared her throat.

“I can allow myself to understand what they feel from a distance to understand them, without associating myself to them. I will be careful, but I think it is important to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“We’re dealing with a bunch of loonies, Connie, what do you think?”

“I think we’re also employed by Quincy Sharp, so it really doesn’t matter what side of the glass we’re on.”

Griffith snorted. Anyone with half a brain at the asylum knew that the Arkham family was far from sane themselves, and their insanity is why they built the asylum. As for the warden, Mr. Sharp, he was nearly a fanatic about the whole business.

“Alright then. But you- you do need to be careful. Devil’s advocate aside, what you saw through to today was the right way to be looking at things,” he pointed at them and gestured vaguely, “It’s the exact reason I trusted you with this job. But I know I can handle a thing like what you’re doing. Are you sure you can do this?”

Connie nodded hesitantly… her own battle with mental health went back the past decade and a half, to when she was in middle school. Her own trauma and unfortunate intelligence left her in a world of hell to deal with, coupled with the illnesses she inherited. It made her sensitive, but it also gave her the experience, stamina and self control to handle the job.

“I can do this. And if I can’t I’ll shut it down. Alright?” She stood from where she sat, across from Griffith’s table in his office.

“Where you off to?” Griffith piped up.

“The Medical Facility. I wanna ask a few questions regarding Isley, see what’s available, and check on that patient that got fucked over in IT.” Connie shrugged her bag over her shoulder.

“Oy, your shift is over in a half hour, right?” Emril finished his salad and tucked away the empty Tupperware.

“Yes sir.”

“Coffee? We can go over your notes.”

“Actually,” Connie straightened out her jacket and readjusted the strap on her bag, “I’m supposed to be on the other side of town in an hour. Police stuff, y’know.”

“And you’re still doing school, huh? Where do you find the time between two jobs and that much school?”

“I guess I don’t, but I mean. I don’t get paid at the police department, it just covers most of my classwork. Y’know, I wouldn’t be able to do any of this if Gotham wasn’t such a shithole and everyone wasn’t so under employed.” Connie gestured with her hands as she talked, waving them to add emphasis or dismiss details.

“Do you sleep?”

Connie snorted. “Someone in our field? In Gotham? It’s unlikely I’ll sleep anyways, might as well work on school stuff.”

“And oi, you never told me- after you graduate, are you planning to work here or the station?”

“I mean, why not both? Half the people in the penitentiary were put here by the cops.” She paused, knowing that statement was only half true. “And, well...”

Griffith finished, “...And Batman.”

Silence fell. Everyone had different opinions on the Batman, and Connie didn’t know Dr. Griffith’s. If she was being honest, she wasn’t even sure about her own. It was strange to know that in the shadows of Gotham, some mythological vigilante haunted the streets and fought crime. It didn’t seem real, but it made more sense to her than Metropolis’ perfect man, soaring through the clouds.

“Yeah,” Connie mumbled, finally, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “And Batman.”

There was another moment of tense silence before Griffith looked back up to Connie.

“Well, I won’t waste any more of your time. You’ve got things to do.”

Connie nodded. “Later, Griffith.”

“Off you go.”

As Connie started walking to her beat up car, her pocket hummed, and “The Porkchop Express” by John Carpenter began to play. Only one person in her phone had that ringtone, so she quickly picked up.

“Hey Dad,” she said cheerfully.

“Hey honey. How’s your day?”

“Good! How are you?”

“I’m good, I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Aw, hi. I’m just finishing up my shift at Arkham, and I’m going to head over to the station. And, y’know, Gotham traffic, so I’ll be free for a bit.”

“I just finished up a hearing and I’m heading back to the office.”

“How was your hearing?”

“Good! So far, so good.”

“Anyone I’ll see at the Asylum?” Connie chuckled.

“No, no, he’s going to Blackgate for certain. But no, yeah, this was a bigger case, this was one of the Penguin’s goons.”

“No shit!”

“Yeah! And opposing counsel was a bitch, so I completely dragged him in court.”

“That’s amazing! You’ve got solid evidence on him?”

“Yeah. He was in a Penguin uniform, roped up at the scene of the crime by the time the police got there.”

“Let me guess. Batman?”

“Yeah. Honestly, he makes my job easier.”

As Connie started driving across the long bridge that connected Arkham Island to Gotham Island, she felt safe enough to speak her mind, but she still had to be cautious.

“Are you in the car?”

“Yeah, why?”

“So I can ask if the conviction is going to be bought out or not.”

