That morning, Phoebe awoke with a splitting headache. Slowly she realized she was someplace familiar, someplace she knew well. She was home. How did… what…? Her thoughts were disjointed, difficult to form. She opened her eyes, the throbbing in her skull protesting the small action. What a nightmare, she thought with a sigh. She'd never had one that vivid before in her entire life, let alone one about her favorite teacher turning into a giant spider.
She took a deep breath as she looked around her bedroom, at the large heavy dresser, the computer sitting on the desk across from her bed, and the small bookshelf. In the corner was her school bag and a pile of textbooks. On seeing the bag, she looked to her clock and her heart leapt. She was nearly late for class. Springing out of bed she rushed to get ready and ran out the door.
Crane strolled across the Gotham University campus with an air that could only be described as gleeful. So far his experiment had gone flawlessly. After finishing his observation of Phoebe's drug reaction, he sedated her once more and took her home, placing her in her bed. If all went as it should she would wake up and explain away everything that had happened as a bad dream. There was a definite spring in the doctor's step as he congratulated himself on a perfect plot.
Across the quad, he spotted Phoebe running towards him, bag slung over one shoulder and an apologetic look on her face. Oh this was wonderful. As she stopped before him, he injected concern into his voice and asked, "Phoebe, good morning. Are you alright?"
"Dr. Crane… Jonathan…" she wheezed, trying to catch her breath. It was obvious she'd run all the way to school. Must've woken up with quite the hangover. "I'm so sorry about last night, I don't know what came over me…" Desperately she searched his eyes for a sign of forgiveness.
Crane decided to reward his test subject and asked in a worried tone, "Have you ever had a history of blacking out before?"
"Never," she replied, then after a pause, she said, " Thank you… for bringing me home."
"It's quite alright, Miss Watson, no need to thank me." He began walking toward the psychology department again and she fell into step beside him. "But if you wouldn't mind rescheduling our behavior study…?"
"Certainly doctor," she answered reassuringly. Crane could tell she was still hoping to please him. It was pathetic but welcome.
"What time would be good for you?" he asked. "Perhaps if we tried an environment a little more comfortable and familiar to you we can avoid a repeat of last time." He paused, putting on a show of thought. "Such as your apartment?" he asked.
"Um…" She scratched her straw-blonde hair, considering. "I guess that'd be okay. I'm free on Saturday if that's fine."
"Splendid," Crane beamed, rewarding her with a smile. Immediately a few ideas sprang into his head that he'd need to prepare for Saturday. Offering his hand to shake, he said, "I look forward to it."
Taking it, she smiled back at him. "So do I, Jonathan." Looking down at her watch, she added, "Oh hell, I've gotta run!" and scampered off across the campus. Crane just watched her go, chuckling to himself.
The rest of the day passed without incident as Crane slunk out of the chemistry lab with another thermos full of sodium lactate. The sun was setting and a cool autumn breeze blew through the parking lot and he whistled a merry tune as he walked to his car, a black four-door Lincoln Continental. Suddenly someone was grabbing him from behind, pinning his arms behind him and twisting them painfully. He let out a sharp hiss and dropped the thermos. No! his mind screamed. I can't lose it! I can't! He didn't even notice that whoever had grabbed him was now dragging him across the parking lot, his entire attention was focused on the thermos lying on the ground beside his car.
Somebody very large and wearing a ski mask grabbed his legs and manhandled him into the trunk of a nearby car. The hatch slammed shut and Crane was folded up in the dark, his only worry for the thermos. What if it broke open when it fell? No, that's silly, it's too sturdy for that. But what if somebody finds it? His thoughts were distracted by the engine starting up and he was thrown forward as the car lurched into reverse, backing out of its parking space. He then flew back as it accelerated and for a moment he was able to think clearly again. Just stay calm, Jonathan. You've been through this situation many times before. If high school taught you anything, it's that the anticipation is worse than the actual prank. He reached up and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, just before the car began to bounce and vibrate. They must have been driving off road or at least on a dirt path. Crane felt like his teeth were going to rattle right out of his skull.
Then all was still for a moment until the trunk opened and four big men wearing ski masks reached in and dragged him out. He had just enough time to register that he was in a field before one grabbed his arms again and the other three began assaulting him from all sides, stuffing straw into his clothes. The stiff, brittle substance scratched his skin as more and more of it was shoved down his shirt, up his sleeves, and into his trousers. His attackers worked in a flurry, laughing and guffawing, packing more and more of it into his clothing, never relenting. When they finished, he was thrown unceremoniously back into the trunk and the car peeled off with a roar.
After another long stretch of darkness, Crane was dragged from the trunk once again, this time across the university football field. Here, his four assailants pulled him up a ladder next to one of the goal posts and tied his arms to the forked metal pole. There was a sudden flash of light as one of them took a picture. His head lolled forward as he watched them go, laughing and congratulating each other for their hysterical prank. Two of them even slapped each other a high-five. Crane hung there, his arms burning with pain, his chest heaving for breath, and his skin scratching all over because of the straw crammed into his suit.
Once they were gone, he began working his wrists, flexing and rotating them. Little by little he managed to free one from its binding. As he hung there by one arm, he laboriously reached up and untied the second piece of rope, falling to the soft earth of the football field with an audible thud, legs buckling beneath him. For a moment he just laid there, catching his breath. The sun had long since set and he just felt like falling asleep on the cool grass. Then his eyes snapped open. My experiment! Scrambling to his feet, he ran all the way to his car, ignoring the constant irritation, leaving a trail of threshed wheat behind him.
Blessedly, the thermos was still there, right where he'd dropped it, and undamaged. Tossing it into his back seat, he climbed into the sedan and drove off, grumbling to himself and picking straw out of his shirt. He had a good idea as to who it was that had attacked him. As Crane made his way home, he made a mental note to repay Greg Hammond for his ride through the countryside.
Back at his house, Crane worked diligently in his basement. Wearing a pair of rubber gloves and a set of safety goggles, he carefully mixed the sodium lactate and the LSD in the proper proportions to make what he had dubbed "Fear Toxin". He'd already started to consider other means of introducing it into a subject's system but that was still in the hypothetical stages. For now he had to settle for direct injection. In his mind he began to wonder how he would be able to sedate Phoebe this time. Also, he knew he'd have to begin administering the drug without her knowing he was around, otherwise she may start to associate her "nightmares" with him. He'd come up with a few possibilities to prevent that, but it would be made much easier if he didn't need to inject her. Like a gas or capsule or something, he thought idly. He'd look into it later. It would be just as easy to simply sneak into her home at night, chloroform her, and then inject her with the fear toxin without fear of her waking up.
Setting the new vials of fear toxin solution aside, he removed his gloves, pushed his goggles up on his forehead, and rubbed his aching wrists. That bastard Greg Hammond would have to be taught a lesson, but… later. Crane looked up at the scarecrow mask on its hook, grinning at him. The giddiness of his experiments quickly returned to him and he merely pursed his lips in thought, wrapping his mind around the question of sedating the girl. It will have to be quick and she'll need to be distracted, whatever I do. I'll have her prepare a meal for herself and tell her the point is for me to observe her behavior as she does so. He smiled to himself, pleased at how clever he was, even after the stressful evening he'd had. At the appropriate moment it should be rather simple to slip a tablet into her drink or the meal itself. Then, having finished his work, he packed up the fear toxin and locked it away, safe and secure. Flicking off the light, he went upstairs for a relaxed and remorseless sleep.