Well, folks, I worked my tail off and here's a new chapter in record speed. I hope you enjoy.

Thanks to the reviewers. As I've said before and I will say again, you guys are the greatest. Seriously, give yourselves a round of applause. You inspire me to write and not just laze away my weekends. Thanks for making me productive and for encouraging me. I hope this chapter satisfies you.

To Tapidum Lucidum: I wish I knew your penname so I could PM you. I'd love to go into great and exquisite detail regarding why this story will never be a romance. To sum up all and any possible arguments I could make, I will ask this question: Would you fall for a guy who kidnapped you, made you miss your granny's birthday, and who then in no unclear terms, promised to drive you insane and kill you? I would hope not. Thank you for continuing to read and review, but I cannot give you the romance you desire.


Oh God, what had she done last night? Hadn't she promised herself that, no matter how pathetic her friends got, she wouldn't get plastered the night before an eight-hour flight? Hadn't she purposely turned off her cell phone and refused to open her laptop so she couldn't be tempted by texts or instant messages? Hadn't she said, point blank, that a week in Gotham with her grandmother did not qualify as a reason the throw her a going-away party, seeing as how she would be back in days? How had they roped her into this?

Danielle groaned and shifted. Whatever was beneath her was hard and cold and obviously not her bed. Her room was carpeted, and the floor beneath her wasn't. That meant she must have fallen asleep either in the bathroom or in her apartment's kitchenette.

The pulsing agony in her head suggested she'd gotten into a boxing match with Muhammad Ali and had—surprise, surprise—lost. Moving her head even slightly increased the pain to the point she wished she had no head. Danielle berated her head for aching, her will for giving into her friends' really quite stupid plans, and her friends for coming up with said stupid plans.

After giving her head a minute to settle down, Danielle figured she'd have to suck it up and crawl to the medicine cabinet for some aspirin. A hangover headache this bad wasn't going to go away on its own. Modern medicine would have to help move it along.

To ascertain if she was on the kitchen or bathroom floor, Danielle opened her eyes. They were instantly flooded with white light so sharp it practically stabbed her optic nerves. She hastily closed her eyes and moaned again.

That was strange. There were no white rooms in her apartment. The bathroom had lilac-colored wallpaper and the kitchen was painted a mellow cornflower blue. Neither room had lights bright enough to account for the glare.

Knowing she'd regret it when her head literally exploded like a grenade, Danielle sat up. There was no splatter of brain-matter and bone splinters. What a relief.

Danielle raised a hand to her tortured head, only to find its twin tagged along. She tried to move her hands apart; they refused to venture more than a few inches from each other. In confusion, Danielle opened her eyes, squinting to block out some of the light.

Handcuffs? What in the hell was she doing in handcuffs?

Then it all came back to her, rushing in like floodwaters through a burst dike. She had already taken her flight, had already landed in Gotham. She had been late and desperate enough to bribe a cabbie to break the speed limit. They'd nearly run into a horse. The rider had been pissed to the nth degree. He'd kidnapped them, brought them to the Narrows, and he was torturing Joe. There had been blood, and she'd passed out.

This dreadful realization spawned a swarm of questions. How long had she been out for? What had happened while she'd been unconscious? Where was the Scarecrow? Was Joe still alive?

"That was too easy. You won't make a very interesting subject at all if you faint like a Southern belle overcome by the vapors," the Scarecrow said.

The mystery of the Scarecrow had been solved. He was reclining in his comfortable chair, twirling his scalpel between his fingers with easy dexterity. The fingers on one hand still bore unmistakable red smudges.

"Congratulations. You made a woman faint. That makes you a real tough guy. Why don't you try to piss standing up while you're at it?"

And that solved the mystery of Joe. He was still firmly duct taped to his chair, but he was looking directly at her and he looked far more angry than afraid. While she'd been out, the effect of the toxin must have worn off.

"I'm glad you finally decided to wake up. Out of the kindness of my heart, I've been waiting to administer the next dose until you came around. It wouldn't have been fair to let you miss it."

"I tried to piss the little runt bastard off so he'd stick me and you wouldn't have to see it. Should have called him Elton John's boyfriend a couple of more times," Joe said.