She could almost hear her father’s disappointment in the flawed justice system on the other end of the line.

“No, no, not with this one, sweetie."

“Well, that’s good to know. After Bruce Wayne started basically single-handedly funding Internal Affairs, and the Batman started serving up Falcone’s puppets on a silver platter, I can almost believe Gotham City can have an honest trial.”

“Yes indeed. Alright, honey, I’m back at my office. I just wanted to check in and see how you were.”

“Well, I’m doing okay. It was nice to hear from you.”

“If you’re still at the station in a few hours, I’ll pick you up and take you home for dinner. Seanna’s making a new kind of pasta. Which means-”

“-garlic bread!” Connie finished, and her father laughed.

“Yes! Alright, sweetie, I gotta go. Love you!”

“Love you too, Dad. Bye!”

Taglist: @arts-and-sharks @burnthashbrown27

Comment or ask to be added to the taglist!

#red batty #red batty oc #enemies to lovers #the arkham hellion #arkham asylum #original character #batman arkham trilogy #batman fan comic #batman arkhamverse #batman rogues gallery #batman fanfiction #batman #arkhamverse

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red-batty · 10 months

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Okay a friend pointed out that I should have an upload schedule so as of right now it's going to be one part Mondays Thursdays and Saturdays. That way it'll be a couple of months before I run out of chapters lmao. Stay tuned!

Okay lmao but what if I just... started posting my novel-length Batman fanfiction. Piece by piece. I think that would be fun

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red-batty · 10 months

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The Arkham Hellion: Year One

Chapter 1: The One Where Everything Worked Out (Part 1)

Characters: OC (Connie Inviglio), OC (Emril Griffith), Poison Ivy/Pamela Isley

Warnings: Prison/Hospital/Asylum setting, doctors and psychiatrists, mentions of pain. Swearing, violence, dehumanization, derealization, mentions of sex... this series isn't going to be PG, yall, so be warned.

Word count: 1.5k

A/N: I don't even know what to put here. This is part one of chapter one of TAH. I've beta read it a little, but not in a long time. I first wrote this chapter like. 3 years ago so it's probably. Not Great. And this chapter is pretty boring but you gotta start boring so you have a baseline for how fucked it gets :)

——————

The Asylum was quieter today, so when Connie Inviglio heard her name being called over the comms, she heard it loud and clear. She was checking in on an injured IT patient in the medical facility when she got the call, and it was a short walk across an open courtyard to the Penitentiary. Her overseer stood at the check-in desk at the front, waiting for her.

“Inviglio,” Dr. Griffith said, studying the face of his novice, “Good, you’re here. Isley had a scheduled evaluation today, I’m sending you in.”

“Had?”

“Her doctor didn’t show up, he’s busy in his office with ‘paperwork’ and put off the evaluation.” Griffith didn’t face her as he spoke, rather turning down the hall. The eccentric yet brilliant Welshman started walking mid sentence, as he often did, and Connie followed behind him in step.

“Ah, yes, the infamous paperwork,” Connie hummed, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “that definitely has nothing to do with the tech he's definitely not screwing.”

Both Griffith and Inviglio flashed their IDs to the nurses, and once more at the guards, before the second and third sets of doors unlocked one by one and allowed them entry.

“No, of course not, he’s a professional.” Griffith’s deadpan was enough to give Connie the story. A well-paid Arkham doctor slacking off on patients that were hostile and deemed untreatable? Frankly, she wasn’t surprised.

“Isley’s doctor is Riviera, right?”

“Aye. And for the record, it's not about the new tech he's not screwing, it's about the nurse he's not screwing.”

Connie sighed irritably as she contemplated the correlation of Arkham’s spotty reputation and the work ethic of doctors like Riviera. It was no surprise why the lunatics never got any better and breakouts were polyannual events.

“Isley’s evaluation, is it pharma or just psych?”

“You’re not involved with pharma, Connie, just do an honest psych eval. And I want your notes on future care for her as well, you’re smart,” he waved his hand as he walked, “figure something out.”

“Did you just compliment me?” Connie stopped in front of the heavy, automated metal door that led into what was referred to as "the Green Mile," in reference to the fact that no plants were allowed past the security gate.

“You’re already late for the eval,” Griffith replied over his shoulder. He scanned his badge to unlock the thick metal door.

“Thanks, Griffith,” she mumbled, knowing that was as close as she’d ever get to “I trust your insight” from Dr. Emril Griffith.

