The Cure

Chapter Four: Mysterious Ways

Jonathan Crane could hear the heels of her shoes resound off the tiles of his white castle through the thick walls of his solitude. He smiled as he listened to the steady, sure footsteps in the nervous hall draw closer to his cell: sounded like hope to him. There were voices mingled in as well. The security guard, by the sounds of it, was trying to talk her into letting him stay by her side as a bodyguard. He chuckled at his situation, he with a straightjacket pinning his arms around his torso and a death sentence looming just out of reach. What did they expect him to do, gnaw on her ankles?

What did she want anyways? After the police had captured him and thrown him in a padded cell nicely tucked away from all other life forms, every one had simply forgotten about him; or tried to. It was an intriguing state of affairs, and he was all beside himself giddy with excitement. At least he would be, if there were any hope of freedom. The closest thing someone like him would ever attain was a change of scenery. White padded walls to gray stones and metal bars for a few hours, and then… nothing. Yep, it had excitement written all over it.

There was a pause in her steps as she reached his door, and he could feel a smile creeping over his face. She was afraid. Afraid to enter the code to unlock the door, to step inside to see what a demon looks like. He inhaled this knowledge like it was the sweetest air he had ever taken to cradle in his lungs. Why was fear so intoxicating? It was lovely.

Her voice broke through his thoughts immediately, and he frowned in disgust. Her destination hadn't stalled with fear; she had stopped to argue with the guard! Certain hatred flared inside him at that moment. Who the hell did she think she was, to think she could just waltz right in there, so above fear?

Suddenly, gnawing on her ankles didn't sound quite so mundane.

It was all Elizabeth could do not to step on the toes of her over-zealous companion, who just couldn't seem to take no for an answer. Hmm, felt like highschool all over again. She stopped outside of room 360, current resident of Jonathan Crane, and turned around to face her personal leech.

"Mr. Morgan, I appreciate the concern, but I really need to do this alone."

"But Miss--."

"Sir, I have confirmation from the GM that he is restrained properly."

"That doesn't stop a lot of them…"

"I'll be fine." She stated in her best no nonsense this-case-is-closed tone. Without waiting to hear any more of his opinion of persuading, she entered the code she had been given on the pad beside the lock and stepped over the threshold.

She stopped moving just inside the door when she saw him. He sat on the opposite side of the room, legs crossed Indian style, a tired glare tossed up at her. It wasn't his ragged appearance that made her stop. It wasn't even the flickering promise of death in those strangely contrasting soft blue eyes; she had been expecting that. What had knocked the breath right out of her was the fact that he was… gorgeous. Which shouldn't have been right at all. Why would life throw such an odd card out, that someone so beautiful should be so demented? Life had never really made much sense to her before, but now it really threw her for a loop. Fairytales gave evil witches green skin and warts, but reality gave her this. What a bitch.

Elizabeth took a breath and did her best to regain her composure. "Good day, Dr. Crane," she said as she walked a little farther into the room.

"They revoked my title," was his only reply as he turned his head to give the wall his attention.

"I'll have to remember that, then. My name is Dr. Lee," Elizabeth looked up at the security cameras located in the corners on the ceiling. "Those cameras, do they record sound?"

Crane turned his head to look at her, his smirk sending a thrill down her spine. "Would you like to find out? I'd love to hear what your screams sound like."

"I'm asking Dr.—I mean, Mr. Crane, not the Scarecrow."

At this Jonathan laughed, and something inside of Elizabeth was very relieved to find it sounded nothing like the Joker's. "Ah, another one who insists a multiple personality disorder. I assure you, doctor, it's all me."

"Answer my question, please."

Jonathan stretched his legs out in front of him, wishing he could do the same with his arms. Months in the same position left him to wonder if he even had the use in his arms anymore. "Why?"

"If I told you it was for your own benefit, would you tell me?"

"That depends. Is it?"

Elizabeth stared down at him, her lips pressed tight with irritation. "Yes."

"Is it a… threat?"

"No." Her impatience was leaking from her voice, and Jonathan couldn't help but remember all of the times when he was in the reversed situation, trying to goad a new patient into cooperation so he could discern their specific symptom. He had never realized how much fun it was to give them hell. He was being a hypocrite, but so what? Once she left it was back to staring at the wall, and that didn't really appeal to him.

