Chapter III

Laughing Wild

"The stings of Falsehood those shall try,

And hard Unkindness' altered eye,

That mocks the tear if forced to flow;

And keen Remorse with blood defiled,

And moody Madness laughing wild

Amid severest woe."

—from Thomas Gray's "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College"


Four days later, he was still fuming.

He simply could not wrap his mind around it—how, exactly, was that girl qualified to take on a case like Breedlove's? Allan Breedlove! Murderer, serial rapist, and notorious manipulator—what had Gooding been thinking when he had assigned Breedlove to that…novice Dr. Quinzel?

Ah, of course, Gooding hadn't been thinking.

At least, not with his brain, he thought wryly as he waited for the elevator to arrive. It was infuriating to think that such an incompetent, unprofessional lech like Gooding was running the asylum. For God's sake, certainly he, himself, was more aware of Arkham's activities than his so-called 'superior' would ever be, and he was treating how many patients on top of conducting his own private experiments? Infuriating. Just infuriating.

And then, that silly little girl hadn't had the sense to deflect Gooding's approaches. Well, she wouldn't, would she? Not when encouraging such behavior had undoubtedly served her well thus far.

Break her, the Scarecrow hissed fiercely.

No, he told the voice in the kind of tone reserved for scolding errant children. He had had this kind of argument with himself before, though normally he could keep his baser side in check while he was at work, all of his frustrations silently stewing in the back of his mind until the end of the day when he was at his apartment, alone, and could finally let his inner darkness be unleashed. However, it would seem that his frustration with Gooding and Quinzel was making the Scarecrow more active.

Yes, it insisted. Show that whore what it means to feel Fear.

No, he thought again, more firmly this time. There's too much of a risk involved. Besides, I'm sure that one session with Breedlove will be enough for her to realize that she's in over her head. If anything, he'll scare her off better than I could.

That's a lie. You know that's a lie. You want her like that, you want to watch her scream, watch her cry, watch her writhe in terror—

Enough, he demanded sharply and the Scarecrow abruptly went quiet—hopefully it would remain that way, at least until he was well out of the public eye. Temporary loss of control over his inner demons—he would be sure to add that to his ever-growing list of reasons to despise Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Put it between 'her obnoxious and unwaveringly pleasant voice' and 'the fact that she is the quintessential embodiment of the worst kind of people,' he sneered as he absentmindedly cast a glance down the hall.

And blinked, slightly stunned.

This is not happening, he thought in exasperation when he saw the girl in question walking toward him. Despite himself, he had to admit that, for such fluttery thing, she was rather stylish with her blonde curls hanging loose around her shoulders; her smart, square-neck, silk dress that stopped just above her knees; and a tailored, waist-length, pewter suit jacket with light gray pinstripes. However, he wasn't particularly fond of the color of the dress—pastel blue was a little too cheery for his liking—though he supposed that she had thought that it would bring out her eyes, which it did, and he noted that today they were hidden behind a pair of small, black, oval-shaped glasses.

I wonder if she thinks that wearing those make her smarter? He shook his head, trying to quell his growing agitation. There was no point in getting aggravated just yet. There was always the possibility that she wasn't looking for him or that she had no intention of taking the elevator. Nonetheless…

Avoid eye contact. If she doesn't realize that I've seen her, she'll have no reason to stop.

Impractical stiletto heels click-clacking on the tiled floor, Dr. Quinzel strode down the hallway until she stood right beside him.

Damn it.

"Hello."

"Good morning," he said coolly, eyes on the elevator doors, though he was certain that she was glancing at him.

Stealing a quick look at her (yes, her insufferable child's eyes were on him), he sighed.

"Is there something the matter, Dr. Quinzel?"

Yes, you're so pleased that I remembered your title, aren't you? he thought snidely as she smiled.

"Oh, no. Not exactly."

"Well…good," he replied stiffly before turning his gaze back to the elevator doors.

"Although," she spoke up, "I'm sorry for not correcting you."

Slowly, he turned to look at her, eyebrows raised in question.

"When you mistook me for an intern," she explained. "I should've told you that I was a doctor."

"Ah."

"Sorry."

He shook his head.

"It's nothing."

Where in the hell was that elevator?

He glanced upward, seeing that the lift was taking its time, still four floors away.

"Maybe," Quinzel babbled on, "I'm just so used to people assuming I'm an intern, I don't think to tell them otherwise anymore."

I doubt that you do much thinking at all, he thought dryly, looking up again. Three floors—it wasn't normally this slow, he was sure of that…

"That was sarcasm, by the way," she said awkwardly.

