Fast update because I mean to get a few starter chapters out before I decide on a more consistent schedule. Believe or not after this chapter and glimpsing the main character's mental state, this story is about a positive relationship between the two... after a freight train's worth of character development. It'll also be written mostly from her POV, eventually.
"If you could be either God's worst enemy or nothing, which would you choose?"
-Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club
The stench invaded his nostrils long before he awoke. As sweet as cheap perfume but with an expansive quality that forced it to cling to the sweat on his skin, the reek of the dead was unmistakable even before he could form thoughts within his barely conscious state. A lesser man would take one whiff of the pungent air and spill the contents of his stomach. Jonathan Crane, however, had far too much experience with the dead and dying to become nauseated so easily.
Clicking, too. He heard the clicking before he opened his eyes. And something fuzzy tickling his cheek, moving closer to his lips...
He cracked open his eyes. A moth the length of his pinky finger crept along his face, irritating an aching bruise. His fingers twitched reflexively, ready to swat away the pest, but a knot of rope bound his hands behind his back and prevented them from moving.
No, not his back. They were bound behind the back of a chair. His entire body had been tied to a tall, wooden chair.
He squeezed his eyes shut and forced down a wave of sudden fury. Who dared to tie him, Gotham's Lord of Fear, to a chair?! The nerve was appalling. Damn them, he'd make sure they suffered from their worst nightmares but their death would not come on swift wings, it would creep forward as gradual as the hands of the clock until even that morbid salvation seemed impossible...
But there was no time for anger. He'd have to contain himself for now. Later, after he turned the tables on whatever idiotic fool had done this, he would smash their face in with the same weapon that had knocked him out.
Once again he opened his eyes, this time to examine his surroundings. The only bits of light around the decrepit room came from a couple scattered flashlights and a single, dimly lit oil lamp. Moths of all shapes and sizes flocked around the points of light, taking no caution when they brushed against him. A half-eaten couch sat in the corner, a flashlight resting on a cushion, and there were a few other surfaces in the room.
Every surface was covered in small cages and glass jars. He could see things moving inside some, and in others the flickering light revealed the silhouettes of their inhabitants – insects, and a variety of other arthropods.
The bones coating the ground were largely of human origin.
Most of the moths hung around the only other person in the room. His assailant lay on their stomach on the ground next to the oil lamp, feet kicked up into the air and elbows resting on the floor, their hands cradling their head like a small child at a sleepover. The person's stench repulsed him; the rotting odor clung to them as it did the cracks in the floor, and he doubted if their clothing had ever been cleaned. They wore an dark combat armor of a model he hadn't seen before, all of it falling apart and covered in streaks of blood and gore.
And there was the mask he had caught of brief glimpse of as he blacked out. It was a hideous thing, not unlike his own, but his was a beautiful embodiment of fear while this was simply ugly. He guessed that it had originally been a simple gas mask, but in between the twin side canisters lay an addition secured by a strap running all the way to the top. It was a beak made of leather. He wondered why someone so obsessed with bugs would be wearing the face of a bird, although more likely it was meant to resemble a plague doctor's mask.
A fear of disease, perhaps? This would be entertaining.
The person ignored his piercing stare and continued to focus on whatever they were clicking at. He hadn't seen it at first glance, but they were facing a praying mantis. The insect appeared to be paying strict attention to them, although he suspected that it had more interest in the moths.
And his suspicion proved to be correct. One of the moths, upon coming closer to the motionless mantis, soon found itself impaled on one of the insect's scythe-like forelegs.
His assailant stopped their incessant clicking and, standing, turned their interest towards him. The tinted lens of the mask glowed amber in the firelight. It matched the burnt red hue of the mask and its bronze rivets rather well.
No words were exchanged. The person studied him for a full minute, the rise and fall of their chest slowing until they seemed to be barely breathing, before turning their back to him. A hood attached to a tattered cloak prevented him from seeing the back of their head, but he would see their face soon enough when he ripped away the mask to better hear their screams.
With their attention away from him for a moment, he tested the ropes binding his hands together. The knot was incredibly basic and it would take thirty seconds, if not less, to free himself. He was vaguely surprised that someone with such a great collection of human remains would be unable to properly secure a prisoner, but he supposed that not everyone would be as cautious as himself. A maniac like this likely didn't have the intellect to understand these sort of details.
He used his fingers to undo the ropes as much as possible until he appeared to be securely bound without a closer inspection, yet it'd take only a second or two for his hands to slip free. Just as soon as his assailant turned back around, he had finished. A smirk ghosted his lips. When the time was right he'd begin his revenge.
On the table behind the person, where there were only a few containers, he spotted a thick folder and scattered weapons, mostly blades. He doubted they could handle the small handgun, but then again, even his hired thugs had the brains to aim and shoot. It was entirely possible that this one knew how to use it. He'd have to wait for a perfect opportunity to strike and grab the gun first.
