"Do you know where you are?" the nasal voice of Dr. Hewitson cut through the silence.

It was the same with every couch doctor I had ever seen. Name, date of birth, where are you? Do you know the date? Can you draw me a circle?

"My name is Elsbeth Anasztazia Grey. I was born on October 31, 1989. We are at the Williams Medical Center, and you are Dr. Silvia Hewitson," I answered monotonously.

This had been my routine for over a year now. Every couple of weeks, after my parents receive a diagnoses of a mild case of ASPD, Antisocial Personality Disorder. I am flung to a new doctor, who will, hopefully tell them what they want to hear. But it hasn't happened yet. Which is why I am here.

"You seem to know this line of questioning rather well," she responded calmly. "Tell me Elsbeth, have you seen other professionals in my field?"

Catches on quick, this one. I already disliked her. She was one of the many fake people. Hiding behind her expensive jewelry and clothing. Her makeup was flawless, and meant to look like she was wearing none at all. Another lie. Her hair was dyed an ice blonde color, and was pulled skillfully back into a very professional looking bun. Her ears and neck were decorated with simple, but expensive looking pearls. Her suit was tailored to fit, navy in color.

"Elsbeth, are you sizing me up?" she asked with a blazing smile. Her teeth were perfectly straight and white. They reminded me of the Chiclets gum.

"You are my twenty seventh doctor," I replied, ignoring her earlier comment.

Her mouth formed a tiny "o" and a crease formed between her eyebrows.

"Twenty seventh?!" she repeated dumbly.

"Yes," I said.

I was bored out of my mind. My parents hadn't let me out of there sight for almost a year now. It was seriously cramping my style. Sneaking out was getting harder and I felt ridiculous doing so. I was twenty years old for fuck's sake! I could hear the doc having a minor fit. She was ranting on about proper procedure, and serious miscommunication between herself and my father.

"Are you finished?" I shot at her. Here she was, throwing a fit in front of her patient. It was extremely unprofessional, and really fucking annoying.

"I'm sorry?" she questioned, looking up at me from her notes.

"I asked if you were finished with your little temper tantrum," I said coldly. I learned early on that the best way to get kicked out of a shrink's office was to get in their head instead. It pissed them off, unnerved them, and was a serious blow to their extremely over inflated ego's.

She sat there, mouth gaping like a fish. I don't think she knew how to respond. So I responded for her.

"What you were going to say, Doctor Hewitson, was that you regret to inform me that you cannot accept me as a patient. The reasoning can be anything you like. Conflict of interest, lack of experience, get creative," I said, leaning forward, and making sure I never broke eye contact.

"It's what you people do best isn't it?" I taunted. "Create things? Make things up? You find new and improved ways to control people. And if you can't control them with a label, you drug them into a stupor and dispose of them into the nearest hospital. Like garbage."

By the end of my little speech, Silvia was near tears, and shaking like a leaf. It was not my intention to hurt her feelings, or even to scare her. I just wanted her to know there were options for her.

"Now, the denial of acceptance letter," I said, leaning away from her, giving her some space to collect herself.

Her fingers moved fast across her keyboard, and in record time I heard her printer start up.

She reached behind her, without ever losing sight of me and grabbed the piece of paper. There might be hope for her yet. She slid the paper across the desk. I quickly scanned it and tucked it into my bag.

"Some of the things you said may be true of other doctors," she began, her voice shaky and her eyes were cast downward.

"But I became a doctor to help people."

"But what is the definition of help but a preconceived notion that changes with each persons perspective?" I challenged as I walked toward the door.

"I don't understand," she said as I was about to open the door.

"Your definition of help is partly defined by you, and partly by the culture surrounding you. I would hardly expect that your definition would match up with that of a member of an African tribe, or even that of a sexual sadist. Everyone's is different. And being so, means that your help might not be right for everybody. So don't force it," I said.

"And that one's free," I finished with a wink as I headed out into the small waiting room. I saw a ghost of a smile flash on her face as I shut the door.

My eye patched babysitter, Slade Wilson, also known as Deathstroke, was waiting for me.

"I think that's a new record," he said as he stood. He was a big guy. Even by my standards. I'm 5'10 and still had to look up to see his face.

"I learned from the master," I said, putting my hands together and bowing at the hips.

Slade just grunted and walked toward the outer door that led to the hallway, which led to an enormous lobby.

I still couldn't figure out why he took the job babysitting me. He was world renowned. One of the top mercenaries around. And yet here he was, making sure I get to my appointments on time. A bonus to having him around all the time, was that I was able to pick his brain. He was even teaching me self defense.

"Come on kid, we don't have all day," he said from the door.

"I'm coming you big pirate," I said. He hated it when I called him that. I personally found it hysterical.

He growled, and grabbed my arm, pulling me along down the corridor to the thicket of elevators.

"Ouch, hey, no manhandling," I said. "Or you'll never get a Christmas bonus."

He let go of my arm and shook his head. I could tell he was trying hard not to smile.

"You are something else Elsbeth," he said, as we stepped onto the elevator. Some other people tried to get on, but Slade moved up and said,

"Lift's full, catch the next one."

