Imagine: you inherit Arkham Asylum then discover the place isn't as abandoned as you'd previously thought, and so find yourself being held captive by a mysterious man who goes by the name of Joker.
--1st person POV--
Spring in Gotham had never been particularly memorable for it's bright may sunshine or beautiful blossoming trees.
There were no blossom trees to sprout beautiful pink blooms, and the harsh sky remained bleak and overcast even during the summer months.
That was something you vividly remembered. A memory that has stayed with you even long after you'd left this dismal, unforgiving city;
The sun never seemed to shine here, which was just an added reason for you to seek warmer, more comforting climes.
As you approached the large, dilapidated Gothic structure, you shivered a little due to the biting chill in the air.
At least, you told yourself it was the chill in the air.
Had it always really been so cold in Gotham? It wasn't natural, surely even by this broken city's standards.
You didn't like to admit it, but as you stood cowering in the shadow of the once renown, Arkham Asylum, you couldn't help wondering if the goosebumps forming on your skin was just psychosomatic; a symptom of the eerie surroundings.
The air seemed unnaturally still, and peculiarly silent. There was no birdsong, no flowers in bloom, not a sound here.
No signs of any life whatsoever.
Given the sinister reputation of the enormous Victorian building you were currently stood in the shadow of, the eerie stillness seemed poetically befitting.
Though, in spite of it's undeniable Gothic splendour, you were struggling to see any poetic beauty in the place.
Arkham wasn't a place you could be whimsical, or romanticise about. It wasn't welcoming, romantic, or charming like some fairytale castle.
It loomed. It menaced. It oppressed.
Now you found yourself wondering just how oppressed it's former inmates must've felt, when they were committed here, centuries ago.
It was as if the original architect had built the vast, dark structure with that very purpose in mind. To intimidate.
"Are you sure you don't want me to stick around?" The driver of the cab had asked, not wanting to pull up anywhere near the towering, wrought iron gates.
It had been evident he didn't like the place anymore than you did.
"No it's....it's fine." You had answered eventually, having to steel your nerves.
This wasn't just a fleeting visit. You weren't some tourist with a macabre fascination with the place; wanting to take pictures or wander the grounds just for kicks.
You'd come to view your inheritance, and see for yourself if it was worth trying to salvage.
Having paid the driver, the cab had sped off; throwing gravel up from the road in his haste to get away. Leaving you alone.
Alone to explore.
With a faintly trembling hand, you drew the hefty bunch of keys from your purse, and began the painstaking task of finding the one that fit the large lock on the rusty old gate.
It was surprising it wasn't chained and padlocked for safety reasons, let alone to prevent vandals from breaking in.
Perhaps even Gotham's most hardy young thugs weren't brave enough to venture into the grounds that had once housed the criminally insane.
After a minute or two of wrangling with the gate, you finally gained access and slowly made your way towards the asylum itself.
The grounds were of course in a complete, shambolic mess. The winding pathway was mostly covered by overgrown shrubbery, and brambles that snagged annoyingly on your unsuitably thin coat.
You stumbled more than once; cursing under your breath. The heavy suitcase you were having to carry didn't exactly help matters either. In retrospect, you should've checked-in at the hotel first and left it there, but hindsight was a beautiful thing.
You'd been too eager to see what your dear old foster-uncle had bequeathed to you in his will; wanting to look around the place before it grew dark.
However, due to your flight having been delayed, and the impenetrable gloominess of the Gotham sky, you were starting to wish you'd rethought your initial plan.
The light was already beginning to fail.
As you reached the large front steps, you set your case down and gazed up at the towering structure.
There was no glass in many of the front-facing windows, and no lights in them either thank god; contrary to urban legend. The cab driver had been keen, far too keen for your liking in fact, to spook you with tales of strange goings-on at night; a lone light burning in one of the upper windows in the evening, a ghostly face peering-out through the gates at night.
Superstitious rubbish, you reasoned. No crumbling, deserted mansion was worth the mortar it was built with if it didn't come with at least one resident ghost, or urban myths of having one.
You had done a bit of research ahead of your journey. There wasn't much to read, and what little information you could find was immensely disturbing.
Originally known as Mercey Mansion, Arkham Asylum was founded and run by Amadeus Arkham, who legend has it, was slowly driven insane following the grisly murder of his wife and child by a lunatic named Martin "Mad Dog" Hawkins.
Amadeus Arkham eventually became a patient in his own asylum until his death, after which the custodianship of the Asylum was passed down to his nephew, Jeremiah.
Jeremiah Arkham had since relocated to the mainland, where he worked as one of the top psychiatrists at Arkham State Hospital.
How or why your foster-uncle had purchased the abandoned asylum was a mystery to you. All you knew was that he had bought the building hoping to renovate it, then abandoned the project; leaving it to you in his will.
With no other family to ask, you could only speculate why the old man would've bequeathed it to you. You had left Gotham years ago. You had no head for business or interest in property development. Therefore you could only deduce that the kindly man you'd once called uncle, had thought he'd be doing you a favour by leaving you property. Something to finally call your own. And it was out of respect for him, and sentiment, that you'd booked a flight back to the city you'd once called home, in order to take a look around the place for yourself.
With wicked timing, a sudden rustling sound made you jump; shattering your thoughts.
You whirled around.
Just a raven taking wing.
So there was some life here after all.
You placed a hand to your heart; feeling it thump dramatically beneath your breastbone.
"Come on, (y/n). Get a grip." You scolded yourself.
Feeling overwhelmed by your strange surroundings and weak with hunger, you closed your eyes and coerced air into your lungs.
