Summary: A prison guard pushes Crane too far. After being hospitalized, he returns with a vengeance. This is sort of an unofficial sequel to "Tell me about Batman," but you don't need to read that to understand this. Don't own it.

Mind Over Matter

Crane sat very quietly and very still in his cell. It was small, dark, dank, and desolate. No one to keep him company, to keep him from going insane. He had considered letting Scarecrow out of the dark recesses of his mind, but without the mask it just didn't feel right. So he waited in the dark.

Crane sighed. Somehow, he had become very adept at telling time even though a small window just out of reach was his only source of light. Crane's eyebrows creased in annoyance; the guard was late.

Crane hated himself for looking forward to him. Their visits always ended with him vomiting a ghastly yellow substance, but the guard was his only source of human contact. He enjoyed manipulating the big oaf, watching him squirm with mere glances of his eye. But then again, that big oaf controlled how badly he would vomit. Crane eyed the food left in his cell. Despite his stomach growling the contrary, Crane couldn't bring himself to eat the food. Worse yet, Crane knew exactly what was happening to him and he couldn't do a thing about it.

Clunk, clunk, clunk

Those footsteps. You'd think he had wooden legs. Just to annoy him, Crane asked, and then quickly backed away to avoid a punch to the stomach. That man was too violent for his own good. When will people ever learn? Violence is never the answer.

Scaring them out of their minds, quite literally, was much more effective.

Clunk, clunk, clunk

He really hated the guard.

Clunk, clunk, clunk

Solitary confinement wouldn't be so bad if he had a different guard, one that actually took the words "Solitary Confinement" literally.

"Hey, you!" shouted the guard, a middle-aged man with thick muscles and thick brains.

"Good evening, Mr. Red." Sometimes the guard thought he was mocking him. And every single time Mr. Red was right.

"Hey, none of that. Ready for treatment?"

Crane didn't move, didn't lose eye contact, and stayed calm. "Whenever you are." He hated Red.

Red roughly grabbed Crane's arm and forced him to turn around while still holding the arm. He then grabbed the other arm and forced Crane into handcuffs. "Let's go," gruffly muttered Red. Crane smelled the alcohol from his breath. Joy.

&&&

Crane sat in a chair, in a different room, with limbs, chest, neck, and forehead strapped down. Red had his back turned, gathering supplies. Since he was quiet on the way to this room, Crane decided to discuss Mr. Red's psyche for the day.

"I take it you had a lousy day," said Crane, cursing his raspy voice. He would talk more in the cell, but then he would be labeled insane, and the chances of getting out of Arkham were much slimmer than prison. "You drank more than usual, and judging from your constant mutters about women, I suspect you, once again, have had relationship problems."

Red turned around and slapped Crane hard, who couldn't move due to the straps.

"Honestly, this is too easy."

"You think so, Crane?" asked Red, holding a large tube, larger than before. "Hmm, you're not flinching. I suppose this one is too small."

"But fortunately feeding tubes don't come in any larger size." Why couldn't his mouth be wider?! Red slowly walked over to Crane and connected it to a plastic bowl with a hole small enough to fit in the tube (Crane always thought it was homemade.)

When he was finished he turned to Crane, who wore an expression of complete and utter indifference. Crane calmly watched Red become infuriated, while he willed his jaw muscles to relax. It always hurt more when Red pried his mouth open. Red walked over, opened Crane's mouth with ease (mind over matter!), and shoved it in Crane's face so he had to look at it. It took everything ounce of strength he possessed to keep his façade cool, calm, and collected. He even managed a twisted smirk. The worst thing would be letting that oaf know that he got to him.

"Ready?" said Red menacingly.

Crane gagged as Red thrust the tube down his throat. He couldn't talk, couldn't think, and worse, couldn't move. Crane felt his body take charge as he twitched and flailed as much as he could against the restraints. The tube scratched its way down his throat. Crane felt his teeth attempt to gnash together. The tube was going down farther than usual… Pain…pain…

"This is justice," said Red to himself.

