Chapter 24

Megan sifted through the soil with meticulous care, treating the quality of the dirt as if it were a rigorous and essential task. She moved slowly, her focus so intense it seemed she was completing a scholarly assignment.

Two grown men, the Riddler and Scarecrow, crouched beside her, idly patting the earth. Whenever Megan finished sifting a portion, they would take it and place it into a bag, their attitude marked by a lack of enthusiasm, though not entirely dismissive.

They remained silent until the Riddler, who had arrived later and was confused by the situation, finally asked, "So, Crane, what exactly are you two doing?" Was playing with mud contagious? Could even Scarecrow not resist it? Had Arkham Asylum truly become this unsafe?

Noticing the skepticism on his face, Scarecrow let out a disdainful scoff. "What do you think..." He did not want to be too explicit, perhaps to save face. After a moment of contemplation, he resumed his classic, hypocritical demeanor.

"Is it not pleasant to play with our little Megan? I recall that you once tossed her toward the Penguin just to distract that boss and avoid trouble."

Scarecrow watched the Riddler with an air of composure. "Why are you here now? What pit are you planning to make the child fill this time?" He clicked his tongue as he spoke, his gaze sweeping over the other man with languid indifference.

The Riddler would not usually be offended by such a look—he was not easily provoked—but he suddenly realized something. His expression shifted, and he tilted his head to look behind him. A monstrous, terrifying figure had arrived without a sound, standing behind them with a palpable, menacing presence.

He was momentarily rendered speechless. Killer Croc merely stared at him with slit pupils filled with chilling, murderous intent, making no move. Realizing he might be safe for the moment, the Riddler turned back to look at Scarecrow in disbelief. "So, you just did this to drag me into the mess?" There could not be such deep-seated hatred between them, could there?

Scarecrow was not the type to lower himself to playing in the mud with Megan just to spite the Riddler; his previous behavior had not been an act, and the Riddler knew this well. Understanding the cause and effect of the situation, the Riddler laughed lightly. "You're not bad yourself, Crane. Seeking revenge on a child? You really do have no bottom line..."

He delivered the sharpest blow: "It seems you intend to declare war on the Joker. Who knew our Mr. Scarecrow was so courageous, daring to challenge the craziest lunatic in this place!"

The Riddler was skilled at using words to provoke his opponents. He watched as Scarecrow’s face fell, his irritation giving way to a gloomy temperament.

Scarecrow looked around, seething. If he were to clash with the Joker... he would not come out on top. His intelligence network might not be the most comprehensive, but his fear toxin always found a market, and people would bring him news. He was well aware of what had happened to the last serial killer who had tried to target Megan—what he had received from the Joker afterward.

It had been a joke, a tragedy. The Joker had made Victor Zsasz’s target "come back from the dead," turning the scars on his body into a mockery and driving him so mad that he could never leave Arkham.

Both he and the Joker used toxins—one to plunge people into extreme fear, the other to induce manic laughter leading to death or control. As Scarecrow wondered which toxin was superior, his eyes darkened.

And now, with Killer Croc watching them, that was the greatest threat of all.

He could not even be bothered to retort, saying coldly, "Perhaps. Regardless, we have reached a truce for now."

Scarecrow couldn't be bothered to put on a pleasant expression. He reached out an arm to pull Megan close and asked, "Do we have any conflicts? I assume not, right? You didn't even see me, so how could you know I was targeting you?"

The child had certain quirks that previously allowed him to mock her at will, but now he felt it was fortunate she was a slow child. She would not respond, she would not answer, and thus he would remain safe.

As a high-risk psychiatric criminal in Arkham, the lunatics who used brains, toxins, or scientific research were difficult to deal with, but the most annoying opponents were those with brute strength, a single-track mind, and an inability to be killed. They would cling like glue and ruin things when least expected.

Killer Croc was different—he was a brute with a brain, making him much harder to handle than the other monsters.

Megan leaned against him, her body swaying slightly. She still avoided eye contact, looking down at the soil in her hands. She neither nodded nor shook her head; not knowing how to respond, she simply did nothing.

Scarecrow understood her reaction perfectly and shrugged carelessly. "See, our little friend hasn't said a thing."

He had been caught by Killer Croc to play in the mud; initially, he had thought she was alone, but it turned out Killer Croc was lying in wait. He had not asked why she was digging, but now curiosity stirred. "Why the mud? Planning to build a sandcastle in Arkham? Or is it for her studies with Poison Ivy?"

If so, why not have someone bring in a bag of sand?

Killer Croc answered his question. "Clayface needs it."

Scarecrow’s expression dropped, and he fell silent. The Riddler marveled, "Is Megan perhaps the most well-connected and popular person in our Arkham Asylum?" Were the other criminals well-connected? Indeed, but whether it was friendship or enmity was highly questionable. Beyond partnerships formed for profit, few of them had any real friends.

Clayface needed soil—perhaps something had happened to him in Arkham. Few people paid attention to the monster; his intelligence was low, he was difficult to cooperate with, and his movements were too obvious—anyone could find him.

During their conversation, Megan sifted more soil. Because Scarecrow had gone on strike, the Riddler helped her pack it. In truth, after all this work, there wasn't much clean soil, and it wasn't necessarily the kind Clayface needed—he might have required something from the magical realm.

