Water drips from somewhere unseen, the sound ringing hollow through the vaulted stone room. Gotham is filled with places like this; buried memories. Hidden nightmares. He knows the people of Gotham feel these forgotten places lurking in the shadows, gurgling beneath sewer grates, for it's a feeling he knows himself.
To live in Gotham City is to be afraid.
Doctor Crane flicks the syringe twice, squeezing out the air. He glances away from the subject's arm, to the man's face, his gagged mouth. Even in silence, the eyes are so expressive. They are wide, pupils dilated, dancing with mad fear between the needle and the man who holds it.
'Shhhhhh,' Doctor Crane breathes. 'You can trust me. I'm a doctor.'
He lays the needle against the vein.
'This may sting,' he says. 'But the psychotropic effect will be far worse. Please remember, nothing you see will be real.'
The doctor counts backwards from ten as the needle breaks the skin, and the amber liquid in the syringe bleeds away into the vein.
'There, now,' he says, withdrawing the needle. A bead of rich red blood follows, welling up on the skin. 'Was that so bad?'
The subject's breathing quickens, and sweat seeps from his skin. Those terrified eyes have gone distant, seeing some far-off thing. The man tries to scream around the gag, but all that comes out is a muffled yell.
'What do you see?' the doctor asks, but the subject is unresponsive, his attention stolen by some phantom stimulus.
'What do you feel?'
The man continues to yell, and Doctor Crane observes with rapt attention, licking lips dry with concentration as he watches for each new reaction from the subject. The subject trembles like a child, and tears begin to flow from his eyes. His bladder voids itself, and the yelling gives way to something which may be a plea.
It's always fascinating, seen from the outside. To feel fear is to see the monster from inside its belly. Observation is limited, the time for action long since past. Crane knows this monster well, has spent many long years trying to claw at this beast from within, to fight his way out into the fresh air beyond its stinking confines.
Sometimes he finds it. For a precious few moments, his serum affords him a view of the outside world, holding back the dark and crushing cage of his fears.
He has a theory he has worked to prove for many years. Without fear, it goes, we would all be unlimited.
As Crane is held within the belly of a monster, so a scared little boy shivers inside Crane; a boy called Johnathan, who waits always for the next stab of ridicule, his next failure, his next embarrassment.
Doctor Crane recoils, hissing, turning his back on the subject. He hears the man slump, unconscious, perhaps even dead. The doctor returns to his equipment, to the surgical tools, the test tubes, the charts.
He scribbles down a result, and makes an adjustment. One more drop of this, a few measures of that; the vial bubbles green, dancing with new potency.
Carefully, he pulls some up into the syringe, and taps it twice, squeezing out the air. He lays the needle against his vein. As he counts backwards from ten, the needle breaks the skin. He watches as the green chemical drains away, flowing into his blood, and knows he should be afraid.
But these subjects, these volunteers, have given him what he needs. For another month, perhaps, or two; for as long as it takes his mind to find new ways around the treatment, he is free.
The monster begins to die, and slowly Johnathan Crane claws his way out of its belly, his head bursting into the air. It's like being born again.
For a fleeting, rapturous moment, he is no longer afraid.