Hello everyone! I've decided to bring my own imagination to reality in regards to my writing between an OC character and Dr. Jonathan Crane. I will state that this story, as many would expect given the nature of DC comic characters, will have various none PG characteristics. I will make sure to list any warnings in the beginning of the chapters. Feel free to leave any advice or constructive criticism. I will say that this is only a writing purely for a the fun of it, and is not meant to be taken as a true writing presentation of any DC comic character. I do not own any rights regarding any dc comic book character mentioned (minus the OC character). Enjoy the random and erratic writing of my constant running brain.
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Content Warning: This chapter contains themes of psychological manipulation, emotional tension, and mental health distress. Reader discretion is advised.
Ch1: The New Psych (part 1)
The unnerving sound of the iron gates swinging open might’ve sent any ordinary person scattering. But Melissa- Dr. Wilder, professionally-did not waver. In fact, her expression remained blankly aloof. Her steel-grey eyes flickered towards the rusted gate. She muttered something under her breath about the asylum’s complete disregard for grounds keeping.
Crows squawked from a crooked oak tree that resided in the center of the asylum’s courtyard. She glanced their way. A flicker of contentment stirred at the sight- then vanished.
Her black heels clicked sharply against the cobblestone. She paused to scan her ID, then resumed her precise pace. . She raised a hand to brush away a strand of her jet-black hair away from her face, a flair of annoyance at hair’s resistance to remain inside the tightly bound bun at the nape of her neck.
Melissa paused at the front desk.
A woman with light blonde hair and thick-rimmed glasses looked up from a stack of paperwork. A small nameplate perched on the desk read: Grace Veper.
“Are you Dr. Wilder, ma’am?” Her voice cracked; the years of smoking evident in its gravelly rasp.
“Yes,” Melissa replied, her tone hovering somewhere between disinterest and disdain.
“Dr. Strange is here to interview you.”
“Interview me?” Melissa arched a single black brow. “Are such things necessary?”
As she leveled a deadpan stare at the uneasy secretary, a voice rang out from down the hall—thick with a German accent:
“Ah, Dr. Wilder. We’ve been expecting you.”
Melissa turned toward the voice.
Her gaze landed on a man dressed in meticulously pressed clothes, round glasses perched on a prominent nose, trimmed facial hair framing a face that clearly enjoyed its own authority.
“Dr. Strange, I presume?” she asked, voice flat but precise.
The man’s lip curled into a slight smirk.
“You presume correctly. Now, please, step into my office. There are a few things we need to discuss.”
Melissa didn’t bother replying. She understood a briefing was inevitable.
Inside, Dr. Strange settled into his chair, fingers drumming lightly on the polished wood of his desk. His eyes—sharp, assessing—locked onto her.
She met his stare without flinching.
Her posture was entirely composed, one leg crossed over the other, her expression unreadable. To her, this wasn’t a challenge. It was just another conversation—regardless of the fact it might be questioning her very qualifications.
“Your file is… impressive, Dr. Wilder,” Strange said, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “Though your methods are, shall we say… unorthodox.”
Melissa leaned back in the chair, hands clasped in her lap, perfectly still.
He went on, voice smooth, deliberate measured like a scalpel.
“You hold an intensive background in forensic psychology and criminology. Your work at Blackgate is particularly noteworthy.”
“But some reports suggest you have a tendency to push boundaries with your patients.”
Melissa’s head tilted slightly, as if she had to consider the statement before responding.
“Boundaries are… subjective,” she said at last. “People draw them in search of comfort. To avoid fear.”
Strange listened, his expression unreadable as she continued.
“If the goal is true rehabilitation—true understanding, the ability to function in society—then discomfort is required.”
Strange’s lip twitched with faint amusement.
“So, you believe discomfort breeds clarity, Dr. Wilder?”
“I believe comfort breeds stagnation.”
A faint chuckle escaped Strange’s lips.
“A compelling perspective, Dr. Wilder. I also noted that during your time at Blackgate, you engaged in—what some might call—experiments with inmates.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Do tell… how would you define ethical practice?”
Melissa mirrored his motion, resting an elbow on the arm of the chair. Her fingers tapped thoughtfully against the thick leather.
“Ethics,” she said, her voice even, “are rules created to help people feel they have control over chaos.”
She tilted her chin. “But chaos doesn’t always follow the rules.”
Strange’s eyes narrowed, studying her carefully. He was intrigued—perhaps even impressed—but there was a flicker of wariness in his expression.
“And yet,” he said slowly, “you are functioning inside the system. That must be a challenge… considering your personal views.”
Melissa nearly scoffed—but held it back. Instead, a faint smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth.
“I know how to play the game, Doctor. Anyone who’s survived this long… has learned how to.”
A smile crept across Strange’s face.
“Yes, I would imagine you have no choice in the matter.”
He flipped through another section of her file, pausing as he glanced between the pages. His gaze flicked back to her.
“Your childhood is redacted in nearly all records.”
Melissa nodded slightly, acknowledging the fact without any emotional weight behind it.
Strange continued, his voice never faltering, “Your colleagues describe you as highly competent, intellectually skilled… and yet, a bit aloof, withdrawn. One even notes you’re hard to read.”
Melissa shrugged at the comment, her expression impassive.
Strange’s eyes narrowed, studying her face intently.
“Even now,” he remarked, “your face betrays little.”
Melissa crossed her arms slightly, the movement subtle but firm.
“I assure you, Dr. Strange,” she said, her tone as flat as ever, “it is not in offense to you. This is simply my face.”
She blinked, waiting for any follow-up questions, her posture never shifting from its easy confidence.
Strange closed the file with a soft thud, his gaze still fixed on her.
“Tell me, Dr. Wilder… do you feel… fear? Anger? Anything?”
The corners of her mouth twitched upward ever so slightly—almost imperceptibly—like a whisper of amusement.
“I’d love to reply with a no, but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?”
Strange tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
“Would it?”
Melissa met his gaze unflinchingly, her posture unyielding.
“You’re a highly trained psychiatrist. You tell me.”
An eerie silence fell upon the room—assessing, calculating, analyzing.
Strange studied her, his gaze piercing as he saw many things—things few others would. A woman with an extensive understanding of psychology, yes. But one who remained… disconnected. A mind that, though obviously functioning, viewed fear from the outside, rather than feeling it.
Strange’s inner voice whispered, She could be greatly valuable, or highly dangerous.
Finally, Dr. Strange leaned back in his chair, breaking their intense eye contact. His fingers began tapping together, a calculated rhythm.
“Welcome to Arkham, Dr. Wilder,” he said, his voice smooth, but with an undercurrent of something unspoken. “I am sure you will make things… interesting.”
Melissa’s lips twitched into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I will do my best.”
Strange picked up the office phone, his fingers tapping lightly on the receiver as he spoke into it.
“Grace? Get Dr. Crane in my office at once. He needs to be introduced to a new coworker.”
There was some faint mumbling on the other end before Strange hung up with a loud, final slam of the receiver.