The people didn't argue. The ride down was slow. And quiet. I was thinking of how my father was going to react. Victor Grey, multi-billionaire, and hard ass extraordinaire. He was going to be pissed.

I was born into privilege. I didn't choose it. My mother, Camilla Grey, is a retired model, turned fashion designer. She and her socialite gal pals booze away the evenings in the most extravagant restaurants and talk about what a failure I am to her. Sometimes my older sister, Porscha Grey-Maroni, joins them.

Porscha is currently a world famous model, and married to the local mob leader Salvatore Maroni. That came about after billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, dumped her. Porscha thought it was forever, and had already planned how best to spend his money. After the dump she got back at him by marrying Maroni. Everybody knows Wayne is big on crime prevention, and has a special spot in his hate for organized crime. After all, his parents were gunned down in front of him. It was the ultimate low blow by Porscha.

I was brought back out of my thoughts by the ding, and opening of elevator doors. I was instantly surrounded and blinded by the multiple flashes going off.

"Elsbeth! What's wrong with you?" one man screamed, showing a microphone into my face.

"Are you sick?" came another shout in the crowd. Soon the words were blended into a deafening roar. I felt Slade grab a hold of me and tuck me under his arm. He had me so tight against his body I was having trouble walking. He used his other arm like a plow and pushed us through. We reached the front doors and I darted out across the cement and into the waiting car. I hit the other door hard, but quickly moved, so as not to be squished by Slade, who was right behind me.

"Get us out of here," Slade hollered, as he slammed the door.

The squeal of tires hit my ears and we were in motion.

"What the fuck was that?" Slade said, to no one in particular.

I knew what that was. That was Camilla. Trying to keep her spotlight. Beautiful, caring mother to a sick, and needy daughter. She would light me on fire if she knew it would get her publicity.

Not seconds after I finished said thought, my driver, Mike, Pops to me, rolled the divider down.

"It's your mom Bells,"he said, sounding put out.

"Gee thanks. Put it on speaker Pops," I said.

"Darling I just saw you on the news! I wonder how they knew where you were? No matter. Elsbeth you really should take better care of yourself. Your a Grey. We have standards. You looked like a street hussy!"

I was trying really hard to stay cool.

"I hardly looked like a street hussy, Camilla," I responded, defending myself.

I wasn't dressed badly. I was wearing a pair of jeans, tucked into my favorite pair of brown heeled boots. I had on a black, long sleeved, form fitting shirt and over it was my dark brown bomber jacket. My naturally black hair was a little all over the place, but it was wavy, so it looked fine. Luckily for me, long messy hair was all the rage now days. My hair isn't too terribly long. It's got a lot of loose layers, but the longest part in the back reaches about four inches above my butt.

"You looked common, Elsbeth. We Grey woman are anything but common. You need to work with your figure, darling. Those clothes emphasize you big hips."

My hips were not big. But they weren't tiny either. I wasn't ashamed. I have a body like Beyonce. Just bigger boobs.

"My hips are not large Camilla," I said matter of factly. "Just because you have the build of a twelve year old boy."

"How dare you speak to me like that you," I hung the phone up before she could finish.

"Pops, no more calls okay?" I said.

"You got it," he said and the divider was back up again.

"Don't let her get you down," Slade said. "Your a beautiful young woman, with, if you don't mind me saying, a very desirable body. She's just jealous."

I blushed a little, at the desirable comment. I had been hearing things like beautiful my whole life, so I just pushed it off. But desirable, I hadn't heard that before.

"Uh, thanks Slade," I said, somewhat unsure of what to say. So I was quiet.

"No problem kid," he returned.

Slade's phone went off, and I spaced off again. I heard him talking quietly, but harshly. He sounded upset. He hung up and called someone else. I tuned completely out and started to doze in my seat. I woke up to a find I was still in the car. We should have been home by now. I looked to Slade and saw it written all over his face. Guilt. I quickly rolled down the window to get a better look at where we were. I saw a huge collection of cement buildings, with a sign overhead that said, The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Oh sweet Jesus, they were admitting me to Arkham!?

"You bastard," I said, looking at Slade.

"Elsbeth, I," he started to say, but I got out of the car and slammed the door in his face.

I stood in the shadow of this hugely intimidating building, filled with the craziest people to ever walk the earth. How the fuck did I end up here?

I heard the door open and close behind me.

"Want me to go in with you?" Slade asked, from a few feet behind me.

"I want you to go fuck yourself," I spat at him. "That's what you can do for me. And while your at it, tell Victor and Camilla they can fuck themselves too."

At that I started walking toward the front door. I was met halfway by a small team of people who must have been informed of my arrival. At the front of the group was an attractive man. He had dark hair, pale skin, and incredibly blue eyes, behind his glasses. When I reached them, I held my hand out to him and said,

"Elsbeth Grey."

He looked at my hand for a moment, and then at me. He eyes were beautiful, but intense. Now that I was closer I could see that he was more feminine in his looks. His lips were puffy and sensual, and his eyes were lined with dark, thick lashes. He wasn't as attractive to me anymore.

He reached out and took my hand gently, shaking it. All of my instinctual alarms sounded off at once. His touch made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"I'm Dr. Jonathan Crane," he said, with a charming, but at the same time creepy smile. "I'll be your doctor during your stay with us."