notmydiagnosis | (no subject)

Tillman was a model prisoner and had been for his entire stay. He only fought when provoked and he listened to instructions issued by the guards without ever hassling them. Despite this, they cuffed his hands behind his back before sending him in to the interrogation room. The table and chairs were bolted to the floor, but prisoners tended to be a resourceful lot when it came to violence and he was no exception.

Tillman crossed the room in his drab gray jumpsuit and took the seat across from Dr. Crane without being invited. He adjusted his position so that he could watch the doctor and see the door in his peripherals. His expression was detached, cold, impassive. The entire set-up, sitting across from another human being in a boxed in room with an unknown number of eyes watching, it made his skin crawl. He was almost grateful for the handcuffs. They severely reduced the chance of Castle forcing him to murder the man that sat before him to reset his sentence or something similar.

Handcuffs.

Crane's mild amusement didn't show on his face--instead, he adjusted his glasses with one hand and glanced down at the file.

"John Tillman. First degree murder, but none of that is important at this very moment, is it?" Lips slightly pursed, blue eyes taking the other in, raking over him. Lingering ever-so-slightly at the contour of his shoulders, the arms. How someone like that was so very very futile and helpless in this particular situation.

That thought showed, registered with a quirk of his brow, shaking his head.

"I'm Dr. Johnathan Crane, head of Arkham Asylum's psychiatric ward in Gotham City. Do you know why I'm here?"

Tillman met his eyes briefly. Bright, piercing, analytical, keen to cut him to the bone to see what was inside. Castle had looked at him the same way. He looked briefly toward the pane that he knew was a one-way mirror.

He was no stranger to psych evaluations. He had undergone plenty during his time in service and check ups every now and again once he'd been home, and then there were the ones before the trial... All of those made sense, had purpose. He couldn't see any point in evaluating criminals that had signed over their lives and would likely be dead before the month's end. Unless this was litigation and red tape regarding his chances at winning his pardon.

"No," he replied simply, his voice a sort of gritty rumble from disuse.

That voice.

Crane's lips part slightly, looking him over again--cold, sharp and analytical. Gruff, he noticed. To the point. Keen on checking him out, too, though he doubted it was anything other than whether or not Crane was a threat. How little this Tillman knew.

He set the pen aside, gently and neatly next to the papers he was staring at, and carefully began to put down his glasses, eye-to-eye with the other. Predators circling each other. A mental dance.

Crane could get used to this.

He blinked for a few times, licking his lips before blue eyes met blue and he lowered his voice.

"I want to help you see your daughter and wife, Mr. Tillman. I want to help you out of here."

Tillman had led a hard life. He had seen things. And done things. In the face of certain death, he didn't bat an eye anymore. The world was little more than a complicated obstacle course to him at this point.

your daughter and wife

For a brief moment, it was like all of the air had been sucked out of the room. Tillman's careful mask cracked. To an untrained eye, the flash of pain, guilt, concern, and longing, would have been invisible.

He reeled himself in, smoothed it over with a hint of a glare. He hadn't been expecting to hear anyone mention Angie or Delia but that second was all it took for him to adjust to the situation.

"I'm five sessions away," he pointed out. His voice had an inquiring edge to it for the first time.

"Yes," Crane agreed--nothing had changed in his own demeanor, still the same soft lilt to his voice. It was a large difference to Tillman's own gruff voice. He liked the contrast, how stark it was. It reminded him of the majority of things--and, more importantly, the severity of both of their situations. "Five sessions in comparison to the many sessions you have on your sheet as 'Kable.'"

An alter-identity of sorts. The irony was palpable.

"Would you rather wait five sessions for the slight possibility you can reunite with your family, Mr. Tillman, or fifteen minutes and assurance?"

A ripple of movement started at his shoulders but was cut short by the sharp metallic click of the handcuffs. He wanted to grab Crane by the collar and lift him off his feet.

"Is this another test? Another game?" He growled, volume barely above a whisper. There was murder in his eyes. Get him to agree to a prison break, extend his sentence. Castle played smart and dirty.

Crane flinched, yes--it was a brief, brief moment. A twitch of the left side of his face and he sat up a little straighter. That was the problem about emotion--one could hide it all they wanted to, but it would still be evident in the eyes. And fear was the easiest to detect.

