Chapter 38: ...Have Taken Over The Asylum

Rebecca fell back against a wall, pressing her hand tightly over her mouth, feeling like she was going to be sick, feeling like she was going to scream.

Oh God, don't do that. Don't do that. Don't scream don't scream don't scream don't -

Her breathing was audible and erratic, completely out of control, more whimpers than proper breaths, the tears coming again, and she shook her head, slowly, recoiling back into the immovable object behind her.

Scarecrow was stroking Nowell's hair when his eyes moved up to hers, and a smile moved across his lips, "You see? Was it that difficult?" she shook her head, not understanding, and he sighed, abruptly getting to his feet. Rebecca's eyes stayed on the doctor's limp body for as long as they could before reflex moved them back on to him. He looked at her, shaking his head, motioning at Andrea, slumped on the floor, "You cry, you scream, you die, is it that difficult?" then he glanced back at her, "Still. Such a shame. She was... so gorgeous..." he looked back, smiling at her again, "Almost as fun to play with as you."

"You killed her." She managed, finally, her words breathless and muffled by the hand still over her mouth, "You killed her, oh my God, you killed her. She's dead."

He smirked, "Yep."

Rebecca closed her eyes, forcing them shut, keeping him out, "No. No. House made of dawn, house made of evening light, house made of the dark cloud... Dark cloud is at the door, the trail out of it is dark cloud, the zigzag lightning stands high upon it..."

"Now that's one I haven't heard before... care to share?"

"House made of male rain, house made of dark mist, house made of female rain, house made of pollen. House made of grasshoppers."

"C'mon, let me in, yeah?"

He wasn't touching her, wasn't touching her yet, and she kept her eyes forced closed, hands locked onto something hard and metal behind her, breathing tight in her chest, "Male deity, your offering I make. I have prepared a smoke for you. Restore my feet for me, restore my legs for me, restore my body for me, restore my mind for me."

She could sense a cocked head, "It's... tribal. It's... a tribal healing prayer?"

Maybe he asked Crane? But, no, don't think of that, don't think of him, get yourself out, get yourself away.

"My interior feeling cool, may I walk. No longer sore, may I walk. Impervious to pain, may I walk. With lively feeling may I walk. As it used to be long ago, may I walk."

"This whole thing affected you quite a bit, didn't it?"

"Happily may I walk. Happily with abundant dark clouds, may I walk. Happily with abundant showers, may I walk. Happily with abundant plants, may I walk."

"I didn't think I'd get you that bad."

"Happily, on a trail of pollen, may I walk. Happily may I walk. Being as it used to be long ago, may I walk."

"Sweetheart, we all know how I get when you start your chanting thing." A grip took her chin, and her eyes flew open, and he was so close to her she recoiled back, but his grip stayed like iron. Scarecrow moved his fingers over her lips, stopping her voice, stopping her recital, making her heart pump harder, harder, "Look at me."

She did. His eyes took hers. His eyes stole hers.

May it be beautiful before me, may it be beautiful behind me, may it be beautiful below me, may it be beautiful above me. With it be beautiful all around me.

In beauty it is finished.

Slowly, a smirk came back to his lips, "What, you liked her too?" Her confusion broke through. She frowned. He smiled, "Well, it's the only reason why you'd be so upset, right? You liked her." He looked her over, thoughtfully, taking his hand casually off her mouth, "I didn't know that. If I had known that, I'd have used her against you sooner."

"You'd have killed her just to get a rise out of me?" the words left her mouth without going to her brain first, fear and anger and despair jolting through her, "What are you? You're a monster!"

Scarecrow smiled, "No, sweetheart. I'm just the forerunner."

Rebecca's soul froze. She stared at him, shaking. "What did you say?" she whispered.

"I said I'm just the forerunner."

She tried to back off a step, realised she couldn't, held out a hand, "Don't say that."

"Why?"

She shook her head, "Don't ever say that."

"Why."

"Don't."

"Why." He brushed gentle fingers across her cheek, the touch making her skin crawl, his eyes moving once again down to her lips, "C'mon. Tell me why. Why don't you want me to say that to you, angel."

She yanked back away from him, frenziedly, stumbling backwards, away, "Don't call me that! Don't touch me, don't touch me!"

She staggered back into a filing cabinet, threw out an arm, managing to keep herself upright, but still staring at him. Eyes still fixed on him. He couldn't have. He couldn't. He couldn't know. No-one could know! Not even she knew!

"You can't..." she managed, shaking her head, something cold curling round her stomach, squeezing, hard, "You can't..."

Scarecrow smiled, "I can." he moved closer towards her. She backed away, hearing something clatter to the floor behind her, not caring, "I know what happened, Becky."

"You can't."

"Johnny-boy knows, so I know."

"But... but I..."