Megan, however, seemed to think it was enough. She clapped her hands, stood up, ignored both the Riddler and Scarecrow, and followed Killer Croc to wash her hands.

As Megan stood at the faucet, Killer Croc saw mud in her hair. He used his sharp claws to part it and check, but it was delicate work he couldn't manage, and the mud was tangled in her black curls; it could only be washed away.

Killer Croc instructed, "Wash your hair when we go back tonight."

She didn't know if she had taken it in, but she looked up, met Killer Croc’s gaze, then looked away, focusing on the flowing water. Perhaps she understood what "communication" was, as she could understand commands—from the very beginning, she had understood the Joker’s instructions. She was a clockwork doll, yet she possessed a perception of the outside world.

Megan used to avoid eye contact with everyone, with the exception of the Joker and monsters of terrifying appearance like Killer Croc. Perhaps, in her eyes, they were not "individuals," but a natural, acceptable existence. Much like in nature, where animals befriend and coexist with different species—is there a direct, understandable communication between them?

But after that accidental eye contact with the Penguin that day, she seemed to realize something... she finally began to notice the differences in the people around her. Her most frequent subject of observation was, without a doubt, Killer Croc. Sometimes, when their eyes met, she would not immediately look away, but for now, he was the only exception.

Her actions were neither avoidant nor hidden, and were easily noticed by Killer Croc. Yet he said nothing and asked nothing, continuing as he always had—leading Megan through the dimly lit corridors of Arkham, taking her to the lawn and the library, and teaching her knowledge.

Now, Megan listened to the muffled, heavy breathing of Killer Croc, the sound of the water, and beyond that, the wind, the chirping of birds, and the rustle of grass and leaves rubbing together.

They were all ringing in her ears, clear and direct.

Megan suddenly opened her mouth and took a deep breath, but the air escaped. She repeated this several times until, finally, she let out a faint, "Ooh—"

Even though it was low and short, she felt the sound had lasted a long time. It exhausted her, draining all the air from her chest, and it still wasn't enough. The air rushed out faster than the water before her, depleting the last of her vitality and returning her to her initial state of dry, deathly silence.

Her heart, her throat, her chest—all were empty. She had nothing left; that "ooh" had taken everything.

The water flowing from the faucet rushed into the basin, never stopping unless the handle was turned. The tide that affected her empty existence did the same, surging and repeating in her narrow world, pulled by a massive gravity. In a single breath, she could experience several days and nights, stirring up countless waves, yet it was all meant to take everything from her.

She felt the pain.

The innocent child held the clear water, her eyes cast down as she watched the droplets splash. But the gushing water slipped through her fingers, and nothing could be held. Thus, droplets condensed and fell from her clear eyes. She did not understand anything at all, yet the feeling of everything passively slipping away brought a massive, overwhelming panic.

Before the tears could gather and fall, Killer Croc’s sharp claws rested on her shoulder.

Killer Croc bent down and exhaled a particularly muffled breath. His hand was heavy, but he restrained his strength so as not to burden the child. He said, "Megan, this is a lovely day. The weather is truly fine."

He looked at the child standing with her eyes cast down. She was the same as in every past moment, yet entirely different from all her previous forms. She had bravely expressed herself, proving her existence to the outside world, consuming all her strength and heart—all as a price paid for that one faint cry.

She was demanding something from the outside world; something had to fill her empty heart, eyes, and chest. That was why he told her it was a lovely day, that the weather was truly fine.

Killer Croc expressed his kindness and tolerance in a roundabout way. In those cold-blooded, vertical pupils trying to meet her gaze, there was no murderous intent, only a sense of peace.

The weather today was indeed fine. In the afternoon, some light peeked out from behind the thick clouds and scattered lazily. It did not look particularly bright or dazzling to the naked eye, and even the shadows of things in the light were faint. But when they fell upon the water, they shimmered along with the splashing droplets.

Megan still stood before the sink. She had washed her hands, and Killer Croc turned off the faucet.

In reality, nothing terrible had happened.

She blinked, and tears fell from her eyes. The things she had lost did not return, but something continuous began to fill her, causing her to stop trembling involuntarily.

Her own valve had been closed as well. After enduring the pain, she was bewildered by the current situation. Subconsciously, she reached up to touch the dampness on her cheeks, not knowing if it was water from her hands or something else.

When Megan looked up at Killer Croc again, her eyes had dried, but her perception seemed to have expanded. She heard Scarecrow, who had likely observed the scene—he had once been a university psychology professor and understood various mental and psychiatric illnesses. He said with some surprise, "What has happened to our little Megan?"

His tone was hypocritical, performing his insincere concern, but as the words fell, he saw Megan turn her head upon hearing her own name, and he was genuinely surprised.

—She had never possessed such a response mechanism or reaction before.

Scarecrow looked at his own mud-stained hands; since he needed to wash them anyway, he walked over, turned on the faucet, and took a glance at Megan, as if he had noticed something different.

Finally, he flicked the water from his hands onto her face. Under Killer Croc’s gaze, he smiled without fear. "Don't look at me like that, guardian. Don't you want to know about the little problem Megan has?"