What was Tillman's greatest fear? What made his hair raise, what made him scream? What turned him to a child-like state where he was no longer the top dog? The best? He was yearning to know--it was nagging at him. Digging into his brain, squirming around.

"I'm not working for Castle, Mr. Tillman." He placed his thumb and forefinger on this bridge of his nose, trying to smooth away a headache. "As I've stated, I work for Arkham Asylum in Gotham City."

And, finally, he moved--ignoring the imposing threat (though once upon a time he'd be more than startled, he'd be terrified, he'd be screaming at his tormentors not to do it again--and he grabbed the suitcase he'd brought with him, opening it.

"Would you like to see my mask?"

"No," Tillman responded, though he knew the question was rhetorical. Five sessions away and then this. He couldn't see the angle, but he knew that there had to be one. It was all a trap and he wasn't going to just walk into it.

He glared at the mirror again, this time making no effort to conceal his raw hatred. Castle was probably laughing, the smug bastard. His attention reverted to Crane when the doctor reached into his suitcase. If it was a weapon, there was little Tillman could do and he knew it.

"Paranoid thinking typically includes persecutory beliefs, or beliefs of conspiracy concerning a perceived threat towards oneself, Mr. Tillman. Making false accusations and the general distrust of others also frequently accompany paranoia." Because he'd seen him glancing at the door, he'd seen the way his jaw set. The way he immediately looked at the suitcase. Crane may have been missing his glasses but it wasn't hard to pick up on the little things when you were both trained and obsessed.

"Do I intimidate you?" He asked, and the lilt in his voice ended in an upwards pattern as he reached into the suitcase and pulled out a stitched together, burlap sack.

Crane held the mask unlike anything else--as if the fabric was fragile, as if it would crumble with any touch. "I'm not an intimidating individual," he explained. "Not compared to you. If you weren't handcuffed you could probably snap by neck easier than anything. But that would prolong your sentence, Mr. Tillman. And I'm trying to help you out of it."

"I don't want to hurt you," Tillman stated, eyes narrowed as he examined the burlap. The last time he'd seen a bag like that, it was in Iran. The memories were unpleasant, to say the least. He dismissed the thought and looked Crane in the eye once more.

"I don't want any trouble." He wasn't in a position to make demands. Requests would be stretching his luck. This was why he didn't talk much. Truthfully, he'd said more to Crane than he had in weeks. He pressed on calmly, voice low. "I don't know what you think you can do for me, but I'm five sessions away from freedom. I don't need your help."

"The problem is, Mr. Tillman, I know information you don't. Information that I'm afraid I can't give you at this time, but suffice to say one Richard Castle is going to extend your hours of play."

And the mask is slipping on, a terrifyingly fitting mask for Crane--something to ugly for what Crane really was. He cleared his throat, folding his hands together, lacing them gently. The pen and paperwork were long forgotten.

"short bursts of mania are common in soldiers, and often hallucinations follow. Most have focused on Jungian archetypes, which in layman's terms, means things children would find scary. Age regression, as it were. In this case," He spreads his hands out.

"A Scarecrow."

He presses a button in the suitcase--a short burst of gas fills the air and Crane stays perfectly still. The fear toxin won't affect someone in a gas mask but to someone handcuffed and helpless, it would.

This is the part he likes.

He's rigid with anticipation, watching carefully, eyes scanning underneath the scarecrow mask. This is the part he lives on, thrives on, considers a great success. Once it hits, he leans forward in the mask.

"Boo."

Tillman coughed and averted his face when the gas hit him. He held his breath and glared at the opposing wall. The doctor had referred to him as paranoid and yet here it was. Games and tricks.

He waited for the familiar sensation of drug induced lethargy or light headedness. When neither came, he assumed that he hadn't been dosed properly. He was mentally celebrating the thought when he realized something was off about the room. Where uniform gray concrete had been, there was now uneven reddish rock. His eyes flicked back and forth as he searched for an exit that was nonexistent. All that remained of the interrogation room was the one-way mirror. He released his held breath and sucked a fresh one in through his teeth.

Boo.

Tillman jerked back in his seat. He could not remember the mild mannered doctor that had been sitting across from him for the last fifteen minutes. His mind was locked on the thing in front of him. It was grotesque, wicked, impossible to exist in the real world. He knew it was not real, but the rush of blood in his ears drowned out logical thought.

