Chapter 12

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The Joker led Megan through the usual routes in Arkham’s high-security wing. After pouring a few basic survival principles into her utterly empty head, he let her go.

Did he have something to do, was he busy? Of course not. He simply had no patience for something that, for the moment, showed no promise of amusement, and so he shifted his attention elsewhere to matters of greater importance. Even confined within Arkham Asylum, a prison could not restrain the restless heart that yearned to bring people ever grander and more spectacular dramas.

Megan was left to wander freely through Arkham. The first time she went to the cafeteria alone, no one made things difficult for her. To provoke a child was a particularly contemptible and tasteless act for a psychiatric criminal. They merely ignored her and did not speak to her, though everyone openly scrutinized her, trying to discern something from her.

She could perceive very little of the people and things around her. Only the commands the Joker had forcibly implanted sustained her movements: “eat,” “rest,” “do not kill yourself,” and other small instructions such as “bring it here” and “follow me.” These alone formed the basis of her responses, allowing her to remain barely alive.

And because the Joker had already adjusted her mechanisms, she responded only to his commands.

Every day, the child in clothing altered from a prison uniform walked through the corridors. Expressionless and vacant, she wandered back and forth, paying no attention to anything beyond her “tasks.” Even when someone could no longer restrain themselves and tried to speak to her, she did not react in the slightest.

After eating, she returned to the Joker’s cell and tried to go back to her lightless secret room, the place where she spent most of her time, resting and sleeping. She always liked to hide herself away.

But when she returned that day, the hidden door did not open.

Megan stood behind the Joker, who was occupied with something she could not identify. She did not know how to express herself. Her faint, fragile self-awareness could not give birth to any clear thoughts or aims. She was merely somewhat bewildered and helpless, because normally—

Her door would open, and she could return whenever she wished.

But now she did not know what to do. Perhaps, on some instinctive level, she wanted to ask the Joker for help, yet she had no idea how. She had very little tolerance for “change” in the fixed course of her life. She never knew how to adapt, and could easily descend into even greater confusion.

She looked pitiful.

The Joker bent over the table, scribbling and drawing. Only after he had spent quite some time finishing his work did he lower his head and look at the child standing beside his leg. His intrigued gaze lingered over her for a long while before a satisfied smile spread across his face.

A leather-gloved hand settled on her head. It was no different from teasing a stray dog by the roadside.

In an unhurried tone, the Joker asked, “Why aren’t you hiding anymore, little mouse?”

The Joker had personally adjusted her mechanisms, and therefore understood every subtle change taking place within her. If this had happened a few days earlier, she would probably have seen that the hidden door was closed and simply tucked herself away somewhere in his cell, wedging herself into a corner instead of choosing to stand beside him.

That action signified a request for help. Her consciousness was slowly recovering, beginning to respond more fully to the outside world.

And the Joker had trained her into a wind-up doll that obeyed only him, so naturally he was the only one she would turn to for help. Everything was unfolding exactly as he had intended.

He ruffled Megan’s hair, using a little too much force and making her body sway from side to side with her head. But neither of them cared.

“Go play outside,” the Joker said. “Stay wherever you like. Come back after dinner.”

The command was incomplete, and Megan’s empty mind had not yet formed the concept of disobeying orders. There was a very good chance that, once she left, she would slowly “shut down.”

Did the Joker know that? Of course. He needed to stimulate this child who had sealed away her sense of self, to make her awaken further and offer him more responses. Only then would things become interesting.

The order had been given. Narrowing his eyes, the Joker watched Megan leave at a slower pace than usual. She stopped at the cell entrance, apparently unsure where to go, then hesitantly chose a direction. She moved scarcely faster than a turtle crawling across the floor. Once he had watched her travel a certain distance, however, he stopped paying attention.

She stumbled along, moving slowly. After a few dozen meters, she had to stop, gradually shutting down. She hid herself behind a load-bearing pillar jutting out into the corridor, repeatedly confirming the incomplete command.

Stay outside. Dinner. Return after dinner.

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Megan did not know where to go. Her bewilderment continued, and her eyes opened a little wider. Beneath that pure green, something began to stir.

Because her overwhelming confusion persisted, those hollow, lifeless eyes began to focus of their own accord for the first time. Timidly, she observed the outside world. Only by actively judging and understanding her surroundings could she gain even the faintest sense of safety; otherwise, she would fall into chaos.

Once, she had almost completely sealed away her sense of self, responding only to “death.” But the Joker had displayed absolute and coercive control over her, along with the bloodshed and death she had witnessed at close range. Within her fragile consciousness, she had come to equate him with death itself. If she wanted to obtain death, she had to obtain his permission.

That was the most fundamental core of the response mechanism built within her.

Megan lowered her head and stared at the dust on the floor with great curiosity. There was dust, and many other traces. She did not understand them, but she held her breath and observed them carefully, as though afraid of disturbing something—or of being discovered while she watched.