Finally, he relented, "The cameras don't record sound; nobody wants to hear the ravings of a madman."

"That's wonderful news, because I have a proposition for you." She could tell she had his attention when he didn't throw another barb at her. She continued, "You studied the mind' s production and reaction to fear, even creating a stimulant to monopolize other people's fear. How do you do the reverse?"

"Reverse fear?" He asked, arching an eyebrow. "That's quite a favor you ask. What do I get in return?"

"Your freedom, if it works."

Jonathan stared at her, disbelief and anger ripe in his eyes. "That's not funny. Who the hell would let me back on the streets?"

"Well, if someone were to vouch for your sanity, saying that a few treatments and medication had cleared everything up…"

Jonathan chuckled, and the smile reached his eyes. "We've got a deal."

Carolina's head bounced off the window of the rickety bus as it found a mar in the street, reminding her that she had nodded off again. She groaned in pain and shifted uncomfortably, moving her backpack out of her side. Her CD player slipped out and clattered to the floor, and she sighed as she leaned down to pick it up. Someday, she was really going to have to fix that broken zipper. There was a folded up piece of paper tangled up in the headphone wires, and she felt something very close to guilt stab at her heart. She wiggled it free and unfolded it for the fourth time that day. Once a month she got a letter from the same address. Despite her nomadic ways, they always seemed to find her. Was it a sign?

Dearest Carrie,

I don't know where you are at this exact moment, you're address and phone number keeps changing, but I hope, wherever you are, that you're closer to home.

I can't express enough that what happened was not your fault, and it never will be. You may not see it the same way I do, but you were given a beautiful gift. Good things do come from bad experiences. I know you don't like me reminding you, and that's why you ran away, but you need to be reminded. You can't just forget about it. Pushing things like this from your mind only complicates, not simplifies.

She's beautiful. It's almost like looking at a photograph of you. She is also very bright. I want you to be here, and believe it or not, she does too. I will never understand how you could possibly see something like this as your fault; you didn't do a thing except what was in your power to do. You're only human, and you can only do so much. You can never escape what you're running from. There is no place on earth for Utopia.

Stop running away from her like she was a plague. I'm tempted to go out there and drag you right back home, but I know you have to make this journey by yourself. Just remember that she, like you, did not ask for this. She doesn't deserve to be treated like this. She needs you, and you might just need her as well.

Come back home. Please, if only for a few days. Just spend some time with us, and if you still feel the same way as before, then by all means, carry on with your life as you choose. But I think you really need to be here right now. If not for her, and not for yourself, then for me.

Love you always,

Liz

That gal always knew just what to say, but… Looking out of the window and seeing the slums of her current home whizzing by, the thought of returning back to her true home in Gotham sent a brick of fear plummeting down into her insides. She almost couldn't stomach being in that place again.

But she was tired of running. So tired, yet she couldn't stay in one city. She had no idea why. She couldn't explain why every time she moved farther away, every time she stepped on a bus with her backpack by her side, her heart had a cold, barren feeling, like she were struggling through a planet of snowdrift, ice up to her waist and nothing around for as far as the eye could see. There was nothing there for her; she couldn't deny that at least in Gotham she would have someone close by, someone to hang on to when the memories became too much to handle. That was all she really wanted, right? Liz was right. In every letter she had sent, bringing both buried memories and feelings up to the surface, she was right. Running away couldn't reverse what had happened.

Somehow, in a place of Carrie's soul that she had never really given much thought about before, Liz's letters almost gave a sense of peace. They reminded her that she had someone, that she wasn't alone, so she never really regretted receiving one every month. Caroline chuckled; she must really be growing up.

Would returning to Gotham really be so bad? He had been incarcerated, she would never have to see him again, but that didn't really take away what he had done. But what were a few days? Maybe going home was what she really needed. She had tried everything else, what was one more detour on her road to everywhere and nowhere? She didn't know what she was doing with her life, and her sister seemed like she knew a hell of a lot better so she could point her in the right direction.

Maybe she would even have some real food.

