A/N: Hm. I rather like this story. It's certainly one of my better works. Critiques are very, very welcome.
This one is for Carli, who wanted a story.
Disclaimer: I don't own DC or the characters within. I also don't own Scarecrow, I just killed him.
No one expected it, no one saw it coming. Of course, no one was actually close enough to him to see that sly change, except perhaps the few others he called friends.
Alfred would have noticed it immediately, but he had been dead for ten years.
Jim Gordon, who probably wouldn't have noticed the change within itself but seen the effects in the way Batman acted, was brutally murdered three months previously by a punk who had taken to imitating the Joker. It was a closed casket funeral.
Oracle had been missing for three years now.
Joker would have realized it immediately, but even the Clown Prince of Crime himself could not withstand the polluted tentacles of Gotham City. He was buried under one was his less known aliases because Harley feared people might vandalize his grave.
The list was endless, but the truth was indefinite.
No one was there to realize the Batman had lost his mind.
Of course, this transition was ever so slow. Batman himself most likely didn't even realize it. The brutality he'd taken to, even more extreme than before, started to edge its way in slowly. Criminals didn't return to Blackgate with bloody noses and more than a few bruises anymore, they returned with cracked ribs and broken bones. They suffered injuries that, really, would put them out of the crime business permanently. You'd think people would notice, and they most certainly did, but no one dared to ask what had happened. If forced to, a cop would rather take the blame for police brutality than stand up to the Batman.
Gotham City, the sick, poisonous town with more the a few scars to show, had lost its savior.
Surprisingly, the more famous rogues of Gotham managed to stay out of the Dark Knight's reach. Stories of injured thugs and henchmen had gotten around, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that if Batman dared to do such things to plain henchman, what would he do to full-out Rogues?
The ones of lesser power (Such as Calculator Man and Mad Hatter) made a point of disappearing as fast as possible. Those with a bit more influence stayed longer, but made a point of taking fewer risks than usual, especially if it came to being face to face with the Batman. This was out of fear that they might be permanently paralyzed or crippled in some other gruesome way. No one thought that Batman would actually murder.
That was before Scarecrow's death.
Jonathan was perhaps the most careful of them all. He was aware of his own fragility, the fact that Batman could ultimately break him like a twig should he please.
He had fear toxin, which worked to drive forces off, but his supplies to make it were diminishing. Normally, he planned the times for gathering supplies when he expected Batman to be distracted with some other rogue. That way, he got away safely and without much difficulty. Now, however, with the surprising lack of crime infecting Gotham City, Jonathan was limited to what he'd had left. You'd think the man would stock up for cases like this, and of course he did, but even fear toxin has an expiration date.
The next smartest thing, probably smarter than the former, would have been to quit. Just stop. Stop the experiments. Stop the murders. Stop the insanity. End it all. Move on, like a lot of the others.
Maybe he could have.
He really should have.
He actually did, for a while. At impossible as it seemed, he gave it all up. It was nice, too.
But all things come to an end or at the very least a break, eventually. You might find that you're deep joy is ruined by a stubbed toe or perhaps that moment when you find a dead lady you don't even know is sitting in your bathtub. Oh sure, the joy with comeback eventually. The stubbed toe will stop hurting or the mysterious dead lady will explode along with the rest of the house (or hotel, rather).
Except that doesn't count when it comes to addiction. Smokers, years later, still find that urge to have one more cigarette…just one. Those who drink coffee every morning find their day is not quite as good when they skip that daily cup of joe. If you spend years making people destroy themselves and listening to their terrified screams for the sake of science, you might feel as though your life has lost some of its purpose when you stop.
Still, Crane withheld. Make no mistake, he wasn't scared of Batman. Fear did not drive his makeshift rehab. Fear did not control him – he controlled it. He was the Master of Fear. Any idiot would have chosen to quit rather than take an extreme beating by an overly zealous man who wore a bat suit.
And in the end, it wasn't Batman that drove Jonathan back to a life of crime. In fact, it was just a lowlife thug in an alleyway, a gang member. He ambushed Crane, called him a weak spindly little piece of crap (but not as eloquently) and threatened to shove the pistol down his throat if he didn't empty his pockets right friggin' now.
That was returned with a face full of fear toxin and oh my God, it felt so satisfying to hear the bastard scream for his mother to save him from the dollies…
…a reaction Jonathan would wonder about later.
It was in that moment that Crane remembered why he was the Master of Fear in the first place. The short walk back to his apartment was spent thinking of how he could get the supplies he needed and continue his experiments while avoiding the Batman entirely.
His first thought was to plan a heist as another villain was doing something more disastrous, but now days all anyone pulled was low-rate heists, even the Riddler who was always out to make an impreesion. Maybe he could convince someone else to act as a decoy, but he didn't have anything to offer and no real friends who might do it out of kindness.
And so our dear little Scarecrow made the ultimate mistake.
He decided to risk it.
Oh, he was careful. Very much so. He had to plan it at night because the science laboratory was open every day of the week until six, but he decided to go at a time that would probably be after Bat's nightly rounds. He had five vials of toxin left, and while it was the extremely strong kind he knew from experience it would barely lay a dent in Batman's psyche. He brought a revolver, too.
Crane considered, if only for a moment, wearing a simple thugs costume to make himself less conspicuous. He decided against it, however, altogether feeling somewhat sentimental for no apparent reason.