"I found it out. Becky's little secret."

"But..."

He shook his head. He was close to her now. Inches away. He took hold of her arms, just above the elbows. He smiled, slowly, "C'mon, angel. Let me help."

He leant down, and forced his lips against hers.

Almost immediately, however, Scarecrow flinched back, as though burned. He kept his grip tight, staring at her for a moment. Then he turned his head.

What the fuck is going on. Eve said, slowly.

I don't know. Rebecca replied, cautiously.

She watched him, closely. He gave a short, irritated shake of the head, gritting his teeth, "I'm not done yet."

What?

Crane. It was Crane. Crane was trying to break back through.

Scarecrow's grip tightened until it started to hurt, "I said, Johnny-boy, I'm not done yet."

He waited, listened. They continued their one-sided... 'disagreement'. Rebecca stared. She didn't even know which one she wanted to win.

Crane, Jane said, immediately, You want Crane, trust me.

"Bullshit, she was quiet, so was the girl."

"What is it." she said, quietly.

Scarecrow shook his head, impatiently, and then slammed a hand over her mouth, forcing her back into the wall, completely ignoring her, "I'm telling you, we're fine."

The silence continued. Rebecca started pulling at his hand, the angle he had forced her into awkward on her neck, sending pain spasming down her spine.

He finally clocked her. He looked at her for a long time, not moving his position. "Just... five minutes." He growled, putting more pressure on her jaw until she was whimpering with pain under his hand, "I'll get more of a reaction out of her in five minutes than you have in five months. Trust me."

She tugged harder, her priorities switching easily from watching this madman fight with himself to trying to keep her neck intact. She finally managed to yank her head to one side, forcing him to press her directly against the wall instead of putting all the pressure on her neck. Scarecrow let out a low, feral growl, and seized her throat, smashing her head back against the wall, pressing down, hard.

And then he stopped.

Rebecca hesitated. She looked at him, at the man in front of her. She tried to watch his eyes, but he released her, roughly, and turned his back. A few seconds later, he turned back to her, eyes their perfect, sea-grey hue, breathing a little unsteadily. "Miss Wells."

"Crane." She stared at him for a moment. Then she shook her head, "You... called him off."

He nodded, "Well." He paused, then glanced over his shoulder. "Someone has to deal with this mess, don't they?"

Mess? That was Andrea. Andrea Nowell. Doctor Nowell, smart in a white top and grey skirt, brown hair pulled back in what looked like a clip, the one who knew, the one who understood, even when she dreamed of killing her, the one who brought her her friends, on Christmas Day, the one who gave her pills, the one who gave her hope.

The one who found her when she ran.

Eve was screaming in her head. Stop him. Stop him. Stop him.

Rebecca looked at him. Her stomach felt cold, her head light, dizzy. This couldn't become another Nurse Werner. This couldn't become another tragic accident, just another statistic in some bureaucrat's red book. He couldn't get away with this, not again.

Crane had turned his back to her once again, fiddling with something on the desk to Andrea's left. Back turned.

Stop this. Stop him. NOW!

She surged forwards and he moved fast, barely giving her enough time to wince, the needle was in and out so quickly.

"Okay. Alright, now. Alright."

She struggled, trying to get him off her, but his grip was strong, and she was getting weaker. He took her by the elbows as her knees gave a little under her, and then helped lower her to the ground as they gave way completely.

"No." she murmured, weakly,

Crane didn't look at her, instead concentrating on the injection site, working her arm and shoulder, gently, urging the liquid around her system, "Injected so close to the heart as that it usually works very quickly. Five seconds, shall we say? I need you to count backwards for me."

"Crane -"

"Five."

She shook her head, "Crane, don't -"

"Four."

She shook her head again, her vision starting to go slightly blurry. She had to stay awake. She had to keep herself awake.

"Three."

She could feel herself getting drowsy. She tried to open her mouth, to move, to speak, anything, but she couldn't.

"Two."

Do not fall asleep. Her mind ordered, firmly, Do not fall asleep.

"One."

Don't fall asleep. She thought, and felt consciousness slip between her fingers.

Claire Rodriguez swiftly weaved in through her front door, closing it hard behind her. She paused for a moment, and then sighed, moving further inside, leaving the light off, relishing the dark silence. It was like being underwater; the rush of the sudden storm outside the door was muffled and warped, and just quiet enough not to bother her. She slowly peeled off her sodden jacket, hanging it up with some distaste on its hook. She had been caught right in the middle of the damned thing; every article of clothing she had on was drenched. She took the folders out from under her arm and glanced at them, sighing in relief as it became apparent the rain had not managed to penetrate their plastic folders. She'd just got home from a long walk from the bus stop, after a long ride from her parents' house two states over in Massachusetts. Technically speaking, she should still be there, but she had pled illness and managed to escape home 'until she was feeling a little better'. God, she hated New Year's...