Elizabeth tapped the end of her pen on her glossy mahogany desk, her chin cradled in her other hand. On the other side sat Jonathan, not on the patients couch, but in the less intimidating straight backed chair that had been placed opposite hers. No one knew the true use of the chair, besides the fact that in came in handy for stubborn people. She had to go through hell to get him into her own office, away from the prying eyes of Arkham Asylum, and, unfortunately for Jonathan, she just didn't have the persuasion skills necessary to convince them her health was not in danger if his straight jacket was removed.

Awkward was an understatement for the tone in that room. She got him to agree to help, great, but what now? He wouldn't help until free, she didn't trust him, but couldn't get what she wanted unless she assented, so they were at an impasse. Gotham PD wouldn't allow him freedom unless she had proof of his treatment. Elizabeth didn't know what type of proof would be sufficient, but she could only hope that "proof" didn't mean they were feeding her lies just to make her happy. Worst-case scenario was that they would keep stacking up requirements for his release, and eventually they would come across one they couldn't meet. Gotham PD was crawling with corrupt individuals, so the outcome was possible.

Jonathan finally spoke, sending the silence shattering around their heads. His voice was thoughtful, with a tone that reminded her that he was more at home in her current position, not as one of the patients. "What do you fear, Dr. Lee?"

"Is there some kind of relevance to that question?" His question puzzled her, and for some reason, frightened her slightly.

"No, it's just a question. But we can go back to sitting in silence if you like."

Elizabeth didn't answer immediately, but stared out the window as she tried to avoid thinking about it. After a few moments, she spoke, "I fear evil."

"Evil? Why? The only logical thing to fear is fear itself."

"What?" she asked, turning her head to look at him, brow furrowed. "Why? Fear is just an emotion, it can't hurt you, so why fear what can bring you no harm?"

"And you think evil can harm you? Evil is not a weapon; it is a moral, an idea. Fear, however," he leaned forward as he was talking, really getting into his lecture, "will twist your mind, if it is exposed for too long. It will create darkness where there is light, hate where there is love," he smiled, and it was thick with dark fascination, "and evil where there was once good."

Elizabeth felt her eyes widen, but there wasn't anything she could do to stop it. She cleared her throat, "Well, I guess everyone has to have a hobby." She shook her head and looked down at her desk, where her pencil lay alone and forgotten. She must have dropped it at one point or another. "I can't say I agree with you, though. Fear can only twist your mind if you let it. I stand by my notion that fear is just an emotion, and therefore not laudable of terror."

"Of course you do." Jonathan leaned back in his chair again. So neither of their beliefs would sway. Fine. Most people were obnoxiously unyielding when it came down to who was right.

"But who could say?" Elizabeth continued, as if she had heard his thoughts churning. "I mean, sure we could moan and groan about who really knew the answers to the universe, but who are we to decide anyways?" She was tapping her pen again, and if it weren't for the jacket, Jonathan wasn't too sure he wouldn't do something dangerous with it just to get her to stop.

"What are you trying to say?" he asked, disdain in his voice. "That everything we choose to believe is just up for grabs, various points of opinion?"

"No, of course not. I know many do struggle with god complexes, but what do we really know of life except by our own experiences and what we make of them?"

"That's an interesting perspective, but I'm surprised you haven't driven yourself crazy by now. You're running yourself in circles."

"Of course I am." She expressed with a small shrug. The meeting wasn't really getting them anywhere, except for arguments of theories. She would have to think of something soon, something that would please Gotham PD, but what did she know about what they searched for in a reformed criminal? An apology? Actually, that was probably it.

Elizabeth used the next twenty minutes asking about his past, what had led him to his particular studies. After all, it was how she started with every patient. It wasn't fooling the Gotham PD that Elizabeth was interested in. It hadn't been from the moment she stepped into Arkham Asylum. Everyday she helped people pull their lives into perspective little by little, and that was what she planned on doing now. There was no such thing as a lost cause to her; people could turn their lives around. Even the most bull-minded of people could change, if they wanted to.

The challenge was could she convince Jonathan Crane that he wanted to? There was reason to his fascination, not just obscure, twisted madness. Along with that, was she up for the challenge?

