Mirrianna unfolds the extendable legs from the industrial case she carries turning it into its own table. She has yet to really acknowledge the other person in the room. She has yet to react or act effected by any of her current situation, as though this were as normal as super at six.
The Joker on the other hand watches her with intent eyes, in fact they are the only thing that moves from his lounged position on cot, leaning low against the wall sunken into cot and straitjacket, a picture of ambivalence…save those eyes. Then, slowly, a smile begins to creep onto his cheeks.
He says emphatically.
“I must say it’s been some time since last I had a visitor!”
He is wide-eyed and sardonic in expression.
In the Security cell stationed just outside this stands Gordon, brow furrowed with a serious and suspicious expression as he goes over every detail, sternly watching this scene play out over the monitors. Ready to respond at the drop of the pain.
Mirrianna replies plainly opening case and exposing its clinical contents: syringes that scope in needle size and width along with vials assumingly for the samples they will collect.
“I am Doctor Mirrianna Savauge.”
Somehow his smile seems to grow as the shine in his eyes twinkles with amusement and he chimes:
“Mirror, Mirror in my cell, why you’re here, please do tell?”
He kicks with an exaggerated motion like a twitch that sees him crossing his legs round.
“Oh how I do just love a good nickname! You don’t mind do ya, meer?”
He says the “nickname” slow and through exaggerated teeth and tongue.
“It would not be my first.”
She responds dispassionately turning to him as she takes glasses off.
“Do you know why I am here?”
Twisting grin to the side he meets her eyes with unsettling steady contact:
“Why yes, they told me you want my blood…”
His brow cocks a little, his tongue moving over his lips.
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
Mirrianna still has yet to be shaken by his fierce persona, her demeanor still serious and undaunted. She is neither uncomfortable or fazed by this habitat or character dweller. She states plainly:
“And do you know why it is I want your blood?”
“Let me guess;”
He cocks head upward as though looking for the light-bulb.
“Your favorite color is red?”
She gives him a long look, a studied glance but says nothing as she to prepare needle.
“They say you’re a genius,”
She begins, but he stops her short:
“I am a genius.”
“Then perhaps I am just trying to understand you.”
“By taking my blood?”
“It’s a start.”
“But where, pray, does it stop?”
He has this way with speaking, with how his tone projects constantly a sense of double meaning to all things, usually inferring something deeper and quite more sinister. She turns with a needle.
“You tell me.”
His feet kick with giddy excitement.
“A guessing game?”
“You could just tell me.”
She now comes to his side.
“And would that save me from the poke? I do just abhor the sight of blood,”
He bats lashes, but then sly eyes come to their corners with disturbed nuance.
“Well…at least my own.”
She makes no castigating expression of reproach for his poor taste joke, which only works to intrigue him more.
“Should I start with my childhood? How my mummy and didums never loved me! How they beat and broke me! Me, a good for nothing, know no better, victim of circumstance!”
“That is what your type like to hear isn’t it? What you’re usually interested in; picking the brain not the vessel.”
Mirrianna puts glasses back on and places her impressive needle and piercing it through the straitjacket and into his – properly calculated – arm.
The Joker relaxes into the needle.
He counters. Filling vials she indulges his childish game.
Her trained hands fill three vials full, but her eyes never falter from the Joker himself in what could be seen as an intense standoff between two people trying to out-psyche psyche-out the other.
For the first time the Joker’s grin falls, his eyes unblinking in hers, she’s not quite sure what she sees is humanity in him, but it touches upon a sensitive truth as he whispers breathlessly:
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