Not Fade Away

Chapter One: The Crow in his Field

Wistfully, the smoke settled on the damp ground, resting like a cloud of fuming toxins. It shivered magically, like a morning's breeze awaking to the sound of pure, unblemished raindrops. Light illuminated the scene: its warm, elegant glow cascading across the dim ground; beautiful, yet strangely terrifying. Dark figures loomed up against this light, shunning it, anonymous, hugging their shadows like childhood sweethearts of long gone years. They moved like winged serpents: large; dark; frightening, and graceful. Burning embers flickered from their mouths, raging flames concealed by the deep, dull cigarette. Like hail on a winter's day, ash floated to the ground peacefully, with no threat to the world, carrying itself maybe on the gentle breeze, before drifting away into the deep, dark abyss that was Gotham City.

Again the serpents danced across the glimmering spectacle, crushing the broken glass beneath their heavy boots, their long coats billowing in the breeze. A carefree object was with them, malicious and cruel. Revealed by the romantic blazes of fiery tobacco, their eyes glared hatefully around, dissecting the very bricks on the road. Something was out of place: the lights of Gotham were not shining on this place tonight. Instead its mesmerising glow was dining, sleeping, laughing, and dancing. What was taking place here was none of these things. Evil hung in the air like a noxious substance oozing out from places untouched, place unwanted by the rest of the world. And then he came…

From deep within the merciless shadows the stringy figure crept. Walking with prepared yet uneasy confidence, the man confided in the dark and remained hidden. It was like the coming of the devil: stillness had taken over and a deathly hush now sighed from beneath each of the serpents' coats. Fear had taken them, and it was deadly. This…man, skeletally gaunt in his dark suit, lacked charisma, lacked muscles, yet exhaled such nonchalant intent that none present feared to oppose him. Mumbling to himself, an archaic whisper, inaudible yet fiendish, he strode forward. Flash! A glimmer of light against the mans pale complexion, an injection of joy, of hope. No, there was no hope for this soul, his spectacles sparkled in the menacing street light. He cleaned them feverishly, wiping the steam and dust away with a calm arrogance, before placing them once more upon his nose beneath his mop of dark hair. This furtive fellow commanded the men with a gentle nod, and the tension was lost, his thin lips not needed for action yet. His mask could indeed remain hidden inside his trouser pocket. Dr Jonathan Crane stepped into the light…

His mannerisms were still the same: arrogant; self-assured, a yet strangely vulnerable. Crane's grey eyes would flicker across those he was addressing with such wicked intelligence, such harsh intent, that it took someone of great courage or, as other such people to exist, greater arrogance. If anyone remembered, or dared to remember, the atrocities that this man had committed, the suffering he caused throughout Gotham, they would flee in sheer terror. The Doctor was evil, there could be no argument about that, and his obsession with fear, other people's fear, was the fuel that kept him going.

Stepping toward the group of black clad men, clothes rippling with the night's anger, Crane smiled within himself. It was amusing, stupendously amusing in fact, that Gotham thought they were rid of him. How foolish were these people? They thought that…that HE had stopped the genius of Dr Jonathan Crane, that the creature of the night had been the quarry all along. But he cared nothing for him…oh no. Cranes lips quivered with glee at the thought of it: fear engulfing and destroying everyone; to see them all screaming with fear and running…running as though the very whips of Satan were behind them. Yes…that was something worth waiting for, something worth hiding for. Crane could feel the anticipation flowing through his every vessel. Night was upon Gotham, and this time it would not be lifted…

One of the serpents, tall, broad and brooding moved up to Crane, who looked at the man disdainfully. Holding out his hand, the man revealed a strange dark object. It was metallic, hand-crafted it appeared and shaped like a… Ha! It's him.

A small smile flickered at the corners of Crane's mouth, as sheer anticipation began to flow through him again. This man meant nothing to him, but to watch him submit to fear was an elixir not lightly cast aside. And then, all of a sudden, it was heard: the movement on the wind. In the alley, Crane and his men were frozen, their stacks of crates left unattended. They were listening with keen ears and impatient hearts.