He felt a horrible liquid suddenly plummet to his stomach. He wanted it to stop. He felt blood on his chin and it suddenly occurred to him that he was bleeding. Although he needed to vomit, he kept that part of himself composed. The force-feeding sessions last much longer if he vomits. He badly wanted it to stop…

Scarecrow... Scarecrow... Scarecrow...

Yes, he still had Scarecrow, he managed to think during the session, and he still had himself. He never lost his mind, as Red was certainly setting himself up for.

"Don't worry…We'll get him."

That is true, thought Crane. The session was soon becoming bearable.

"He'll lose what he tried to take from you…your mind."

That's right, Crane told himself, he will lose everything.

Pain! Pain! What happened?! His throat! It hurts! That bastard jerked the tube already down his esophagus. Blood dripped from his nose down his face. His was having a nosebleed from the physical stress.

"Not to mention mental stress."

Not mental stress.

"Then why am I here?"

The mental stress is temporary.

His mind was quiet.

But outside the safe haven of his mind, he felt like his insides were being torn to shreds. It needed to stop. He needed this session to end, desperately.

And it did. Red roughly yanked the tubes out of Crane's throat and mouth. Crane lay back in the chair, gasping and closing his eyes.

"See, it wasn't that bad…"

Crane barely registered that straps loosened.

&&&

"I think that went well, what do you think?" commented Red as he led a handcuffed Crane back to his cell.

Crane hesitated before coolly replying, "You certainly kept your head, despite the drunkenness."

Mr. Red paused in the hallway. "Look, if you got any smart comments like that, I suggest you keep them to yourself or else…"

Crane thought the threat was childish and promptly told him so.

"What?!"

"You shouldn't bother making a threat if you cannot carry it out," stated Crane.

Suddenly, Crane heard the soft pitter-patters of footsteps; someone was here. While responding distractedly to conservation, he quickly thought of what to do. There was definitely another guard down the hall, because prisoners weren't allowed to be out by themselves. Perhaps, if he riled up Mr. Red and enticed him to attack…The big oaf would probably make enough noise for the both of them.

"Are you listening to me?!" suddenly demand Mr. Red.

"No, I don't think you spoke loud enough. Could you please raise your voice a few decibels?"

Furious, Mr. Red grabbed a fistful of Crane's hair and smashed his head against the wall. Mr. Red promptly shouted in his ear: "IS THIS LOUD ENOUGH?!"

Crane had to admit, even he was mentally stunned for a second or two. Blinking rapidly, Crane turned his head so that he faced the wall in a vain attempt to put distance between himself and Mr. Red, whom he had successful riled up. Red continued shouting in his ear, the words too loud for Crane to make much sense of them. Finally, fed up, Crane returned the favor.

"You know," said Crane coldly as he turned around suddenly, throwing his guard off guard. "We never finished talking about your day. Now I'm wondering if somebody wronged you today, perhaps your wife. You mutter about the woman enough. But she didn't wrong you, did she? It was you. She probably didn't take your action as kindly as you had hoped. Now, you turn to me, who has to do whatever you want in order to live to see tomorrow. But let's talk about justice-"

Red slapped him hard enough to knock him to the ground.

"See, that's your sensitive spot. You can't stand talking about it."

Red banged Crane's head against the wall.

"Perhaps you know your sense of justice is corrupt, and you simply can't face it."

"SHUT UP!"

Crane then heard two sets of footsteps racing down the hall.

"Mr. Red, what do you fear most? What is it inside gnawing at you day after day?" Crane smirked and Red instinctively jumped back and let go of the hair. "What you should fear is my sense of justice, or perhaps lack of."

Red suddenly grabbed his hair and twisted it. Crane laughed lightly now, knowing that he had struck a nerve, and all was as it should be. Red terrified of Crane.

