Chapter Eight: an unsettled agreement.

Swimming through sick lullabies

Choking on your alibis – Mr Brightside, The Killers.

"P-please, d-don't lea-leave me he-he-here!" I gasp, barely able to force the words through my teeth, the midday light of sun not at all comforting as I drag my nails around the wood where the door handle was. Why the hell did it have to fall out now?

The lack of response from the other side of the door only adds to the panic.

"Cra-Crane, please! O-open the d-door!"

The terrible screams of a man as his stomach is torn into and eaten by rats... the weakened sobbing of a nameless young girl trapped in her dead family's home, branded as yet another plague victim... more torture victims, oh God, their screams! Enough to make an atheist pray to the empty nothing of space above for someone, anyone, to let me out!

Locked in York Dungeon by false friends. The machines were still running; 'though too bad the lights had tripped and died.

I slide down into the floor's soft embrace crying wordlessly, lips parted in a silent scream of true and absolute horror, as an awful nothing comes from the other side of the warm-wood door.

Locked in with no escape. Screaming does little good, neither do tears- what are my single, human signs of terror and helplessness to those which thrust themselves so carelessly from the likes of machines and electricity... never tiring, always emitting that terrible, mournful sound... the sound of fear and agony rolled into one inhuman note.

Unsure of how long I lie curling in on my shaking body on the lush ruby carpet for, I fight against the terror which strikes me repeatedly for being encaged, trapped... maybe I am only this affected thanks to being traumatised by Scarecrow's fear gas? Or is it the way he reminds me of how vulnerable I am, of what I should fear, of the things that go bump in the night...?

"Miss Crow?" Suddenly starting at the use of my name (a little too formal- never mind that, he's not abandoned me at least!) my ears perk up, intent on listening to anything, even him, rather than the echoes of a best-forgotten memory. "I want you to get away from the door. I am going to break it down."

"O-oh, th-thank- Cr-Crane, I-!" Why would Crane even think about helping me...? Of course, if I die in here he wouldn't be able to hide very easily from the police should I be declared missing, as here would be the first place they check...

Stumbling to my feet, I stagger backwards and to the side, well out of the door's range should Jonathan do as he said he would and cast the door from its hinges.

A moment of hope smoothes my fears as I wrap my arms around my shivering body, wondering why it is taking him so long to barge down the door... Is it even physically possible for Crane to do it? He's so scrawny after all. The vivid memory of nimble fingers digging into my –now tender- throat, squeezing the life from me tears its way through my argument. Of course Crane can do it. And yet... he's only- only human. Oh, bugger.

Panic rips at my throat as the words sling themselves wildly from my convulsing throat.

"Crane, do-don't d-do it! Y-you'll h-h-hurt yourself!"

BANG!

The honey wood door bursts open faster than a zombie's stomach in an all-you-can-eat human flesh competition.

Surprisingly the doctor just stands where the door was, rubbing his shoulder with an annoyed expression aimed directly at-

-me? Wait what did I do? It was the door handle's fault for falling off like that. Yet an irrational (considering whom my 'rescuer' is) grin coils my lips upwards just as the sheer relief of being released from my confinement sinks in.

A phobia is irrational. Fear is not. Thus my fear of him is far outweighed my cleithrophobia: the fear of being locked in an enclosed space.

Unable to cover my emotions of gratitude any longer, I pounce on the glaring man, hugging him in the soft lighting of the corridor. His suit smells strange, I note, its bitter scent/taste prickling my tongue as I usher words of thanks. Must be his cologne. Smiling gratefully, I glance up to face my rescuer (there's something horribly wrong with the idea of him being associated with saving people... maybe not Jonathan; but certainly him), my smile remains, fading eventually as Scarecrow's mask peels away from the centre to reveal that his mask is not made up of tattered burlap; but of thumbscrews and tiny, working racks and miniature people bellowing in agony.

