I do not own in any way, shape, or form Batman with that in mind, enjoy!
Although the night was waning, the traveler suspected the tour was not yet over; somehow the punishment of eternal riddles did not seem like the lowest level of Hell.
"There is one more level to visit: Arkham Asylum."
The traveler paused, allowing the implications of the dreaded institute to wash over him yet before he could fully register what such a level within that place would entail, Batman continued, "It is necessary for us to cross the bridge then once more descend into the sewers; we will not be welcome at Arkham's gate."
Gooseflesh once more broke out along the traveler's body but he merely nodded.
And so their journey continued until yet another manhole—far from the main island of Gotham—awaited them.
Under any other circumstances the traveler would feel dismay upon once more slipping into the bowels of the corrupt city yet the hostile atmosphere within the island, dominated by the blackest pits of crime within the Narrows and the centre of horror within the asylum, persuaded him with greater urgency than he would have used otherwise to once more follow the Dark Knight's path into the sewers.
No matter the reasoning for returning, the suffocating sensation of slipping into the city's slimy underground did not bode well with the traveler. The ladder within the present manhole was made of weaker metal than the one before causing the traveler to doubt each step he took on the rusted rungs.
Just as before, it took an eternity to reach the bottom but unlike before, the traveler did not feel a lift in his spirits as he heard the familiar grunt and splash marking his Guide's safe landing. Instead, he felt his stomach plummet—he remembered only too well what lied in Gotham's sewers and wasn't eager to learn what resided in Arkham's.
Even so, the man once more held his fedora to his head with a grimy glove and dropped down beside his Guide; there was no turning back.
It took the traveler's eyes a moment to adjust to the utter lack of light but once they did, he found himself more disoriented than before. The canal—if such a flooded waterway could be labeled such—was not lined with catwalks and railings as the other sewer but rather wooden planks seeming more like segments of a fence than a flooring, floated atop the filthy water.
Perhaps more disturbing was Batman's warning, "Within these sewers resides Killer Croc, formerly Waylon Jones first a wrestler than a member of the mob who suffered from a rare skin condition that mutated him into the beast he is today."
Rather than feel intrigue at the strange condition of the former mobster, the traveler only felt an instinctive urge to flee from the sewers yet he gave no indication of his uneasy thoughts as he dutifully followed Batman's soft footsteps along the unstable boards that seemed to teeter uncontrollably with every shift of weight.
Soon the traveler was more occupied with not falling into the gruesome water—and possibly meeting whatever resided in the water—than pondering the possibility of running into the mutated beast.
However, a bloodcurdling scream belonging to a man with a deep voice echoed through the curved tunnel, "HELP ME! PLEASE!"
All too soon the traveler was able to view what atrocity was resonating in the enclosed space—
Scales.
Scales covered every inch of the beast's body. He may be wearing torn jean shorts but the massive bulk of muscle and plated scales clearly defined the man for what he was: a monster.
What else but a 7'5" monster could tear a man apart, teeth gnashing in between the gooey strings of gore that bound the middle of the man together—the traveler could only assume the beast had eaten his way through most the torso within the few seconds that passed after the man's screaming fell into silence.
Yet perhaps more startling was the massive trough of mangled bodies, creating a chain of carnage around the beast's large platform. No matter the terrible state of the carcasses, each one began to regenerate their flesh until a new plethora of victims awaited their terrible fate yet again.
The traveler visibly recoiled at the sight, unknowingly falling further behind the masked vigilante as they neared the monster.
There was a clink of metal—later revealed to be large manacles, chain snapped but cuffs intact—and a flash of red eyes before the brute roared inhumanly, "Batman! Your bones will snap. Your blood will fill my belly."
Tossing aside his latest chew toy, the massive creature seemed to lurch toward the Dark Knight yet restrained himself at the last minute—thankful of the change of roles providing them both protection against the otherwise lethal beast, the traveler followed Batman's silent example and continued on his way.
Yet the beast continued.
"These murderers do not satisfy me—I will come for you!"
The traveler shuddered, tucking his trench coat around his body more tightly as he fought off the chills the deafening voice awakened.
Thankfully he noticed the ladder leading up to safety—No, not safety but something far worse, even as impossible as that seemed, than the sewers. Nothing awaiting them within the infamous asylum would provide security—After all, it was Arkham.
Despite the truth of his internal thoughts, the traveler followed closely on the vigilante's heels eager to be above ground once more.