Having trained for the better part of twenty years to defend himself, Tillman's instinct was to get his hands up. The monster in front of him was shaped vaguely like a man and he knew that if he hit something in the face enough and it would stop moving. Try as he might, he couldn't move his arms. The force holding him back was impossibly strong and he could feel little needle-like teeth tearing into his wrists with every violent, resistant jerk.

Edited 2012-01-30 19:06 (UTC)

Perfect.

The gas subsided--for the room, of course. Crane bit a full lip, hinging on everything Tillman said, every reaction, taking it in with an alarming amount of excitement. His heart was racing and he could feel his palms grow sweaty with anticipation, watching the other squirm as he looked at what must have been a twisted visage.

He was reacting curiously to it, however--resisting it. Tillman was somehow trained to resist this stuff. Crane's mind briefly flashed to the days in school and there was a split-second feeling of dread, of Tillman snapping the handcuffs and his fist connecting with Crane's face, a very familiar scenario from a very long time ago, and yet--

No. There we go. The handcuffs. Those beautiful pieces of metal around such a beautiful man's wrists. The monster was chained, leaving Crane to react accordingly.

He took the mask off and shut his suitcase, immediately pounding on the glass, looking urgent. Worried. Alarmed, even.

"This man is clearly suffering from psychosis. I'm postponing everything--he's to come to Arkham Asylum. Immediately, so I can better treat him."

Tillman backed himself into a corner before the guards came to collect him. He fought them viciously, his frantic mind spinning him into a violent frenzy that didn't have much regard for his own safety. The cuffs were stained red.

It wasn't until they had him completely pinned to the floor that he stopped fighting, and then he just screamed. The sound was raw and wordless like a child in the throes of a night terror.

Tillman woke up with the worst hangover he had ever had. His mouth was completely dry. He eased a hand up to his eyes and groaned. This caused his throat to ache.

Slowly, he expanded his awareness to encompass more than just himself. The room was small, plain, dark, and not unlike his cell at the prison. He knew it wasn't his cell simply because he had spent hours pacing it and staring at every crack and imperfection. He was somewhere new. He just couldn't figure out why.

Arkham Asylum was it's own entity--and Crane was very, very well liked there. More importantly, he was one of the top psychiatrists there. Which was saying something. He was finishing up a session with Harleen Quinzel, and he nodded at a guard, handing his ID over. He examined it, and in a matter of seconds the blue eyed doctor was ushered into the wing where Tillman was currently stuck in a cell.

He was silhouette then, darkened, but with a slight incline of his head his glasses reflected the light as he stared at the very awake, very disoriented Tillman.

"Stay outside. I'm going in."

"Doctor Crane--wouldn't a interview room be better?"

One look said it all, and the door swung open, Crane heading in to the cell with his new prize. Kable.

"I trust you're upset with me."

Tillman managed to prop himself up on one elbow before the door opened entirely. It was not the best position, tactically, but it was better than being flat on his back.

He took in the sight of Doctor Crane and his mouth twitched into a frown. He could clearly remember the initial exchange, the interview, but then it all got fuzzy. His stomach clenched as he remembered flitting images. It must have been a dream.

Tillman made no move to rise further. He could have, at this point, and as Crane had pointed out in their previous conversation, Tillman could snap his neck without any effort at all. He didn't, simply because he wanted to go home more than anything, and assault would nullify his chances of that.

"I'd like an explanation," he croaked. His voice surprised him, scarcely more than a dry whisper even though he had intended to speak at a normal volume. It had happened to him once before, but he could clearly remember screaming then. It wasn't all a dream, then.

"I think you'll find it rather simple." Crane's gaze was sharp, though he moved into the dim lighting--he looked well rested, and while he no longer had his suit jacket on he was still wearing a sweatervest, a dress shirt and a tie, all dapper, inconspicuous. Everything Crane did was an attempt to blend in, to quietly fade into the background until he needed to appear.

"You're in Arkham Asylum, I was able to transfer you after my toxin worked. If I had warned you, your brain would have fought the drugs on a subconscious level, which means the guards and Castle wouldn't have released you into my care." His smile was thin and disingenuous, but he crossed his arms, regarding the other.

"Your wife and daughter are being relocated to Gotham as we speak. Once I know I can trust you, you'll be released with my personal recommendation of your mental status and a ticket out of here. No more game sessions required."

A beat.