Red forced Crane to the ground, face up, and started choking him desperately. It stimulated Crane's gag reflex. "You miserable rat! I'll teach you to respect your superiors! You-"

He never got to finish the threat because someone yanked him off and Lt. Gordon was hovering near Crane who had turned over, in case he vomited.

"Batman!"

Crane's eyes widened at hearing Red's voice, but he couldn't do anything else. The stress took its toll and Crane vomited everything.

"What is this?" exclaimed Gordon watching a mixture of blood and yellowish substance pour out of Crane's mouth. Crane finally collapsed out of sheer exhaustion and watched his world darken…

"We'll get him together. He will pay."

&&&

He awoke to a soft hum of monitors. He felt that he was laying on something soft, like a bed, and the odor in the room smelled strongly like a hospital. He opened his eyes and quickly scanned his surroundings without moving. White walls, tubes sticking out of his arms, a monitor connected to his heart…he was in a hospital.

But how did he get here?

He tried to sit up, but something caught his wrist. He looked down, and saw his hand handcuffed to the railing of the bed. He sighed in frustration.

"Good afternoon," said another voice.

Crane restrained himself from jumping in shock, and instead slowly turned toward the sound. Lt. Gordon was sitting in a chair on the side of his bed, across from the handcuffed hand.

"Afternoon?" questioned Crane, "How long…?"

"You were out for about a day and a half. You threw up blood. We had no choice but to take you here."

"Here?" Crane successfully sat up, despite the slight dizzy feeling and his constrained hand. He fumbled around until he found his glasses and put them on.

"Gotham General Hospital. The doctors were worried. You're underweight."

"I assumed as much."

"You weigh almost twenty pounds less than when you arrived at the prison. And you were barely normal weight then! What happened?"

"The food…"

"You going on a hunger strike and we don't know about it?"

Crane's blue eyes pierced through Gordon's eyes. "No. Only misguided radicals and ignorant idealists go on hunger strikes. To be either one of them is the equivalent of insanity."

"Then what? What happened?"

Crane hesitated, then he just shook his head, not exactly in the mood to discuss his eating habits. He asked a different question. "What happened the night the guard tried to strangle me?"

"I was talking to a prisoner trying to get information about the crime family and I had Batman come and help out. Then we heard shouting down the hall and we ran to investigate. Batman pulled the guard off of you, but I could tell he wanted to beat the living daylights out of you. I called the ambulance after you threw up. Now answer my question."

"Did the guard say anything?"

"No, nothing useful. He said something about necessary, special treatment, but he didn't elaborate."

"You were hoping I would."

"Yes, that's the plan." Gordon looked in Crane's eyes, determined to get through to him. "Crane," started Gordon gently, but firmly, "The doctors said that your esophagus was severely scratched, and that the only way it could have happened was if tubes were shoved down your throat."

"I didn't do it to myself."

"Then who? Crane," Gordon made sure his voice was gentle, "What happened?"

Crane shrugged, pushed a button on his bed to make it sit up, and leaned back. "I wouldn't consider it special treatment. That's what I used to do."

"Then, what would you call it?"

"A distorted sense of justice…" Crane paused.

"It's okay."

"I'm not scared," Crane snapped, "Don't talk to me as if I'm frightened."

"Alright."

Just then, a nurse walked in their room holding a tray of food.

"Oh, Dr. Crane, you're awake," she said. She had motherly ring in her voice. "Just in time, too."

"Nurse, please, can you come back in a minute?" asked Gordon politely, "Just one minute."

"Oh, okay, I'll go tell the doctors that the patient is awake."

"Thank you."

She left the tray of food on the foot of Crane's bed and then walked out the room.

"Hungry?" asked Gordon, grabbing the tray of food to give to Crane.

"No." His stomach growled the contrary. Gordon froze and set the tray down a bit closer to Crane.

