Losses 3 (Scarecrow Dementia)

A/N: AU time. You'll know what it is when you get to it, but I indulged myself. The other two were mainstream; this is almost the universe I'm going to be writing about after Runa. Feedback is lovely.

It had been so easy.

Watching as the sickness ate away at them, warping their bodies and souls. He could do nothing to prevent it, so he just stood by and watched. He helped ease the pain when he could, but he sought no answers. He knew full well that no one had any to give. There was no remedy, no cure, no help for these helpless. Family or not, he could do nothing for them. That had not been the easy part.

Often he thought that maybe if he had looked, he would have found something. He knew that he wouldn't, but doubt plagued him. It seeped under the gas mask and straightjacket, embedding itself in his skin. His skin, covered with needle tracks and scars. He remembered a time when there had been a girl, loud and crazy and brilliant, and he had loved her. He remembered loving, but he could not remember love itself. It was not the only feeling he could no longer recall.

In the routine crashes- and our fields

He had not been present when the sickness started. That was what saved him from sharing their fate. He had away to deal with something that had arisen at home, and when he had returned everyone was wearing masks and gloves. He had been given some and cautioned not to go near the sick. He had, of course. He wasn't a rulebreaker by nature, (though that changed quickly enough,) but they were his best friends. He at least owed it to them to say hi. So he had, and he had been shocked at the transformation. Eyes sick and yellow and reptilian, skin turning to scales and fur and fingers curling into claws, wings seething underneath frothing skin. They would die before they completed the transformation. They begged him, in voices hoarse from their vocal chords being shredded, to please kill them once they were too far gone.

Every morning and every night he would sneak in and ask them their names. And every morning and every night, they would tell him. They would suffer through another day, fighting the sickness as best they could. It was so simple, really; he was surprised that it hadn't been done earlier. Lao Mang Long in their breakfast. Concentrated so that they would change hours after consuming it, not seconds. And they wouldn't see it coming. It would render their bodies and minds slowly enough to drive them all mad and evil, four more pawns for a demon. At first, he wondered why he hadn't been poisoned too, but then he remembered. He had skipped breakfast that day. In his haste to get home and check on his father's broken leg, (so trivial compared to the sickness,) he had forgotten to eat. The irony was not lost on him.

Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks,

Eventually, he had come in and they did not reply. Empty eyes, the pupils slits or opaque. Transformations that were almost complete. He knew that if he did not kill them, no one else would. So he had gone down to the armory, a room that was to be used in only the most desperate of times. He considered this pretty desperate. A Colt .44, loaded and everything. Old, yes, but operational. It would be the least painful way. He went back to the sickbay, said his last goodbyes, and killed them.

He hadn't thought to muffle the noise.

The elder monks were furious. Killing was not allowed. He remembered being oddly dispassionate about the whole thing. The easy part had been pulling the trigger. He hadn't even blinked. There had been some pride involved in the whole matter, he was certain. Pride that he could do it, do what no Xiaolin Warrior had ever done before. He could kill. He was kicked out, of course, but that idea stayed with him, whispering in the back of his head. You killed them for mercy, because the sickness hurt them, because they asked you to, because no one else had the guts. It became the first voice. Others joined it, but that was after he began to commit crimes.

And the rates rose, all because of us.

He hadn't meant to turn to crime. But it was so easy, just like pulling the trigger once, twice, more. It was power and pride, and he found that he liked both. In this new city, all dark and gritty like the corner of his mind where the voices dwelled, crime was commonplace. He would show them that he was more than just commonplace. He would show them. He would show them all.

It had been simple. He had remembered something that the girl he loved had shown him- a comic book. Villains spreading chaos and fear in a city just like this one. The fear rung a bell, and so he began to carve out his new identity. A new home, a new occupation, a new face. This face was made of goggles, a sack and a gas mask, the burlap scratchy against his skin. He cut holes for his eyes and mouth, pulled the sack over his head and put on the goggles and gas mask. His old hat, a trenchcoat, gloves. Gas that would make people scream and cower while he walked by, collecting what was his.

The police couldn't catch him. Even when he was cornered, the earth would protect him and the gas would let him get away. Even those who hadn't breathed it in feared him, feared his new face and new name. Fear was power. Money was power. And he was getting more and more powerful. Eventually, he was caught, by someone who was darker than night and who scared him. Exposure to the chemicals he used for the gas had left him immune to its effects, but this person truly scared him. He loved it.

Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among

It was a she. Clothed in black, a cape swirling around her feet and confusing him. He couldn't tell what was she and what was shadow. She had wings, dark and leathery, tucked behind the cape, but he saw them. Pointed ears, fangs when she snarled. (Just like-) He had no doubts that she was ugly, incredibly ugly. In the end, he thought he had beaten her. He had gotten her against a wall, ready to use his fear gas and listen to her scream. Then she had ripped off his mask and punched him in the face, and he had staggered back. She picked up his hat and looked him straight in the eye. Her eyes were vorpal behind the mask. Then she had spoken, and her voice had shaken him to the core.

"You're a lousy shot."

The people we had killed and never seen.

She had apprehended him, and now here he was. No mask, nothing to hide his face or his madness. Locked up in a white room, underneath a glaring light. A straightjacket to keep him down. But he would get out. He knew how. He was ready. All he needed was the right moment, and then he would escape. Then he and the girl he loved would get to fight together again. It would be wonderful. He would be happy. They would be happy, after so many years of separation and misery and loneliness. Surely she, too, had succumbed to the voices. Locked up in a white room, dying to communicate.

He threw back his head and laughed.

It wasn't different: but if we died

It was not an accident but a mistake

(But an easy one for anyone to make.)

Three down, two to go. To crazychick14, close, but think back for a moment. Who did Jack say he owed ice cream in the original series? Does Raimundo use slang incorrectly (though that was, admittedly, only one instance)? And why would the Dragon of Wind cause rain? Just food for thought. ;)
And to my newest reviewer, sir (because from the kitchen comment I'm assuming you're a sir,) I'm very much aware that Emma is a Mary Sue, though I must argue with the b*tch part. I cannot agree with you more that my stories are stupid and that I am a waste of space. Truly, you have shown me up with your sharp wit and intellect. I have been humbled. Really. Now shut up and buy a dictionary.
Also. Bonus points if you can name the lyrics that inspired me. I hid them in there. He is, after all, almost gone, isn't he? If not completely. So I thought it was fitting. Review, please.