He didn’t regard her, blowing past her into the containment room. A large glass cell with a single chair hosted Pamela Isley, known to the public and media as Poison Ivy. she had ripped the legs off of her prison outfit, modifying them into a highly suggestive form of shorts, and her top was left with a single button done to cover her large breast. Isley regarded Griffith and Inviglio through thick lashes, arching her back just enough to accentuate her hips and chest. Seduction and manipulation was Ivy’s entire game, but Connie’s game was willpower.

“This,” Griffith started, leaning very close to the glass and gesturing to Connie, “Is Ms. Inviglio. She will be handling your evaluation today.”

“Did you bring me a woman in an attempt to evade my seduction, Dr. Griffith?” Ivy purred. There was so much wrong with that statement regarding Connie, but her gender and her sexuality was not of importance compared to her professionality. She didn’t bother to correct her.

“I brought you someone who you won’t be able to toy with,” Griffith practically spat. He was not one so easily intimidated, and even when he was, he never let it show.

Isley’s ruby red lips pulled back to show pearly white teeth, but no humor could be found in her dark green eyes.

Without another word, he turned back to Connie.

“You got this, yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Drop the formalities, Inviglio. Now sod off, get to work. You know where to call me after you’re done.”

With that, Griffith strode out of the holding room, and the door clicked behind him.

“Inviglio, date: July 30, 20xx,” Connie stated as the tape began rolling. “Psychological evaluation of Pamela Isley. Hello, Pamela.”

“Please,” she hummed, “call me Ivy.”

The word ‘Ivy’ was quickly etched across the first line of Connie’s legal pad. Insistence of an alternate identity was one red flag.

“How are you doing today, Ivy?”

“Not well,” Ivy sighed. “It’s so cold, and my plants are aching, Ms. Inviglio.”

“Can you clarify what your plants are?” Connie had read Isley’s file, she already knew, but she wanted to talk to Ivy one on one. She wanted the information from the source.

“My babies… all of the plants of Earth, they are my children. They are being cut down, neglected, hurt. I can feel their pain,” Ivy’s eyes squeezed shut as she spoke. “Humans are killing my plants, and I can hear their screams.”

So much to work with, so many questions to ask, where to begin? Connie jotted down Ivy’s use of the word “humans,” as if she weren't one of them.

“What does this pain feel like?”

Ivy sighed at Inviglio’s apparent ignorance. “It depends on the injury, and the plant, darling. If an animal bites it, I feel the bite deep against my skin. If it is a blunt blow, it’s as if I feel the impact against my body. When their branches are cut, I feel the piercing pain in my arms and legs. It is agony.”

“And this is a literal pain?”

“Yes! You kill my plants, my babies, and you have no right to!” Ivy cried. She threw her head back, her vibrant red hair being flipped over her shoulders.

“How do you feel about that?” Connie studied Ivy’s reaction.

Ivy’s upset display of emotion ceased. She looked up at her interviewer slowly, her eyes hooded and her reaction controlled.

“Why do you want to know?” Interviews could go two ways.

“Answering a question with a question. That’s called deflection, Ms. Isley. Would you please reconsider the question?”

Ivy sighed once more.

“I want my plants to stop hurting.”

“Because it hurts you? Or do you genuinely care about them?”

The question caught Ivy off guard. None of the other doctors considered questions like these.

“Both. I feel their pain, and thus, I don’t want them to suffer anymore.”

“Not just to relieve your own pain?”

“No. But to relieve them of theirs. I only wish to see my plants thrive, and grow.”

“Even if it disbalances natural order?”

“What is natural about the destruction of life?” Ivy snapped.

“In moderation, death and destruction makes space for new life, and growth. What do you think about that?”

“Destroying places of natural growth is not moderation, doctor,” The patient seethed.

“Alright. That is understandable. But too much growth, that leads to things like cancer. Where I’m from, kudzu is an invasive species that grows and grows and cannot be eradicated, and that chokes out other plantlife. Is cutting down kudzu acceptable? And… How do you feel about the pruning of plants?”

Ivy studied Connie. She was strange to Ivy; she didn’t pry about her murderous history or her tendency towards violence. This wasn’t really about Ivy’s actions; it was about Ivy’s opinions, and opinions on her plants, nonetheless.

“Why do you ask?”

Connie smiled as warmly as she could.

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’ll answer your questions as soon as I know why you’re doing this.”

She needed to stop holding her breath. As she exhaled, Connie sat forward, propping her elbows on her desk.