Yet what the traveler did not expect was to emerge amid wiry undergrowth that clawed at his trench coat and almost snagged his fedora off his head as he surfaced. Similarly, the traveler was surprised to note the presence of the crow who simply watched the two gain their bearings with its black eyes, remaining—for once—silent.
Batman seemed to inspect the bird for a moment longer than necessary before journeying to the nearest building.
Upon looking around the traveler noted the iron wrought gates enclosing them within the asylum's compound; he quickened his pace.
Yet strangely enough, the further they walked the flighty crow maintained sped with the duo, occasionally circling back as if reassuring itself that they were following. Not once did the crow cry out.
In spite of the uncanny circumstances, Batman proceeded to approach the double winged doors of the building—The doors opened automatically, creaking horribly, yet before either man could enter the crow swooped down and flew straight into the building.
Hidden eyebrows furrowing, the traveler followed the Dark Knight into the building. Of all the horrors he had witnessed that night, the next few minutes scarred his eyes with revolting images of human extremity present in each cell they past.
Hands reaching out for relief, begging in broken streams of gibberish, others screamed and screamed without reason or restraint, yet others were restrained and resigned themselves to twisting madly into the cement walls with whatever limbs were available—as if they could merge their body with the cold stone and escape their torment.
Perhaps even more curious was the reaction of those within the cells, heated glares, spiting, snarled curses, as the crow glided through the air—easily cutting through the atmosphere of those desperate and disturbed.
Rows upon rows of cells; hallways composed of enclosed rooms barred from public view yet bearing bloodied handprints about the door and gouges—presumably from fingernails—along the wall; the traveler was lost in the maze of malice.
Yet eventually the pathway led to a new wing of the institute labeled: Medical Wing.
Within the new wing, stained cement flooring giving way to dirtied white tiles, various sections of the room were converted to miniature treatment rooms separated only by torn curtains. Yet the largest expanse of the wing, in between either side of the medical rooms, rested a large mahogany desk and seated behind the desk, with all the austerity and superiority of a judge, was a man with well kept, brown hair and piercing blue eyes behind clear-rimmed glasses.
Suddenly the crow soared toward the desk cawing seven times before landing in a flurry of feathers on the floor. Yet once the feathers cleared away a woman, garbed in black with a cascade of glossy feathers falling over one shoulder like a sleeve, rose from her kneeling position.
"I've trailed them through the seven levels as you asked, Dr. Crane."
The man enthroned on his high post cleared his throat then spoke with a cold tone, "Obviously..."
The crow turned woman stiffened yet her expression was hidden from both the Guide and his ward, without a word—no doubt communicating silently with cold man—she walked to his side and remained perched on a corner his desk, now revealing a mask constructed from feathers as well.
Yet the traveler's attention was drawn to Batman as he began his introduction, "He calls himself "Scarecrow." Psychologist turned psychopath. He preys on the innocent and instills them with fear. When I chose to wear my...costume, it was to prey upon the criminals, and instill them with fear. The irony is not lost on me..."
Scarecrow raised an eyebrow, "Yet who in this place is innocent?" he rose from his desk and walked toward the pair, clasping a bundle of burlap—seeming out of place for a man in a suit, "Is it there some indicator of this 'innocence', some special gene? I think not. The abusers, the tormentors, they are created early on for there are all kinds of teachers, and all kinds of children.
'That realization was the defining moment, you see…The object lesson that shaped the rest of my life. It was the moment I learned the two most powerful forces on earth…fear and control…and that anyone could use them."
Batman growled, "You are insane."
"Oh? And in turn what does that say about yourself? Gotham's Batman, is not unlike myself. Darkly introspective…brooding…clearly traumatized in early childhood—"
Batman ground his teeth, glaring at the well-dressed villain yet Scarecrow continued to speak, "And so I perfected my weapon, my defense, against those wrathful bullies—quite an amazing formula, really. It acts on that part of the brain that harbors the ego…that dark, primal corner where lies our baser selves…and deepest fears. Then I donned a costume worthy of my weapon; hence my scarecrow mask…"
He trailed off, removing his glasses and placing them within his suit in order to slip on the mask. Once finished the result was uncanny; twisted burlap, crude stitchery, and gaping holes created a nightmarish picture.
Yet Batman was beyond humoring the talkative egoist and turned to lead the traveler out of the asylum. Neither looked back when the feathered woman let out a shrill scream; no doubt receiving the penalty for assisting a sadist.
However, upon exiting the asylum and its horrors, Batman turned to his ward, "While we have traveled through all seven levels of Gotham there is one last place we must venture to this night: the lair of the devil."