"The thing is, Mr. Tillman, is that I have a job for you."

Tillman listened impassively, his gaze stony as Crane finished speaking. Tillman was many things. He was strong, focused, quiet, spooky, he was a tactical killing computer, he was ruthless when he had to be, and despite this, he was entirely helpless at the hands of a man that looked like he worked at a library.

A gun in his face would have been easy to handle. A knife in the ribs was inconsequential. Tillman had once grinned around the barrel of a submachine gun. Thugs did not have the finesse to rattle him. A brain, however, knew exactly where to apply pressure to get him to beg on command.

Castle seemed infinitely wealthy and well connected. He had been impossible for Tillman to fight. Somehow this doctor had transferred him out of a maximum security prison with little effort. Apparently, Castle wasn't the only one with connections.

Tillman pulled himself into a sitting position and folded his hands in his lap.

"If any harm comes to them, I will tear you into tiny pieces," he growled with conviction. He watched Crane in the dim light for a moment before continuing. "Tell me about the job."

Crane laughed, but the smile didn't reach his mouth--his stance shifted, very, very slightly. Anyone with training would pick it up instantly--little shifts and the brief head tilt, before his speech becomes clipped, serious, mouth pressing into a light, grim line.

Yes, Kable could cut him into pieces. But not here. Not when Crane was capable of harnessing the other's very psyche, rendering him useless. Alone. No one would believe him. Not in Arkham.

"You keep thinking I'm against you. I'm with you. It just so happens I need your help and from what I've watched on Slayers, you're the only one that can do it. How much have you heard of Gotham, Mr. Tillman?"

Tillman snorted but didn't say anything until he was asked for input. He had spent a lot of time over seas and while there, he had not met anyone from Gotham. He certainly wasn't up to date on his news now.

"Not much. Smuggling ring got caught there... must have been nine years ago," he stated. While he wasn't one for adding irrelevant details, he wanted Crane to be clear on just how much 'not much' implied without a lot of questions or dancing around the subject.

He began the process of assessing his physical state and cataloging injuries while he waited.

Crane takes this in--looks at Tillman, analyzes him. He's done so countless times (and, admittedly, a few while the other man was unconscious), but his final stance ended with him clasping his hands behind his back and pacing.

His shoes made an audible noise on the metallic, grate-like floor of the cell as he paused to put his thoughts into words.

"You're the top-most ranked Slayer in the entire game. The one who's lasted the longest. You're most likely a soldier of some sorts. Veteran perhaps. And that's the exact expertise I'm looking for. I need your help, Mr. Tillman. There's someone out there calling himself... Batman. He and I aren't quite on the same terms. So."

He finally stops pacing, looking straight at Tillman. Staring at him.

"I helped you out and I... Need help in return."

"Bat man?" He enunciated the words individually and cocked an eyebrow, waiting for a correction that didn't come. It brought to mind a zoo keeper or a manic chiroptera enthusiast. That Crane wanted Tillman personally because of Slayers did not bode well for said enthusiast.

"You want me to kill the bat man," Tillman stated as he palpated the injuries on his wrists through their bandaging.

"I don't want you to kill Batman." Something happened--something Crane didn't so much as notice. Jonathan Crane was a man of science, true, but he was also a man from Gotham--where it wasn't uncommon to hear of Batman's exploits, to here of the crime that ran rife in the streets.

"No. If you kill him, then that leaves a number of people to both become Batman in his wake, and go after the both of us due to vengeance." Namely, he wasn't stupid enough to kill the Batman simply because Joker would dive in in one fell swoop.

He brought his hands down, adjusting his tie and raising an eyebrow at Tillman.

"You'll find I'm not quite the upper-class, high-end person you might perceive me to be. I simply make an alternate means of income, and I wish to protect that. You, of all people, should know what it means to protect something."

Tillman rolled his shoulders out and was satisfied with the conclusion that the worst of his injuries would be resolved in a few days and that they wouldn't impede him in the least while they healed. The headache was probably the most distracting thing, but that could be remedied with some water and a nap.

His eyes had never left Crane, but as his analysis came to a close and he rested his hands on his thighs once more, he began to really look at the doctor. There was the slightest touch of a frown at his lips and crease to his brow. It wasn't disapproving, per se, but cold and hard nonetheless. He searched for motive in Crane's movements, signs of nervousness or dishonesty. Headshrinks, in his experience, had marvelous poker faces and the shrouding shadows were not in his favor.

