Ello! Minion here! I finished my Halloween treat as of 4am and spent my spare time revising and editing with a sleep deprived brain.

This was heavily inspired by a wonderful although not well known film "Inside" from 2007. I highly recommend watching it!

Also I do not own in any way, shape, or form Batman with that in mind, enjoy!


It was the month of October.

School had already begun months ago and I was well onto my year filled with too many projects and not enough sleepless nights. Of course, I only had myself to blame. Yet in my defense, it wasn't always easy to meet the criteria of my teacher's demands—let alone entertaining.

For example, how was I expected to pay attention in a useless class like Math (near remedial math) when I had so much more important things to think about?

I mean, Math wasn't my strong point—far from it—but I wasn't that clueless. The ability to change a decimal to a percentage, simplify radicals, even add fractions was far from invigorating. Then again I was nowhere near ready to enter the world of proofs, logarithms, and other horrors.

Then in my other classes, very few even demanding more than open eyes and a ready pen, there was nothing worth my time. I felt so bored.

So I occupied my time with writing.

My many years spent writing first began in elementary with the wonderful support of my teacher who recognized something in my stories that wasn't present in the others; she, and many others, told me one day I would be an author.

I didn't believe them.

From elementary to middle school I continued to write, exploring new pathways—dark pathways within literature. With Poe as my guide and the anger and anxiety induced by people, I carved out greater and greater stories—or what others would say darker and darker stories.

Finally in high school I decided to leave behind my spirals of morbid poetry and never-completed stories full of Mary-Sues and sloppy plots, and embrace the world of fanfiction (or structured fanfiction) with my closest friend. Our shared love of Batman—particularly the villains—sparked a wild adventure through fiction and friendship. She told me to publish my story online.

I refused.

Yet as more and more of my life went into my story, saving me from the brunt of my misfortunes, my wonderful friend who was nicknamed Megamind once more pressed me to post my story, the beginning of our shared story.

I relented.

Little did I know, through weeks of nerves and the desire every author feels to rip their hard work to shreds when presenting it to others, that so many people would find something within my writing and like it.

Now, eight months later I was frequently posting and writing, always revising and editing, never ceasing to keep my imagination open and add more ideas or more events to the first half of our shared story.

It was through this constant practice of keeping one foot in the whirling twists of my story and a toe in the classroom, that I was soon burdened with near impossible deadlines and a burning stress.

Yet I enjoyed it.

School itself was so boring when nothing was expected of the students but to regurgitate what the teachers shoved down their throats, so I, in some masochistic way, looked forward to racing the sunrise and gulping down cup upon cup of coffee in order to meet the due dates.

Only some classes, well one class, invited abstract thought and encouraged creativity but AP Literature didn't even last an hour and that left far too much time on my hands. Time I often spent in my mind.

Then the time spent walking to the school my younger brother attended gave me about twenty minutes of opportunity to lose myself to the inner workings of my story.

It was upon one such day, a chilly, beautiful day that I rushed through my way out the field of my school, through the winding neighborhoods, across the adjacent field of the neighboring elementary school, through a graphitized tunnel burrowing under a road, and stopped at the crest of the large hill.

Scowling at the brisk trek I then made an effort to calm my defensive mind and relax my tense shoulders burdened with the weight of my satchel.

Now came the highlight of my journey.

Sure the grass through the fields—especially that of the elementary school—were a lovely shade of green and the trees tossed their branches with a hearty sigh but the best part of my journey was down the large hill, passing the houses lining the street and peering into the winding outlets at each juncture.

My favorite although childish and slightly (in my own opinion, at least) irresponsible pastime was to imagine my story coming to life.

What if, I would think to myself, one day I would meet a woman like Revis (ignoring the fact that she was moulded after myself already) with a man like Dr. Crane or if I might run into some cosplayers—or better yet be stopped and asked if I was cosplaying or perhaps remarked upon my close resemblance to the character I had created?

Floating on my writer's ego—the vain, prideful monster that reared its head every now and again—I would often fantasize eavesdropping on some fellow students or random customers in stores, and hear a conversation about my story.

Despite the nerves that twisted my innards with each update of my story, the prickles of anticipation as I hoped to please my readers, and the harsh criticism I gave myself, each review acted as a volt of electricity, further brining the monster of my writer's ego to life.

One such pastime quickly became a constant within my walk down the hill. It was silly really, maybe my rampant fangirl was uprising once again, but during the second leg of my journey I passed a house which I dubbed Dr. Crane's house.