"I assumed as much," he replied flatly, noting that there were two floors left to go before the elevator would reach them. Then again, when it finally arrived, that would mean that he would be forced to share a small, enclosed space with this bratty little woman.

"Oh," was all that she had to say, looking a little downtrodden. Which was fine by him. Quite frankly, he could hardly bring himself to care if Quinzel (or anyone else) thought him rude, not when there were very few (if any) people that he hadn't deemed beneath him. He had been a child prodigy, for God's sake—he couldn't be blamed when the rest of the human race failed to keep up with his genius. Besides, it wasn't as if he had any desire to talk to this girl. And she seemed like the type who would pounce on the opportunity to strike up a conversation if he made his tone even slightly welcoming.

His eyes darted up again. One more floor…

Quinzel turned, looking like she was about to say something when there was a pleasant ding and a faint, clanking whoosh as the elevator stopped and its doors slid open. Ever the gentleman (his grandmother and her cane had made sure of that), he stepped aside to allow Quinzel to enter first.

And her smile was back. He could not comprehend that—mere seconds ago she had been dispirited, and now, here she was, smiling at him again, her eyes bright and secretive as if she knew some private joke. Before he realized what was happening, he found his thoughts drifting back to his days at primary school, when he would do something—something seemingly inconsequential, something harmless, something as simple as answering a question correctly (what was wrong with knowing who Washington Irving was?), using the words 'do it' in a sentence ("'Do it!'" some jock had sneered. "Hear that? He wants me to 'do it' to him! He really is a faggot!")...suddenly, the class would grow quiet except for the faint titter of stifled laughter and everyone would have amused glint in their eyes as they all shared a knowing smirk. They hadn't needed to exchange words; he knew that they were making fun of him, even if he didn't know why.

He glanced at Dr. Quinzel as he stepped into the elevator. Was that what she was doing now? Making fun of him? Mocking him for…what? Being chivalrous? Well, if that was the case, he could have always shoved her out of the way and stepped inside first. But no, instead he had been polite, and now he was being ridiculed for it.

In a way, the laughing eyes were worse than the voiced insults. At least with the latter he knew why he was being taunted, though it wasn't as if the subject matter often varied (people were too lazy to ever want to be creative). It was odd, in a way, that as a child he wanted nothing more than for the cruel jeers to stop. Yet as he had grown older, the hated laughter hadn't decreased, merely grown quieter until it could only be seen in their eyes, stifled by the pretense of politeness and maturity, but still just as strong as it had ever been. He found that, somehow, he hated that even more.

Women, he had noticed, tended to exhibit this behavior more frequently than men. For some reason, it had always seemed as if blonde women in particular had a penchant for making his life a living hell, or, at the very least, getting on his nerves. Three specific blondes came to mind (he ground his teeth in silent frustration), and now it appeared that a fourth was well on her way to joining their ranks.

Add that to the list: She's blonde.

"What floor were you headed to?" he said aloud.

"Um, the sixth, I think," she replied.

More uncertainties! He gritted his teeth again. Good God, did this girl have any idea what she was doing? The vaguest clue about anything at all? And on top of that—damn it, he had to go to the seventh floor, which meant being trapped with that tiny, blonde nitwit for the entire elevator ride.

"Not a fan of elevators?" Quinzel asked.

"What?" He turned to look at her, a little taken aback by the sudden inquiry.

She shrugged.

"You seem tense."

"I am a very busy man, Dr. Quinzel—"

"Oh, call me 'Harley,'" she cut in breezily. "Everyone does."

Absolutely not. He abhorred nicknames of any kind, mainly because of having to spend his childhood enduring all of the charming epithets that his 'peers' had christened him with. Besides, calling her 'Harley' would mean making the situation entirely too personal, too…friendly. And he certainly had no desire to befriend this girl.

He acted as though the interruption had never occurred.

"I have a lot on my mind, Dr. Quinzel," he said pointedly, taking off his glasses. "So you'll excuse me if I seem stressed. I assure you, it has nothing to do with the elevator."

This was at least partially true. Of all of the fears that he had forced himself to overcome, thankfully, claustrophobia had not been one of them.

"Oh," she murmured, looking like she did not know how to continue. "Well, that's…good, I guess. Not that you have too much on your mind. Just that you aren't afraid of elevators, I mean, considering there's like…12,000 elevator-related deaths and injuries per year? Something like that."

"Interesting," he commented, not bothering to correct her grammar. "Although I never said that I had too much on my mind. Merely a lot."