Now, to intimidate or not to intimidate?
If they had gone this far in kidnapping him and didn't have the skills to prevent his escape, they obviously didn't know who he was. They could had been an assassin, yet no assassin would be so stupid in their methods. He could reveal his identity, but that would make them more likely to attempt to kill him quickly. Someone like this obviously wouldn't release him no matter what his identity.
Right now, with his broken glasses and dirty suit, he wouldn't look like too much of a threat. He would use that for now and lure them into a false sense of security. It would make the later terror even more satisfying.
Funny how his "captor" had never been in control from the moment they touched him. The Joker would get a kick out of the situation.
He'd make certain that they didn't know his reputation. "An unusual criminal you are," he began in a tone as cold as the ice in his eyes. "Tell me, was this a premeditated crime? So smart you must be to avoid running into the likes of Victor Zsasz or the Scarecrow."
No reaction to either his biting sarcasm or the names. Of course they could know full well who they were dealing with, but for now he'd assume that they had no such knowledge.
Throughout his taunt, they hadn't so much as looked in his direction. Now they reached forward, gloved hand giving him a close-up of the foul smell, and took the moth on his face onto their index finger. Still not close enough for him to get a good strike in. The moth quivered there for a few seconds before circling the light of the lantern.
Perhaps he would use his words to incapacitate them rather than mere actions. To see the scum trembling at his feet before they even tasted his toxin, brought down by his words alone... such a beautiful image!
The person was quiet, absolutely silent. He wasn't sure if they could even speak beyond the bizarre clicks. This wouldn't work if he couldn't catch their attention with a topic they would respond to.
"You have a very interesting mask. A bird, is it?" They tilted their head in his direction and examined him through amber lens. They then gave a small shrug and turned back around to shift through the objects on the table.
His tone slowly shifted to one he used whenever acting as a psychiatrist. "If not a bird, then are you acting as a plague doctor? Nosemaphobia, perhaps? Do you fear a sickness, doctor? The plague?"
This earned him a response. They turned slightly to study him once more, and replied in an empty tone, "I am the plague." Their voice had a harsh, grating quality to it and he could tell that they had not spoken in a long time.
He nodded as if understanding. "Ah, so Hypochondria. You fear that you may already have a sickness within you."
"No. It is not in me. I am it." Their back faced him once more. "I'm not a doctor."
It would take more work to determine the exact meaning of their words. He assumed the person believed that they were a plague, that their presence was a plague to others, but there were such a variety of fears it could be referring to. He had once met a mentally unstable man who believed himself to be the origin of diseases.
Such possibilities! He would take great pleasure in breaking this new test subject.
"You are a disease yet you wear a mask meant to prevent catching a disease. Fascinating. The men who used to wear those masks were terrified of the very thing they studied." He paused to study their reaction. When there was none, he continued, "You have had guests before myself. Did you attempt to cure them? Or perhaps you spread a plague to them?"
They faced him with a bloodstained hunting knife. A shake of the head was the only answer he received.
His eyes held not even a sliver of fear. "Not a doctor nor a spreader of sickness. What a mystery plague you are."
"Not a mystery. We're going to eat you."
By "we", they meant themselves and the bugs. "Ah, I should had guessed as such. I can see that your other visitors shared this fate. Not many have acquired such an exotic taste."
He was confusing them. Their head tilted to the side again and they moved the knife from one hand to the other. He doubted the victims had done much besides scream and beg. He didn't count himself as ever being a victim with them, as this murderer would soon find out who the true victim was.
Very carefully, though still in the same emotionless tone, they replied, "I'm going to eat you because I must. You start to like the taste after a while."
Incredibly unstable. This was good. It wouldn't take much work to unravel their mind even if he didn't use his fear toxin. His previous fury still rested heavy in his thoughts, of course, but it had mostly been replaced with excitement.
A second, paler moth alighted on him, making him all too aware of how sensitive parts of his face were after being hit with a blunt weapon. The wings were mere gossamers, translucent enough for him to see through and within it. The long, long tail tickled his chin even while it rested much higher on his face. The person stared at the ghostly green insect and stepped closer.
"Actias luna," they whispered. He could barely hear their already muffled voice. "She loses her mouth when she emerges from her cocoon and awaits the swiftly approaching midnight when she will mate and die..."
The pale moth left his face for a more suitable perch, and he knew exactly how to capture the masked fool's attention: "Their tails are long so that bats cannot catch them; the bats foolishly aim for the tails and lose the moth."
Their head snapped so subtly at it appeared to be no more than a twitch, but he recognized that they had turned their full attention to him.
"Fascinating, aren't they? Just like your mantis friend. They don't kill their prey before beginning to eat, I wonder how its moth feels now?"