Leaning closer, I can make out the faces: my parents; my brothers; Izzy; that guy with the short dreadlocks who served me coffee at the airport... and two men I have been seeing a lot of recently, Jonathan Crane and Scarecrow, both in the process of having their arms and legs dislocated by the rack.

I am the one torturing them. Everyone.

"No!" I yell, turning my head away from the scene, the mask, I correct myself, it's a mask. None of this is real."I can't- will not hurt them- wrong- you're wrong Jonathan, Scarecrow, I don't do this, can't do this!"

With a low, sinister chuckle and a hollow amusement to his tone, the masked man pushes me back, away from himself. Oddly the skeletal, fetid claws that are his hands are not bruising, leaving me free to stumble in the direction of the room I had just escaped from.

I need to lie down. A series of inhuman howls from under my bed make me falter however; it's not real. Closing my eyes, I focus on my body's reaction to the toxin; rather than the mind-shattering psychological effects. Heart-rate has increased, therefore explaining my faster breathing. Leaden feeling in my legs... I frown slightly, annoyed; don't quite know what's causing that. Pupils will probably be dilating to take in more light and-

"Aren't you calm, Crow?" Curiosity, no, fascination laces the ex-doctor's voice and the echoing of his footsteps against the torture chamber's walls is so loud that my ears- No! I'm in my room. In my room. In. My. Room.

"I shall take that as a yes then." From what I can hear, he steps around me, slowly, stopping just in front of my quaking form. Waiting. Observing. Analysing.

"A-act-actually," the weight of my legs prevents me from stepping back, from running, hiding or even attacking Crane. The latter is probably not the best course of action; but hey! I'm terrified right now- fight or flight, such decisions are –apparently- already made for me courtesy of my frozen body...

"Actually... what?" The sadistic doctor enquires, his voice level and deceptively soft. For a moment I want to open my eyes, look into his startling blue orbs and pick apart his motives; although I swiftly brush this aside. Answer his question. Hurry.

"I-I," can't admit to you how scared I am- you, Scarecrow will give me hell to find out what it is that frightens me, as if your presence isn't enough to deal with right now! "I'm f-f-fine." Swallowing another lungful of sweet air, I hope that:

A: Crane will pass my lie off as the truth since the gas is already affecting my behaviour.

B: Another dosage isn't on the way to make me not 'fine'.

"Of course you are," Scarecrow drawls, a sickening, sarcastically comforting, string of words, "that would explain why you can't look at me and also why you seem to be on the verge of a panic attack."

Against my better judgement, the unwritten laws of self preservation and of basic common sense, I open my eyes, gasping.

The light in the corridor, no! morgue, is searing, burning my skin with a scent of pure evil, of burning flesh. There are corpses littered against the slick, mossy walls and on the floor; some have burst open to display the jellied organs, clotting blood and rude, protruding bones.

Bile rises in my throat, the scuttling of roaches' feet within, striking the already sated ground with an earthen tone and leaving the smouldering taste of acid in my mouth.

Scarecrow (Crane's gone... who am I kidding, they're just as bad as the other! If not one being a tad more restrained...) snickers.

"Seen something you don't like?"

"Y-you could s-s-say th-that..." breathing heavily, I stagger and lean against one of the wall of the chamber. It burns. "B-but, it's. Not. R-real." I hiss, the clothes on my back melting idly soon to be followed by my blistering skin. "Th-this i-is my home. I kn-know this pl-place like the back of my hand a-and th-the last time I checked there weren't c-c-corpses o-on the fl-floor..."

"You fear death?"

"D-doesn't everyone?"

Somehow, I know that under that mask of his, Crane smiles.


Despite the meagre and pitifully subtle fearful responses I have coaxed from Miss Crow so far, a smirk inches onto my lips, barely, just holding back a laugh Scarecrow threatens to unleash.

Let me join in Johnny, it's no fun watching... In response my fingers twitch whilst my eyes follow the frantic woman's eyes which flicker from place to place, dimming for a moment before recognition, comprehension, settles back into place as she sees the world through the drug. Fascinating, Scarecrow murmurs, pacing excitedly in my head. My right foot slides to be level with my shoulder width. Fascinating.