"Ah." She nodded in understanding—or rather, in what he imagined was a guise of understanding. "Guess that explains why everyone says you'll be in charge of this place, soon. Actually, I've heard you're practically running it now."

"I would advise you not to install too much trust in gossip," he told her dryly. "You never know when it might prove false."

"Well, you never know when it might be true," she countered evenly. "Besides, I think it's good to learn as much as we can while we can, don't you?"

Stiffening slightly, he pursed his lips, unwilling to flat-out admit that, yes, he couldn't have agreed with her more.

"It certainly isn't a bad philosophy," he said at last.

She smiled in a way that made him wonder if she knew just how reluctant he had been to utter those words, but, thankfully, she changed topics.

"Is it true, though? You're gunning for Gooding's job?"

Again, he grew tense.

"I wouldn't put it quite like that…"

"Well, you know what I mean: You'd like to be the asylum's director?" she elaborated.

"If the position were ever offered to me, I wouldn't turn it down, if that's what you're saying."

"Mm," she hummed vaguely before sighing deeply through her nose. "I'm sure it would only be an improvement."

His eyebrows shot up. Whether he liked it or not, she had his interest now. Just what exactly was she implying? From what he had been able to gather, he was certain that Dr. Quinzel was a cloying little sycophant, but surely she wasn't so vapid that she would try to cozy up to him? Unless…there was always the off chance that she referring to something else.

"What do you mean by that?" he inquired.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she replied, "Ah-m…nothing, really. Just that Dr. Gooding isn't as…organized as…he could be."

Ah. So not only was she the type of girl who put up a saccharine front when she was trying to win someone's favor; she also openly bad-mouthed them once their back was turned. How charming. The world needed another one of those.

There's another one for the list.

"I'm surprised you'd say that," he told her, taking care to keep his tone mild. "The two of you seemed to be getting along rather nicely when I saw you."

That one should have tripped her up, or at least made her blush. But apparently not caring about what he might or might not have been implying, she merely shrugged.

"I couldn't find it in myself to be annoyed with the man when he'd just agreed to let me take on Allan Breedlove."

Gritting his teeth for the umpteenth time, he refused to let himself be affected by that little reminder.

"Besides," she continued, "I tend to behave according to how people treat me. So, even if I'm not wild about the guy, it's hard being standoffish around him when he's being so nice to me."

He had to hide his distaste—Gooding was hardly what one would call 'nice.' Deceitful and self-serving maybe, lecherous and unprofessional definitely, but never 'nice.' Still, while he found it easier to distance himself from everyone (fewer distractions), he supposed that he could see her point, even if it was, well…a pointless one. In the end, he felt that there was little that could be gained from being kind to someone simply because that was how they treated you. If two people resented one another, then they shouldn't try to mask their resentment with pretty façades.

But then… Wait a minute.

"If you treat everyone as they treat you…" he began, slowly turning to face her fully, "…then how do you explain your behavior toward me? You must have noticed that I'm hardly what you would call a friendly individual."

"Oh, um…" she stumbled. Attention focused on her, he barely noticed that the elevator had begun to slow down.

"I'm curious," he pressed, and he found that he truly was.

"Well…"

The elevator lurched to a halt and doors glided open.

"You really wanna know? Honestly?" she asked as she stepped outside into the hallway.

"Yes," he sighed, exasperated.

For a moment, he thought that Quinzel expected him to follow her, but then, just before the ding sounded again and the doors slid shut, she turned around, that damn smile playing across her face again.

"I think you're funny."


Everyone knew that there was a risk involved when visiting the Narrows. This was especially true for those who had, for one reason or another, taken up jobs there and thus had to travel to the miserable island every day. These people knew that, if they wanted to return to their homes at the end of the day without getting mugged or stabbed or killed, they needed to drive straight to work and straight back with the doors locked and the windows sealed, making no stops, none unless it was absolutely necessary. And even then they would do well to think twice about it.

For anyone, it was dangerous to travel to the Narrows.

For women, it was even more dangerous.

For women who were small, young, and attractive, it was especially dangerous.

She knew the risks when she took a job at Arkham Asylum. She knew that she was a target. But at that point, she had known the former for years and the latter even longer; it didn't scare her off. She wanted the job too much—extreme cases had always fascinated her, ever since she was a child. It wasn't an over abundance of confidence that allowed her to be fearless in the Narrows, although she had taken enough women's self defense courses to know how to handle herself if things got a little out of hand. It was more of a feeling of…apathy…toward death that kept her from being scared. She had always thought that there was no point in living in fear because was that really even living? She had long since come to the groundbreaking conclusion that death was inevitable and so there was little point in worrying about it. The past was past and que sera, sera; it was best to live for Right Now.