Swaying excitedly Crane whispered, "He's here!"

Nervously, the men began glancing around, their hands feeling frantically inside their coats for a weapon. Without even having to ask, they knew whom Crane had meant.

Crane looked impatiently at them, "Find him, please".

All six men tossed their dying cigarettes to the ground and drew a pistol from their pockets. The black, metallic glint sent eerie rays of death across the ground. A shudder followed.

"Go on," encouraged Crane in his usual, dreary monotone.

They stalked down the alley, careful footsteps on the damp ground, leaving only one behind with the Doctor. As he watched them move through the orange-lit mist, Crane did not lie to himself. He knew they were not coming back…

Pulling his coat up tightly around his shoulders, Zack Cruz coninued down the alley, the perspiration pouring from his quivering brow. He advanced with three others, in a steady line and…Wait! There had been five of them! Cruz span around, searching frantically for his comrade. There was nothing, only the gaping vortex of more darkness, greater shadows and fiercer foes. Yet, there was something on the floor. What was it? A gun. Cruz and the three remaining men gazed upwards into the night sky, feeling the mist settle on their world-weary faces.

Suddenly, something black, rippling like wings floated towards them from above. One man screamed and stumbled backwards, everyone else opened fire in a wildly frenzy, shredding the thing with cyclone of bullets. It came toward him! Cruz hurled himself to the ground and felt something land on top of him. With a groan of embarrassed realisation, he through the coat off him and looked disparagingly down at the bullet holes. What a waste of ammunition! Trying to summon a smile he looked back to the two other equally shaken men. Both were panting, pistols raised, hands quivering with sheer fear and frustration. Cruz was about to speak to them when he realised his error. Another man had been taken.

Crane had heard the gunshots and had stood fixated on the misty horizon, moving only occasionally to polish his spectacles. The man with him however, was a wreck, nervously tottering about the place waving his weapon as though it were a relay baton. It pleased Crane to see this, to watch the fear take someone. He admired this foe for that, the way he injected fear into his enemies, made them vulnerable. But the man standing next to him, Crane smiled, knew nothing of true fear yet…

He didn't know how and he didn't know why, but they had split up. Cruz was now alone in the mist, as were the other two men. In the panic that ensued after the second disappearance, they had all ran their separate ways and were now ripe for the plucking.

Cruz edged anxiously down another alley. Why Gotham had so many of these God forsaken things, he did not know. In a better time, in a better world, places like these had been for people like Cruz. The criminals had own the streets, had owned the alleys, had felt absolutely no fear in the dark places of the earth. But now they belonged to someone else: more terrifying and greater in presence. People like Cruz didn't stand a chance.

One shot! And then quickly followed by another. Cruz heard the gunfire nearby and darted off after it. He should have fled and spared himself whatever was about to befall him, but he just couldn't. A bloodcurdling scream filled the night air and Cruz stopped dead in his tracks. He could sense it, but he dared not to direct his eyes. Some, heartless apparition grasped him and he gazed upwards through the mist.

Good God!

Flailing and kicking like a snared rabbit, one of his men was hurtling upwards into the air. Cruz could not see anyone or anything pulling him, just the pale, doomed face of a condemned man. Up, up, up onto the rooftops he went, still screaming as though the very doors of Hell had opened up and were now consuming him, until was finally, in the blink of an eye, gone! Cruz couldn't move, his gun limp by his side and his body was of concrete. He could feel the breeze caressing his hair, gently flicking the strands of his sandy locks away from his eyes, but there was something else on the wind tonight, something worse. It could be heard like the flocking of birds, the flapping of wings and the brutality that lurked behind those dark, keen eyes.