Fully clothed in his Scarecrow costume, Crane's plan went along swimmingly. Soon enough he was leaving the large building throwing the bag with all of his new supplies thrown over his shoulder. Had Jonathan not been wearing his mask, the video feed on the apartment across the street would have caught his smile. Or smirk, rather.
What the feed did catch, though, was a Batman-shaped shadow that loomed just out of Crane's peripheral vision. It also caught the object this Batman-shaped shadow threw, something altogether very different from the batarangs this Batman-shaped shadow was more commonly known for.
Whatever the object was, Crane thought once he recovered from being momentarily stunned, it certainly did not feel like any sort of batarang when it hit the back of his head.
This thought popped into his head after he had opened a toxin canister, thrown it at Batman's general direction, and began running of course.
As satisfying as it would have been, Jonathan never heard the grunt that would come from Batman's lips as the toxin filled his nostrils. This was because the wretched thing had managed to get in front of him.
Crane backpedaled, running the other way down the street. He could hear Batman's movement behind him, which made him run even faster. It wasn't much of a challenge for the Batman to catch up, Crane knew, because weeks of never pushing his already dim physical stamina had made him slow. He already felt the tight clenches on his lungs.
Crane needed a getaway car. He had, of course, brought one for such matters, but he stupidly left sitting right there in front of the building.
He thought that he could simply 'borrow' one from those late-night denizens of Gotham, but Batman was chasing him right through one of the parks that sat toward the outskirts of town. This meant next to none cars and those that were there needed to be hotwired – something that Jonathan simply did not have the time for.
He needed to find cover quick. There was a stitch of pain making its way up his side and he could hear Batman getting closer.
Jonathan ducked into a row of bushes, ignoring the painful pokes and jabs of the plants. He curled into a ball, expecting – nay, knowing – that he would be painfully yanked out Batman in mere moments.
The moments, however, turned to seconds and those seconds turned into even longer seconds until a full minute passed.
Had the Dark Knight not seen him?
Carefully Crane peeked through the branches and had he not made a point of being as quiet as possible he would have sighed. No Batman, Man-Bat, or anything else bat-related appeared to be in close vicinity.
Had Crane been a religious man, he would have thanked God. However, being a man of science, Crane made a hasty retreat in the direction opposite of the Batman. He decided to skip getting the car and just make a rather quick and somewhat frantic run back to his hideout.
That decision proved to be fatal.
Crane's apartment was located in Gotham's most notorious slums, which sat across Gotham River from where he was now. There was a bridge nearby, one that was meant for cars and not themed villains, but Crane thought he could make it by hugging the railing. There weren't many cars that night anyway, and it wasn't like he hadn't done it a million times before.
He ran across the park, doing his best to be as inconspicuous as a living Scarecrow can be. Pretty soon the shadow of the bridge came into view, and Crane knew that he was home free. That was about five seconds before the Bat reared his ugly head, murmuring something along the lines of "It's over, Scarecrow."
Now, words of that sort require snide comments in return. However, out of shape men nearing their fifties have very little to say after running nearly a mile. Having reached the bridge, Jonathan turned quickly toward it and ran, away from the Bat. He pulled the gun, strapped to a holster in a makeshift pocket on his costume, and turned to face the monster that was already moving to the side of the bridge.
Crane shot at Batman, nearly hitting him once and pegging him in the shoulder the next time. Unsurprisingly, the spandex-clad man didn't stop nor even slow down. He disappeared into the bridges edging, leaving Crane alone in the dead of night, if only for a moment, as he scanned the bridge side waiting for the attack of Batman.
He didn't have to wait long. The moving shadow collided into him from the side, causing both them to fall over, Crane landing on the arm that held the gun. It was jarred out of his hand and it bounced across the concrete about three feet away.
Jonathan made a mad dash for the gun. He grabbed it and turned right as the Batman was standing up. Panting heavily, Crane pointed it at the Dark Knight's head. He subconsciously reached for one of the fear toxin vials, but stopped. It ended here.
Before Batman could respond, Crane pulled the trigger.
It clicked.
Batman smiled. That wasn't surprising. The hero had proven that he had some sense of humor once or twice. It was the way he smiled that alarmed Crane. As a psychiatrist, Crane could sense the general dispositions of people. Deep down, the Bat had always seemed like a good person. Better than Jonathan Crane, at least. It was in that moment, standing on the bridge on a cold Gotham night, that something about the Bat changed. Crane couldn't pin it, couldn't even begin to describe it, but it seemed as though something darker had surfaced.
Crane dropped the gun and backed up slowly while pulling out a bottle of fear toxin. He started to uncap it, but Batman had already reached him and was yanking him to the side as a car drove by. Crane pulled his arm back and moved backwards. He stepped into a puddle and slid backward over the edge.
Crane grabbed the edge before he fell, and ended up dangling precariously. He tried to pull himself up, but ended up slipping even more.
Batman stood over the villain, that same smile still on his face.
"H-help me," Crane pleaded, trying to pull himself up but failing at it again. His fingers were slipping.
The Dark Knight did nothing but watch as Crane fell. He continued watch as the Master of Fear's body hit the water's surface, making a disturbing smack before sinking into the watery depths below. After a few minutes, he went back to Wayne Manor and ate a plate of left over spaghetti.
No one ever questioned Scarecrow's disappearance.
Batman didn't kill the Scarecrow, but he didn't stop it either.
Does it still count as murder?
We could ask the Good Doctor himself, but he's a bit preoccupied at the moment.