"Crane…"

Crane's stomach growled again. "I just don't want to eat."

Gordon's eyes raised in surprise. "Are you serious?"

"I am." Crane lost eye contact. "I don't want to eat."

"Crane you have to eat; you're starving yourself!"

"I hate him," murmured Crane in a deadly tone. He shook his head back and forth, trying to fight off all the memories rushing to him.

"Crane!" exclaimed Gordon, "What is going on?"

"I'm not crazy," muttered Crane, "It's only temporary…It's all temporary…" Crane lost awareness of his surroundings, barely responding to Gordon.

"What is temporary?"

"Acute Stress Disorder…"

"What is that?"

"It's temporary." Suddenly Crane looked at him. "It's like PTSD or posttraumatic stress disorder."

"Why would you have PTSD?"

"Because," said Crane, eyeing the food with distrust, "he…" Crane swallowed and forced himself to swallow his insensible fears, "I was force-fed."

Gordon's mouth dropped in shock. "That's why he insisted on you being in solitary confinement…"

"It's a crazy world…" muttered Crane. "Can you move the food away? I would, but my hand's tied...No, never mind." Crane looked at Gordon. "I'm not crazy, Lt. Gordon. This is temporary, I promise. I just never had a chance to deal with it."

Gordon looked at him doubtfully.

"What's going to happen to me?"

"I'm no lawyer, but either you're going back to prison along with Mr. Red, but you two would be separated or…"

"Is there any possibility that I could be released? Red made sure I learned my lesson."

"You'd have to get a damn good lawyer."

"Would he go to prison?"

"You'd still have to get a damn good lawyer."

&&&

Epilogue

Gordon rushed to his office, out of breath, and slammed the door open. "I'm so sorry I'm late!" announced Gordon to the other occupant in the room. "Rough morning. Just had a call…someone mugged somebody else and yeah, business as usual. You understand, right, Dr. Agnew?"

"Of course, of course," said the aged psychologist, "Unfortunately, crime doesn't wait for your convenience. So, I believe you wanted to discuss Dr. Crane…"

"Yes, yes I did. You know he was force fed, and that he was just released on the condition that Mr. Red would not be charged, and he's back practicing at Arkham…I just want to know what you think about all this. How much will I have to worry about him? I mean with the Joker on the loose, my hands are tied."

"I understand your concerns. I was just going over his file. Lieutenant, I think Dr. Crane will probably suffer from a mild case of posttraumatic stress disorder, but it will not interfere with his daily life, so long as he attends his therapy sessions."

"Oh, he will. That's part of the deal."

"I think he was always susceptible to PTSD just based on his recent history alone, not including what sort of insane childhood he must have had to grow up to become who he is today. Lieutenant, I would be careful with him. From what I've read and what you've told me, Dr. Crane doesn't seem the type of person to just…ah, peacefully let go of a grudge."

"I was afraid of that."

"But at the moment, I don't think anything will happen. I mean, it will take a lot of will power and personal restraint on Dr. Crane's end to stay calm when faced with the very objects, so to speak, that caused him this stress, this anxiety that he must be dealing with."

Gordon's face paled. "Doctor, I think Crane does have that will power."

"Lieutenant, it's only been a week since he left the hospital." The older psychologist chuckled. "Dr. Crane would have a panic attack if he saw that guard. What's the worst that could happen? How much damage can a man suffering from PTSD do to the very guy who gave him, so to speak, the PTSD?"

"I don't want to know…" whispered Gordon.

Epilogue: Later that Night

Mr. Red sat in his living room with his wife and young son playing on the ground. After the whole entire incident with Crane, she refused to talk to him. In her defense, he did lose his job and that meant she had to pick up extra hours just to keep the family from going on the streets.

"Hey, kiddo," he said to his son, "What's ya playing with?"

"My train. Some bad guys took it over and now Batman is going to save them."

"Is that so?" Someone knocked on the door.