"Do you like bugs, too? You're the first person to talk to me about bugs. The others tried to blow the moths away so I had to slit their throats. I did it, I splashed the blood for everyone to smell and they would scream and bubble but it didn't matter because I'd be hungry by then and I can't help it when I smell their blood and I-
Would you like to meet Charlie?"
That had been the most words he'd heard them speak yet. He had finally heard enough to guess that they were female, and when she walked behind him the way she placed one foot in front of the other confirmed it. Female. Her steps were light, but the floorboards groaned so loudly that it was a miracle nothing had fallen through. He would hazard a guess that the wood had been rotting for a while, and it was doubtless that this entire building had been forsaken for quite some time. If the state of this room didn't give that away, the horrid stench certainly did.
He pressed his wrists together to hide how loose the ropes had become. Now would be a perfect time to grab the gun and take control, but he wanted to overpower her with words alone. Using a physical weapon would be too easy.
Whoever this Charlie was, they were kept within one of the creakiest cages in the room. The sounds of a heavy object scraping across the wooden floorboards also reached his ears, and after a minute she returned to his field of vision, dragging with her a chair similar to the one he sat in. She left it with the back facing him and sat in it herself. Her arms folded on the top of the chair's back, and with her head resting on top of her arms, he was left in a position where he could look down on her.
She moved her arm closer to him and pointed out the huge, shiny spider with an unmistakable crimson emblem on its abdomen. His eyes held an excited glint, but not for the reason she suspected. He could have her twisted around his finger any time he wanted, and then the terror would begin. True, unabridged terror!
"This is Charlie," she said in a voice as excited as he felt. "She's one of my favorites. She's always hungry, always so, so hungry. Just like me."
The spider was pressed closer to him. He didn't shy away, he had no fear of pests, but he kept a careful eye on it to avoid being bitten.
"And she loves me, too. She loves me just as much as I love her. Of course she couldn't hurt me even if she wanted to, but she's never tried to bite me because she loves me."
He nodded along with her coddling speech, his gaze never leaving her after the spider was returned to her arm. Most people would falter under his impossibly cold and calculating blue eyes. He couldn't see beneath her mask, but the way she paused after her last words confirmed that she was no exception.
"She's a fine specimen," he continued when she did not. "Most would fear her, but you do not. That is very good, although I must wonder, what does one fear when they do not fear a venom such as hers? You as fine a specimen as she."
She reached out and spread her fingers towards him, but did not make contact. "You're different." She cocked her head once more, a habit which he had quickly grown used to interpreting. "The others, none of them cared about anything outside of their lives. But you... you know about my bugs and you don't beg. Aren't you afraid?"
That was amusing. He threw back his head and laughed, hard. The Joker would had been relieved that that good professor could laugh after all, although this sound had a bit too much madness entwined within it to be healthy. In fact, some might say it wasn't a laugh at all. It was cold and shriveled compared to what a laugh should be, more likely to unnerve his prey rather than putting her at ease. And indeed, she flinched backwards, obviously cautious about his changed state of mind.
He had scared her.
"Afraid?" he asked, unable to hide the amusement from his voice. "My dear, I fear nothing. Not the insects nor arachnids, not this darkness or the bones. And most certainly not you." His excitement rose as he spoke, as well as the threat in his tone. For just a moment he had sounded like the Scarecrow.
As expected, she flinched once more, much harder this time, and moved a little backwards. A few, startled clicks erupted from behind her mask. As much as he enjoyed this, he needed to see her face. He yearned to see the terror written there in a much simpler language.
She waited a tense moment before speaking again. "I like you. It's a shame I have to kill you. We need your blood now, I can't wait I can smell it rushing underneath your skin... but I wish I didn't have to. You're odd and you scare me a little but that's because you're special."
You scare me. Music to his ears, a prelude to her delicious screams.
"I might say that it is your lucky night, but unfortunately you will find yourself regretting your words." A predatory grin took control of his face.
She tensed, visible even underneath her bulky clothing. Who did she kill to steal it? It didn't matter now. Its stink was so awful that he might burn it before locking her up, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. And her mask, he would allow her to think that she had a small token of hope and protection before he ripped it away and revealed to her just how vengeful he could be.
No words came from her mouth. She began clicking again, perhaps forgetting the mechanisms of human speech in her terror. The moment was so perfect, he couldn't resist. As she began leaning away, the untied ropes fell from his hands and he reached forward; his unfettered hands snatched away the spider, its body gleaming in the dim lantern's light just as the madness glinted in his own eyes, and he wrenched it away from its only salvation.
Its body squished with a satisfying crunch.
He felt time freeze as he stared ravenously into the tinted eyepieces of her mask. No expression could be seen, but he could sense her mind cracking alongside her little pest. Her breathing stopped, and she didn't twitch a muscle until a full ten seconds later when he leaned in closer to take in more of her fear.