Another was taken, and Cruz thought he glimpsed the man's shadow being hurled into the darkness with sinister ease. Terror was now engulfing the gunman and he had begun to spin frantically, waving his gun through steamy mysteries. The terror was boiling him, it was shaking his every nerve and now it had risen into a perverse anger. Why was this happening to him? He had been careful, he was sure of it. Crane was one smart son of a bitch, this all his volunteers knew, especially now that he didn't get mixed up with the wrong sort. Cruz stormed through the mist, firing at anything that moved, anything that shimmered in the light, or shuddered in the wind. Fear had taken him and he was going mad.

He screamed, "Let me see you!"

Firing again he hit the wall, he hit windows and rats. But this…this thing was invisible. It was more than just a man, this thing had turned itself into something else, something terrifying: the night.

"Show yourself!" Cruz bellowed, trying desperately to suppress the belittling stammer that had now crept into his voice. To hell with it! Cruz backed off slowly down the alley, whichever alley it was. Keeping his gun trained on the mist before him, he tried to make his exit. His footsteps grew quicker; more hurried and panicked, until at long last he felt himself running. Cruz cared not that he was fleeing, never before had he embraced honour. He just wanted to get away. Running backwards, still watching the darkness, he excelled in the breeze and let its cool fingers wipe away the sweat from his terrified brow. Cruz felt safe, the darkness was behind him, and so turned around to continue his flight.

God help me…

Crane heard the fifth and final scream, the rush through the air as a human body was lifted upwards like paper, and he knew what was coming. The gunshots had echoed through the darkness with first class precision, but any fool knew how useless Gotham City's police were. They would not be on the scene for a while yet.

Hearing a clang of metal from above, the Doctor knew his old foe had arrived and the smile once again crossed his thin lips. But the man next to him looked ready to yield.

"He's coming," Crane lisped slyly.

The man looked at the ex psychologist in bemusement, "Who?"

"The bat man!" was the cackled reply.

A look of recognition crossed the gunman's face and he finally understood whom he was up against.

"I didn't think he was real," he put in, hopefully.

Crane smiled playfully, eyes still roaming, "Oh, he's very real. Trust me".

"What is he, Doc?"

Crane's eyes settled on the fear stricken man and examined his fear. It was strong, but not yet strong enough. He would take the fear away.

Wiping his glasses, Crane whispered, "He's just a man, my friend. And all men have fear in them. Fear of me!"

In one swift motion, Crane's hand was inside his jacket pocket, knocking a soft white tissue to the ground, and his mask was pulled out. The old, mouldy, brown, burlap sack was flung over his skeletal head, his blue eyes peeping out through two dark holes, his lips quivering behind a fearsome dark mouth that hung with twine stitching. Around his neck, the cords of the sack tightened, and the mask was complete. A strange breathing apparatus hung inside the mask, protecting him from the thing he coveted the most.

The gunman looked at his boss, "What're you doing, Doc?"

It was so fast it almost took the life right out of the man, as Crane's head snapped round and his squinting eyes fixed on him. Whatever could be said about the mask, one thing was for sure, it was very, very scary. Recoiling, the gunman swallowed hard and tried to look anywhere other than Crane's gaze.

When he spoke, Crane's voice was deeper, more sinister, with a strange roughness, "I am not Crane, but fear incarnated. I am The Scarecrow!"

The gunman could feel the stinking mask reaching closer and closer to him, here the slime pouring from its wearer's mouth. It was as if-

Quickly, the shadow darted across the rooftop, black wings flapping through the mist. The Scarecrow saw it and laughed, throwing his finger upwards. Responding, the gunman began firing at the thing with intense fury, muzzle flashes igniting the night sky. Quietly, without drawing attention to himself, The Scarecrow melted into the shadows.

As the wind blew once more, the gunman felt a cold chill on his face. He heard the thud behind him, the crunch of boots against the glass strewn ground and turned, pistol raised to see…nothing. Bemused his face fell, until the rope swung down from above and wrapped itself around his wrist. He saw on the end of it a strange, bat shaped hook.