We should have tried this before: using a weak dosage of the toxin repeatedly, like a vaccine. I ponder, waiting for Scarecrow's thoughts on my idea.

No! I am only interesting in causing fear; not curing it! Listen to me Jonathan. What are you without me?

I-

I said, Scarecrow snarls, what are you?

I-

Nothing. You are nothing without me. Would you like me to repeat that, Johns? Nothing.

I would like-

-to give our little Crow-

-stop, I sigh, agitated and unconsciously glaring, using the possessive-

-the vaccine? Oh, Johns, Scarecrow sighs, folding one arm across his stomach and the other against his chest, one hand brushing his masked chin thoughtfully; we seem to be fresh-out of vaccine... maybe you shouldn't tell...

"...little Crow we're all out of vaccine!" Cackling freely, I can't help but to notice that the look on her face is priceless.

Let me out! Howls Johns, his face contorting–rather nicely- into something akin to rage and... oh, horror? How quaint!

"No Johns, I think you'll be quite cosy up there," upon hearing my patient's breathing beginning to make a turn for the shallow and unhealthily rapid side, I jut my head in the direction of the living room, intent on reaching the sofa where we can have a rather long conversation about the rules of hugging... "So just keep it down while I-" glancing over my shoulder for the brunette's whereabouts, I see her leaning heavily against the same wall as before, apparently petrified. Good, the idiot has finally caught on. "Hurry up or I'll drag you." A particularly large tremor passes through Crow's body before she shuffles towards me with huge eyes.

Aw, come on... seizing her by the upper arm, I pull along the young woman, laughing at Johnny's worrisome comments about 'what he shall do to me once he gets out' and –best of all- 'leave the experimenting to Johnny right now, his interest had been sparked'.

I assume that your 'interest' is purely scientific... or you can just admit your feelings and I'll be sure to pass them on once the time is right.

I have no reason to feel any emotion towards a subject; except interest perhaps, but never anything-!

"S-S-S-S-Scarecrow?" Poor bird just seems to be falling over her words just to say my name. Anxiously tightening my grip on the warm, soft skin beneath my cold fingers, I draw a deep, calming breath. That's the way I like them to say it... unable to control their fear. Beautiful.

Johns is nervous. I can feel it.

Do not turn around, he warns me, fixing me with those pretty blues of his, we need to get information out of her first. A pregnant pause follows his rushed words. I raise an eyebrow under the mask mockingly, wondering what promises I will get from gaining the said information.

Well, we will have a place to stay with a decent alibi should be somehow able to convince Miss Crow not to run scr- immediately, Johns corrects himself, to the police.

And...?

And what?My 'better half' snaps, his eyes hardening into something only marginally lesser than one of my stares. Get her on the couch and talk to her for God's sake! We need somewhere to stay and this might as well be it- no one will look for us here.

Alright Johns, just for old times' sake I'll help you-

-us, this affects us both-

-out; but rest assured I will be wanting some form of payment for this. My lips twist upwards in a textbook smile.

Such as?

More time to experiment? I need fear Johnny. Not 'want' or 'enjoy', need. So give me something to press fear onto; or watch as our little Crow breaks beneath my-

And why should I care? Hastily asks the other, Johnny can be so heartless at times... at least I can be honest with myself and my toys... to an extent.

I chuckle. You know that your reverse psychology works like a nightmare on others; but not me or our battered Crow... something else which makes her anomalous.

Fine. Poor Johns sounds so pathetic and defeated now... what a wonderful shame. I can give you more time with other subjects, we still have at least one base which the Bat has been unable to locate, we can use that. Just, something foreign –no more that that- alien, flickers into my senses as Johnny's thoughts grate parallel to my own. It passes smoothly; yet I can't help but notice that it resembles –to me- the smug feeling of a successful experiment, let me have the control variable as Crow. I assure you she will undoubtedly forgive us and permit us to stay... should you not be in control in her apartment.

