Ello! Minion here! I've been a ways away working on life and less on fiction (or rather fan fiction, some original ideas have their hold on me currently) and I apologize for the lack of activity. I'm still planning works but other obligations currently have my hands tied.
Anyway this is a lil' piece I found sitting in a dusty corner of my flash drive and I thought I'd share it with you. In my main fic 'Mors Et Timor' I renounce the blue flower with a great passion and instead use my own ideas of the origins of Crane's toxins, but I've come to terms with the significance of having the flower in the story and this is an apology of sorts to the Nolanverse version of poisons.
Also I do not own in any way, shape, or form own Batman-with that in mind, enjoy!
The Blue Flower
The sickly light of the lamp desk created an undefined circle, like an illuminated magnifying glass, on the many layers of paper across his desk.
Although the time was clearly imprinted in his mind, Dr. Crane's eyes continued to flash to the the desk clock ticking away with a manufactured impartiality.
A rising static increased in volume until it roared in his ear, the processing memories of today's many, too many, conversations. Evaluations, sessions, interviews, small-talk, even an reprehension to his sectary—all of it fused into an unbearable level of agitation.
If only he was able to expel some of this pent up aggression. Passive aggressive behaviours were quickly losing its appeal. The subtly of the mind, the easy manipulation of those around him, it was child's play. Any highschooler who took a semester of watered down psychology could pick up on the social cues and find multiple ways to exploit them—After all, he was once such a foolish child before he learned more of the science he was vainly pursuing.
No longer would vague hints of biting sarcasm and carefully prodding gazes make the results he desired. Instead, he became cultured in tact and expert manipulations. Not that his previous acts of exploration were flawed but rather they were easier to detect under a trained eye and while a majority of his colleagues were blind to the happenings within Dr. Crane's authority he would take no chances of being discovered.
The minds of the insane, already frayed and fractured were only too easy to antagonize. However, there was always the pressing reminder of the insufficient quality of his 'patients' compared to the average mind yet there was a small consolation in knowing that no man was unmarked from tragedy or free of oppression within his mind. It was through these methods of exploring all that psychology presented him that he refined his studious science into a masterful art.
However, he was not apart from failure himself even if it was only a natural consequence of life. Ambition was a constant drive for him—for all men of the business world—yet the cost of pursuing success was not in itself a guaranteed victory. No matter his achievements there was always a whisper of discontent brewing in the corner of his mind—adding to the deafening static his head accumulated after a stressful day within the asylum.
If only there was a way to alleviate the strain, a method of releasing his knot of tension, a residual effect of dealing with inferior specimens on a daily basis...He could feel the restlessness building, rapidly gaining intensity with no satisfying end in sight.
And so, the esteemed Dr. Crane often found himself at his desk, the tallow light of his lamp giving a spot of luminance in the otherwise dark room—highlighting his responsibilities and exemplifying the shifting shadows of his mind, nearly overwhelming the single point of focus within his work.
He didn't lack direction but rather release of his tensions accumulated in pursuing his goal. If only there was a more direct method of reaching said release that still clung to his degree of subtly required in his career.
There was a possibility he could once more take a direct resort instructing the orderlies to rearrange the patients' room according to a direct violation of their compulsion disorders or phobias. These actions forced him to employ a special tact for while most didn't care and some even enjoyed the degradation of the 'patients' eventually he'd raise suspicion—Something he could not afford.
His expression soured as he recalled his early years of his career where he was constantly ridiculed by his colleagues for his worn clothing and bookish appearance.
Was the presence or absence of material displays representing wealth and esteem so impressionable to supposed intellectual colleagues?
Grimly Dr. Crane stared at the ticking clock—
Apparently so.
A sudden succession of knocks sounded against the heavy oak door of his office door.
His eyes shot to the mundane door, evaluating it as though by close scrutiny he would be able to gain insight as to who was intruding on his privacy during such a late hour. Even his squirrelly intern had turned in for the night and aside from the guards, a stray member of the medical staff, and the occasional janitor, the building was deserted, utterly lacking in human interaction—Well, aside from the subhuman loons who incessantly hollered without reason.
Breaking from his own thoughts, Dr. Crane called out with a firm voice, "Please enter..."
A split second later the well oiled door opened silently, revealing a sharply dressed man in his forties with a well groomed goatee and mustache. He was flanked by two other men dressed in formal yet somehow outlandish clothes.
"Ah, Dr. Crane it's a true pleasure to meet you," the cultured man spoke, his eyes glancing about the room in a carefree manner.
The mask of indifference, a well perfected guise, currently shielded Dr. Crane's expression as he opened his mouth ready to ask for the identity of the intruder in a controlled tone when the man in question interceded, "I am Henri Ducard, an...entrepreneur of sorts who has found an interest in your talents, Dr. Crane."
Icy eyes surveyed the remaining men yet when no further introduction was offered, Dr. Crane understood their true purpose. However, the name 'Henri Ducard' did not ring a bell of familiarity like it should have—Well should have if he was a part of any number of Gotham's mobs.