This is it…

With one great heave, the gunman shot into the air, his wrist cracking under the pressure. He flew upwards until, suddenly, the hook released him, and he sailed head over heels sideways through a window…

Emerging from the shadows, The Scarecrow looked anxiously around, his hideous mask rippling in the dying breeze. Where was he hiding? For one who claimed that all criminals were cowards, he sure didn't like facing people face to face. The Scarecrow had tricks up his sleeves, both of them, for his old friend to try. Last time he hadn't liked it, and had shown The Scarecrow fear. His own fear, The Scarecrow's that is, had been a wild experience, something to savour, and so now he would return the favour.

Then he saw it! The creature from the shadows emerged. It floated on the wind, its huge, black cape open wide, rippling like a dark ocean. No colour, but for the pale flesh that peered out from the lower part of the mask, a granite jaw, and a chiselled expression: stern. Those deep, fearsome brown eyes ripped through the flesh and exposed the true person: they exposed the fear within.

With no time to run, no time even to raise an arm, The Scarecrow felt a sturdy boot crash into his chest and send him flying into the wall behind. With a brutal thud he felt his back scream in agony, and his head narrowly avoid a dangerous collision. He began to slump to the ground, but the shadow was upon him, and The Scarecrow felt the harsh, gloved hand grasp his jaw, forcing his face close to those…those horrible brown eyes. In one violent, swift motion, the mask was torn from The Scarecrow's face, and Dr Jonathan Crane once more withered under the keen stare.

Crane looked at the black mask, the pointed ears. Just who was this man? Could he truly share Crane's fixation with fear? It was unlikely, for the ferocity he pursued criminals with had become renowned. Now, for the second time in his life, Crane felt himself under this stare. The shadow was upon him, and he couldn't find his precious…sublime potion. Crane saw a satisfied smile on the face of his enemy as he squirmed, his face distorted with fear.

The harsh, gruff voice spoke, "Welcome back, Doctor".

Feeling the grip tighten even more on his thin jaw, Crane writhed, his hands feeling frantically in his pockets.

His foe scowled at him, "Stay still".

Crane obeyed the fierce order without hesitation and recoiled, shrunk by the brutality in the man's voice.

"I'm not in the mood for facing my fears tonight," the winged shadow rumbled, his pale jaw quivering with rage, "What are you doing here?"

No answer.

Their faces were pulled closer together, "Who are you working for this time?"

Amused, Crane spluttered with laughter, his clenched lips frothing wildly. The outburst brought anger from his captor.

With a sneer the masked man growled, "What're you laughing at?"

"Fear," Crane began through his tight jaw, "needs no employer".

His head was cracked back against the wall, and his whole body shuddered with pain. Crane's furtive face contorted and he winced angrily. Yet, despite all of this he was facing, the fear he felt excited him.

With a sneer, remembering an outburst from his foe at their last meeting, Crane whispered, "I'm sure, vigilante, your parents would be very proud to see their son hunted by the police".

The grip tightened and Crane felt a gloved fist thunder into his ribs. He couldn't keel over, so instead hung there by his jaw, wheezing and sniggering. The hot breath was in his face.

"You know nothing of my parents," cried the shadow, "You lie!"

Crane tilted his head slightly, "Do I?"

The night watchman had reeled slightly, his bulky, black suit however, did not deflate. Crane watched with perverted glee, until he felt himself lifting slightly into the air, so he could match the frame before him and see his enemy face to face. Those eyes! Those horrible brown eyes…

"Whatever reason you came back for," the masked man began with a nod to the crates, "the police will have it and you by morning".

No reply. Crane's eyes were sad and blue like an empty sea.

"But you should not have come back…Scarecrow!"

Crane laughed, "Why, because you are the night?"

"No," snarled the man, drawing Crane's face right up to his own, those brown eyes burning through the flesh, "Because I'm Batman…"