Jeremiah Ransom pulled a set of keys from his belt and flipped through them as he muttered hateful curses to himself, vile oaths of certain death to the lieutenant for having volunteered him to make rounds through the high security wing. He wasn't even allowed a gun down here. It made no sense... these people, if you could call them people at all, were among the most dangerous men on the planet, even if they were behind six inches of bullet proof glass in a seemingly inescapeable cells.<br/><br/>On the other side of the iron door before him were vile fiends seemingly born from the bowels of Hell itself. They had Scarecrow, Bane, Calendar Man, Clayface... things beyond any man's worst nightmares. They had one whom he'd seen in person, when he'd first come to Gotham only a year ago. The Joker. It had been quite the experience... he felt lucky to have escaped with his life. Not many had been so lucky to survive the Laughing Gas massacre at Gotham's Security Bank.<br/><br/>Hell itself. He was walking into Hell itself.<br/><br/>He would have to tell the boss that he wouldn't pull these damn graveyard shifts anymore.<br/><br/>In the security wing he did as he was supposed to do, checking to see that every criminal was in his cell, that everything was as normal as it could possibly be if a place where normal did not exist.<br/><br/>It seemed no one in Hell slept during the graveyard shift. He felt those eyes upon him... all of them... every single one. It made his flesh crawl.