Granted, even she had to acknowledge just how stupid it was to stop at a 7/11 in the Narrows. But her car was running low on gas—there was barely enough (if any) to make it over the bridge, let alone return to her apartment. Even though she had realized this when she left for work that morning. And it wasn't as if she had been running late, either; there had been enough time to stop and refill her tank at a reasonably safe gas station outside of the Narrows. Stupid of her, really, not to take care of it then. Some might say that she was asking for it.

Stopping for gas in the Narrows.

Driving that sleek, black Mercedes Benz SLK.

Wearing that dress.

Looking the way she did.

Some might say that she was asking for it.

Maybe she was.

She would never be entirely sure. Even as a psychiatrist, it had always been a little vague, though she had long since discovered and accepted what was inherently 'wrong' with her: She didn't go out of her way to cause trouble, but she never did anything to discourage it from following her, either. That was part of her problem, anyway. The rest of it, she had already analyzed to the point where it wasn't worth dwelling on anymore. Although, she imagined that any shrink would have a field day if given permission to examine her head. Hell, even Dr. Crane might finally stop trying to ignore her.

As she pulled into the greasy, rundown gas station, she smirked at little at the thought of her colleague and the adorably confounded look that he had gotten earlier that day when she'd told him that she thought he was funny.

She had been telling the truth—he was funny. The way that he was trying so hard to make her resent him was obvious, and it amused the hell out of her. She was sure that that was an awful way to be, but there was little help for it. It was almost as if she was drawn to the man because of that. But then, she had always been intrigued by men and women who couldn't seem to stand her. Maybe it was because it was fun to watch—she was nice to them on purpose, which made them uncomfortable since they didn't know how to react. Or maybe she was simply curious as to why certain individuals detested her. Truthfully, she could recall very few people that didn't like her, let alone anyone who actually went out of their way to actively dislike her. The redheaded, buxom image of her roommate and best friend since college came to mind, since Pamela Isley had been reluctant to warm up to her, but Pammy had eventually gotten over that.

As for Dr. Crane, the man's initial frustration toward her was understandable. Despite being new to the staff, she had been assigned to the fascinating high security patient that the other doctor had clearly wanted. But surely her fellow psychiatrist would have gotten over that by now?

Apparently not, if his behavior toward her over the past four days had been any sort of indication. When Dr. Crane wasn't deliberately ignoring her he was belittling practically every word that she said. And she was certain that the rudeness was mainly directed at her and no one else. The man was quiet and distant when it came to his colleagues, occasionally making a brusque, intelligent statement. There was never anything personal about what he said, not even his opinions (if that made any sense). But it seemed that, when it came to her, his tones were (if possible) even more clipped, his comments more hostile, always with the derisive insinuation that he thought her an idiot. He was making a point of letting her know that he didn't like her. But why was that? It couldn't have all come down to Breedlove—she doubted that Dr. Crane was so childish as to hold a grudge like that. As it was, she could barely imagine such a serious and mature individual as a child at all (though she'd bet that he'd been a cutie).

Still musing, she parked at one of the available gas pumps and turned off her ignition.

Really, why was he putting forth such an effort just to make her hate him? Couldn't he simply let it go? Wouldn't that have been easier?

Maybe it's not that simple, she thought absently as she stepped out of her Mercedes.

Misogynist? But then he'd be rude to Joan and Dr. Ruth, and all the other women at Arkham, and he's just distant with them. She watched the numbers tally up. Maybe he is a prick to them and I've just never been around to see it? But that still doesn't explain why he's so pissy toward women…

No, she concluded. He's a jerk, but he isn't a sexist jerk.

Her eyes flitted up to see a rusty pickup truck pull in two pumps away from her, its ancient, rotted body creaking and groaning as it shuddered to a halt. Feeling a little on edge (this was the Narrows, after all, where anyone would do anything for money—something she clearly had), she unscrewed the cap from the gas tank before turning to swipe her credit card through the machine, purchasing twenty dollars worth of fuel, all the while trying to estimate the amount of time it would take for her to dive into the car and retrieve the handgun from the glovebox. Just in case.

Nasty break-up recently? she wondered before turning to insert the nozzle into the gas tank.

A break-up would make sense. Or maybe he had was prone to having bad luck with women, which would automatically make him suspicious of all members of the fairer sex. But why would Dr. Crane have any problems getting a girl? Rich, successful, young, attractive, and a doctor—wasn't he the type of man that every little girl was told to hope for?