“I simply want to understand. You are more than just the insults of guards and the antics of the news media. Does that answer your question?”

After a moment of processing, Ivy replied.

“You’re not arguing with me. You’re trying to learn.”

“That’s right.”

Another pause.

“If it is to assist in the growth of the plant, pruning is… acceptable.”

Connie smiled genuinely to the woman on the other side of the glass.

“Then that is all for today. Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Ivy, I found it quite enlightening. We will see to furthering your care and assisting you in any way we can.”

Connie stood, and started putting away her notepad, pen and file.

“That’s it?” Ivy sounded vaguely baffled.

“That’s it.” Connie replied with a smile. “As long as you were completely honest, I think we can help you and your relationship with the plants. Pardon, your plants.”

“Don’t belittle me.”

“I had no intention of doing so. I truly mean what I said in full kindness, Ivy. It sounds like you are in a lot of pain, and as you want to help the plants, I want to help you. You shouldn’t have to go through such pain.”

With a click, Connie stopped the recording, and placed the tape and recorder into her bag. Ivy didn’t say anything as Connie moved towards the door. With a beep, she scanned her ID and unlocked the door.

“Until the next time, Ms. Ivy.”

Taglist: @arts-and-sharks @burnthashbrown27

comment or dm to get added !!

#red batty oc #dc comics original story #dc comics #dc comics original character #dc comics oc #dc comics fanfiction #pamela isley #poison ivy #pamela isley/poison ivy #arkham asylum #the arkham hellion #batman arkhamverse #batman arkham trilogy #arkhamverse #arkham games

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red-batty · 10 months

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Okay lmao but what if I just... started posting my novel-length Batman fanfiction. Piece by piece. I think that would be fun

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red-batty · 10 months

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New World Order, Vol. 1

a preview of the prose behind the graphic novel

Warnings: don't come after me, there's mentions of guns. it's post apocalyptic. no one gets hurt.

Wolf's Head Tavern. Vienna, Austria. 2052 AD.

Kyda Kol sat on one of the beaten couches at the Wolf's Head tavern, and pointlessly cycled through one of the playlists on her touch-screen Walkman. The couch was, at one point, overstuffed and almost tacky, but now it had graduated to worn out and ugly beyond compare. If Kyda hadn't spent the better part of her teenage and adult years sitting on that very couch, it would've been unbearably uncomfortable. Good couches were harder to come by these days, and all the better couches were saved for homes rather than the pub full of rabble-rousers. Hunters meandered the pub, mostly drinking water at this hour, while others finished loading up. The sun had started coming up maybe an hour ago, so the fires had been doused in the fireplaces and left a damp version of woodsmoke smell in the air.

Kyda wouldn't have been sitting on the blasted couch in the first place A hand from behind lightly shoved her head, and she looked up to spot Václav Novak.

"What're you listening to?" He purred in his Czech accent, reaching to pull the headphones off her head before she swatted his hand away harshly.

"The good stuff," she quipped.

"You know," Václav hummed, pulling one of the half-empty pillows on the couch out of his way, plopping down and holding it on his lap, "some of the newer bands aren't half bad."

"Oh, sure. I like some of the rock bands that have come out since the end, but pop music just hasn't been the same since the era of Paula Abdul."

Václav watched Kyda for a second, before finally whistling and shaking his head.

"Just like your father."

"So I've heard."

"You're the only one I know who actually gets along with your father," Václav mused, and Kyda shot him a sidelong glance with a raised eyebrow.

"We have our fair share of fights. And what about the Van Helsings?"

Václav snorted.

"I don't think the Van Helsings are human."

"That's fair."

There wasn't an explainable reason the Van Helsings were in Vienna with the Hunters Coalition; but more drastically, there wasn't an explainable reason as to why they were alive. Bram Stoker had written about Abraham Van Helsing in the 1800s, and yet here he was, old and bitter and sarcastic, with his son Gabriel, who was around Michael's age. The theory that they were lycanthropes or vampires had been dispelled after more than a few hunters saw them walk in sunlight, and handle silver. At some point it was agreed upon to stop asking. They were here now, and they were good at what they did, so the question of 'how' became less relevant.

"Hey nerds," Jamison Hampton crooned, hopping over the back of the couch to land gracelessly on the other side of Kyda. The couch squeaked and groaned in protest, and the sharpshooter grinned toothily.

"One of these days you're gonna break the damn couch," Kyda scolded, but the other young American did nothing but smile wider. She elbowed him in the ribs gently, and he slapped her knee.