The prospect dawned on me when I pondered what house would Dr. Crane live in. I had already used my current home as a replica for 'the house' within my story, but that was a temporary setting and I wanted to capture the exact house he would live in. And so while walking and searching, thinking and imagining, I chose what I thought to be the perfect match.

Down the hill, the second to last outlet—or rather a squat cul-de-sac—sequestered amid large trees and quite detached from its neighbors, was Dr. Crane's house.

The house itself was slightly overgrown. Its brickwork was suitable for its age, the wide chimney and face of the structure was not crumbling, yet it had newer additions such as the off-white colour of its side walls and overhanging ledge. The lawn was slightly shaggy yet by no means unattended, similarly there were odd plants lining the 'flowerbeds' along the basement windows.

Yet the most appealing aspect was the ivy.

The ivy had been planted upon a grid of wood, barely three feet tall which was then slanted against the face of the brickwork and off-white hues of the house. However, it could not be contained and soon left the latticed wood, in favour of clinging to the house itself and crawling up its face, branching out to slither around the large window of the living room.

Perhaps it was the shade of the trees both on the side of the yard and out near the street or the large, two car garage, maybe even the basement or the dying garden on the right side of the house—forlorn sunflowers, dried into a husk remained a reminder of happier days—but something about the house radiated a certain 'Dr. Crane-esque' aura.

Once I had dubbed this house—only marked by the golden metal curving into the numbers 3795—Dr. Crane's house, I began to find humor in it.

After some days of passing the house I began to talk to it. Merely a smile and occasionally a solitary laugh, I picked up the slight mannerisms of the building and sought to draw a story around it.

I noted the 'Beware of Dog' sign with a choking humor, sarcastically asking aloud if a mad mortician counted as a dog. Then I began to view the deadened garden on the right side of the house with a strange wonder.

Did Revis plant the flowers?

No, I had a hard time picturing that.

Perhaps they both neglected the flowers since they occupied the house (under pseudonyms or force?) and Revis found a morbid charm in dead flowers.

The answer satisfied me and so I continued on my walks, merely enjoying the presence of 'Dr. Crane's house'.

Yet one day there was a package on the doorstep.

A flash of pure thrill struck my heart at the sight of an innocent, cardboard box with white labeling tape.

Mockingly I commented aloud to the empty street, "My, my Dr. Crane…It seems you have a package."

However, I had to soon move on and the box was pushed to the back of my head.

On the next day as I journeyed down the hill, I eagerly awaited Dr. Crane's house curious as to what I might discover.

However, only after catching my breath from loud peals of laughter wasted on the empty street, was I able to remark (still giggling) upon the sight of an empty box flung across the front yard, half hidden by the spiky plants along the flowerbed before the ivy, "Well someone didn't like their package…" bursting out into laughter once more I continued, "Was it from Joker?"

The humor lifted my spirits but soon I turned my attention to the road in front of me and left the discarded package to its resting place among the odd plants.

For the rest of the week, nothing unusual happened: the house was still, the flowers dead, the sign in place, and the small cardboard box was still in the yard only slightly dampened from the recent rain.

It was then I began to take better note of the house and in turn took great pleasure then utter disgust in the sight of lace curtains filling the living room window and slightly obscuring the upper-story windows.

At first the white of the lace was equal to that of the glaring sun and so I paid it no mind, but once I discovered its presence I was taken aback by another onset of giggles at such a feminine item in Dr. Crane's house. However, I soon speculated on his reaction to the lace curtains—

Would they remind him of his Granny? Had he left them in place from the previous owners? Did Revis put them there?

Yet quickly I was drawn back to the thought of his great-grandmother. Perhaps he had killed the previous occupant (an elderly woman?) simply because of the reminder of his Granny?

Despite my thoughts and the many explanations I gathered, I was dissatisfied and my mood was gloomy.

For a few more days I passed Dr. Crane's house with only a halfhearted glance, not taking much interest in its presence yet still acknowledging its importance.

Then one day, after quite a large rainfall, I noticed a black hose winding unto itself like a snake, sprawled out in the left portion of the driveway.

The sight brought a smile to my face, causing me to teasingly whisper, "Did you forget to put away your hose, Dr. Crane?"

Yet throughout the entire week and onto most of the next, the hose remained out and often caused my lips to twist into a frown at its sight. Such neglect was annoying and I wasn't so sure Dr. Crane would allow such a sloppy thing to go unchecked for so long.

Around this time I began to accept the offer of a ride from a friend and so I did not see his house for a few weeks but upon returning to my previous mode of transportation on odd days within those weeks, I took better note in Dr. Crane's house.