Placing the nozzle back on the fuel dispenser, she smirked, imagining the look on feminist Pamela's face if the redhead ever heard her make such a horribly chauvinistic remark.

She was screwing the lid back onto the gas tank when suddenly, a thought occurred to her.

Maybe he's afraid of girls?

It was such a childish way to phrase the notion, but the ability to simplify had always been one of her strong suits. And what if she was right? What if he'd had a sheltered, ascetic upbringing with fanatically religious parents who taught him that any interaction with girls before marriage was a one-way bus ticket to Hell?

He doesn't seem like the religious type, although he's certainly uptight enough to be a Catholic… she noted, remembering her brief stint in a Catholic high school. Anyway, though, that still doesn't explain why he hates me so much…

Some cheerleader probably pantsed him in high school. I've go the look, so now he's taking it out on me. Makes so much sense, she finally decided, feeling wry but frustrated with all of the dead ends that she kept hitting. She just didn't know enough about the guy to come to any rational conclusions.

With every intent to resolve that problem, she pulled open the car door and was about to slide into the driver's seat when a voice stopped her.

"Hi…"

She would never admit that she jumped; inattentiveness was a dangerous weakness that she tried to avoid. Turning around, car keys held in a vice grip, she was met with a startling sight: A man standing just a few feet in front of her, holding a switchblade out for all the world to see.

Oddly, it wasn't the knife that alarmed her as much as it was the man as a whole. Though he was not physically imposing—only 5'10 maybe and made up of lean, wiry muscle. Heat and tension seemed to radiate off of his body in thick waves, and he twitched, sweating, blinking rapidly, strung out. A bundle of nerves all wound up, coiled tightly like a spring, ready to go off at any second. Strung out—both from nerves and drugs. Or were the nerves a result of the drugs? He had to be somewhere in his late-twenties to mid-thirties, yet looked like he knew as much as a toddler did about taking care of himself. A hirsute, he must have been to be so covered in such thick, black hair. The wild mass of dark, corkscrew curls only encouraged the image of a spring and made it nearly impossible to make out his features: cracked and bleeding mouth, saliva trickling out and into a black, bushy beard; raw red nose, nostrils flared and hairy; dark eyes strangely bright, screaming with desperation and madness—all of it sunken into tan, weathered skin. He was clothed in rags: a hooded, zip-up camel-colored jacket, stained and tattered, one elbow worn all the way through; ragged jeans splotched with filth from the knees down; on his feet, a pair of once-white tennis sneakers held together with duct tape, both untied, the laces broken; a moth-eaten wool scarf, striped orangey-red and green, wound tightly around his neck; and a pair of faded, blue fingerless gloves covered the hairy, calloused hands that tightly clutched a switchblade. He gaped at her, face gleaming with sweat as his jaw worked soundlessly, fevered eyes stretched wide in his skull. At his wit's end, out of options, desperate.

The blade winked at her in the late afternoon sunlight.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Drastic times, drastic actions.

This was a man who saw her as a golden opportunity and a last resort. He had nothing left to lose, and that was what made him so dangerous.

He fidgeted where he stood, eyes never leaving hers.

"Hi…" he said again, revealing chipped, yellowed teeth.

She nodded once, flashing a tight smile. No need to agitate him by acting too neutral; she had dealt with enough violent patients to know that a lack of response usually sent them flying into a rage.

"Hi." An awkward pause. "…did you need help with something?"

He blinked at her, thrown off track by her question. Frowning slightly, he bit his lower lip, as if struggling to remember something. Then, raising his free hand, he gestured vaguely to the sputtering, rusted vehicle parked two gas pumps behind them.

"My…truckisbroken," he slurred in a rush, blinking at her again.

With a feigned cringe of sympathy, she shook her head, trying to slowly, carefully inch her way into the car.

"Oh…that's too bad."

"Yeah," he murmured, staring off into space. "Bad…" Suddenly, his gaze snapped back to her. "D'you wanna come take a look at it?"

"Oh," she started, beginning to feel angry and trapped, though her tone was calm. "Um…no, I'm sorry—I really need to be heading out—"

"Why?" he asked, tipping his head curiously and taking a step forward. "It'll be quick."

I doubt that, she thought cynically as her stiletto heels slipped a little on the slick pavement, causing her to all but fall into the driver's seat, slender legs still hanging outside the vehicle.

