It took Rory some time to make sense of her plan. The magazine she had taken was now covered in scribbles. She tapped the end of the ballpoint pen against her mouth as she stared at the several notes she had made, her brows furled.

She had written down what she knew about Jerome and his brother. The criminal was creating a gas of some kind, the gas that had killed Lola. Her eyes glazed over as she thought back to her nurse's death. She could almost see her friend writhing in front at her, scratching at the ground and her throat, the pale foam spluttering from her lips. Rory shook her head, and the image of her friend rippled away. She thought back to what had happened after. Jerome had been so gentle with her then.

"I wanted her to go mad." He had said to her after Lola's death.

Her face cringed when she remembered her burst of anger. For some reason a small tang of remorse went through her has she thought about what she had said to Jerome. She also felt remorse for herself. Quickly, prompted to brush off feelings of sadness, she wrote down MAD GAS and then went back to tapping her lips trying to unravel her so called husbands plans.

Jeremiah played a bigger role in this than Rory had initially thought. She knew that if Jerome merely wanted his brother dead, then he would have done something at the twin's home, rather than go to the effort to take him back to the lair. And there was also the question of why she was brought along to take Jeremiah. There was no way Jerome knew her father would be there, so it couldn't have been as a way taunt Jim. Jerome had asked her if she saw any colours coming from Jeremiah.

As if that thought had summoned him, Jerome knocked on the bedroom door. Rory whipped her head to the sound, her still wet hair slapping her forearms. She quickly gathered up the magazine and slipped it under the bed before going to open the door. She took a mental note of Jerome not bursting into the room like he usually did. She cracked open the door enough for her to stand in the entrance.

The criminal mastermind was leaning against the side of the doorframe, a wicked grin pulling at his scarred cheeks.

"Hello darling," he said, his eyes looking her over with a surprising softness.

"What?" was Rory's reply.

Jerome frowned and then pouted at her, "I need you to play with me."

Rory just stared at him, waiting for whatever suspected guard that accompanied Jerome to pull her out of the room and drag her to wherever Jerome wanted to 'play.' But there was no colourful, leather clad goonie with the psycho-killer, and his pout faded back into a frown as he studied her.

"I don't want to play," Rory eventually responded after finding her newfound courage.

"Aww," Jerome exclaimed as he pushed off of the doorframe, "that'll ruin the fun, sweetheart." The words clanged around Rory's head as it awoke the alien pull of Tetch's hypnosis.

"C'mon, it'll be fun," he leaned forward and scrunched his nose up with a sly smile as he said, "I promise."

Jerome stretched out his hand, and thanks to Tetch's poisonous words, Rory found herself taking it.

He didn't let go of her hand until they stopped outside of a large concrete door which looked identical to the Rory's own bedroom door. He held her hand tightly, not as a way to stop her from letting go of him, but it seem he held her like he was scared that she would simply fade away. As they walked Rory became aware that his knuckles were cut and bruised, as if he had been fighting. Her mind started to race in preparation for whatever kind of playing Jerome had in stall for her.

The Scarecrow was standing outside the door when they arrived. There were also two guards, both broad shouldered men, their faces painted in runny clown makeup, both covered head to toe in tattoos. One of these tattooed men stood next to Crane and the other stood further down the corridor.

"He's awake, but I haven't administered the next dose," was all Crane said as a greeting. Jerome simply nodded, then turned to Rory, placing his hands on her shoulders with a firm grip. He bent down slightly to meet her at eye level.

"Now, Rory, it is very important that you do as I say," he spoke, his face void of any hidden joke or trick.

"You are going to go in and clean my brother's wounds," Jerome's voice was soft, his guidance to her seemed to be a chance to sooth Rory rather than order her. He brushed a stray hair as he continued.

"Everything you need is there, he has already been stitched up. All you need to do is wipe away any left-over mess, okay?" he directed.

With a frown Rory nodded, silently thanking her captor for handing her an opportunity with Jeremiah on a silver platter.

"Now the most important thing." Jerome said, subtly shaking her as he enunciated each word, "when you are finished, tell me if he glows."

#

His felt heavy. It was as if his bones had become iron and his muscles groaned and wobbled in their attempt to try and keep his skeleton together. His head was the heaviest. Jeremiah couldn't even blink away the grogginess of coming back into consciousness as he tipped his swollen and broken face up. He could barely see anything as he started to count his breathing. Each raspy gulp of air filling his heavy body seemed to weigh him down to his chair even more.

The sound of the door clicking open caused his breath to hitch, but he remained staring at the ceiling. He had to remain calm, Jerome wanted a reaction from him, and he was going to be damn sure not to give his brother the satisfaction. He waited for his twin's ominous cackling, for the taunting and jeering to begin, but he was meet with only the sound of timid scuffles.

The naked light bulb which hung above him snapped on and he let out a groan as he flinched at the sudden brightness. There was a soft apology which came from whoever had entered the room and Jeremiah let his head fall from resting on the back of the chair, to meet his new captor. She was a small, slight redhead. Her hair was dark from water, and she wore a grey cotton pyjama set and no shoes. He must be dreaming.

She seemed to be so far away from him. The shadows of the room didn't seem to stick to her. A strange wave of relief came over him as he watched this woman approach him. A flicker of hope for rescue burned through him when she became clearer to him.

"Please," was what he managed to croak out through his swollen, cracked lips.

She looked at him with a face of genuine heart break. Her eyes danced over him with sorrow.

"I'm sorry," she whispered back. Her voice was smooth and bright. So refreshing in comparison to his brother's cruel snarls.

He closed his eyes, savouring the sound. When he opened his eyes again, she was sitting next to him on a stool he hadn't noticed, rummaging through a table-tray he hadn't seen. The sound of water being rung out caused him to flinch again.

"Please," he choked on the word. His hands tightened around the handles of the chair. He had to try to get out, maybe she was here to save him.

This time she didn't respond. He lurched in his restraints as the cool feeling of the wet rag she held touched him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again and started to gently wipe and pat at his beaten body.

Tears started to fall from his eyes. He watched her as she went about her work. She looked so clean, she practically seemed to glow against the dull yellow light that hung against him. A dream then. He told himself as he watched her gently dab his swollen eye and cheeks. He let out a sigh when she then wiped under his restraints. An angel.