She was still experiencing a panic attack, Crane identified. Poor thing. It didn't need to be this way.
He remained knelt on the floor, but very carefully pulled her up by the hands to sit upright. His ribs ached as he moved. "Yes, it's me. I wouldn't hurt you."
She was still short of breath and trembling terribly, slack-jawed and face wet with tears. Crane leaned his body into hers and wrapped his arms around her back. Her body lightly jolted at the touch, and was otherwise rigid. He said calmly, "Deep breaths, Dahlia. Follow my breathing." And then took a large, large inhale. Held for a moment. Then exhaled slowly. He felt Dahlia's exhale, just barely.
Another big, deep breath. She mirrored, shakily at first. They remained there for several more minutes until she became still and calm. She gave a gentle push of her cheek into his shoulder. After another few short moments, Crane finally let go and shifted away. Her dark eyes looked tired and confused.
He closed his eyes, then nodded. "What you happened upon is my personal laboratory. For psychopharmacology." She didn't say anything. But she wasn't running for the door either. He continued.
"I want to share something with you ...
"When I was in high school, a group of my classmates lured me to a house party. One of the girls, pretty brunette, had been leading me along for a few weeks at that point. I didn't know any better - I was lonely and isolated. After the handful of drinks they coerced me into, they proposed a joyride around the neighborhood. But their route kept taking us further and further from the house. I didn't suspect anything due to the alcohol, and naivety.
"We reached an expanse of forest outside the city. And there ..."
Crane paused. He briefly observed Dahlia's state of awareness; she seemed to be hearing him.
"... they stripped me, tied me to a fence with rope, and spray painted ... a derogatory term ... across my chest and face. I wasn't found until three days later."
Dahlia took a deep breath. It didn't come across as contemptuous, but empathetic. Quietly, she was crying again. Given that she hadn't said a word in a bit, he presumed she needed a few moments to collect her thoughts.
As if handling a newborn, Crane gingerly took her hands again. He led her up from the floor, back into the living room, and into his preferred armchair. "Take whatever time you need. When you're ready to talk more, if you wish it, I'll be in that far room at the end of the hallway."
Perhaps an hour went by before Dahlia could muster the courage to stand up. There were so, so many questions circling her head, and she still couldn't quite sort out how she felt about the whole thing, and about Crane. What did his past have to do with anything? She needed to talk this out.
Dahlia stepped quietly down the hallway. The door at the far end, at the furthest reach of the left wall, was open. A warm glow shone across the floor. The closer she got, the clearer the sound of graphite dragging across paper became.
Arriving to the door frame, she swept the room as she entered. At one end, a large cabinet, then two bookcases in the corner. They were overrun with literature and textbooks, piles having formed on the floor. In the other corner, a desk that wrapped each wall. A chair with a man seated facing away, scribbling into a notepad. She swallowed the knot in her throat. The pencil paused, was set down, and Crane turned to the side in the chair to see Dahlia.
She finally had the strength to ask a few questions. "Did you have something to do with the student attack?"
The pause wasn't nearly long enough to feign remorse. "Yes."
"... Were you going after them because of me?"
A lengthy pause. "Yes." He didn't elaborate.
It took active effort not to indulge that idea further, and instead move on to another more relevant topic. The prospect frightened her to a low whisper. "What are you making downstairs?"
No pause. "Some concentrated fear pheromones, and toxins of many types. Ones that induce immediate psychosis and paranoid delusions. Also a few that replicate the neurological symptoms of Urbach-Wiethe disease, so basically the opposite effect. My particular focus is around the amygdala in particular, the emotional processor for the brain."
Her brows furrowed. "Why did you invite me here ... ? And why did you ... ?"
Crane stood up from the chair, briefly running a hand over his ribs as he did so. "Your experiences provide the ideal background for mixing science and justice. Frailty with faculty."
Dahlia's eyes moved to the floor. She didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but somehow it stung a bit. Not because of him, but rather due to some internal resentment.
He continued: "To give you the platform to strike back at the people who would rather see you die than to see you successful. Those who step up the social ladder by vaulting over the brilliant and the gifted. I can offer you the chance to turn the tables on your tormentors. We can strike back at the world, and the cruel injustices heaped upon people like us."
More of the void echoing into Dahlia's head space. Utter madness and completely irrational, is what a lot of people would say. That's why there's a justice system with honest people operating within it; Good people, like her dad. The convicted serve their time, are issued a suitable punishment, and society continues. At least in a nutshell.
A shame that Gotham didn't subscribe to any hopeful ideals. From where she was standing, Gotham was abandoned by good people long ago.
Dahlia spoke again, finally. "Caitlin tried to pick a fight with me today ... She threatened me, and I threatened her back."
"How did it make you feel?"
Her eyes flicked back up, full of fire.
"Spectacular."