"Well, still, I'm kinda running late," she informed him, keeping her face impassive as he drew closer. The worst thing that she could do was show any emotion, especially fear. From working with the criminally insane, she had learned that they—this man and people like him—tended to crave that more than anything. Most found it arousing, watching someone small and weak squirm beneath them, screaming in wide-eyed terror. They relished in that, in overpowering all of those soft, meek, little girls, seizing the frail wrists in one massive hand, and breaking everything in sight.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, feeling incensed.

He had taken advantage of her vulnerable position, looming over her with one hand gripping the edge of the roof, the other—the one with the knife—on the back of the driver's seat.

"I think you should…you should have a look at my truck," he said, breath coming in foul, labored gasps.

"I don't have time," she said coldly, her fear slowly beginning to ebb away.

"A second, it'll take a second, one second," he chanted, eyes darting rapidly back and forth until he was suddenly focused on her again. "You should come look."

She didn't respond, but recoiled further into the car, knowing that it was hopeless to think that she had enough time to reach around, grab the gun from the glovebox, and shoot him before he took the whole millisecond required to stab her.

Before she knew what was happening, he had gone from quiet and dazed to frenzied rage, reaching inside to seize one of her tiny wrists.

"Come look—I said come look! You're not listening!" he seethed, baring his rotten teeth, hand on her throat now, jagged nails digging into snowy flesh, pushing her down, shaking her so hard her head knocked painfully against the gear stick.

Her vision swam as she felt him kick her legs apart and place one knee between her thighs, pushing himself up and into the car, towering over her with a manic gleam in his eye.

She didn't know what he wanted—her money, her car, her blood, her. Her mind was blank. Yet she felt livid, the edges of her vision tinged with blinding, hot white—too angry, far too angry, to be afraid.

The switchblade flashed in the corner of her eye, suddenly hovering above her. Their eyes locked. For one second, she forgot to breath.

Some might say that she had been asking for it. But then, anyone who knew her well might say the same of him.

Just as he was about to bring the knife down, she drove her knee into his gut. Eyes wide, he gasped in pain and shock, not noticing her purse until in collided with his head.

He swore and drew back a little, but recovered quickly and reached for her again—

CRACK!

Her foot connected with his nose, once, twice, again and again until bruises formed, until flesh was split and blood began to pour from the wounds. Blinded by rage, she drove four-inch stiletto heels into him, arms braced against the seat and the steering wheel for support, kicking violently with all her strength.

Her little blue shoes were stained scarlet as rivulets of blood rolled over her feet and down her legs. She didn't notice—didn't care—just kept kicking, over and over. How dare he touch her—how dare he!? He was every filthy, depraved lunatic she had ever heard about or met. He was the embodiment of every predator, every child molester, every rapist—every single person who had ever watched, taken, hurt, maimed, raped, killed…

She didn't want him near her; he made her skin crawl and she felt violated just by being around him. She wanted him away from her. She wanted him gone, and her kicking grew more frantic as she fought to drive him away. Get away! Get away! Don't touch me!

He screamed, and still her feet continued to pummel him, her fury drowning out all noise until one swift kick sent him staggering back, wailing in agony, a shoe lodged into his skull and blood streaming down his face.

His face… It wasn't a face anymore. It resembled ground meat—just a mass of red, purple, black, and the two shining pits that were his eyes. They rolled around in a sickly manner, then back into his head as he reeled wildly, arms flailing as he crashed into the gas pumps behind him.

She was on her feet in an instant, fists raised, ready to do whatever it took to make him get away from her.

Leave… Leave! she screamed in her mind, watching as he stumbled about, his blood dripping onto the pavement. She wouldn't reach for her gun…no…not when he was so close, he could still catch her…

He tripped over his own feet and almost went spiraling head first into the ground but caught himself just in time. His eyes flitted up and met hers.

She tilted her chin up defiantly, lips pressed together tightly, chest heaving.

He began to back up slowly, nearly tripping again as he began to pick up speed, then turned a little, his head constantly snapping around to look at her as she watched him stumble, stagger, fall until he finally turned tail and ran—in the opposite direction, running away, far away, away from her…

Suddenly exhausted, her fists dropped to her sides. Moving slowly, in a daze, she tucked herself into her car and locked the doors.

She didn't even wince when she leaned back too quickly and the headrest connected with the bruise that the gear stick had made on the base of her skull.

She felt…high. Though her foggy brain could barely form a coherent thought let alone sufficiently analyze every narcotic she had ever ingested or prescribed until it found the one who's effects were even slightly similar to what she was feeling now. She was dizzy yet strangely aware; her limbs were heavy but she was awake. Numbly giddy or giddily numb—or giddy and numb, one or the other, both or neither…

Eyes sliding shut, she pressed a hand to her mouth. She wasn't making any sense…

Where was her shoe?

