Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any aspect of the Batman universe. I own nothing save for any original characters that I have created.
All of No Man's Land is Mine
CITY
Had he possessed the energy, Crane would have wept with relief when he finally washed onto shore after an eternity in the water, his wiry arms wrapped around a drifting Titan crate in a rescued embrace; instead he used the last fading remnants of his strength to drag his mangled body onto a sandbank, blood pouring from his wounds to pool and clot in the sand, and finally gave himself over into the mercy of unconsciousness.
A favored underground doctor with a revoked license and breath that reeked of liquor pieced Crane back together inside a dim office, transforming his mutilated flesh into a canvas of stitches and gauze. For hours the doctor worked to repair the damage Croc had inflicted, occasionally pausing to take a swig from the flask tucked inside his stained white coat or to sink a needle into Crane's arm and deliver a merciful dose of morphine through his bloodstream; he had refused anesthesia, paranoid that he would wake to find his wrist handcuffed to the operating table and Batman standing enraged in the grimy doorway.
The Bat had continued to search for him, and Scarecrow knew that he would not stop until he found either Crane's still-breathing body or a corpse floating in the Gotham Bay. Remaining undetected was of the utmost importance—there was much work to be done, and Crane could not, would not allow himself to be captured until he was fully prepared to face Batman again.
The next time he encountered the Bat, it would be on Crane's terms.
The doctor had given him a generous supply (and damn well he should, for what Crane was paying him) of medication to treat the pain, with the enthusiastic promise of more pills should Crane return with more money. But Crane would later choose to discard every single tablet into the garbage—he wanted to feel the pain. He wanted to experience the agony of spasms wracking through his leg with an unforgivable intensity, until he felt as if the limb were rattling inside its brace and grinding against the bolts screwed into his knees. He wanted to experience the cruel ache setting afire to the nerves of his broken exposed teeth, no longer shielded by what little remained of his lips. He wanted to run a gnarled hand over the smooth surface of his skull, to feel the scars beginning to form where his unkempt hair had once been. He savored the pain, treasuring it more than he ever could the chalky taste of an opiate on his tongue, and he found that basking in the horror of the atrocities permanently inflicted onto his body brought him more comfort than any narcotic in the world could ever provide because it was accompanied by an old, cherished friend: hate.
And so it was hatred that led Crane to limp across the Gotham Docks and place a thick stack of cash into the fat hand of a man with greased hair and an unlit cigar pinched between bleached teeth. It was hatred that led Crane to climb inside a small boat that never stopped rocking and swallow his nausea with every wave as he sat in his new dark home, hunched over his papers and maps as he attempted to ignore the sound of gas canisters rolling across the floor and roaches scuttling along the walls. And it was hatred that led Crane to remain quiet and hidden when the outside world erupted into a chaotic haze of gunfire and he first heard the words "Arkham City" being chanted by gleeful voices that meant no good. He began to leave the boat even less after that, and only during the limited safety of nightfall, but the cattle of undesirables being herded into his home did serve an unforeseen and exquisite purpose.
It allowed him to feed on its fears.
The first was far easier than expected. Gunfire from a nearby turf war—Cobblepot had always been heavy-handed when it came to violence—disguised the clinking of his leg brace as Crane strode across the dock boards as quickly as his limp would permit, right up until the moment when he sank a needle into the neck of a goon in a mask.
There were so many these days. Nobody would miss this one.
Nobody at all.
The man fell to the ground as fast-acting anesthetic coursed through his veins, and he did not begin to stir until long after Crane had (slowly, excruciatingly) dragged him back to the boat and bound him to a chair with duct tape and tightly-knotted rope.
"Hello?" His voice was groggy, weak. In the glow of the insect tank lights Crane could see the tell-tale marred etchings on half of the man's mask, indicating an affiliation to the Two-Face gang.
"Good evening," Crane replied from the shadows. "How are you feeling?"
"Hey, what the hell is this, man? Who are you?"
Crane said nothing. A silent moment passed before the goon licked his lips and spoke again.
"Look," he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking, "whatever's going on here, we can work it out. Mr. Dent's been very good to me, and if you let him know that I'm here then he'll do whatever it takes to—"
"I'm afraid I know our mutual friend Mr. Dent a great deal more than you do," Crane remarked calmly, "and I can assure you that he absolutely does not care what happens to you. Not even half the time."
The man looked visibly taken aback by this proclamation, and Crane could see primal emotions forming behind the mask's eyes. Anger. Panic. Fear.
"You better untie me right now or you're dead, you hear me?! Untie me before I bust out of this myself and kick your ass and drag you to Two-Face, and when he's cutting you into two pieces you'll be wishing you'd never been stupid enough to mess with me. You hear me, creep? You listening?!"
A quick burst of spray from an aerosol can ended the goon's tirade, his threats turning to ragged coughs.
"Loud and clear." Crane smiled, the goon's eyes widening in horror behind his mask as he watched Scarecrow's butchered form step out of the shadows and the toxin began its assault on his mind. "You have my full attention."
Two political prisoners stood by a burning barrel, warming their chilled hands as close to the fire as the heat would allow. When a sudden wail of dread and terror erupted throughout the cold night air, one gasped in shock while his unfazed companion, a man who had been imprisoned within days of Arkham City's opening, did not even bother to look up from the fire.
"Did you hear that?" the frightened man asked, warm breath fogging from his mouth as he spoke.
"Of course I did," the other man replied with a tone as casual as it was maddening. "What of it?"
His fellow prisoner stared at him with his mouth agape, both astounded and disturbed by the man's lack of concern. He took notice of the expression and chuckled darkly.
"Listen, how long you been here? Two, maybe three weeks?"
The timid man looked sadly into the barrel's flames. "Almost a week."
"Huh. Well, give it time and soon enough you'll be too hungry to worry about being scared." He shrugged. "Or you'll be dead. Whichever happens first."
"But—"
The sight of a henchman scuffling towards their direction sent the pair scurrying to a dark corner, retreating within the precarious safety of shadows; neither man wanted to suffer the pain of broken bones, the fear of having their limited rations or coat stolen, or the simple indignity of public humiliation. As the henchman passed by the barrel, the fire's orange hazy glow revealed a costume unique among Arkham City's sea of masked men: a jumpsuit adorned with patches of burlap, brown leather and buckles, and wide strips of silver tape.
Only when they were certain that the henchman was gone did the prisoners rise and return to the barrel, now with a heavy air of apprehension felt by even the more brave of the two.
"That's the second one I've seen dressed like that," the timid man whispered. "Who do you think he works for? Scarecrow?"
"Don't be stupid. Scarecrow died at the asylum, remember? It was all over the news."
"Yeah, but they never did find his body. Hey, do you think maybe he—"
"Enough," his companion snapped, resentful of the fear now growing in the pit of his stomach. "There's enough boogeymen in this godforsaken hellhole without you making up more. Either shut up or find someplace else to stay warm."
The man fell silent. Years later, long after he'd been rescued from Arkham City and resumed a life of regular clothes and warm beds and a full stomach, he and the rest of Gotham would learn that Crane had been secretly operating within the confines of Arkham and formulating an elaborate, torturous plan to punish the entire city for the actions of one single Bat.
The revelation that he had been right all along brought him no comfort. Indeed, it made him all the more afraid.
YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO ME
I WILL RETURN BATMAN
FEAR WILL TEAR GOTHAM TO SHREDS