SwordStitcher-I don't take their eyes out on purpose. More often than not, they claw them out of their own accord. I have yet to figure out why... Probably so they don't have to see anymore. That's why they make handcuffs.

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-Don't give her any ideas! With her luck she'll get herself taken hostage. When has that ever happened? Twice! I didn't ask how many times, I asked when. I can't remember. Neither can I. Twice.


It was hot, too hot by far. He thought he might have a fever. Or was it his imagination?

The scraping had found him. He'd lain awake all last night, listening to the steady skreee….skreee… on the door and on the walls.

Kitty had not come back, and neither had Crane. The only person he'd seen for the last day or two was a boy who brought him food.

He was bored.

It was a weird feeling, to be bored and in extreme peril, but it was true. There was nothing to do in here except stare at the wall and pluck at the lint on the couch. If it was possible to go crazy from boredom, he was well on his way.

Why was it so hot? The window pane was freezing cold, so it wasn't hot outside. But god, in here…if it got any hotter, the walls would start to melt.

He peeled off his shirt and lay there, marinating in his own sweat. Blargh…hot…

There was a soft knock on the door before it opened. Who…oh. Crane.

He had his briefcase in his hand. Why the hell did he carry that thing everywhere?

"How are you?"

"It's hot in here." he grumbled. Crane raised an eyebrow.

"On the contrary, it is sixty-five degrees."

Bullshit. There was no way it was sixty-five degrees.

He didn't say anything. Crane closed the door-no bodyguards? That was interesting-and sat down in the armchair.

"Apart from the…heat…how are you feeling? Any headaches, nausea…" He licked his lips. "Hallucinations?"

"No."

"How interesting." He scribbled something in a little notebook. "You will tell me if you start experiencing any strange symptoms."

"Sure."

"Good." He clapped the book shut and patted Nicholson on the head. "You've been very cooperative. Perhaps I can release you in another day or two."

Or right now. He could take Crane, snap the little prick like a twig.

He sat up just as Crane stood up, his briefcase still in his hand.

"I wouldn't get any ideas if I were you." he said softly, adjusting his glasses. "You may think that we are still at Arlen High, but things have changed."

Yeah, right.

He lunged, intending to grab him and toss him into the wall like he had in the good old days, and…missed.

Somehow or other, Crane had dodged him and was now standing by the door, shaking his head.

"I did try to warn you."

All right, so he'd misjudged. It was this heat, that was all.

He got up, cracking his knuckles and trying to ignore the fact that he was not at all steady on his feet. He could take him now.

He hunkered down a bit, trying to stop the swaying, and measured the distance. Crane wasn't moving. He was just standing there like goddamn Satin. His face should have had a few more bruises on it.

He rushed forward, his legs wobbling badly beneath him, his hands outstretched to grab the cause of every awful thing that had happened lately.

He made contact with the door, not with Crane.

Oww…

His head throbbing, his vision double, he became aware that he was moving backwards. What…where…

"Things have changed, Mr. Nicholson." Crane said softly. "You won't get out of here alive. Do you know what I do for a living?"

No, why should he know or care?

He tried to say so, but all that would come out was a low, "Muh…"

"Of course you don't. You never were interested with the world outside." He stopped moving and found himself being kicked over. "I'm a scientist, Mr. Nicholson. I study fear. And you…you are now my experiment."

His glasses were gone and an absolutely insane grin spread over his face. He opened his case and pulled out a burlap sack with stitching on it. What the hell…?

"The fact that that you are one of Jonny's greatest…friends…is just a bonus." He put the mask on and leaned down. The mask was horrible-the eyes were wonky and the mouth was stitched in what could have been a terrible frown or a horrible, mocking smile. "What do you fear, Mark?"

YOU YOU GOD NO NO PLEASE!

There was a hissing sound and a white gas drifted before his eyes. He coughed-hot, god, it was so hot in here-and blinked a few times.

The scarecrow laughed-a dry cackle that sounded more like a crow's caw than any human sound-and cocked its head.

"What do you fear?"

He squeezed his eyes shut. Hot, so hot…

"WHAT DO YOU FEAR!"

There was a crackling noise and he peeked. Oh, dear god.

The room was on fire. The scarecrow's mask was beginning to smolder and oh god, oh Jesus Christ somebody help the room was an inferno…

"TELL ME!"

How could he not see?

"Fire!" he sobbed out. "Fire…please…"

The smoke crept into his lungs, burning and making him cough and sputter. He was going to die. He was going to die in this wretched little room with no company but a demon.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe…

The last thing he heard before passing out was that horrible, inhuman laughter.