Not only were the curtains of lace but there was a sewn and beaded picture of a cat in the far right window of the upper-story that faced the street. Its presence puzzled me and despite my unconscious hope that Dr. Crane would live in a house of his own rather than continue to occupy houses of his victims, I found myself more convinced that this house was—sadly—a temporary residence.

Also around this time I noted the box had disappeared.

Its absence had struck me as odd, as though I had been gone for so long I missed something special like departing in summer and returning in winter, the act of autumn being lost in between.

A few days later the hose was out of sight.

My mood continued to fluctuate between amusing thoughts and sombre moods as I passed the unsuspecting house, in a normal neighborhood, within my mundane life.

Yet today, this chilly October day, I was once more journeying down the hill and was looking forward to losing myself to the whims of my mind and the chances of something occurring (very slim) around Dr. Crane's house.

Shivering slightly despite the protection a winter coat I bought during my Freshman year (I found the presence of my much-loved trench coat to be too conspicuous for public outings nowadays) I began to unwind from the stress of school and the boring projects that I had no intention of doing anytime soon.

In fact, I was so caught up in my thoughts—more like silent complaints—of school that I had barely registered the presence of Dr. Crane's house. Yet the moment I stared at the oh so familiar structure then gawked at the oh so bizarre presence of a car in the driveway, I tripped over my own blockish feet and faceplanted into the unforgiving, cold sidewalk.

It was hard to determine which came first: my interrupted gasp as I tumbled down, the loose feeling of falling through air, the sharp pain in my knee and hands, or the jolting blow of gravity on a sloped surface.

Either way I was soon peeling my face off the sidewalk as my shaky breaths filled the biting air. For a moment I could only look at the backs of my shaking hands then gingerly lift my gravel-grated palms. Yet the sight only brought a muffled wince and the desire to move from my very embarrassing fall.

Hissing, I began to slowly rise, my body struggling under gravity and my heavy satchel yet the sight of shoes and a low, male voice caught my attention.

"Whoa miss, are you alright?"

Oh no.

My face flushed, my chest tightened with panic, my stinging legs shook: he saw me.

"I—ah—I'm sorry. I mean, I'm fine. Uh, thank yo—"

I hissed once more, my hair hiding my face as I looked to my knee—

Blood.

Torn leggings and moist, glistening blood.

My stomach dropped as my strength momentarily left me but the stranger helped me stand upright.

Quickly I began to adjust my camisole which due to my tumble revealed more cleavage then I felt comfortable with while making a small mental note to give Revis a scraped knee sometime. Yet I had barely covered my chest with my wrap and readjusted my satchel on my shoulder than I looked straight into the eyes of Dr. Crane.

Dr. Crane?!

I was speechless: blushing, bleeding, and absolutely speechless.

"Are you alright?" he repeated, his voice sounding just as it had in the movie, "I saw you fall when I was getting out of my car—Are you hurt?"

"I—"

This couldn't be happening…

"I—um, yes. Yes, I'm fine," I broke out into a reflexive smile and began to limp away while holding up my hands, scraped palms outward, in the universal sign of being unarmed.

Yet his eyes—Dr. Crane's blue eyes—narrowed and he grabbed my wrist, "Please, I insist."

I swallowed roughly, looking over my shoulder at the short distance remaining—My brother would be leaving school soon, my mom would be waiting…

What the hell was I thinking?! This was Dr. Crane!

"I—uh—Sure…" I breathed, allowing him to lead me to the house, along the driveway I had studied for so many weeks, up the cement steps, and onto the raised pavement leading to three more steps then the door…

That off-white, almost eggshell blue, door; the door with a glass inlay, patterns of lilies in its surface; the door of Dr. Crane's house.

For a moment rationality struck me and I realized this wasn't my story, and I was entering the house of a complete stranger!

Yet with one look of those icy eyes (strangely unimpeded by glasses) and a tilt of his head I was enthralled and obediently entered the house.

The hallway was dimly lit, the colour of the walls unclear, yet I was quickly distracted with his voice filling the air behind me, "By the way, I'm Mr. Crane—Your name is…?"

I glanced over my shoulder, heart pounding in disbelief—Mr. Crane?!

I vaguely made out a brown eyebrow raising as he waited for a reply yet his hand atop my shoulder, involuntarily causing me to flinch, pushed me to speak, "Nico—Revis."