The Scarecrow's hands clenched briefly into fists and then relaxed. He obviously didn't like his test subjects calling his sexuality into question. Danielle couldn't find it in her heart to be sympathetic.

"Since you've rejoined the land of the living, we can proceed to the second stage of testing. Once again, permanent damage is unlikely, though some mental trauma is inevitable," the Scarecrow said.

He stopped playing with the scalpel and placed it on the table. With his hands now free, he turned towards his case and the assorted objects it held. Both Joe and Danielle had grown to hate that case.

Danielle's body moved almost without her volition. With a slowness brought on by pain and unsteadiness, Danielle got to her feet. She lurched like a zombie towards the Scarecrow. His hands stilled and he watched the woman's clumsy gait, eagerly waiting for her to stumble.

"If you're going to attack me or attempt escape, you might consider moving faster," Scarecrow quipped.

"If I do, I'll be sick. But I'm not planning to do either of those things. Please, just-"

"No, I will not change my plan. He's my fount of knowledge until his death, and then I move on to you."

Frustration made her want to scream and yank her hair. Doing either of those things would only serve to further aggrieve her headache, though. So instead of breaking into honking sobs, she made another request.

"Can I have my Tylenol, then?"

The Scarecrow had all but forgotten about the Tylenol. He checked the table and noticed that the packets were still sitting where Schiff had left them. That was to be expected, of course; it wasn't like medicine often became sentient and went exploring.

"My head hurts," Danielle said.

"I suppose it would. You did smash it spectacularly against the floor when you fainted. It made a sound like two blocks of wood hitting each other," the Scarecrow replied.

Danielle imagined the sound and the pain in her head spiked. Thank God she'd been unconscious for that.

"Yes, take your Tylenol and go sit down. I'd rather not have you bashing your brains in yet."

Cautiously, Danielle inched closer to the table. She was reluctant to get into striking range yet she strongly wanted the Tylenol. Though it wasn't exactly morphine, it might be able to at least chip away at the monstrous pain in her head. It was so bad right now even thinking was difficult. She had to be more clear headed and less pathetic on the off chance an opportunity to do something of use arose.

Thanks to the mask, reading the Scarecrow's expressions was impossible. He could have been smiling, scowling, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out, and nobody would have been the wiser. Danielle had no idea what kind of mood he was in as she slunk close enough to grab her medicine. It made her jumpier than a frog on a hotplate.

"I'm not going to bite, I swear," the Scarecrow said.

Praying he wasn't going to do anything else, Danielle's hand inched toward the packets. The Scarecrow remained still, his posture relaxed. Maybe he wasn't going to mess with her. It was impossible to guess; he had one hell of a poker face, after all.

"Find your water bottle while you're at it. I'll make sure it gets recycled."

"You recycle?" The sheer improbability of the statement made Danielle's tongue bypass her brain. The words were out before she could debate speaking them.

"Everyone recycles. Coming from Seattle, you ought to know that."

"But-but you're evil!"

"But not too evil to recycle. Now show a little motivation and get a move on."

Danielle snatched up the Tylenol and then, shuffling more like an octogenarian than a woman in her prime years, headed off to find her water bottle. The Scarecrow had kicked it across the room and it had rolled against the wall. She picked it up and went back to her chair.

"Does anyone else have any requests or can we move onto the next order of business?" the Scarecrow asked. His tone suggested that, on the off chance anyone did have requests, they'd be wise to keep them unspoken.

"Yeah, I've got a couple for you. First, I want beer. I don't care what kind, just so there's a lot of it. Then I want these goddamn cuffs and tape off. And then I want you to get a pencil sharpener, the electric kind, and I want you to stick you-"

"You can either be quiet or, so help me, the next needle goes in your neck!"

The threat was enough to make Joe flinch. He wanted to experience that about as much as he wanted to stick his finger down a garbage disposal. Wisely, he shut up.

"I'm tempted to do it anyway, you loquacious irritant."

On that subject, it really was high time for the second dose. The cabbie had recovered more than sufficiently from the initial treatment and the Scarecrow was sick and tired of hearing him jabber. A little bit of Joe tended to go a long way.

Not bothering to make a show of it, the Scarecrow removed a vial from the case. It was identical to the first, the contents and labeling seemingly the same. Only chemical analysis or unlucky firsthand experience would be able to distinguish the two poisons.

