Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

A/N: For those unfamiliar with the character, Aaron Cash first appears in "Arkham Asylum: Living Hell" and later in both the "Arkham Asylum" and "Arkham City" video games.

Revulsion

2002

Crane stood in Arkham Asylum's staff restroom, sweaty hands tightly gripping the white ceramic sink before him as if it were a life preserver and the slightest loosening of his clutch would send him plunging through the floor, swallowed by tile and concrete and dirt. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead before sliding down his face and leaving the salty taste of fear on his lips; it was a taste that he had become well-acquainted with throughout his life, an old friend that visited often and brought him both misery and pleasure. His glasses sat on the edge of the sink, the lenses coated with a fine spray of water from when he'd splashed his face in an effort to calm his nerves.

It hadn't worked.

He had expected that he would be nervous, but nothing could have prepared him for the crescendo of anxiety that grew with every heartbeat, gnawing at his insides and twisting his stomach into knots of pain and nausea. He felt sick with anticipation, and yet he also felt strangely excited; this would be a new experience for him, a new step in his path towards his ultimate goal, and only by completing this task could he advance.

He could not delay the inevitable, but he could welcome it.

And he would.

He glanced at his reflection and did not like what he saw; a pale, timid, frightened man with a wet face and disheveled hair, blue eyes wide as if caught in headlights.

He hated that man and wanted him dead.

With meticulous fingers he smoothed his hair and straightened his tie before wiping his face and glasses with a rather abrasive paper towel. After placing his glasses onto his face, he studied his reflection; when well put-together, he could almost pass for confident. It would do, for now.

He picked up his suitcase, gave the man in the mirror a final goodbye-glance, and began his journey to the interview room.

"Ah, fresh meat."

Waylon Jones, better known by his alias "Killer Croc", licked his decaying, sharpened teeth obscenely before inhaling a deep, exaggerated whiff of air. He exhaled loudly in satisfaction, and when he grinned Crane felt a chill run down his spine. "Delicious," he hissed, and Crane stifled the urge to vomit.

"That's enough, Croc!" Security guard Aaron Cash waved an electric baton at Croc with threatening authority, flanked by two other security guards (one equipped with a rifle that Crane presumed was loaded with tranquilizers), and his efforts were rewarded with a glaring look of hatred before Croc turned back and fixed Crane with yellowing eyes.

Croc was an impressive sight to behold, and in spite of his professional resolve Crane could not help but be fascinated and sickened at the man that sat before him. A thick, scale-like coating covered what Crane assumed was once smooth skin, shining underneath the fluorescent light bulbs. His nose was small and flat, his nostrils set in a wide flare as if he were constantly inhaling the scent of those around him, tasting their flesh on his long, red tongue. He was tall and bulking, muscular and intimidating, and Crane suspected that despite their weapons and the shock collar that adorned Croc's neck that if he decided to attack there would be little the guards could do about it.

Waylon Jones had likely died a long time ago during his agonizing—both mentally and physically—transformation into Killer Croc, and for a fleeting moment Crane wondered if this should sadden him. But that was dangerously close to pity, and the one thing that Crane loathed above all else was pity. Ultimately he decided that a man who cannibalized others alive was worthy of little sympathy, and so he pressed forward.

"Mr. Jones, my name is Dr. Crane. How are you this morning?"

"The name is Killer Croc," Croc sneered. "Don't you read the papers, pretty boy?"

"I apologize, Kil—Mr. Croc." Crane stumbled over his words and Croc's sneer widened.

"No need to be nervous, Doc. I think I like you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You look like a stick. I think your bones would snap real nice." Croc laughed a raspy, booming laugh that chilled Crane's blood and sent Cash into a rage.

"Shut the hell up!" Cash yelled, jamming the electrical baton into Croc's skin. Croc howled, either in amusement or pain—perhaps both—and balled his claw-like hands into fists inside his cuffs.

"Is that really necessary, Mr. Cash?" Crane asked, secretly grateful that the guard had silenced Croc.

"He knows he's not supposed to talk like that, Dr. Crane," Cash replied. "He knows what happens when he's not respectful."

"Keep talking, Cash," Croc leered. "Tick tock, tick tock."

"Mr. Croc, I'm to help you," Crane said cautiously, "but I can't unless you allow me to."

"Who says I want your help?"

"We can provide you with mental health services, medication, possibly even treatment for..."

Crane's voice trailed off and Croc let out an angry hiss of disdain.

"For what, Doc? For my condition?" Croc spat the final word out in disgust, and Crane knew that he had made a dangerous error.

"If I've offended you, I deeply apologize-"

"I don't need an apology, Doc. Your blood will do nicely instead. Your blood and your bones and your weak flesh—"

This time Croc was prepared for Cash's strike, and knocked the baton out of the guard's hand with enough force to send him flying into the wall. Instantly the other two guards converged upon Croc; the one with the rifle took aim and fired, sending a dart (Crane realized numbly that his suspicions had been correct) into Croc's scaly neck. Croc let out an angry yell as he slid from his chair and onto the ground with a loud thud.

"Code Red, Code Red!" Cash screamed into his hand-held radio transceiver. "Croc is down, I repeat, Croc is down!" He turned his attention to Crane. "Dr. Crane, get out of here, now!"

Crane did not need to be told twice. Within a matter of seconds he had grabbed his suitcase and ran out the door, his heart beating so frantically that he felt as if it may burst through his chest. When he reached his office he closed the door behind him and locked it before falling to the floor and vomiting into his wastebasket.

When the nausea had subsided he raised his shaking body into his chair, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Not since Granny Keeny had he felt such poignant and ripe fear, and the realization filled him with rage—both at Croc and at himself. He'd allowed some beast to frighten him, to have the upper hand, and the creature had drunk in his horror, knowing it had won as it bathed in his terror.

Yes, Killer Croc had won, but in doing so he had damned himself. In Arkham Asylum, Crane had power, and if it was the last thing he ever did he would make Croc pay.

After all, even a beast can feel fear.