"I'm sure it's exactly the same," he responded belatedly, a bit of edge to his voice. If this had been a mission briefing in the army, this meeting would have already offered up useful information instead of nonsense about bat men and vague insinuations. He didn't mention it, however, intent on using the time to analyze Crane more.

"Precisely." Crane nods sharply, staring at Tillman. It was barely there, but he caught it--that slight look, that little glint. He chuckled, finding the entire thing void of amusement. Pushing the glasses back up to his face, he shook his head.

"I think you'll find psychoanalyzing one of Arkham's finest psychiatrists is a bit of a waste of your time. Now, moving on. As I've stated previously, your wife and child are on their way to Gotham. But I need your word you'll give me a hand. I'm not the bad guy here. Castle is. It just so happened this was mutually beneficial."

Tillman continued to stare, not bothered in the least by the attempt to dissuade him.

"You have my word," Tillman agreed readily. "Whatever you need." It was not unlike enlisting or signing on to Slayers. The only difference here was that he didn't have the foggiest idea of what he was being asked to do. It didn't really matter, though. His prize was the same.

"When can I see them?"

Excellent.

Crane's demeanor shifted almost immediately--it was edging towards the same face he'd used with the mask, the light, contained emotion that was just shy of breaking through an incredible poker face.

"The moment they're here and safe I'll take you to them personally," he promised. "The time not spent with me--when I'm here, for instance--can be spent with them, or sleeping. That would be my recommendation. Now. If there are no questions, I should be getting back to your paperwork. Proving your mania isn't going to be a problem but it still requires a full report."

"You still haven't told me about the job," he pointed out. He had never worked any freelance gigs. He wasn't a mercenary. Every job he had ever worked was endorsed by and in full cooperation of the US government. And the government knew how to hold a briefing: straightforward, direct, succinct.

"And that," he licked his lips before continuing. "Whatever you dosed me with. You're not going to do it again, are you?"

Jonathan Crane's answer was a simple shift of his weight, moving lightly to the balls of his feet as he quirked an eyebrow upwards.

"You're going to make sure I don't die, no matter my location. It's quite simple. Even a soldier like you should understand it." The corner of his lips moved, too--a light quirk--and he cleared his throat.

"I'm not your enemy, Mr. Tillman. It took me a great deal of effort to handle Richard Castle. I tend not to exhaust my resources unless I have the utmost faith in someone and you.. 'Kable.' You can handle a simple bodyguard job, can't you?

If the implication about his intelligence was supposed to get a rise out of him, it didn't succeed. Tillman merely lay back on his cot and rested his head on one forearm, his left knee bent so he could get up quicker if he needed to.

"It's just Tillman," he said softly as the door creaked open.

"Tillman," Crane repeated, clasping his hands together and nodding. "Excellent. You start tomorrow, when I can get you out of here without much fuss. I've taken the liberty of putting you here in solitary confinement so as not to upset the other patients, or have them upset you." He was concerned about people like Croc and Bane--because as good as Tillman was, Crane doubted he'd last five seconds versus Clayface.

Taking a step forward, Crane extended a hand to shake.

"I'm looking forward to working with you."

I'm looking forward to figuring out what you fear most. What makes you tick. What makes those blue eyes widen in terror.

Crane nodded to himself. "I imagine this will be much easier than the Slayers regime."

Tillman's handshake was firm and confident and he might have held on a second longer than he needed to. Physical contact had been pretty scarce in the past two years, and the kind that he had received had largely been attempts at his life or being cuffed or otherwise dominated. The last person he had shaken hands with was his lawyer.

Crane's hand was soft and just a little cold. Tillman released him and lay back to stare at the ceiling once more. "See you later, Doc," was all he said.

The door clicked shut, the harsh heavy sound of metal on metal temporarily shattering the silence. Tillman closed his eyes and listened but after the walls absorbed the resounding clatter, there was nothing but silence. No footsteps in the halls, no murmur of guards, no screaming prisoners talking through the walls. It might have been relaxing if it weren't for the knowledge that he was in an asylum. He hadn't taken an insanity plea for a reason and yet here he was. Two years into a sentence, half a year away from freedom, and here he was at square one in a dank, shadowy little cell.

Tillman traced the letters of his tattoo without looking at it. Just a little bit longer.