From: drsivana99@yahoo.com   
      
   (This is the first one I did. I have revised it a bit to clear away    
   some inconsistencies.)   
      
   GOTHAM X   
   spoilers: None at this point, surely   
   rated: PG-13   
   CATEGORY: Crossover   
      
      
      
      
   GOTHAM X   
      
      
   By Chuck Miller    
   Special to the Comics Cave    
   Note: This story takes place shortly after the events in the X-Files    
   movie and before the events in "Batman: Cataclysm.")    
   GOTHAM CITY    
   4:46 p.m.    
   This was Dana Scully's first trip to Gotham City, and she fervently    
   hoped it would be her last. Gotham wasn't exactly Fun City at the    
   best of times, and the institution she was visiting was about as    
   bleak as it got. A depressing pile of -- what else? -- gothic    
   architecture hunched under shadows behind a huge iron fence. This was    
   the house where it was always Halloween. This was the place where    
   some of mankind's worst nightmares were locked up. This was Arkham    
   Asylum.    
   Scully was here to speak with one of the inmates. It didn't seem    
   likely that he could have had any direct involvement in the burglary    
   in D.C. But it wouldn't be the first time this individual had    
   orchestrated something from his cell, and there were enough clues    
   pointing in his direction that it seemed worthwhile to check him out.    
   Anyhow, Mulder had    
   insisted that someone had to come here to talk to him immediately.    
   Scully knew that when her partner got a bug up his butt there was no    
   use arguing with him, so she had called the travel office and    
   arranged for a plane ticket and a rental car.    
   And now she was here, for her interview with The Joker.    
   She had gone over the FBI's dossier on the criminal during the short    
   plane jump from Washington to Gotham. He was a real piece of work.    
   Personally responsible for over 300 homicides, indirectly at the    
   bottom of dozens more. Practically nothing was known about his    
   background. He had never even been identified. No one knew his real    
   name, where he was from, what had made him into what he was. His    
   psych file was chaotic and not very helpful. No two doctors were able    
   to agree on what was wrong with him. Mulder, the trained    
   psychologist, had said, "There's nothing wrong with him. I've read    
   these files and others, too. He's jerking them around. He isn't    
   insane. He's evil."    
   This was one time Scully had no trouble agreeing with her partner.    
   She believed in the existence of evil, and if anyone deserved the    
   label, the Joker did. But just because you're evil doesn't mean you    
   can't be crazy, too. And most of the things the Joker did -- even not    
   counting the mass murder -- were not products of a healthy mind. Had    
   his criminal escapades not been so bloody they would have been    
   humorous. "The Laughing Fish." The kidnap-murders of a group of East    
   Coast comedians. The bombing during one of Gotham's annual Christmas    
   parades. That last caper had resulted in the deaths of 14 children,    
   among others. This was evil, this was insanity. But it was something    
   else, too. It was theater. Bloody, violent Grand Guignol on a huge    
   scale. He was playing to the crowds. He was an entertainer.    
   Scully braked the rental car to a stop in front of the massive iron    
   gates. She shifted into park and got out, walking over to the small    
   speaker mounted on the fence. It was late fall, just starting to turn    
   really cold. It was almost 5 p.m. and the sun, huge and bright    
   orange, was dipping toward the horizon, passing behind a thin layer    
   of grey clouds. An icy breeze tossed a dead oak leaf into her face.    
   She brushed it away and pressed a button on the speaker. A small    
   video camera    
   mounted at the top of one of the concrete fence posts swiveled to    
   point at her, and a voice came from the grille:    
   "This is Arkham Security. State your business, please."    
   She was looking at the Asylum itself, back behind a small grove of    
   trees at the end of a winding drive. There wasn't a soul in sight    
   anywhere. She thought they ought to have guards patrolling the    
   grounds, there ought to be gun emplacements and sniper towers and    
   searchlights. This was supposed to be a combination hospital/prison,    
   but it didn't    
   look like either. You'd never know that some of the most dangerous    
   men and women in the world called this place home. She hoped the    
   security wasn't as lax as it appeared.    
   Then again, that might be why so many of the "patients" broke out on    
   a regular basis.    
   She cleared her throat. "Dana Scully. FBI. I have an appointment with    
   Dr. Arkham." She produced her ID and held it at arm's length toward    
   the camera. There was silence for a moment, then a short buzz and a    
   click. The huge gate began to swing inward. "Drive to the main    
   entrance at the end of the path," came the voice. "Lock your doors    
   and do not stop if you are approached." Was this standard procedure,    
   Scully wondered, or had one of the nuts flown the coop again? She got    
   back into her car and did as she had been instructed.    
   No one "approached," and she made it to the front of the building    
   without incident. She had to admit, though, that she was starting to    
   get a case of nerves. During the short drive from the gate she had    
   been half-expecting to be attacked by mutated plants or frozen in a    
   block of ice. She knew that the government had stepped in on Arkham's    
   operations to the extent that they confiscated super-weapons like    
   freeze-guns and fear-gas bombs instead of leaving them in the    
   asylum's storage room where they could be conveniently picked up by    
   their owners on the way out. All that stuff was supposedly in a CIA    
   vault deep underground at Langley. It seemed odd to her than the    
   Company should be involved in a domestic situation like Arkham, and    
   she rather suspected that some of these toys were winding up in the    
   hands of South American guerillas. But that had nothing to do with    
   her, not today.    
   There was a small parking area in front of the main door. She pulled    
   into a space between a bright red Maserati and a    
   paddy-wagon-style truck with the words "Blackgate Prison" stenciled    
   on the side. A bored-looking driver sat behind the wheel smoking a    
   cigarette. Scully got out and locked the car. She hefted her purse,    
   just to feel the weight of the gun inside. She didn't feel terribly    
   secure here.    
   There was another speaker set in the wall beside the door and she    
   went through the identification routine again with the same flat-   
   voiced guard, showing her ID once again to the small camera attached    
   to the top of the doorframe. She clipped the ID badge to the front of    
   her blazer as the door clicked. The door opened inward and Scully saw    
   her first armed guard of the evening. The man wore a drab brown    
   uniform, more paramilitary than security guard in design. He wore a    
   black leather holster on his hip and had an assault rifle slung over    
   his shoulder. Lovely. Nice place to work.    
   "Follow me," he said without preamble. "Dr. Arkham is expecting you."    
   He turned and led Scully across a Spartanly-furnished foyer and down    
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)