"Son, will ya answer it?"

"Okay, daddy." He quickly ran off to answer it.

His wife turned to him, extremely livid. "Why didn't you get it? It's late at night and you never know who it could be."

"Relax, honey, I taught him to scream if there were trouble. And see? He's not screaming."

"And that justifies it?"

He glared at her. "Don't you dare talk about justice to me."

Their son came in the room, leading an adult by the hand. The visitor kept his face down and was holding a briefcase in the other hand. Mr. Red inhaled queasily.

"I'm going to bed," hissed his wife, "Come along, son. It's past your bedtime."

"Okay, Mommy. Goodnight Daddy."

"Goodnight."

Once his wife and son left, Mr. Red turned to the visitor. "Who are you?"

The stranger's voice was barely a breath, "You don't recognize me?" (The visitor looked at him.) "Mr. Red?"

Mr. Red's eyes popped out his skull and his stomach plummeted to the floor, at least it felt like that. He should've recognized him the moment he saw him, even with the dark hair covering the man's face. He just never thought that this man would be here, especially when they said in court that he was suffering from Acute Stress Disorder. Not this man, whom he brought terror to on a regular basis, whom he instilled the very essence of fear into (at least he thought he did), not Dr. Crane.

But there was no mistaking those sharp blue eyes that seemed to pierce through his soul. The only thing that changed was Crane's obvious thinness. The man looked skeletal.

"Dr. Crane? What can I do for you?" He had no idea why, but the way Crane smirked, the way his blue eyes stared, he felt scared out of his mind. And Crane only said one thing.

"Mr. Red…" Crane practically breathed his words, "You can aid me in an experiment."

"Crane, look I'm sorry what happened, but you need to get out." Mr. Red gave a smirk of his own, but somehow he felt that it didn't amount to Crane's, "Or else, special treatment."

Crane's eyes moved very deliberately around the living room, resting on the television set, the sofa, the rocking chair, the coffee table, the rug, the train set left on the floor, and the wooden walls and floors. Once his eyes stopped wandering, he raised an eyebrow.

"Crane, I'm serious." Mr. Red couldn't understand how Crane learned to make someone's insides squirm just by looking at him.

"As am I. You see, I was simply curious. Do you want to know what I used on my patients? Why I was arrested? I have it right here."

He opened his briefcase and pulled out a burlap with roughly stitched eyes, nose, and mouth.

"What is that?" asked Mr. Red, eyeing the mask warily.

Crane walked closer to Mr. Red, who stood his ground. He leaned into his ear and whispered, "Scarecrow."

"Scarecrow? What's Scarecrow?"

Crane leaned back and laughed a little. He opened up his briefcase and pressed a button. Mr. Red heard a hiss, and then coughed in a gas that was released from the briefcase. When he looked up, he was horrified.

Crane wasn't there. Instead a skeleton, wearing a black scarecrow costume with dead crows flying around him and holding a judge's gravel stood exactly where Crane stood before. The scarecrow smirked, the blue eyes turned to blue flames. "I am Scarecrow," it said.

He screamed.

Author's Comments:

Whoo! Finished! I wasn't sure if I should have divided it into two chapters, but oh well. I actually have another story planned after this one, but whether or not I'll write it is still in the air. It would be a sequel of sorts.

Oh, in case anyone was wondering: Acute Stress Disorder is very similar to PTSD. The major differences are ASD is temporary, less symptoms, but more severe in that amount of time. PTSD, on the other hand, is long-lasting with more symptoms. Crane displayed a few: Avoiding the food, lost sense of reality (when he was talking to Gordon), hyper-vigilance (when Crane held the footsteps from far away), and reliving the traumatic stress. Usually, someone suffering from either disorder would not be able to face anything associated with the traumatic event, like Crane did at the end…but he's Dr. Crane. He can do it. Mind over matter! (More information on , where I got my info.)

Please review!