When Bruce made his way down the steps into the Batcave, Lucius Fox was already there, leaning over a pile of equipment that he had laid next to the jagged cavern wall. They had been trying to set up a computer system down there, which proved to be almost more difficult than anything else they had to set up down there, because the wiring had to go through what sometimes felt like many miles of rock without much of the help he could have gotten with paid construction workers. A life of secrecy proved to be quite a pain in the ass, sometimes.

Lucius looked up at Bruce as he found the bottom of the stairs, smiling before turning back to his work.

"I'd say just a few more weeks, Mr. Wayne, and you'll have a state of the art system here." He stepped back to admire his handiwork, which consisted of little more than numerous holes. "And as a special favor, you'll even get a drilling system."

"Drilling system? What does that have to do with my computer?"

"Just a little computer program of my own design that allows you to "drill" through even the toughest firewalls with little to no effort at all. Just type in where you want to go, like say… the account of Gotham's most dangerous crime ring, and you're there. It's like handing you the secrets of the city on a silver platter."

"Why, Mr. Fox, I didn't know you were a hacker. Though, I admit, I really should have seen it coming."

Lucius chuckled, "Let's just say I had a little too much free time in college."

"And you'd have too much free time now if it weren't for me. I really appreciate you doing this for me."

"It's not a problem at all, Mr. Wayne, I owe you too much."

Bruce smiled as he removed his jacket, "Instead of arguing, how about I come down there and help you out?"

"Sounds like a plan to me."

They continued feeding wires through the rock, where they wound up into the mansion to be hooked into the more conveniently placed outlets sporadically placed in several rooms. Unless really searching for what cable went where, no one would know the difference except Alfred and him.

A couple of hours later the two men straightened up, relieving their abused backs. Lucius slapped his hands against his legs, trying to get as much of the dirt off of his hands as he could.

"Well, I think that should just about do it for today. Tomorrow I'll start bringing in the actual equipment, and that's when the fun starts."

"I'll be looking forward to it. Have a safe trip home."

"Have a safe trip, yourself," He smiled knowingly as he turned to leave.

Once Lucius was gone, Bruce turned to the alcove he kept his Batsuit hanging in. As he made the transformation, he hoped he had been right in letting Lucius in on his secret identity. Technically, he already knew from almost the beginning, but it was something that he could deny and still not be lying about. Not really. But now he was up close and personal with the advances he was making to the cave, though whether he liked it or not there was really no other way around it. Lucius' technology was a valuable asset to have, but Lucius was a valuable friend. Hopefully letting him get close didn't mean putting him in danger. Alfred was okay so far, right? Of course, no one ever blames the butler…

Batman didn't take the Batmobile with him that night. He felt oddly pensive, and the quiet rooftops stretching above Gotham seemed like a more appealing mode of transportation at the moment. He stared down at neon streets from the perch beside a gargoyle on the ledge of Gotham City Bank, blending in perfectly except for the sway of his cape in the slight breeze. He could see the air tram from where he stood, rebuilt and humming healthily again. He had almost decided against rebuilding it, but the tram, like many other things, reminded him of his father, and everything he stood for, plus that little thing about falling. The tram fell. It fell so Bruce could pick it back up.

He changed his line of sight so that it roamed the sky, but it was black velvet, nothing shining up there but the moon and a few stars. The only time Gotham would have a true starry night would be if there were a complete power outage. Looking up and seeing the universe stretch out above him would be one of the things he would miss sorely.

There was a clatter on the roof of the building to his right, and he turned, automatically taking a defensive position. He crept to the edge of the bank roof and leapt over onto the shorter building. His cape fumed out around him as he landed, making a ruffling noise. The rooftop looked deserted, but Batman could almost feel someone there, watching him. Stealthily he slipped one of his bat shaped blades out of his belt and inched forward, bracing himself for his invisible fiend. The rooftop contained only the chimneystacks to hide behind and the inlet to the building, so construction workers could come and go without using a lift. As Batman peeked around the corner of one of the chimneystacks, he heard the object fly through the air as it aimed in an arc for his back. He whirled around, swinging out his arm to block it, catching the butt of the gun just in time.

"It would have worked better if you had just shot at me." He growled, hand still on the gun as he and his opponent played tug-of- war with it.

"I would never do such a cowardly thing," came the woman's reply, "My father's vengeance is worth more than that."