"Hey boss! Look what we have over here!" The thug rubbed his white-painted chin, stared at the lifeless body in the water in front of him. The leader of the squad appeared behind him and looked past the large muscular shoulder into the black and almost frozen liquid. He paused for a moment, then mumbled confused to himself: "Fucking god. Is that him?" The man shook his head in pure disbelief, then screamed at his henchmen:" Come on guys! We need to get him out of there! Otherwise the poor soul will freeze to death in seconds. And be fucking careful you idiots!" The tallest thug of the group stepped further on the pier, then bent down to lift the lifeless body up. It was unusually light. The muscleman carefully laid the man's body on the wood. The leader of the squad rubbed the back of his head, then spoke hesitantly to his followers: "We urgently need to report this to Joker or at least Harley I guess. Holy fucking shit. I always hate to do that. Wish me luck guys." He grabbed his walkie talkie and radioed the headquarters. After a short wait there was a loud cracking noise, followed by a deep male voice: "What is it?" The leader of the patrolling group replied excitedly: "We have found a body in the murky water that looks a lot like Scarecrow. What should we do with him?" A few seconds passed when the radio crackled again: "Are you guys sure that it's really Scarecrow?" The thug looked down at the demolished body, got on his knees and tried to wipe the mask carefully away. At that moment the body came to life, firmly grabbed the leader's forearm and panted heavily in the cold air. His head moved spastically, apparently looking for something. The injured man wanted to get up, supported himself with one hand on the wet wood. There was a croak like sound from his throat as he tried to talk: "What are you doing to me?" The henchman carefully placed his hand on the man's shoulder and gently pushed him back to the ground. He spoke softly: "Take it easy, Doc. We won't hurt you, promise." The words calmed down the man on the pier. His grip loosened until he finally let go completely. A deep sigh came from his bleeding throat. The leader operated the radio again and spoke into it: "We are 100 percent sure. What should we do now? He's in miserable condition, about to freeze to death and yeah, he's probably bleeding out right now." The walkie talkie crackled for a few seconds without any new information, then a female voice suddenly replied: "Take him to the sawmill as soon as possible. I will take care of him here. And don't say anything about this to Puddin. That remains our little secret, gentlemen."
With these words, the radio died, only emitting a faint hissing noise. The mostly dumb thugs on the pier looked at the squad leader. He only nodded slowly towards his men and spoke loudly to his followers: "You heard the lady. Let's take him to the sawmill. And not a single word to the boss! I want to keep my balls for a while." The tallest of them lifted the body of the rogue, laid him over his shoulder and carried him the short way to the sawmill. The guards there were already privy to it, only stepped aside when they arrived without a word. It was unusually warm inside. They went up the stairs into the former office department of the business, knocked a few times on the wooden door. The leader pushed the door open and stepped inside, lowering his gaze. He didn't know about the lady's mood. Sometimes she vented all of her anger on her servants, so it was safer to remain submissive. Harley sat at a desk with her feet on the metal surface and chewed very sweet bubblegum out loud, then looked up from her cell phone. "It was about time," she grumbled, getting up from the chair, "where is he?" The leader waved the thug to come inside. The muscleman carefully carried the body through the door. Harley stepped closer and examined the body, her eyes grew bigger every second. She mumbled softly: "Oh my god. Who was doing this to him?Is he still alive or what?" A faint gasp came from the mouth of the man believed dead. The young woman put her hand on his partly open cheeks, gently stroking the flesh. She looked up and pointed to a door behind her. Together they entered the strongly heated adjoining room. In this was an old bed. The mattress was already sagging, but that probably wouldn't bother the patient. The henchman carefully laid Jonathan on the bed and took a few steps back, clearly confused what to do next. Harley nodded to the men, then spoke surprisingly calm: "You did very well, guys. Take a short break and then back to the pier. Who knows what else washes up in Gotham tonight." The patrolling group nodded in understanding and then withdrew without to many noises. The door closed behind them, bringing a moment of calmness to those who remained. Harley sat on the edge of the mattress and put a hand on the former psychiatrist's cheek. He winced hard, tried to raise his own hand. Harley took his fingers and squeezed gently, then spoke quietly to him: "It's all right, John. You are safe now. It's... not so bad."
The Master of Fear blinked slightly, then apparently looked into the eyes of the clown. His voice was nothing more than a croak: "Don't lie to me, Harleen." The young woman examined the battered body a bit more. One of his arms was broken several times, as were both of his legs. The nose and lips were almost entirely missing from his face. They had literally been torn from his skin. Something similar had happened to his cheeks. His eyes stared into empty space. They still responded a bit, but they were faded into a light grey tone. Harley bit her lip lightly. He was most likely blind by now. She leaned closer to him and breathed softly: "As you wish. It doesn't look good, John. Can you see anything? I mean, maybe a faint glimpse of light or something." Jonathan blinked again, trying to meet her eyes. He didn't succeed. The former psychiatrist suddenly became stiff, probably realizing what had happened to him at that moment. His good hand came to rest on his disfigured cheek. He touched tentatively, winced from the pain. The clown was breathing a little faster, looking behind her in a chest of drawers for a disposable syringe and a cannula. There were already some bottles of medicine on the wood. She hummed softly as she searched for the right painkiller. She found the morphine in the whole mess of strong medication and drew it up with the plunger. Harleen turned back to Jonathan and sat down on the edge of the mattress again. The young woman checked the pressure, then pushed the rags off his arm. There were wounds there too – wounds like those of a wild animal. She put the needle to his pale skin and gently pushed the cannula into one vein. Hopefully the remedy would work quickly on him. Harley cleaned the puncture site with a swab and pulled the pressure off. He must have lost enough blood already. Finally, she put a small plaster with a dinosaur army on his arm. A small smile lurked on her lips. She loved those bandages, to Puddin's annoyance of course. He berated her as childish and not very humorous. The crazy girl had a very different view on this, but to discuss with Joker was almost impossible. At that moment, however, this unimportant argument was of no concern anyway. She watched Jonathan relax slowly. The remedy worked. Harley rose again and opened the bottom drawer. There she looked for sewing kits and bandages. Behind her came the hoarse voice of the former psychiatrist: "I don't see anything, Harleen. I just don't see anything." The addressed villain lingered briefly at the chest of drawers, staring at the worn wood. She took a deep breath and said slowly: "I know, John. Whoever did this to you tried hard to completely dismantle you. It's a miracle that you are still breathing and are among us."