"If you were planning on taking your Tylenol, take it now. I strongly doubt you'll be in the mood or have the stomach to in a few minutes," the Scarecrow said.

Danielle realized her hand had closed so tightly around the packets she had crushed them. She opened her hand and dropped the Tylenol onto her lap. Since handcuffs made everything harder, she had to carefully balance opening the water bottle, tearing open the packets, and getting both to her mouth without drowning herself or dropping the caplets on the floor. Somehow, she managed.

Once Danielle was finished and had recapped the bottle, the Scarecrow proceeded. He wanted her to pay close attention, so the anticipation would build up. By the time her turn came around, in what would likely be many, many horrific hours, she would already be scared out of her wits.

"This is going to produce a much stronger reaction than the first dose. Your prefrontal cortex—that would be the area of your brain responsible for long-term memory—will be affected. Your past will literally come back to haunt you. You will also experience more vivid hallucinations, so if you thought my mask was bad before, you are in for a surprise. Any questions?" Scarecrow said.

"Why weren't you shot?" Joe asked.

"What?"

"When the cops or Batman or whoever arrested you, why didn't they just blow your goddamn head off? They had to realize you weren't going to rejoin society as a rehabilitated normal person, or whatever the hell the goal is nowadays," the cabbie said.

The Batman. Scarecrow wanted to leap across the table like a demonic kangaroo and tear Joe's eyes from their sockets. Batman was the reason he was reduced to kidnapping random passersby and experimenting on them. Batman was the reason he had no job, he was disgraced, he was one of America's most wanted, and he was living in the Narrows with a schizophrenic who thought Larry King was trying to hypnotize him. Batman had, in a single night, effectively ruined Jonathan Crane's life.

And if all that hadn't been enough, the winged bastard had had the audacity to use Crane's greatest invention against him. Scarecrow seethed with rage at the memory. The protective mask torn off, Batman looking like some darkness that had escaped from Hell, fear like he hadn't experienced in years… And then the toxic mist in his face, inhaling, his brilliant mind temporarily torn asunder. He'd never forgive the Bat for those hours of madness.

"You are going to be very, very sorry," Scarecrow hissed.

Joe was well aware that he'd dug a hole far too deep to ever escape from. He'd gotten in his jabs—obviously he'd pissed the Scarecrow off and that counted as a victory—and now the only thing he could do was steel himself for whatever was going to happen.

Ignoring the laws of modern medicine that forbade the reuse of needles, the Scarecrow drew a dose of fear toxin into syringe he'd already stabbed into Joe once. There really was no reason to waste limited supplies on test subjects who were doomed, anyway. The risk of contamination hardly mattered when the fluid being injected was designed to break the mind and trigger horrible hallucinations.

The cabbie put on a remarkably impassive face as the Scarecrow approached him. Danielle, though she wasn't the target, shrunk against the back of her chair. She had no idea how Joe remained so calm, but she envied the ability.

Instead of restraining his arm as he'd done last time, the Scarecrow's empty hand seized Joe's throat. The hand squeezed almost hard enough to choke, and the cabbie's breath came only with great difficulty.

"I gave you ample warning. You were aware of the consequences, and now you can bear them."

Screw this. Screw this with a rusty railroad spike. He was not going to be poked in the jugular without one bitch of a fight.

Joe jerked his head back violently. The Scarecrow lost his hold on the cabbie's throat and before he could reach forward and regain it, Joe had struck. He did the only thing he could think of to defend himself.

He bit the Scarecrow. His teeth sunk into the meaty part of the hand where the thumb is attached to the body. The Scarecrow yowled and Joe mentally roared with triumph. Never mind the fact he'd been reduced to fighting like a cornered mutt. The Scarecrow had screamed before his victim.

The cabbie's joy was short-lived. Though his hand was being chewed like a tough piece of steak, Scarecrow managed to keep enough wits about him to remember the needle he held. He sunk the needle into Joe's arm as hard as he could.

It felt like he'd been stung by a bee roughly the size of an albatross. Joe grimaced but held doggedly onto the hand. The Scarecrow would get his evil hand back when he-

The world became a nightmare.


I doubt if the next update will be as quick, but I'll do my best. Thanks again for reading.