A.N I do not own any rights to Batman and the Arkham games, and played no part in their creation. Enjoy~
Cold wind howled against cracked wooden panels as the boat rocked side to side in a steady motion. The winter chill fought with much determination to penetrate its way through termite riddled wood, but was stopped by ragged cloth hung up to cover any entrances. Water dripped down from the rotting ceiling, and the only light illuminating the forgotten vessel was the fluorescent glow from tanks holding a variety of insects and other lesser creatures. The ship itself was arranged in the perfect position, located by the North Gotham Dock, where few people would be travelling at this time and night in particular (especially with him in the city.) It was the ideal location for an individual to remain undiscovered, and in Jonathan's case, that was vital.
After the Asylum, and narrowly escaping death on many different instances, he had concluding that he needed to take a step back and recuperate, recover, and reassess his plans. So he did just that, purchasing this damaged old fishing boat for whatever he managed to amass from his tattered uniform (including several critical vials of his toxin), and parked it right in Arkham City; his new home.
He had heard the rumours spread about him amongst fellow rogues. Edward claimed that Jonathan was as dead as ever (with that annoying chiding tone of his), Harley whispered about it with Ivy (no less wanting to confirm that this was actually true, that batman had actually let a rogue die), and other unimportant individuals added fuel to the fire with their own over exaggerated tales. But Jonathan knew, oh he knew, it was just a manner of time before all those were put to rest. He was not weak, nor deceased, nor just another nobody soon to be forgotten in a few years.
He was Noah, who waited 40 days and nights on his Ark for the rains to pass before taking action.
He was Daniel, who survived the lion's den and crawled out (but he had been broken, his appearance showed THAT.).
He was Jonah, who had faced the gaping mouth of the monster and survived.
But most of all he was Cain, full of rage and hatred to both the omnipotent being claiming to be God, and the bat, {always the bat}, for what he did.
Sitting here pouting won't do you any good, Jonny-boy.
A voice that sounded like wind passing through cornstalks in the summer nights whispered into his ear, holding tones of mockery and dark humour. Jonathan didn't need to turn his head to know who was there. He was always there, and had been since he was 7 years old and his Granny had lashed out at him the first time.
"I know." Jonathan replied. To any outsider it would appear as though he was talking to himself, but he knew better.
He glanced down with already clouding eyes at the needle he held in his filthy hands, turning it slowly and watching as the orange liquid shifted with the motion. He let out a small contemplative hum as he set the needle down on an old table, waiting a moment for the liquid to settle again, before tilting his head slightly and looking towards his supposed "subject".
Now, calling him a subject was being a bit generous. He had met insects with more self-dignity than the figured tied to the chair, unconscious and drooling onto his vibrant purple shirt. Jonathan himself was surprised the man's face paint hadn't washed off with the amount of saliva pouring from his mouth. He limped over towards one of the fluorescent cages before opening the mesh lid and pulling out one of the many cockroaches he kept contained away for testing.
He looked over to the thug. He had not stirred.
That was unacceptable.
Jonathan allowed the cockroach to scamper across one of his hands as he approached the thug, grabbed him by the chin with the other free hand (harshly enough to leave bruises) and smacked his head back against the wall the chair was resting against. The thug let out a shout and began looking around frantically, still in a dazed and half aware state.
Watching the man squirm and shout caused Jonathan to feel the familiar cold chill drench his body as unseen thin and spidery arms wrapped around his waist.
Allow me? Scarecrow breathed into his ear. Jonathan nodded, and as he took a step back, Scarecrow took a step forward.
The thug, having taken notice of Scarecrows presence, watched with wide eyes as the cockroach continued to skitter across the skinny ex-doctors open, outstretched palm. His breathing quickened, thefirstsign, and his eyes began to dart frantically around the hellish underbelly of the ship, looking for any means of escape he may be able to use to his advantage. But no, Jonathan had examined the room with great caution, and had taken it to his highest of priorities to ensure no such escape route was possible. The thug knew that, and was well aware now as to what was to happen to him. They always knew what was to happen to them, yet continue to squeal and squirm.
"Fascinating creatures, aren't they?" Scarecrow said. "So small." He picked up the cockroach by one leg, so the other five were left to squirm in the air.
Filthy pigs, heathens with bodies full of vile sin, disgusting crawlingmewlinggreedy SWINE, not deserving of all the privileges they have!
Blue eyes stared, devoid of any emotion or warmth. "No warning colours either." A wave hit the boat, causing it to creak and groan under the sheer pressure of the force. Scarecrow swayed side to side as the thug sat rigid in the chair, his feet firmly pressed against the ground. The cockroach continued to squirm, and Scarecrow dropped the insect back onto his palm.
"Do they want their predators to fall for it?" He mused. "To sink their teeth into their fragile shell?"
A crunching sound echoed out onto the otherwise eerily silent boat as Scarecrow crushed the insect in his palm, bodily fluids from the now immobile bug coating his hand and getting stuck under filthy and chewed on nails.
"The beast that does so will regret it." He sighed, grabbing a dusty breaker and wiping the remnant of the creature onto its cracked and chipped edge. "Not throughout sickness or death." He set the beaker down and stretched out his long arms,
Unnaturally long, almost like a shadow trying to grab you in the night
,and snatched up another beaker with an orange like liquid inside, similar to the needle he had set aside. He poured it into the beaker with the cockroach guts in it before grabbing a clear glass stick set on an old wooden table at the side and stirring the concoction together. The colour changed to a greenish-black. The thug let out a dry sob.
"But through the hallucinations this creature's toxic secretions cause, through the beating of their overworked heart, the adrenaline coursing through their bloodstream, through fear."
Yes yes yes make him pay make him pay make them ALL PAY.
Scarecrow cleared his throat, a sickening sound to be witness too, before turning to face the thug. With the beaker in one hand, and a funnel in the other, he began taking cautious steps forward, assuring his steadiness before stopping right in front of the 'subject'.
"My toxin failed me at Arkham. Together, we will assure that this will never happen again."
And so from the North Gotham Dock, on an old fishing boat hidden within the icy mounds of the frozen Gotham River, screaming was heard.
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