She glanced down, seen two tired, blood-spattered legs…but her right shoe was gone. Then she remembered: one powerful kick and... Had he run off with her shoe still imbedded in his brain..?

Oh my God…

A giggle escaped her.

Eyes wide, she gasped, quickly silencing herself. That was terrible—but it was funny. Some hopped-up lunatic threatened her, tried to do God only knew what to her…and she put a shoe through his head. A little, blue satin shoe—that looked a little like a ballet slipper with a heel.

She giggled again.

"Oh my God…"

And had he even gotten back into his truck? Or had he forgotten all about it and run away screaming?

A glance to the left told her that the rusted pickup was still there. Still running, too.

Guess that answers that question.

This time, she snorted, clasping her hands over her mouth and nose in an attempt to quell her amusement. But it was no use. Her laughter was bubbling up inside her at an alarming rate, rising uncontrollably until she was overcome with hysterics.

What a bastard! She couldn't believe that she had taken him out—and with her shoes! Her Goddamn shoes! She cackled at the thought. And Pammy could never, ever give her shit about 'impractical footwear' again, not when those cute little things had saved her.

That must be why they call them stiletto heels…

She howled again, falling back into the seat, her sides aching, her lungs burning for air.

"Oh God…oh my God…" And she dissolved into snickers once more, tittering incessantly, her entire body crippled by hilarity that reduced her to a gasping and shaking mess, barely able to breathe yet still able to find amusement in the thought that she might have saved herself only to die moments later when she was suffocated by her own giggling.

I really do kill myself!

In stitches at the thought, she collapsed against the steering wheel, forehead pressed against cool leather, shoulders quivering as she was suddenly seized by another inexplicable bout of laughter that took her to the point where she was almost sobbing, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Good thing my mascara is waterproof.

A hum of amusement pushed past her lips as she weakly shook her head. Too much, it was all too much…

She was still laughing as she drove away.


Notes

You want her like that…watch her writhe in terror– if this comes off as sounding slightly sexual, then I have achieved my goal. On that note, as I said before, a part of me thinks of the Scarecrow as being sort of a combination a protector, all of Jonathan's darkest thoughts manifested into this twisted sort of imaginary friend, and his grandmother. The last one is included because 1.) I see her as being one of Jonathan's greatest fears, 2.) she was definitely one of the main reasons behind his creating the Scarecrow, and 3.) I think he mentions in Scarecrow: Year One that she's the one that taught him about fear, and since the Scarecrow claims to be 'fear incarnate,' I thought that it was only fitting that he (it? that sounds more sinister, anyway) share such a demented and terrifying woman's characteristics. Hence, calling Harley things like 'jezebel,' 'whore,' et al, even though the Scarecrow is hardly a prude. I don't think Jonathan is schizophrenic or that he has a split personality (since, from what I've read, that would mean that Jonathan was unaware of the Scarecrow, which he obviously isn't). It's more like the Scarecrow isn't another personality as much as it's Jonathan's darker side. Well, his even darker side, since he isn't exactly a sweet individual by himself. But really, I see the Scarecrow as a manifestation of Jonathan's self-doubt and paranoia. It's the part of him that can't imagine anyone being sincerely nice to him (they're either mocking him, or they want something from him) and the part that thinks that those individuals should suffer for misleading him. Yet at the same time, there's the logical, egotistical part of Jonathan that keeps him from doing anything too rash. Personally, I think I do a lousy job of presenting this because I think it's too clear that there are several distinct differences between these two aspects of his personality: the Scarecrow is more animalistic and demanding; Jonathan is fascinated by fear and does find pleasure in making others scream but he's mainly focused on the research, yet part of him simply craves fear and that's all there is to it; the Scarecrow's dialogue is much more blunt and vulgar than Jonathan's, not because I think that Jonathan would be offended by swearing, just that (due to his upbringing) he would think it beneath him to cuss and wouldn't be accustomed to saying anything rougher than the occasional 'damn' or 'oh hell;' and, lastly, the Scarecrow is also more sexual than Jonathan is. Sorta. I think I said before that I see Jonathan as being asexual, but I imagine the Scarecrow as being more than willing to do whatever it takes to invoke terror in someone—including rape—because all this part of Jonathan cares about is instilling fear. That, and I can't help but think that the Scarecrow might even be turned on by the sight of someone writhing in terror. Maybe.