"Ready to go?"

Note: I hold all rights to everything I write. Any use of the names, characters, and places in my writing will be reported as theft. Do not share without credit.

#vampire story #vampire comic #vampire graphic novel #retro aesthetic #apocalyptic fiction #post apocalypse #graphic novel #comic #original comic #original story #original fiction #red batty #human x vampire #enemies to lovers #horror fantasy #dark fantasy #original fantasy

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red-batty · 10 months

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The Jagged Heart

[working title] a preview of the novel.

Warning: Implications of sex, NSFW. Minors DNI.

“Do you like dancing, or just watching dancing?” a voice inquired, and Rowan stiffened. She wanted to flee, but didn’t, refusing in both mind and body, holding herself there in resolution despite a hurricane of emotions. “I wouldn’t know. Last time we met I swore you were fond of dancing and now you linger on the fringes of the floor… but we both know that wasn’t the only thing that was a mistruth of our last meeting.”

“Captain Kain,” Rowan muttered, listening as his boots clicked on the hardwood and stood next to her, his coat brushing the rim of her vision, confirming his proximity. She could feel his presence tickle her skin, like an alarm. “Forgive me, I wasn’t aware you’d be… attending.”

“My apologies, I’ll make sure to provide ample warning in the future, so you might be better prepared to rob me blind again.”

“Believe me, Captain, I never want a repetition of our former meeting.”

Rowan refused to look at him. Her eyes stayed on the dancefloor, and he stood stiffly next to her, never turning to properly address her. They merely stood, adjacent to each other, speaking aloud knowing only the other would respond.

“Good, then we are in accord.”

His voice was laced with venom, and Rowan knew he had every right to hate her. Silence fell, and neither of them moved. He was cemented to the ground, unwilling to turn his back on her and expose himself to her backstab, and she couldn't bring herself to turn away, skirt along the edges of the ball and hide from him pointlessly.

"You never answered my question," Gerard repeated, and she inhaled shakily.

"Which one is that?" She asked, forcefully composing herself.

"Do you like dancing?"

Rowan had to see his face. She couldn't bear to hear his voice and bear the simplicity of the question burdened by the pain of the past and the uncertainty of his tone. She turned to look up at him, and seeing his face again awoke a sorrow and compassion she thought she'd locked away so deep it would never surface to touch her consciousness again. Rowan concluded his beauty must be a form of necromancer that could resurrect things rightfully dead and buried with such ease. She flushed, embarrassed, ashamed, while unrightfully drawn in by his mere existence. Forcefully she looked away, her questions answered and the eye contact unbearable. His expression betrayed his genuineness, as well as his anger. In his eyes was a true desire to know if she liked dancing, and an equally strong desire to see her ruined.

His scowl was burned into her mind, his once warm, ocean blue eyes glaring in such a way to make cold like ice-glass, their cruelty and pain scorched onto the back of her eyelids like a brand.

"I do enjoy dancing," she finally confessed. "Though I find few partners worthwhile enough to engage in the art."

"And here I was believing you were so good at it because you were willing to do it with whomever, whenever."

She swallowed thickly, and exhaled steadily to keep her composure. His harshness was well interpreted and she knew he wasn't just talking about dancing.

"No. Only ever with those who matter to me."

"This must be a recent change, then."

"It is not."

Kain laughed joylessly.

"Don't lie to me."

"I only lie when I need to, sir."

He took her arm and twisted her (not roughly or violently, he simply turned her) to face him properly. He leaned in just enough so he could lower his tone and still be heard by her.

"Then what made it so necessary that you needed to lie to me."

Rowan leaned forward to meet his tone.

"It became necessary when I was told I was helping my Captain earn revenge against a man who hurt her."

"Is that what you were told?" Kain snapped.

"It is. And she no longer needed to argue or endure my questionings to earn my trust. So I followed orders."

"Oh, but you enjoyed it, didn't you?" Kain's teeth were bared just slightly, like a snarling dog. Rowan's face flushed heartedly, too embarrassed and frustrated to retort promptly. Finally she turned away, looking pointedly elsewhere from Kain

"I hated every minute of my betrayal."

“And yet you still did it."

"And yet still I did."

Note: I hold all rights to everything I write. Any use of the names, characters, and places in my writing will be reported as theft. Do not share without credit.

#pirate oc #pirate characters #pirates #enemies to lovers #slow burn #oc x oc #original characters #original pirate character #original story #original fiction #alternate history #historical fantasy

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