Now it was starting to rain. Fat, heavy drops of summer rain; the kind that soaks you through to the skin within seconds.
Great. Could this scenario get any creepier?
It was dusk, and you were alone. Standing in front of the steps of a derelict lunatic asylum, getting wet.
You tried to formulate a plan. The sensible thing to do, would be to leave. To find a phone booth and call a cab. The prospect of venturing inside the menacing looking building now, was far less appealing than the enticing thoughts of a warm hotel room.
An unexpected pang of disappointment made you feel guilty.
In your mind, you had daydreamed about coming here and finding the place in better condition, but in reality it was little more than a ruin.
Even you, with your vivid imagination was struggling to envisage the building as anything other than what it was; a hazardous wreck.
And unlike your adoptive uncle, there was no chance of you ever being able to afford what it would cost to restore the impressive structure to it's former glory. Besides, even if you could, it would be a daunting, monumental task to undertake.
In spite of your disappointment, you couldn't help feeling ungrateful. At least your foster-uncle had thought of you. He must've overestimated your sense of adventure.
The old man had always referred to you as a dreamer, but this was beyond the limits of your romanticism; even though you'd once considered it boundless.
"So this is all mine now." You smiled, faintly. "Well, thanks for the thought uncle Monty. It's nice to know someone cared, in their own way."
Just as you retrieved your case, you heard another noise, which wasn't the rustling of birds in the surrounding foliage.
No, this sound was far more distinct; like the shuffling of shoes on the old flagstones which paved the area surrounding the courtyard.
It couldn't be. Surely it was just your imagination running wild. You were tired, hungry, and on edge; dizzied by the eerie atmosphere, that's all.
But then came the low rasp of a distinctly masculine voice;
"You know, talking to yourself could be considered a sign of madness."
If that was your imagination, then it was far wilder than you'd ever believed.
Instinctively you dropped your case; causing a loud echo to reverberate off the flagstones, and spun around.
A tall, slender figure stood silhouetted in the darkened archway of what remained of the wall which ran around the overgrown gardens.
Your heart began to beat faster. Somebody was playing you a cruel trick.
An uninhabited gothic mansion, ravens, rain, and now....this.
The figure shifted; taking a step forward, and your eyes automatically dropped to the pair of scuffed, black and tan dress shoes. Then they scaled upwards, taking-in the crimson cloth of his pants, which complimented a pair of long legs.
Whatever this was, it had to be a figment of your imagination.
There was no other explanation.
"You lost, little girl?"
Too confused and alarmed to be irritated by the strange stranger referring to you as a little girl, you managed to croak a reply.
"N-no. I'm not lost....I....I own this place."
Another step forward, and the shaft of weak light revealed the bottom half of his alarmingly pale face. You glimpsed the fine slash of his mouth; thin lips smeared in red lipstick, the sharp set of his jawline, and lank green hair that curled around the collar of a turquoise shirt.
"Oh." The word was growled, sharp and unforgiving. "You think so?"
A large hand brought what remained of a cigarette up to his lips. He took a languid, generous drag, then exhaled a plume of silvery smoke.
"I, y-yes. I'm pretty sure of it. It's my property now."
"Is it really? Well, that's unfortunate for you because....I live here."
With that the man stepped out of the shadows, and the painted face of a clown seemed to chisel away the strength from your knees.
Unable to think clearly, you impulsively backed away, but the tall, thin, freakish apparition of a man, kept on coming.
Your head was spinning, your vision darkened at the edges, and you did what came naturally given the circumstances.
You turned to flee.
But the next thing you knew you were falling. Whether you'd tripped over your suitcase or slipped on the wet, mossy flagstones beneath your feet, you didn't have time to determine.
Either way it didn't matter. As you went sprawling, you put your hands out to save yourself but they slid from under you, and the side of your head hit the ground with a hard thud.
Then everything went black as pitch.
Joker watched as you crumpled to the ground in a wet heap, and rolled his eyes at the irony. He'd always fantasised about making the ladies swoon, but knowing that the mere sight of him had made you faint, was irrationally hurtful to him.
And he didn't have the patience to be dealing with fainting girls.
Crouching down on his haunches, he surveyed you closely, and couldn't help admiring your damp (h/c) hair. He reached for your neck, feeling for a pulse just to be certain that you hadn't dropped dead due to heart failure.
A soft gust of warm breath caressed his wrist, and he felt a surge of....something, pass through him.
Relief that you were alive? Possibly, but doubtful. It wasn't really any concern of his if you had expired as a result of coming face to face with the notorious Joker.
It wasn't desire either that he felt, just acute male awareness. Now having finally broke free from his cocoon of childlike innocence; after losing his virginity several months ago, he was able to fully appreciate the attributes of an attractive female, and he was forced to admit on further inspection, he couldn't fail to notice your prettiness.
As he carefully lifted your limp body; cradling you in his arms, he also felt the feminine contours of your form and realised that apparently he could no longer think of you as a young girl that had wandered into the grounds of his sanctuary.
No. You were most definitely a young woman.
Nevertheless, you were still an intruder, and he most certainly didn't want visitors. Especially those who were claiming to be the owner of Arkham.
Was she crazy? Her bizarre claim made her a suitable candidate for an asylum, in which case she ought to be on the mainland; at Arkham State Hospital.
Not here, damn it.
Anywhere but here.
As lonely as Joker felt at times, he didn't relish the idea of a houseguest. Neither did he want a prisoner.
But what could he do? He couldn't let you go, you'd seen him now, and he couldn't risk you reporting his whereabouts to the authorities.
So, he had very little choice in the matter.
You were his prisoner now, regardless of how much either of you disliked it.