The shriek that ripped from her throat wasn't human. It reminded him more of a siren, so high pitched that it could be used as a weapon. There was hissing, too, mixed in at the end like the hissing of a monstrous cockroach. The noise didn't stop when she jolted up from her seat and pounced on him. With the shrill, deafening screech so close to his ears, he grimaced and his fist connected with her mask.
It stopped. One of the lens cracked but didn't shatter. This hadn't been his plan. He had meant to force her to cower at his feet, not for her to end up on top of him and attack. She no longer had the knife, but her hands were weapons enough. If he hadn't been familiar with hand-to-hand combat, one of her strikes might had landed. She was incredibly light, and he pushed her away the moment she paused her attack.
They both scrambled to their feet and glared at one another. She hadn't reached for the gun, or even a weapon. In her rage, she might not even remember the weapons' presence. He straightened himself and smoothed the wrinkles from his suit.
"Child, that wasn't even the beginning of what I'm going to do to you..."
His face ached from the crowbar's bruise, but he felt fantastically alive. She spat, "Her children will spin their webs in your hollow body. This is what humans do, you cannot cleanse yourself of your filth even if desire it."
He chuckled. Such disobedience. Did she not yet see that he was in control here? He edged to the side of her, hoping she would move to face him and he would be able to snatch a weapon, but she did no such thing. Too bad... he had wanted her to suffer a little more before he gassed her.
Would his fear toxin work in a gaseous form? On a working gas mask it would have no effect, but he didn't know if the filters on her mask were expired or not. There was no way someone in her mental state could figure out that she needed to replace the filters if they had gone bad.
He whipped a small can from the inside of his suit and sprayed. She clicked furiously and jumped back from the swirling cloud of pure fear. No screams sounded, so it hadn't gotten through, but the same couldn't be said for the moths. They went absolutely insane when the gas hit them. Most of them flew wildly around the room, smacking into the walls and objects in their blind panic, while a few began attacking anything that moved.
Which meant him. They avoided their owner and swooped at himself. He swatted the vile things away, determined to keep his attention on his victim.
She emerged from the cloud of fear and walked at a steady pace towards him, no weapon in hand. Perfect. He returned the small can to his inner pocket and held out a syringe in its place. Her approach was ignored as he gave a few taps to remove any air bubbles – no point in risking damage to the patient when he planned on both further experimentation and vengeance.
Her plans were a mystery to him, seeing as she had no weapons and the syringe in his hand was very noticeable. As she came close enough to swing her fists, he backed up until he was against the wall and then grabbed her shoulders while spinning around. She had no time to react before she was pinned against the wall, his free hand gripping her wrists.
Strange that she made no move against him, but he assumed that this was out of terror. Now, where to inject her? There was no skin visible, so he'd have to either push up one of her sleeves or...
"Remove your mask," he commanded. A needle in the neck would be incredibly satisfying.
Her breathing slowed and her resistance had ground to a halt. He released one of her hands and she reached up to the corner of her mask, pushing it a little further up her face so that he could see her mouth a just a touch of her nose...
Perfect to hear her screams, but he still needed to see the horror clouding the eyes of his "captor".
She paused in removing her mask, fingers tapping on the edge of a canister. Her face split into a savage grin, the fiery lantern light flickering against rows of ruthlessly sharpened teeth, and now he could feel the force of her baleful gaze almost as harshly as she felt his own stare... They stood locked in that position for a moment that lasted a lifetime before she twitched, and suddenly her mouth had filled with the skin of his arm holding the syringe.
Snarling, he dropped his weapon and struck her with his other hand. She didn't budge. He could feel something moving through his bloodstream. The moment her fangs had ripped through his arm, the flesh had been set on fire. He punched her again, and again, and finally she released his arm and licked the blood dripping from her teeth.
"Fuck you," she hissed.
He considered taking another syringe and slamming it into her flesh, but the imaginary flames licking the inside of his flesh had not subsided in the least. Whether she was some kind of changed human like Poison Ivy or she had coated her teeth in poison, she had bitten him and now there was venom coursing through his veins. It was disgusting, to say the least, and his ire had returned tenfold.
She didn't follow when he backed into a different room, hurling threats to return and force her to beg at his feet until the sun itself died. She didn't stop him from exiting the apartment and trying to get out of the building without it collapsing on top of him. She did, however, curl around the small, crumpled body of a spider and whimper until she fell into a fearful nightmare.
It wasn't a success, but he hadn't lost. He knew where she lived, and he would hunt her down and enact his revenge. There were enough people under his employ to watch the building from dawn to dusk to dawn once more, and she would be completely at his mercy.
This venom, however, would be an issue.