…she was rather stylish… - even though I'm not particularly wild about the outfit that I decided to put Harley in. I wanted it to be something…professional-yet-playful, I think, is the best way to describe what I'm going for as far as pre-insanity Harley's look is concerned. With her attire in this chapter, I knew that, because of the events in the second scene, I wanted it to be something that sort of showed off her figure (hence the dress) but I wanted to be a light color so that 1.) it contrasts sharply with her attacker's blood and 2.) so Jonathan can bitch about it being 'too cheery.' :-P I worry too much about aesthetics, I know

…he wasn't particularly fond of the color… – my Jonathan is very stylish, although not fanatically so; he's just a very classy individual. The man wears a sweater vest, for God's sake!

a pair of small, black, oval-shaped glasses – this is completely irrelevant, but I just wanted to make a note of this: I love Harley and Jonathan's matching "geek chic." It's too cute for words, seriously. :-P

Ever the gentleman – despite his being a cold, egotistical prick, I dothink that Jonathan would give off an air of politeness, if only because it's part of his superiority complex and because his grandmother felt that, just because he's the bastard son of her wayward whore of a daughter and some mystery man, doesn't mean that she couldn't beat a sense of decorum into him.

…using the words 'do it' in a sentence… – again, based on personal experience, though I rather wish that it wasn't. For some reason, my entire fourth grade class was utterly fixated on sex, even though none of us were really old enough to know anything other than the absolute basics. But it was like you couldn't say the words 'nuts,' 'do it,' 'enter,' 'thing,' 'go inside,' or anything like that without the entire class giggling like a bunch of idiots. I think it actually got to the point where you couldn't even say 'but' anymore. Trust me, it got really old, really fast. Meanwhile, ten-year-old me was just like, "Um…yeah? Sex. Whatever." But that's probably what comes from being raised by parents with European mindsets.

"…12,000 elevator-related deaths and injures per year" – according to the statistics I found, anyway. Kinda put me off riding elevators—at least, moreso than before. :-P

"I think you're funny." – I debated over this line a lot and had trouble deciding whether I wanted to end Scene I with that or "You amuse me." The second one would have worked, but I think that it sounds a little too evil villain-esque or something. And Harley isn't quite there yet, and even if she was, I don't think that she would say something along those particular lines, anyway.

que sera, sera – comes from the song of the same title and means "What will be, will be."

…insert the nozzle into the gas tank – I think that Freud would have something to say about sexual implications that this image may provoke. She's a girl thinking about a guy, said girl is attracted to said guy in some form, and she's thinking about his love life as she's getting gas. So, basically, good ol' Sigmund would probably say that Harley's subconscious wants to jump Dr. Crane's bones. But I wrote the damn story and I'm saying that it doesn't. :-P

A man standing just a few feet in front of her… – in a weird way, I feel bad for this guy, almost to the point where I wish that I'd given him a name like Stephen or something. He's a poor addict who's desperately in need of help—especially now that he has Harley's shoe sticking out of his head. I tried to keep his dialogue, clothing, build, and overall persona different from the stereotypical mugger/rapist just because those creeps have been done to death. And I also wanted to keep his intentions vague. Like Harley says, we really don't know what he wanted from her, though rape is implied.

…watching someone small and weak squirm… – therein lies the difference between Jonathan's desire to cause fear and that of most other criminals. Having been severely bullied as a kid for being so small and skinny (and smart ;D), I don't think that Jonathan would want to use his toxin on who share the same physical traits, unless he felt that they deserved it, like he currently does with Harley. But back to the point, to him, attacking the weak would make him no better than the people who tormented him—and, of course, he knows that he's much better than those simpletons.

…a shoe lodged into his skull… – this entire scenario is based on a true story that happened to a friend of mine. First thing that should be known is that she's a runner who's fetish for high heels rivals my own. So, one day she was pumping gas when this guy came out of nowhere and threatened her. To this day, we're not entirely sure what he wanted, and he was very sloppy about the whole thing—he did it in broad daylight, in a semi-crowded parking lot with surveillance cameras, and he didn't even have a weapon. Anyway, he pushed her into the driver's seat of her own car, trying to corner her, and she proceeds to kick the crap out of him until he runs away screaming with one of her stiletto heels stuck in his head. No lie. And, unlike Harley, my friend wasn't overcome with hysterical laughter afterwards, just so you know. Although it was funny when the guy later tried to sue her for assault.

Disclaimer: So far, I don't own anyone except the creepers of this story: Dr. Gooding, Mark Tess, Allan Breedlove, and poor "Stephen."