She had developed a small measure of curiosity, but it was not yet enough to make her act independently. She still had to follow the command, and so she continued to shuffle slowly through Arkham. Every time she reached a load-bearing pillar, she planted herself in the corner behind it.

The inmates in Arkham’s high-security wing watched her wandering alone. Unlike before, when the Joker had accompanied her or she had been heading somewhere with a clear purpose, her movements now came in jerks and pauses, like a broken robot.

There were no fools here. They understood that the Joker had let her out, and that this carried another implication—

If they wanted to, they could approach her.

Combined with the attitude the Joker had displayed earlier, the message was clear:

She belonged to him. They could touch her, but they had better be careful. They must not damage her or disrupt the mechanisms that kept her functioning.

She was currently in Corridor B4. A child whose consciousness was unclear would naturally prefer familiar people, things, and surroundings. She would not stray from an established route to explore the unknown. Such creatures were simple and easy to understand.

Two-Face had been the first to ask the Joker about her, and so far, the only person to have had any “interaction” with her. When he saw her again, he called out to her.

“Megan, what are you doing?”

His tone was always measured and unhurried, carrying the confidence of someone certain of victory. Both of his eyes fixed intently on the little girl outside his cell, who was not even as tall as his waist. He watched her shuffle past without offering any response. Perhaps he did not understand the child’s mental condition or illness, but he certainly understood his cellmate, the Joker.

Nor did he take offense at her disregard. His gaze continued to follow her as he called, “Megan.”

This time, he slowed his speech even further. No matter how sluggish her reactions were, she could still recognize that it was her name.

The child did not respond. Two-Face had known she would not. Standing at the entrance to his cell, he watched Megan pass before him several times, and each time he called her name in a low, steady voice.

At last, when she passed by once again, Megan suddenly understood—

As she remained indifferent to the world, caring about nothing except occasionally growing curious about the dust beneath her feet and focusing her gaze upon it; as she walked back and forth along the same corridor again and again, she suddenly heard a voice that was “different.”

It was different from the voice of a command.

But it was a voice she had heard before, one connected to a certain command.

It gently pried open a narrow crack behind the door sealing away her mind. By then, she had already shuffled some distance away, and it took her an exceedingly long time to realize what had happened. Her steps slowed even further, but she was incapable of attaching any meaning whatsoever to the fact that someone was calling her.

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She did not know that she was supposed to respond. Besides, she had her own pattern of operation and could not alter her behavior at will. She remained where she was for a long time, yet although Two-Face had clearly noticed this, he did not call out again.

When Megan passed his cell once more, Two-Face saw that her feet seemed to have stuck to that patch of floor. She still did not raise her head, but this was already an unmistakable “response” to him.

Two-Face smiled in satisfaction and called, “Megan, look up at me.”

She could understand simple words like that. Otherwise, the Joker could never have commanded her so completely. Whether she would respond to anyone besides the Joker, however, remained unknown.

He soon found out.

Megan’s attitude toward commands from anyone other than the Joker was to hear them, but not receive them.

Megan stood before a cell door, staring blankly ahead—or perhaps “blankly” was not the right word. Her consciousness drifted and swayed, as though suspended at a great height and always on the verge of falling apart. She had nothing. Her mind was a blank void, without a single concrete thought. She could not recognize much of what existed around her.

Even when she sensed it.

“Megan.”

Someone was calling her.

She remained where she was, but could not offer any further response. After standing there for a long time, she continued forward. Later, when she passed that place again, someone still called her name.

“Megan.”

…

She was ill. She did not possess the ability to respond to anyone except the Joker.

The Joker had brought his amusement into Arkham Asylum and displayed it to the most dangerous lunatics inside, generously allowing them to share in it. So long as they did not damage her through violence, anyone could try to change her—if they were capable of doing so.

Two-Face had been bored for long enough. Even if it was only a matter of teasing a child—a child belonging to the Joker—he had begun to take a little interest.

The Joker took meticulous care of his amusement and had forcibly required her to eat three meals a day. Everyone knew that, so Two-Face was able to infer certain things. He calculated the time, and before dinner, when Megan passed his cell for the last time—

Two-Face opened the cell door himself and stepped out, directly blocking the path she was bound to take.

He smiled. One half of his face was gentle and composed; the other was grotesque and terrifying. He was so tall that he had to lower his head to look down at her. Forced to stop, the child stood almost pressed against his legs. At the crown of her head, he could see a tiny whorl of hair, along with one small lock that refused to obey and curled upward.

“Hi, Megan. Dinner.”

Those were words she could certainly understand. But if he waited for her to respond, he could remain there until midnight and still receive nothing. Two-Face simply crouched down and lifted her securely into his arms, settling her in the crook of one arm.

Naturally, she did not understand this. When her eyes slowly widened, his gaze deepened.

“We’re going to the cafeteria,” he said.

His actions and her command pointed toward the same destination.

Megan’s unintelligent mind shut down.

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