She fell into the nearest chair, closing her eyes and leaning her head back with a sigh. She thought about her day. What a day... Sam Colt in the morning, eight hours of mindless gibberish with patients during the day whilst simultaneously trying figure out what the hell was wrong with Colt, and then the two hour bus ride up to Mansfield. Oh, and then four hours of mindless gibberish from her extended family.

What was wrong with Colt? The question had come to her a few times during the day; she wished she'd snuck a look at his chart. Hospitalised for a week because of bumps and bruises? That wasn't like Gotham General at all, and she knew that from a whole lot of clumsy-adolescent experience. She'd heard from rumours around the hospital that the Joker had thrown Colt - and himself - down a flight of stairs, but surely that meant x-rays and casts and don't-sleep-in-case-you're-concussed leaflets before showing you the door without so much as a pat on the back for surviving.

What the hell had the Joker done to him?

Suddenly, Claire became aware of a quiet, repetitive beeping sound that she recognised instantly as her own answering machine. She sighed, leaning further back in her chair and closing her eyes, wearily, "I'm not here, go away."

The annoying beeping noise continued, and she sighed again. She was really going to have to change her phone number...

She got up, reluctantly, and glanced over the machine. That one red light flashed at her, relentlessly. It wasn't the hospital; the hospital would use her pager. Knowing her luck, it was probably Aunt Karen calling for a 'friendly chat' about whatever the hell was going on with her relationship these days. It was always the same conversation, again and again, and all that ever changed were the names.

Claire closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead with a hand. It was late, and she was exhausted. Whoever it was, she didn't really have to do this now, did she? The caller had only left one message, so it couldn't be too dire, whatever it was.

Claire looked at the flashing red light, sense of duty battling with common sense. Then she shifted in her place, and water squished through her shoes, and common sense won.

Sam Colt was still awake. They'd offered him sedatives, but he'd declined. Strongly. For a nurse, he wasn't particularly fond of drugs.

Or medi-babble. He'd never realised quite how annoying it was that all medical guys spoke a mix of gibberish and utter bullshit until after he'd been admitted. He made a mental note to avoid using words of more than three syllables with patients from now on.

He should have taken the sedatives. They'd already dosed him up with enough morphine to kill an elephant, and, whilst they helped with the pain, they made him dizzy as fuck. He had no idea what the hell was going on, and didn't like it.

But he supposed it was better than the pain. The pain had been... bad. Worse than that time he'd pissed on an electric fence back in third grade. The surgeons had come through a few hours ago. They'd said a lot about 'paraplegic lumbosacral injuries' and 'Anterior Superior Iliac Spine avulsion fractures', and, suddenly, Colt felt like his six years of med-school had just gone straight out the window, and he was right back at the bottom with the rest of the laity. He'd stayed silent, listening carefully. He knew he only needed time for the old images coming through, months of going over dull, repetitive textbooks, weeks scavenging the internet for the latest theories on oneirophrenia or Fregoli delusions.

He had taken hold of a small-handed weight, like the ones they used to train up an injured muscle. It had been left on the desk by some twat physiotherapist, he guessed. It'd hurt like fuck trying to lean over and grab the damned thing, but he'd got it. Nearly passed out with the morphine whizzing round his head, but he'd got the bugger.

Colt turned it over in his hands, not looking at it. He barely remembered waking up in the hospital, and had no idea at all how he got there. As for why he was here... even that was blurry.

The fucker had caught him by surprise, he knew that. On the way to the damned medical, he'd taken him by surprise. A least he didn't remember the pain. He supposed having your eye nearly torn out by a freak's teeth would probably hurt quite a bit. He reached up a hand to the cut, touching it, cautiously. Fucker missed. He should be happy about that, at least.

He'd managed to convince the surgeons not to tell anyone the rest of the story.

He toyed with the weight, passing it between his hands. They'd given him a fair beating, yeah. Nothing the bastard didn't deserve, of course. But most of the damage was caused by those damned fucking stairs. Of course, no-one believed that story... He knew Warrick should have left well enough alone. The bitch couldn't have done anything to stop them, he knew that, but why the fuck did he have to get the Joker involved? He knew the freak had pissed him off that time he asked whether Arkham's dress-code consisted of 'dressing like a fag', but even Warrick had to realise when he was opening a can of fucking-crazy.

He moved a little, and then grimaced and cursed as pain moved through his head. He'd be needing some more morphine soon. But not for his leg. Not for the 'ASIS avulsion fractures'. Headaches and bruises, that was what the morphine was for.

Because you didn't need morphine for paraplegic lumbosacral injuries.

Sam Colt snarled, and smashed the weight down onto his injured leg with all his strength.

And felt absolutely nothing.