Smartass. I growl, slamming the oak chair I had just dragged from the tiny table with the chess board on top into the stone floor next to the leather sofa our Crow lies upon. She jumps and I wholeheartedly take a deviant delight in seeing her do so, much to Johnny's disgust. So now you don't want to see her terrified? To hear her screams and gasps? What about-?

Hush Scarecrow, I can change my mind if I wish. Poor Johns sounds indignant at me evaluating his behaviour. Odd, I thought doctors like having a second opinion.

Snickering, I settle down at ease into the chair, my eyes never leaving my... Johnny's, no, our control variable's bloodless, stark grey features.

Just remember that once I'm done with these questions you'll have a few days to find me some new toys...

And you will have to make do in the meantime without any more to do with 'our Crow'. Asserts Johns, nodding internally.

Oh, Johnny, I smile thinly, drawing out a tattered black notebook and pen from our suit's inner pocket, don't tempt me.

Scarecrow had –I suppose- restrained himself: he had only asked for my greatest fear once (a question I would not answer him, much to his annoyance) and for what I had seen whilst under the influence of his weak fear toxin.

That I did answer. Much to his delight.

Afterwards Scarecrow had mockingly apologized; although I dare say that it is then which I began to feel sorry for the poor man, being trapped as an observer in someone else's (no matter how close you are to the person) head is a fate not may would like to receive. In my irrational pity I had tentatively reached out to touch his arm and –queerly enough- Scarecrow received the gesture with the sort of grace I would not have expected from a man who had murdered a bunch of thuggish men days before and had gassed me numerous times... the last –untreated- dose is still wearing off, there isn't going to be any lasting damage Crane tells me; just the nightmares, but I can handle them can't I?

I have been already for a while now.

Regardless, after the arm touching Scarecrow asked me to ask Jonathan to allow him to talk to me again (apparently I have degree of power over Dr. Jekyll), as he had enjoyed our 'game of twenty questions'. In truth, it had been fun. In the sort of way you might have fun on a rickety, breaking rollercoaster or as one might have when swimming with sharks; but fun nevertheless.

It was then which Crane returned to his body and insisted that he wash his suit in something alkali, to neutralise the toxin Scarecrow had sprayed into his clothes when he had the hunch that I might hug the charming hero who had saved me from the terrors of being locked in my room.

Needless to say I returned to being frightened of Scarecrow rather quickly; albeit I found myself musing (even now, lying in my clean sheeted bed, attempting to sleep without the fear of nightmares or night terrors) about how lonely, how desperate Scarecrow must be to want to talk with even one of his victims... and of how convincing he can be.

Turning onto my back a drained sigh leaves my lips as my unusually short nailed fingers sleepily flick on the switch to my handy survival torch (now kept on my bedside table in case of Crane, or more specifically Scarecrow) and shine it upwards to the clock directly above my bed.

Upside-down clock-reading is surprisingly difficult.

10:11pm.

Switching off the lamp and placing it quietly on the table beside me, I am about to settle back down to sleep when a shadow passes my door (the door is being leaned into the frame, since being knocked clean off its hinges... feeling very much like my sanity for letting the frightful doctor stay...) in the direction of the front and only entrance door.

For once my curiosity is sated enough knowing that Crane is going out for a while, it's better off not know what for, as sleep welcomes me for the first nightmare of the night.

Naturally Scarecrow starred in most; yet Crane always seemed to be somewhere in the background, noting things down in a spidery scrawl within a black notebook. Once our brief embrace of the lips created a nightmare, that one I awoke feeling robbed as a shadow paused over the crack of light under my broken door for a brief second, before continuing down the hall.

Each step like a clause in our unsettled agreement:

Tap. Do not cause any unreasonable harm (either physical or psychological) upon the other during Crane's stay.

Tap. Never call the police or any other emergency service.

Tap. Respect the other's privacy.

Tap. Remain true to the alibi.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.