Jonathan remained silent on this answer, dropping his good arm on his damaged chest. Harley brought the material to the bed and turned to face the door. She spoke softly: "I'll get some water and disinfectant for a moment. I'll be right back." With these words the clown stepped out of the room and went to the dirty bathroom. Couldn't the henchmen even leave something clean for once? She shook her head slightly and picked up a bowl and filled it to the top with warm water. The young woman returned to the office, dragged a chair up to the bed. She gently felt a wound on his leg. There was no response from the older man. Apparently the morphine was working on his brain. She looked into the demolished face and said soothingly: "I'm starting to clean the wounds on your legs, disinfect them and finally stitch them up. Is that okay for you, Prof?" The man on the mattress only nodded slightly, then finally closed his eyes. Harley fumbled in the mess of materials for useable scissors, started to cut the grey fabric from his legs. Her breath stopped for a second. Some of the wounds were inches deep, near the bone. Slowly a suspicion crept into her mind. She cleaned the largest of the wounds with a handful of swabs and asked him nervously: "What happened, John? Do you remember anything?" The person addressed gave a low grunt, then apparently was lost in his thoughts for a while. He then replied, almost in a whisper: "I had a new sample of the fear serum and wanted to drop it into Gotham's groundwater. That was in the underground catacombs of Arkham. Batman was there too, and then something caught me off guard in the water. After that everything is just spongy in my memory." The young woman nodded slightly, then cursed herself for the typical reaction. He was blind after all. She replied quickly: "Do you have any idea what caught you there in the water? Those injuries indicate a beast or more a monster." The former psychiatrist frowned, puckered the scraps of skin on his bones. After a few seconds he replied dryly: "I guess it was Waylon. Killer Croc." Harley cringed a bit and tried to shove the thoughts about the crocodile away, now sewing up a small wound on his right leg. He didn't feel the punctures, or at least didn't show it. She smeared some iodine on the stitched up area. Harleen would need a lot of that. The young woman sighed softly, then answer muffled: "I had already suspected it. You look like you've been gutted by an animal. Especially your face, John. It's a nightmare." The older man shifted a little on the mattress. His voice croaked harshly: "This is all Batman's fault. If he hadn't stopped me, I would never have fallen into the water."
The clown looked into the light grey eyes of the Master of Fear and pulled her lips into a fine line. Was it right to blame Batman for this? Definitely to some extent, but the main culprit was Killer Croc. Harley looked again at the wounds in front of her and said calmly: "Do you really think it's Batsy's fault alone? I mean, he's always in the way, but in the end he wasn't chomping on your organs." The former psychiatrist laughed hoarsely. He raised his hand a little and spoke calmly: "How can one harbour an abomination on a wild animal? No, Waylon only did what an animal like him does. The Dark Knight should never have cornered me so much. He wasn't even checking on me, when Croc got a hold on me and pulled me into the sewers. No, Batman is absolutely to blame for everything that went wrong that night. He alone. And the Bat is going to pay for it – so much that Gotham will finally sees what a failure he is." The young woman looked worriedly into the doctor's disfigured face. He had made his decision. The clown went back to closing the wounds on his body. In addition, she splinted the broken bones, starting with his left leg. The older man remained calm throughout the procedure. Whether it was the morphine or his extreme self-control, Harley didn't exactly know. She finally got to his face, staring into the former psychiatrist's empty eyes. The loose fabric of his mask was still over the torn skin. Suddenly his good hand took hold of the young woman's forearm. She didn't resist, just looked calmly at the suddenly tense face. He croaked softly: "Sew the mask directly on my face, Harleen. Otherwise you'd have to skin someone to patch me up again." The young woman froze for a moment, then spoke just as softly:" I would kill a thousand men for you if it helps you John." The Master of Fear shook his head slightly and replied weakly: "To finally beat Batman I need to be whole, Harleen. Set Scarecrow free." The clown moved her arm a little and freed her hand from him. She took a few deep breaths, then took another swab. Slowly her fingers worked the torn face of the man in front of her. Finally she put the sewing material on the mattress and looked at the result. The mask and his face were now one. The deep voice of the man in front of her made her shudder: "I thank you, Harleen. Without you I would still be out there in the icy water, probably frozen to death." The crazy woman leaned back in the chair, then said jokingly:" You have to thank the thugs who had more than a few brain cells and not confusing you for a worthless piece of burlap." The former Psychiatrist laughed softly, then coughed a bit. He was still far from being healthy, but the first step had been taken.