Well, if I was going to enter a strange man's house I wasn't giving him my name—Who was I kidding, I was hopelessly in love with the idea of him actually being Dr. Crane and wanted to bring my story to life by giving myself my character's name.

But then again, wasn't Revis just the older, worst scenario version of myself? I mean, she's grown to the point she's more of a character and less of myself but after all that I put into her…Besides, Revis was my mother's maiden name and so it wasn't entirely dishonest.

My mental ramblings were interrupted as he lead me to what I presumed to be the living room—why was it so damn dark in here?—and sat me down at the couch, taking my satchel from me in order to place it on the floor.

"Revis? Hmm…"

Part of me longed to ask him if he recognized the name but I was still in control enough to realize that as crazy as all this was, I was not crazy enough to truly believe he was Dr. Crane…although I wouldn't have minded if I was.

"So um," I brushed my stinging hands over my thighs nervously but accidentally brushed my newest wound causing me to inhale sharply.

A light suddenly illuminated the area closest to me but left most the room in shadows, "It seems you scraped yourself up quite a bit…"

I swallowed, my lower back tightening as I suddenly became very afraid; whether or not he was Dr. Crane, my body was already reacting to his presence.

"Let's have a look, shall we?" he tapped my knee, or rather the area just above the injury, "I'll be back with a first aid kit; you should take care of that."

Although he left I found myself frozen at the creepy way his words grated against my ears—Ugh, that voice…

Yet as I removed my soft shoes—combat boots were out of question with my skirt—and rolled up my leggings, wincing as it irritated the raw skin, I was very thankful I had shaved my legs that morning.

What was I thinking?!

My face burned with shame but quickly rampant thoughts jumped from smooth legs to the many opportunities given to pounce Dr. Cra—

"So are you in high school?"

My head whipped up as he silently reentered the room, bearing a small white box with a red cross atop it, "Y-Yeah, senior year."

Partially berating myself for my stupid replies, I struggled to not jump the poor man…

Yet he took my weak responses with ease, "I see…Do you have a career in mind?"

I nodded, warming to the subject as he kneeled in front of me, opening the kit, "I want to be a mortician; I might have to take a year or two off to raise money but I—" I paused, forgetting that most people required a moment to register that a mere highschooler wanted to do anything so 'morbid' yet I found he was watching me intently with those blue eyes, not a hint of surprise within those lovely, lovely eyes.

"Go on…" he spoke softly then broke eye contact to ready the disinfectant.

"I—" I chuckled nervously under my breath, "I'm eager to get started…"

He nodded his head then began to gently brush away the bits of gravel and dirt clinging to my open wound; it stun immensely but I sucked in the pain as he spoke, "I'm currently in school myself—almost done with my post-graduates and already looking into possible internships."

"Oh?" I forced out, my voice slightly strained with the pain, "What subject?"

Psychology. Psychology. Psychology. Psychology. Psychology. Psychology. Psychology.

"Psychiatry," he murmured, paying closer attention to a deep dirt stain.

I made a face at my easy mistake yet he interpreted it for one of pain, "I apologize if this hurts—although I'm training to be a doctor, I'm afraid it's not that type of doctor."

He let out a slight chuckle which raised gooseflesh on my arm.

He was just like Dr. Crane…

"Did you grow up here?" I asked nonchalantly—or so I tried as I struggled to not knock his hand away from my abused knee and tackle him into the ground.

He shook his head then decided to pour hydrogen peroxide directly onto my knee; the fizz of bubbling chemicals filled the air as he spoke, "No, I grew up in Georgia."

My eyes widened as I replied, my voice slightly cracking, "Arlen, Georgia?"

He lifted his head in confusion, "No, Savannah, it's in Chatham County, although I haven't heard of Arlen…Are you sure that's in Georgia?"

No, it's just a fictional city in the DC Universe…Although come to think of it 'Chatham' sounded sort of like Gotham.

"Oh…Maybe. I knew someone from there—or so they said," I rambled on, feeling more like an idiot every second.

"You don't seem to have much of an accent…" I remarked shyly as he finished wiping away the peroxide.

His face darkened—one might have mistaken it for concentration but I knew it was something else, "No, I don't."

The air suddenly grew very tense so I quickly changed the topic, "So which psychological approach do you identify with most? We've gone over it in psych last year and AP psych this year, so I was curious to ask someone who had been to college."

Behaviorist. Behaviorist. Behaviorist. Behaviorist. Behaviorist. Behaviorist. Behaviorist.

"Humanistic," he replied, somewhat distracted by peeling back the tabs of a large bandage pad.

I burst out laughing, startling both him and myself—

Humanistic?! No way in hell!