Yet Dr. Crane was already prepared for the conversation sure to follow, so with raised eyebrows he replied in a collected manner, "Well Mr. Ducard, your interest within the asylum—"
Mr. Ducard cleared his throat as he approached Dr. Crane's desk his men hovering in the background imposingly, "I believe, " he circled around Dr. Crane's chair forcing him to turn his head in order to maintain eye contact, "I expression my interest in you," sure hands descended on his shoulders squeezing firmly, "Dr. Crane..."
Jaw tensed, Dr. Crane prepared to unleash a torrent of biting remarks but Mr. Ducard released him in order to stand beside his desk, his hands supporting his body as he leaned forward, "I know a man of ambition when I see one—Yet you are not merely driven but possessed by the need to fulfill your ambition."
He straightened out and clasped his hands calmly, gesturing occasionally as he continued, "And the name of your ambition? It comes in many forms...conditioning, fate, all give way to complete oppression. Something so subtle yet indisputably essential to human life..."
He paused in order to reach for the lapel of his light coloured suit and withdraw a strange thorny, blue flower. Holding the flower outstretched, the strange man's eyes bore into Dr. Crane's.
"I offer you a soluble form of your ambition, I only ask that you seek out the means to enable it, weaponize it, so that we may spread your success throughout all of Gotham..."
Mr. Ducard paused scanning Dr. Crane's calculating eyes with a slight grin, "What do you say, Dr. Crane?"
The thinly veiled words, dancing around the root of the conversation with a taunting ease— Could he truly offer such a thing?
Dr. Crane's eyes flashed to the other two men in the room taking in their large yet not unsightly build and blank expressions.
No doubt there would be repercussions should he refuse...Yet he needed to learn more about this 'Henri Ducard' before even entertaining the thought of his proposal.
"I assume, Mr. Ducard, that you wish to accept a share of profits from this...endeavor?"
The elegant man furrowed his eyebrows, retracting the strange flower, "Profits? My good doctor, I request nothing more than a mutual satisfaction derived from Gotham's well deserved fate. I humbly seek out your expertise within chemistry—A sure promotion from the mundane tasks normally expected of you."
Dr. Crane was growing tired of speaking in riddles and as if sensing the mild agitation, Mr. Ducard began a new tactic.
"Your exploits within the asylum have not gone unnoticed, Dr. Crane. We have kept a close eye on you—"
"We?" Dr. Crane challenged, "I was not aware a simple entrepreneur possessed such...extensive resources."
There, the posed accusation of Mr. Ducard's 'credibility' was finally exposed in the still air between them.
"I am merely one of many, The League of Shadows has numerous outlets and 'resources' accessible from every corner of the world—From the highest mountains of Asia to even your dank corner of the asylum where you 'treat' your patients, conducting unethical, illegal experiments in the name of psychology's greatest yet most diminished element: Fear."
Dr. Crane stood, clearing his throat yet the warning gazes from the two men caused him to pause a moment before speaking directly to his now incredibly dangerous adversary.
"What interest does such an 'extensive' organization as the League of Shadows take in the workings of a single psychiatrist?"
Henri Ducard chuckled softly, "Why just that—Interest. As an entrepreneur, specifically the entrepreneur of such a large organization, I have a great interest in the pursuit of your ambition Dr. Crane. You are a man of great intellect, surely you understand the beneficial nature of my proposal?
This...rare flower that grows on the eastern slopes of our mountain range," he gestured with the flower in hand, "possesses already potent properties...however there is certainly room for...advancement, a refinery of sorts. I have no doubt that you will find the greatness you have always desired within its blooms. Of course, you are free to use the finished product however you please yet you will also be obligated to fulfill the League's desire as well."
"And what does the 'League' desire?"
The 'proposal' was sleighed in favour of Mr. Ducard, a mysterious benefactor, yet he couldn't ignore the possibility of synthesizing such a potent hallucinogen. The possibilities were endless!
Yet the results were not unique to solely the exotic flower. Other fungi, flora, even substances for living creatures lead to the desired result. Poisons were readily found...and all too easily identified.
Memories of his years in medical school resurfaced, reminding him of the grim truth—If he were to ensure his success he would need an obscure, unidentifiable compound present in the blue flower.
Henri Ducard's voice interrupted his internal musings, "The League desires that Gotham meet its deserving fate...so that the truth of humanity may be discovered and order will be rendered a myth. Its tribulation will not go unnoticed and so clarity and reason will be available for a price."
Countless possibilities of observation, a historical exposition of chaos, eternal infamy...
Meeting Mr. Ducard's eyes yet lowering himself back into his seat, authoritative power coursing through his veins, Dr. Crane watched as the generous 'entrepreneur' carefully placed the blue flower in the centre of the pool of light, giving focus to the once obscure space.
Eyes latched onto the thorny flower, the irony of the blue flower's symbolic origin of inspiration in reaching the 'unattainable' washing over him with a dark delight, Dr. Crane spoke:
"I accept."