He looked up at me slightly startled and I quickly remembered myself, "Ah sorry, I just didn't think that the Humanistic approach was very reliable…I mean, think of the endless advantages of Behaviorism! The power of fear alone—"

He blinked at me, "Fear?"

Yes!

My heart sang with delight and my body warmed to the oh so delightful thoughts that arose when this wonderful (soon to be) Doctor Crane began his intense and terrifying tirades on fear!

He furrowed his eyebrows, "I hardly think conditioning people through fear like lab rats is a beneficial way to treat them; people merely need guidance to properly address any abnormalities in their life."

My face dropped into a hard expression as my eyes narrowed.

This wasn't Dr. Crane—He was too nice.

Bitingly, I retorted, "So how does psychiatry fit into this? Is it the 'client's' desire for medicine that prompts you to give it to them because I find that extremely hard to believe."

He lowered his hands, previously poised to place the pad over my knee as he answered, "Some people need certain medications for them to even function—Once they're at an efficient level of living, the humanistic approach is very useful."

I scoffed and crossed my arms, "Yet you're still medicating them—Wouldn't that be considered an act of Behaviorism since it's the reaction of the client from a particular medicine that makes them so corporative?"

He leaned back, shifting his weight slightly, "By definition Humanistic therapy is client based with only the welfare of the individual in mind; Behaviorism is an outdated practice that ignores the root of the issue in order to shape the individual to the Behaviorist's liking! It's all conditioning without giving any credit, any power, to the client."

My face was drawn into a hard expression as he placed the bandage over my knee.

How was it possible to look so much like Dr. Crane, even to possess so many similarities to him, and yet be nothing like him? I just couldn't understand how he wasn't Dr. Crane; he was exactly like him aside for his lack of passion toward fear.

Fear…

Perhaps I could teach him how to access his inner potential?

A small, oh so very quiet, voice reminded me that this was reality and this amazing lookalike wasn't Dr. Crane. Yet that voice was drowned out by a large, oh so very loud, voice reminding me of my personal agreement with myself.

Two years ago when I first began to write my side of our shared story, I put myself into the story as Revis: the older, worst-case scenario of myself. She possessed my looks, my mannerisms, my past, my ambitions, yet she was able to go to the dark places I couldn't.

After a while, I came to a sort of rationalization amid my chaos: as long as Dr. Crane wasn't real, I couldn't become Revis. This agreement was my motivation and mantra, keeping my head above the churning water that threatened to pull me under.

Yet now I was rethinking my personal agreement. Before, I was afraid of, well petrified at, the thought of being sent to an 'institution' and I knew if I were to ever get out of hand or lose it (and how easy, almost tempting, it was to just let go!) there wouldn't be a Dr. Crane to torment and manipulate me therefore I was forced to remain sane. But now, if Dr. Crane were real, merely confused, then what was to hold me back from truly becoming Revis?

"Revis?" he asked, concerned and mildly agitated.

I smiled widely, "Yes Dr. Crane?"

He opened his mouth to speak then blinked in surprise, "I'm not a doctor yet," he shook his head slightly then continued, "We should treat those hands next."

I blinked, curious as to what he was talking about. Yet when he gently reached for and turned over my hands, hesitating slightly at my reflexive flinch, I noted my bandaged knee and remembered my scraped palms.

My mind felt foggy, so blurred in its concentration but as I began to discretely look for an object to strike him with, I absentmindedly questioned with that small, oh so very quiet, voice why I was doing this.

Yet I couldn't answer the little voice because my right, momentarily untreated hand had already grasped the base of the lamp next to me and ripped it from its socket in order to hit him over the head.

Briefly I registered his widened eyes at my sudden movement but I pushed that to the side in order to pin him to the ground in the off chance he was still awake.

After all, I hadn't ever acted with such violence before—I only wrote about it. But now, as Revis, I would have to become efficient with such things.

Already, if his deep breathing and lack of profanity was any indicator, I was off to a good start.

Although we were cast into darkness I felt overjoyed. Here I was straddling Dr. Crane (as Revis no less!) and I was granted this wonderful opportunity to remind him of his true nature.

So eager to begin, I blindly fumbled about the room, momentarily leaving Dr. Crane in order to search for a light-switch.

A stubbed toe, jarring blow to my aching knee, and a few scraped knuckles later, I found the switch and illuminated the living room, hardly taking note of its furnishings in favour of staring lovingly at the unconscious Dr. Crane before turning in order to find a chair and some other means of restraints.